#SHE’S LOOKING OUT FOR HER MAN AND HIS TRAUMA

[yasminawayne]

PART II. 100 Object Boyfriends vs One Ex-Boyfriend

SYNOPSIS: Your ex is coming at 7:00 AM to pick up his stuff. Your object boyfriends have other plans.

TAGS: GN!Reader, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Protective everyone, Hurt/Comfort

tw. emotional abuse, gaslighting, physical violence, threats, controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, implied past trauma

W.C: 7.4k | CHARACTERS: Dorian, Dirk, Hanks, Cabrizzio, Hector, Cam, Tony, Dante, Volt, Daisuke, Timothy/Timmy!

PART I

AO3: yasminwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."

There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.

"Who we peepin’?"

Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."

Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."

"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."

Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."

Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"

Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"

Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."

Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."

"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"

Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."

Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"

Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."

Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"

Rod huffed. "Fuck no."

“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”

Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."

Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.

"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"

Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.

Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.

Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”

In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.

"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."

Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.

He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.

Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.

So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector. 

Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.

He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.

Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.

You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body. 

Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.

That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.

Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you. 

They could still offer what they were made for.

Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.

Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.

Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled. 

Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.

Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.

Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.

Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself. 

Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.

Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.

They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands. 

They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back. 

They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there. 

You open the door slower than you mean to.

That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed. 

And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.

You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.

He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much. 

And for a moment, all you can do is stare.

God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond. 

He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.

Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.

"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."

You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."

He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."

You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.

He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.

Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."

You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but. 

‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."

You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar. 

He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."

He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack. 

His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.

A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.

That’s all he needs.

"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."

He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.

From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.

But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.

Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.

You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.

"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."

For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.

Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.

"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."

You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.

You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.

Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.

 "Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."

"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"

You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"

As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.

The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief. 

That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.

He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.

His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth. 

The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.

From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.

You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.

That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers. 

And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back. 

Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head. 

"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."

Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses. 

A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.

He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

CRACK.

A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.

From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent. 

The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.

On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.

Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves. 

Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.

Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire. 

The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.

"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."

He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.

Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.

"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still." —H.

Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.

"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me." —H.

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. 

Of course. You already had someone else.

You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.

Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.

"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you." —H.

This one, Iseul crumples.

Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.

Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.

The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use. 

A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.

But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.

His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"

He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”

Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.

Interesting.

With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.

So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen. 

Noted. 

He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.

Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.

“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”

Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”

Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.

“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”

“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”

Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”

The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.

"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.

Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."

"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.

"No."

Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."

Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.

" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."

Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.

"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."

"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."

You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.

"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."

Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."

Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."

The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.

"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."

By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.

"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."

Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.

He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.

His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.

Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.

Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.

His jaw shifts.

In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.

H.

His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him. 

"Iseul…?"

He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.

"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."

You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here. 

You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them." 

You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.

You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.

After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin. 

Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.

Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.

You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.

A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.

Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.

You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.

Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.

It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.

You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.

He glances over the rim of his mug at you.

"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?" 

He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.

A slow step forward.

“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.

He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."

Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.

Then the window slams open.

BANG.

A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.

"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.

You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.

Right on his head.

He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor. 

Silence follows. 

You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.

And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.

Iseul hears it.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”

His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.

You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.

Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”

“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in. Sneering.

Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.

"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."

His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.

"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"

The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.

The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.

"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"

SNAP.

The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.

A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.

Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.

Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.

You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.

He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.

Iseul’s head snaps upward.

His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers. 

From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.

Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.

It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.

"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"

The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.

From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.

Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.

Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.

It steps forward once.

Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear. 

The voice returns, softer now.

"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"

Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”

A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.

Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor. 

Then, everything goes black.

You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.

Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.

The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry. 

They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.

Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.

A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."

You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.

"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.

He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.

"Bro!"

You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.

You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards. 

Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.

You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.

“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”

Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."

Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."

You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."

"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening. 

"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.

Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."

“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.

“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”

“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”

You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.

Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.

You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.

Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."

You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"

"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."

You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."

"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."

"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"

"She’s already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."

You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."

Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."

Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."

From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.

"See? Even he agrees, babe." 

thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!

[hoe4hotchner]

hallooo,, i hope you're doing good lovely<33 i wanted to request a hotch x wife!doctor reader where Aaron is mildy injured after a case. the team urges him to get his injuries checked out at the hospital but he keeps declining for no reason (the real reason is because reader is one of the best doctor's there, and would freak out and scold Hotch for getting injured). the team eventually forces him to go to the hospital and they meet reader? (they also maybe see hotch getting scolded for getting injured xd) thank you in advance🤍

Doctor's orders | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Wife Doctor!reader | WC: 1.9k | CW: Injury (gun shot grazing) hospital setting.

Hotch had been shot before.

He’d been stabbed, concussed, and bruised within an inch of his life... hell, he’d even once dislocated his shoulder while wrestling an unsub twice his size in the woods outside of Boulder, Colorado. And in every single one of those instances, he’d remained infuriatingly calm, stoic, and in control.

So when he returned to the local precinct in Bethesda with his shirt soaked in blood, favoring his side and gritting his jaw, no one expected him to break stride.

But when he waved off medical attention again, even Emily crossed her arms.

“You’re not serious,” she snapped, watching him blot at the torn fabric of his dress shirt with a paper towel like it was no big deal. “Hotch, you’re bleeding. Through gauze.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

“That’s not the point,” Rossi interjected. “You don’t get a gold star for playing martyr. Go get checked out.”

“I don’t need to be checked out.”

“You do,” JJ said firmly, glancing toward Morgan for backup.

“Look, man, I get it,” Morgan added. “Hospitals suck. But this one’s twenty minutes away, and we will drag you there if we have to. Besides Savannah will kill me if I don't take you to a hospital.”

Hotch visibly hesitated. He opened his mouth to argue again, but then, clamped it shut. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. Not pain. Not stubbornness.

It was something else entirely.

And Garcia, who’d been quietly observing from the sidelines, narrowed her eyes. “Wait a second,” she said slowly. “You’re not avoiding the hospital because you hate doctors… You’re avoiding it because you’re married to one.” Garcia had snooped.

The room went quiet.

JJ’s jaw dropped. Emily turned on her heel. “Wait... wait. You mean the reason you’re refusing medical attention is because your wife works there?”

Hotch didn’t respond. He just wiped his brow and winced.

“Oh my God,” Garcia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re scared she’ll scold you.”

“I’m not scared of my wife,” Hotch said flatly, and Morgan snorted.

“You sure about that, boss man? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to march to the principal’s office or dig your own grave.”

“She just… worries,” Hotch muttered.

“I bet she does,” Emily said with a grin. “Considering how often you get shot at work.”

“Enough,” Hotch sighed. “If it’ll get you all to stop badgering me, fine. I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Garcia chirped, already pulling up directions on her phone. “Because I would very much like to witness your wife read you the riot act.”

The emergency department at Bethesda General Hospital was bustling with the usual chaos: trauma codes being called over intercoms, gurneys wheeled past in a blur, and nurses moving with the speed and focus of people who knew lives were at stake if they didn't run faster than a cheetah.

And in the center of it all—calm, commanding, and terrifyingly efficient—was Dr. Hotchner.

“Prep O.R. 3,” you instructed without looking up from the chart in your hands. “Page ortho, and tell Dr. Li I need her on consult.”

“Yes, Doctor,” your intern said quickly, practically sprinting to do your bidding.

You turned just in time to see your husband walk through the sliding doors, flanked by six BAU agents who all looked like they’d come for the show.

And Aaron... oh, Aaron... looked guilty as hell.

You spotted the blood at his side immediately and froze. “Oh my God,” you said, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding through a towel, Aaron.”

The use of his name earned you a few surprised looks from the team. Hotch winced.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift,” he said, tone low, which only made your eyes narrow.

“Uh oh,” Emily muttered under her breath in a sing-song tone. “He’s in trouble.”

“Is this from the case?” you asked, already stepping forward to pull the towel away. Your fingers were gentle, but your eyes were assessing his injury, no-nonsense. “How long ago?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours!? You’ve been walking around like this for two hours!?”

He shifted under your gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I kept pressure on it.”

You exhaled slowly and turned to the nurse behind the intake desk. “I need a bay prepped now.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m walking. Not being wheeled,” Hotch added stubbornly.

You didn’t even look at him. “We’ll see.”

The team shuffled awkwardly, clearly trying not to smirk too much.

“You can wait here,” you told them over your shoulder. “I’ll patch him up and return him in one piece. No promises on whether or not he’s limping.”

Hotch gave them a long-suffering look as you led him down the hall, your hand at his back. “I told you this would happen.”

“You let it happen,” Rossi called after him.

Ten minutes later, Hotch was perched on a trauma bay bed with his dress shirt peeled off, the deep graze on his left side now cleaned and being carefully stitched.

You worked in silence for a moment, your hands steady even as your brows furrowed.

“I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked up, your expression was softer, but no less serious. “Aaron,” you murmured, “you came in bleeding. I’m your wife. I deserve to know when you’ve been hurt.”

He looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“This is my work. You’re my husband, and also, in case you forgot, I’m one of the best trauma physicians in this hospital.” You tied off a stitch and gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice if you walked into the bedroom tonight trying to pretend you hadn’t been shot while leaving a trail of blood on the floor?”

He sighed. “I wasn’t shot.”

“You were grazed. Close enough.” You stepped back to dispose of the gauze and gloves. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major.”

“I know.”

You softened again as you returned to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m just… worried. Every time you walk out that door, I worry. So when you come back hurt and don’t tell me? Yeah, I get upset.”

His hand came to rest over yours. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. But next time? You don’t delay treatment because you’re afraid of a scolding.”

He huffed a laugh. “It was a very convincing scolding.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his temple. “You deserved it.”

When the two of you returned to the waiting area, Hotch was in clean clothes, a set of hospital scrubs, his wound bandaged, and a list of care instructions tucked under his arm.

The team perked up at the sight of you.

“Well?” JJ asked.

“He’ll live,” you said dryly. “No thanks to his decision-making.”

Garcia grinned. “Did you give him The Look? The whole 'I married you, not your death wish' thing?”

“I may have included a variation,” you replied with a smirk.

Hotch sighed, resigned. “Can we go now?”

“Nope,” Emily chirped, handing him a coffee. “Not until we get a photo of you in those scrubs. For the file.”

“What file?”

“The ‘Hotch Gets Owned by His Wife’ file,” Morgan said.

“It’s getting thick and we just started it,” Rossi added, sipping his espresso. "It was nice meeting you."

You chuckled, brushing a hand through Aaron’s hair. “He’ll behave now. Doctor’s orders.”

Hotch muttered something under his breath, but you swore you caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride home was mostly quiet, apart from the occasional hiss from Hotch when the seatbelt shifted against his bandage.

You didn’t say anything, but your hand rested on his knee the whole way.

By the time you walked into the house, the familiar rhythm of your shared space slowly began to dissolve the lingering tension. You took your shoes off by the door; Hotch placed his bag down a little more heavily than usual.

“You need to sit,” you said, already toeing into the kitchen.

“I’m fine.”

“Aaron.”

He exhaled. “I’m sitting.”

When you returned with a glass of water, two Advil, and the strict instructions for how often he could take them, he was in the living room exactly as you’d ordered, but not without the smugness of someone who was used to giving the orders, not taking them.

You handed him the water. “You’ll need to stay on the pain meds at least through tomorrow. No stairs. And I swear if I catch you trying to answer a single email tonight...”

“You’ll what?” he said, raising a brow.

“I’ll forward them all to Strauss and tell her you’re delirious and talking to ghosts with an attached doctor's note.”

That made him chuckle, and you hated how handsome he looked doing it, bruised, and still somehow making you feel like the one who’d just lost a battle.

You sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “I mean it, Aaron. You can’t keep doing this.”

He looked at you then, really looked, quiet guilt spread across his features from the way his brows furrowed.

“I know.”

“I’m not just your doctor, you know. And it’s like you forget how terrifying it is to see you walk in with blood on your shirt and a towel shoved under your ribs like that’s normal.”

“I don’t forget,” he said softly. “I just… sometimes convince myself it’s easier not to worry you.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, gentler now. “I’d rather be worried than kept in the dark. That’s not how this works. We’re a team. You get to yell at me for missing lunch or losing sleep during a thirty-six-hour shift, and I get to yell at you for treating bullet grazes with paper towels.”

His lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”

You let out a breath, leaned forward, and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I thought I was ‘infuriatingly reckless.’”

“You can be both,” you said, settling your weight against him carefully so you didn’t bump the injury. “But right now, you’re a patient. So that means feet up, water, meds, and...”

He groaned. “A heat pack.”

“Yes, a heat pack,” you repeated, shooting him a look. “You know the protocol. Don’t test me, Agent Hotchner.”

He muttered something about bossy doctors and curled further into the couch.

You disappeared for a moment, returning with the hot pack and a blanket and the remote already queued up to one of those slow-burn crime shows he liked but pretended not to enjoy because they were painstakingly inaccurate.

You placed the heat pack gently against his side, then draped the blanket over both your legs. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hotchner?”

“Just this, Mrs. Hotchner,” he said quietly, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

You let yourself melt into his chest, sighing as your cheek found his heartbeat.

“Next time,” you whispered, “you come to me the minute you’re hurt. No detours. No delays.”

“I promise.”

You didn’t look up. “Swear it.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I swear.”

"And I want to meet your team properly, without having to patch you or them up!"

"Deal."

[augustjoy]

You are nothing like her.

Based on the following ask: so i was thinking maybe the reader is pregnant with hotch's baby, but she had a really mean mother, you know, one of those who are strict to say the least, maybe one day hotch comes home and finds the reader crying so much and when he approaches her worriedly she tells him that she is so afraid of being a bad mother as if it were something hereditary maybe she tells him that her loves his baby so much that she's afraid of doing it wrong🥺🥺 it's her first baby, that's why she's so scared, but then my beautiful boy jack tells her, 'u're already like a mommy for me and u're awesome,' or something like that, why Jack is always a band-aid for the soul🥹🥹🤍 and in the end it's just her being spoiled by the hotchner boys 🩵 Okay, this ask is giving me all the feels. I grew up with a mom who I know did her best, but there are many things she did that I had to unpack in therapy, I am using some of that (not directly) to help guide this fic! Enjoy!! Itallics are the readers thoughts, bold are flashbacks

Aaron Hotchner x Pregnant! Fem Reader Angst/Fluff (Happy ending) Word count: 3872

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, unspecified age gap, explicit language, canon typical violence, sweet loving Hotch, pregnant reader, mention of past verbal/emotional abuse (some detail/flashbacks), Jack being a cutie patootie, reader struggles with depression (bad perinatal depression), insecure reader, first time mom reader, internal struggles with previous trauma, mention of therapy, mention of medications, brief (non-descriptive) mention of self-harm,  let me know if I missed any. You are responsible for your own media consumption - if these warnings are triggering or potentially harmful, DO NOT READ.

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

A blue plus sign. Not a single horizontal line, but two lines, perfectly perpendicular to one another. The control line a deep obvious blue, and the other, faint, barely there intersecting the other.

A pit formed in your gut immediately.  You’re not ready for this, you’re not cut out for it. What would Aaron think, I mean sure you guys are married, but did he want more kids? He’ll probably leave you. You can barely take care of yourself. He was older than you, he had been married, had Jack, made a life for them…you’d been able to squeeze yourself into the prefect mold of their life, the last piece of the puzzle. Had the puzzle expanded when you weren’t paying attention? Was there space for a baby?

--

“Why can’t you be more like your sister? She’s so driven, she knew what she wanted to do by the age of fifteen. You need to figure your life out, in a few months you’ll be off to college, and I’ve already told you that you need to do well or that’s it.”

“I know mom. I’m working on it, I’m looking into a few different programs at the school, thankfully the first year is all prerequisites so I have some time to figure it out.”

“Always so indecisive. No man is going to want a woman who lacks confidence. Someone who can’t make up her mind.” She scoffed.

“I’m doing my best. There are just so many options, but I think I’ve narrowed it down, I was thinking about a degree in psychology.”

“Your best isn’t good enough hon. And quite frankly, you’re not smart enough to get a psychology degree, you should stick to something more feminine, like teaching, I’d suggest nursing, but I don’t think you’d make it through nursing school. It’s very competitive.” The words flow out of her mouth sickly sweet, like what she’s saying isn’t slicing you open, leaving you vulnerable and bare.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll look into the teaching program.”

--

You’d been sick, and not from the pregnancy, but rather from the fear of breaking the news to Aaron. It would kill you if he was disappointed or upset with you. He’ll probably leave you. He’d mentioned once that he’d always wanted a big family, and there was a time where you’d mentioned children, he seemed okay with it then…but what if his mind had changed.

“Y/n can we have lunch?” Jack’s little voice carried through your room and into the en-suite.

“Yeah, sweet boy. Give me just a moment okay?” You tried to steady your voice.

You washed your hands, tucked the pregnancy text back into its wrapper and stuffed it in the back of your vanity drawer. You’d show it to Aaron when he got home from the case his team was currently working. Look at you, shaking, pathetic. Why couldn’t you be more like your sister. Graceful, poised…instead you look ridiculous, out of your fucking depth. You took a deep breath to steady yourself, splashed some cold water on your face and shook your head.

“Alright cutie pie! What would you like for lunch?”

“Chicken nuggets!” Jack cheered.

“I think I can make that happen! Do you want tater tots or French fries with your nuggets?” You asked.

“French fries please!” Jack confirmed, heading into the living room to continue his movie.

You pulled out the nuggets and fries from the freezer along with a cookie sheet from the cabinet, spreading the food out while the oven preheats. Your hands were covered in crumbs from the chicken, the feeling making your skin crawl, the smell of the frozen chicken wafting through the kitchen. Your stomach lurched, bile rising quickly, your feet moving faster, getting you to the guest bathroom just in time. You emptied your stomach contents, the tears rushing to your eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jack’s little voice came from behind you.

“Yeah bub, I’m okay. Just a tummy ache.” You reassured him. “Go finish your movie okay? I’m gonna get your lunch going.”

You rinsed your mouth out with some mouthwash and went back to the kitchen, doing your best to hold your breath as you slid the cookie sheet into the oven and set the timer.

--

Jack was sitting at the table eating his lunch, while you sat next to him, grading the tests your class took this past week. Jack was going on about his friend from school and how excited he was because they were both going to be on the same soccer team this year.

Your attention had been bouncing back and forth between the tests and your stepson, until the door unlocking called it away. Aaron stepped in, a smile immediately taking over his face as he saw the two of you sitting at the table.

“Am I just in time for lunch?” He asked.

You smiled back at him, “if you were in the mood for chicken nuggets and French fries, then yes my love, you are just in time.” A giggle escaped you.

“It’s like you read my mind.” Aaron joked, pressing a kiss to your temple and hugging you from behind. “Hey buddy, I missed you.”

“Hi dad! I was just saying that Emmett is going to be on my soccer team this year! Isn’t that cool?” Jack asked.

“That’s so cool bud.” Aaron offered. “I missed you sweetheart, how was this week?”

Aaron wandered into the kitchen, plucking a fry from the tray and eating it, turning to face you expectantly.

“I missed you too. It was good, I gave the kids their test on the parts of the brain, that one I was telling you about –”

“Oh! Where they have to label the parts and write out what each one does?” He questioned.

“Exactly, so far, their scores are pretty good, I’m impressed.” You smiled lightly.

“Sweetheart their scores are reflective of what an incredible teacher you are. They are so lucky to have you.”

“Thanks baby.” You blushed.

He’s lying. When you tell him about the baby, he’ll show his true colors and he will leave, just like everyone else.

“How was the case?” You asked.

“It was a rough one.” Aaron didn’t really love talking about his work, he would tell you he didn’t want to drag you and Jack into that darkness. “Too much loss, but ultimately we got the guy.”

“You are an incredible man Aaron. The work you and your team do, I know it doesn’t always feel like enough, but you are making the world a safer place.” You reached for his hand.

He gave yours a gentle squeeze. His gaze meeting your own, and you saw the shift, it was barely there, but you noticed the flicker of concern. He’d seen how the shine of your eyes had dulled, how your skin had grown slightly hollow. You got this way sometimes, you had been really good at verbalizing when you’d get low, you’d gone to therapy regularly, in fact, you’d been going less often now because you had made so much progress. Aaron was worried, that much you knew for sure.

“Hey Jack, is your homework done?” Aaron asked.

“Uhh, yes…” Jack trailed off in that silly way that told you he was lying.

“Jack, why don’t you put your plate in the sink, and then go do your homework.” Aaron instructed. “When you’re done, we can go look at some new cleats and shin guards.”

“Okay!” Jack smiled wide.

--

Aaron led you to your shared room, gently guiding you to sit at the end of the bed. He slowly squatted down in front of you, so you were eye level. His hand reached out slowly, lifting your chin so you would face him.

“Sweetheart, are you doing okay? You just – you seem…”

“I’m pregnant.” You cut him off.

“You, you’re…sweetheart…”

Here it is. He’s going to leave you. He hates you. You’ve never been enough.

“Aaron, I know we haven’t really talked about it, and I know it’s not the best timing, but I just I thought…I’m sorry.” You rambled.

“Honey, why are you apologizing, this is great news! We’re having a baby.”

“You-you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” Aaron looked into your eyes then, noticing the storm clouds rolling in. “Honey, I am so excited to be a dad again, and even more so to do this with you. I have to say, I am worried about you, maybe we should schedule you an appointment with Laura.”

Laura was your therapist; she had been for the last three years. It was thanks to her that you’d been able to work through as much of your trauma as you had…but maybe Aaron was right, maybe it would be good to see her more frequently, with all the new things going on.

“Yeah, that might be a good idea. I need to schedule a few appointments actually, therapy, the OB/GYN and my psychiatrist.”

Aaron’s hands grasped your own, subsequently stopping you from picking all the skin on the sides of your nailbeds.

“Why don’t we get those scheduled and I’ll take those days off, that way I can be there with you.”

You’re weak. He sees it now. You’re pathetic.

“Aaron, it’s okay, I can handle it.”

“I know you can baby, but I want to be there with you.”

--

“Jesus Y/n what are you doing with your life? Huh? Your sister, she’s married, has a career, and is pregnant with her second child. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Mom, I’m only twenty-four, there’s time. I double majored, I got a degree in teaching and one in psychology! I got a job! And I-I met someone.” You justified.

“You met someone?” Her face painted with surprise.

“Yeah, I met someone. He’s good mom. It’s still early, but he’s a great guy and he cares about me.”

“You still have time to mess it up though.”

--

“Mr. and Mrs. Hotchner, come on back.”

Aaron held your hand as you made your way back to the exam room. You had been instructed to sit up on the examination table and they offered a chair in the corner of the room to Aaron. He’d pulled the chair closer to you before sitting.

“Okay, we are going to have you fill out these forms and then we are going to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay.”

You completed the forms one by one, growing fatigued at the repetitiveness of them all. Asking about your sexual history, menstrual cycle, whether or not you smoked or drank, your family history in the case that you carried a predisposition to some genetic disorder that could be passed along to the fetus.

“Alright, these questions may seem redundant, but when did your last period begin?”

“Oh um, I think it was in June.” You nervously rubbed your arm.

“Okay! Well then we will go ahead and start with an abdominal ultrasound, if you did conceive in June, you’d be far enough along that we should be able to see the baby this way.”

She assisted you in laying back, you’d pulled the hem of your top up and pushed the waistband of your jeans down. The technician tucked a towel into the waistband of your shorts to avoid getting any gel on them.

“Alright, the gel will be warm.”

She sprayed the gel on the lowest part of your belly, just above your pelvis. She then pressed the wand into the area, spreading the gel around, the picture on the screen coming to life.

The wand shifted two or three times before she paused. She clicked a few things on the screen before addressing you both.

“Okay, that right there, is your baby!”  She gestured to the screen.

You couldn’t believe your eyes. You’d expected to see just a little blip on the screen, barely registering as life, but instead, frozen on the screen was the image of what looked like an actual baby.

“Okay, and this right here, that is your baby’s heartbeat.”

A quick thumping noise filled the room. The heartrate seemingly matching your own, it seemed too fast, but the technician assured you it was normal.

“Okay, I am going to go grab the doctor, she will be able to give you a pretty good estimate as to how far along you are based on measurements and she may call for some bloodwork to check your HCG levels.” 

The two of you sat in wait. Aaron was over the moon, tears in his eyes as he gripped your hand, bringing it to his lips to press kisses over your knuckles. You, however, your mind was reeling. You couldn’t do this; you had no idea how to be a mother. You could tell Aaron could sense your unease, but he didn’t get the chance to speak on it as the doctor entered the room.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hotchner, congratulations! Let’s take a look at your baby, okay?”

Aaron nodded, confirming for the both of you. The doctor followed the same path as the technician that performed the ultrasound a moment ago. She showed you your baby once again, confirming the measurements, and then played the heartbeat, noting how strong it sounded.

“Alrighty then. I’d say based off measurements alone, you are just about out of the first trimester. I do want to order some blood tests just to confirm your HCG, as well as some other standard testing okay?”

“Okay, that sounds good.” Aaron answered and you simply nodded in agreement.

You sat and waited a bit, the nurse came in and drew your blood and then led you both out to the lobby. They were quick to schedule your next appointment, which providing your bloodwork came back clean, you be back in a few short weeks to find out the sex of your baby.

You were feeling numb and unsure. Aaron kept a reassuring hand on you the whole time, only letting go when you had to go in for your next appointment…the one with your psychiatrist.

--

“Okay Mrs. Hotchner, what brings you in today?”

“I uh, I’m pregnant, and I guess I just need to see if it is safe for me to take my antidepressants.” You explained.

“Okay, well let’s go over a few things, you are still going to therapy right?”

“I am.”

“Okay, and how have you been feeling, a lot of women who struggle with anxiety and depression will often experience perinatal depression and are typically at a higher risk for it.” Your psychiatrist explained.

“Perinatal depression?”

“It is sort of an umbrella term for prenatal and postpartum depression. Essentially your usual anxiety and depression may be heightened, especially with all the additional hormones coursing through your body.” She explained. “Do you feel like that is something you may be experiencing.”

“I uh, I have been feeling especially low lately. Hopeless, like nothing I do is good enough.”

“Y/n have you been having any urges or thoughts of harming yourself?”

“No, nothing like that. I just, I feel like I’m going to fuck this up. Like no matter how hard I try, there’s no chance I can succeed.”

“Okay, I think it is best that we get you on a medication that is safe for you and the baby, one that will help okay?” She began. “We are going to start you on a lower dose, but if the feelings of hopelessness persist, please come back in and we will adjust the meds, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

--

“She’s always getting into trouble. I don’t know what to do with her. The school called again, they said she’s unfocused and she’s struggling in all subjects.” Your mom huffed.

“Do you think maybe we should take her in to see a doctor? John’s son just go diagnosed with uh...with ADHD or some shit – the kid can’t sit still to save his life.” Your dad offered.

“I’m not paying a bunch of money, just to have some doctor say that our daughter is hyper. What she needs is discipline.” Your mom rebutted.

“I don’t think a belt is going to make her better at math.” Your dad argued.

“Well, it couldn’t hurt.”

--

The next two months were incredibly difficult. You’d been back to your psychiatrist twice to get your meds adjusted. You’d been back to weekly therapy sessions, but nothing was helping. Aaron had been staying back for more and more cases, doing what he could to be there for you.

Aaron had tried to get you to talk to him, he just wanted to be there, to help. He knew that you were likely anxious as this was your first baby and a lot of worries were sure to surface. He was growing increasingly concerned.

What was getting to him more than anything was Jack. Jack had been so sad for you. Aaron had explained to him that he was going to have a little sister, and that while she was growing inside you, that made you tired and sometimes it made you sad, he told Jack that you had to give the baby all your energy and happiness to help her grow…it was the only way he thought Jack would be able to understand it at his age.

“Is momma gonna get better?” Jack asked quietly.

Aaron was surprised at Jack’s use of the name. Jack had asked him a long time ago if he could call you mom and Aaron and you both told him that he could whenever he was ready. I guess that time is now.

“Yeah bud, momma is going to get better. She just needs extra rest for your sister.”

“Do you think we could help momma give happiness to the baby? That way she doesn’t have to give all of hers away?”

Aaron smiled. “I think that is a great idea bud.”

Jack came up with a list of things to do for you to help you. He wanted to draw you pictures, bring you breakfast in bed, bring you flowers, watch your favorite (Disney/Pixar) movies with you, read stories with you, sing songs with you and cuddle with you.

The two of them came up with a plan and a schedule of when they were going to do each of these things with you. Aaron was going to make sure you were taken care of. He knew he needed to put you first and be there for you during this time.

After this realization, Aaron had gone to Dave, explaining the situation to him, telling him that he’d need to take a step back. Dave immediately told Aaron to prioritize his family and that the team would be ready for him, whenever he could return. Director Cruiz had been equally receptive. Informing Aaron that he’d had a rather large bank of PTO waiting to be used and once the baby was born he could switch over to paternity leave.

He’d been thinking about it a lot…and he thought back to when Haley got pregnant with Jack. The fear that filled him, of being like his own father. Swearing to himself and to her that he would never be like him. It had him thinking about your relationship with your mom…and maybe just maybe, you were experiencing a similar fear to what he’d felt.

--

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want to invite them to the wedding?” Aaron asked.

“I’m sure. My sister and her family are coming, my aunt and uncle are coming with some of my cousins, and my friends are coming and that’s all that matters.”

“I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“Would you invite your dad?” Low blow…speak to him like that and he will leave you.

“No, I wouldn’t.” Aaron confirmed. “I didn’t realize it was like that honey, I’m sorry.”

He held you close, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, whispering sweet nothings into the air surrounding you.

“All that matters is that we are surrounded by our loved ones.” Aaron confirmed.

“I was thinking of asking my uncle to walk me down the aisle.” You suggested.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

--

Aaron and Jack’s plan had been going for two weeks now and thankfully, winter break had just started for both you and Jack. Nearly three weeks off for the holiday, and extra time for them to do everything they can to help you through this.

This particular morning, Jack had told Aaron he wanted to make chocolate chip pancakes with strawberries and bacon on the side, your favorites. Aaron had agreed and woke up early, carefully slipping out of bed and going to wake Jack.

The two of them cooked breakfast side by side, jack was giggling at Aaron as he burned the first batch of pancakes, and jack suggested making the next ones heart shaped.

“To show momma how much we love her.”

As soon as everything was done, they plated it up and placed it on a tray to bring to you. Aaron carried it the majority of the way, before passing it over to Jack, allowing him to take it the last few steps to you.

“Momma, wake up it’s time for breakfast!” Jack called

Aaron placed his hand gently on your shoulder, trying carefully to rouse you. You were quick to stir, you’d been quite restless and were officially in the third trimester, which had brought you an added discomfort.

“What’s this?” You asked

“We made you breakfast, so that way you don’t have to give all your happiness to the baby. Momma, we can give her some of our happiness too. So, you don’t have to be sad.” Jack explained like it was the simplest thing.

Your gaze shot up to Aaron, shock written all over it, at Jack calling you momma, at his offer of sharing his happiness with the baby, and also at his concern of your wellbeing. Tears sprung to your eyes as Aaron simply nodded and hoisted Jack up onto the bed next to you.

“Sweetheart, you are amazing. I know what you’re thinking, and you have nothing to worry about. You are going to be the best mom to this baby.”

“Aaron, I don’t want to be like her. I am so scared that I am going to mess this up…I don’t know what I’m doing. What if I’m a horrible mom?” You cry.

“Momma don’t cry! You’re not horrible, you’re the best mom!” Jack attempted to soothe you, wrapping his little arms around your neck and holding you tight. “I love you momma.”

“I love you too, my sweet boy.” You hugged him to you.

“I know it is scary sweetheart, but this,” Aaron gestures between you and Jack, “you have this part down. The early stuff, we will get through together.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. I love you so much honey.”

“I love you too.”

Aaron pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Love you momma!” Jack kissed your cheek, causing you all to laugh.

“I love you too bub!” You squished his cheek with an exaggerated kiss.

Maybe I can do this…maybe it’ll be okay.

Hotch Taglist: @bernelflo @pastelpinkflowerlife @just-moondust @khxna @crimesthatnooneaskedfor @juninnyxriddle

[vanilleandclove]

how to disappear completely; jack abbot x f!surgical resident!reader

he is vain, conceited even. but he sure is dreamy, daring, a good kisser, an admirable and quite intoxicating man at the same time. he is a trauma junkie with a fever rising when he gets a centimeter too close to you. 

warnings: they match each other’s depression and brooding freak, nickname alluding to drug usage, pre-therapy jack, set in the mid-2010s(?), emotional constipation, semi-medical accuracies (trust me bro), reader relies on intuition and is RIGHT. alcoholism, mfs have NOT kissed. happy one year crashout anniversary to me! HEAVY military inaccuracies particularly with the navy (idgaf). reader is a freak. mentions of serotonin inhibitors usage and ptsd, abbot hurts her feelings. MISOGYNY. word count: 5.2k notes: new series! new dynamics, welcome old & new readers, feel free to check out my page :) chat with me if you want; i love being moots w/ any and everyone of y’all. 

next

“Junkie, can I get your help on a case? Seems surgical”.

All you could do was nod, clipping your pager in the side of your hip next to your medical identification card, the word “SURGEON” in bold letters outlined with the blue color. Your navy scrubs differed from that of the man in front of you, his black, dark enough to hide every bit and shred of personality from him. 

Junkie came from your first day on the job, you were a surgical intern, came in with a full face of makeup with the only exception of waterproof mascara and eyeliner. When you got out of assisting your attendings, the mascara that burned your eyes from the heat of the operating room, had smeared. The eyebags that you covered with concealer were prominent as ever as you turned in your charts for the night shift, you looked horrible, like a junkie, at least according to Doctor Abbot. 

“Female. 31. Her scans are pretty good but, when we got the full 360° viewing, t’looks like something is lodged in the third intercostal space, I would page Doctor Steele but she scares the living shit out of me”.

“So you want me to page Steele for you? I’m a resident Doctor Abbot, I can’t certifiably give you a consult” you spoke up, putting her scans to the light, “However this is definitely exploratory, look-“ you trailed, putting the several sets of scans to the light, “All of that occlusive space, they all mimic what you saw in the third intercostal space- did she reveal any past pulmonary issues?”.

“No, her breathing was normal, even during the tests no rasping or croaking” he responded, in your peripheral you could see his eyes fixed on your cheek.

“If I had to guess she’s packing drugs, there’s remnants of what looks like plastic, maybe cocaine? How were her labs?”.

“All good, sodium levels are a bit high but nothing out of range”.

“I’ll page Steele, maybe she’ll let me scrub in, thanks Doctor Abbot” you told him, “Also maybe if you weren’t such a ‘combat zone medicine’ dude, surgery would love the hell out of you” you teased lightly, staring down at your pager as you typed for Steele.

“I thought ladies liked the veteran form of medicine” he spoke up, the wedding ring of his late wife still donned on his finger as if she were never gone, “Do you?”.

“I’m against war Doctor Abbot, though the adrenaline high of your GI Joe medicine is appealing, not enough to get surgery to respect you” you deadpanned, honest and true, “Plus you’re not my type” you both walked alongside each other, walking down the stairs into the bottom floor towards the emergency department.

“How long is your emergency rotation?”.

“You and Robby have me all week, next week I’m off to neuro… then peds… and maybe ortho” you trailed off, losing attention as a man threw up right on Shen’s sneakers he just bragged about this morning, “What happened to sticking to night shift huh?”.

“Even attendings have to rotate their schedule” Jack sighed, leaving you to yourself as he walked to the several trauma bays that screamed for his attention, you took left, he took right. 

“What do we got?” your voice announced, seeing the nurses scramble to set up, helping them glove before you put your own on, the blue rubber smacking against your skin.

“Male in his late 20s, mom reported he wasn’t breathing when she woke up to check up on him, both fell victim to a car crash just before approaching the hospital” one of the interns ran through the information given to her by the EMT. 

Just in time for Abbot to join alongside you, “Mom was DOA, how’s the son?”.

“Burn marks that look like branding on his hips” you studied, “Several aged bruises along his ribs, is he involved in any gang activity?”. 

“That doesn’t look gang related, boxing ring” Jack affirmed, “Pittsburgh has a bunch of underground shady shit, might be a part of those”. 

You nodded, putting your stethoscope to his chest, “Looks like the crash restarted his heart function, breathing is fine, mild case of tachycardia. His abdomen is rigid- Princess can you call Doctor Shamsi down please?” Your hands trailed down to the man’s hipbone as you pressed down firmly.

“Fuck!” the man screamed throughout the trauma bay as your hands poked towards the lower right quadrant.

“Tell Shamsi we have a case of appendicitis” you smiled lightly from figuring out the man’s source of pain, “Sir I’m Doctor Y/n L/n, I’m a surgeon here at PTMC, we’re going to take good care of you”. 

“Where’s my mom?” the man groaned, slightly slurring, you looked at Jack who was on the opposite side of the gurney, wondering how to handle the news.

“Don’t worry about that right now, what is your name?” you responded, look back at the patient.

“Erick”.

“Well Erick, looks like your appendix is either inflamed or has burst judging from your pain, however we want to get you to CT for full body scan just to make sure we’re not missing anything” you told him, setting the locks on the gurney down so you and Jack could move him out of the trauma bay. “Walsh c’mon” you signaled towards Emery.

Emery and you were the only third-year residents cleared for operating on your own without attending supervision but with mandatory attending clearance or approval. To be fair, you both had the most emergency rotations, worked the most hours, had the darkest eyebags collectively. It intrigued the two of you, being the best in your field together. 

After an hour that felt like several, you and Emery successfully removed Erick’s appendix before calling in a trauma attending to explore if he had internal bleeding caused by the contusions and several bruises that painted his torso purple and green. 

“Wanna get drinks tonight?” Emery spoke up as you both discarded your surgical gowns, “They're on me…”.

“Why do I feel like there’s something you’re hiding…”.

“‘Cuz there is. There’s this guy I’ve been seeing, totally attractive and- great sex- he has this friend that might just be perfect for you” Emery responded, whispering the vulgarity. 

“You know dating isn’t my thing- at least right now”. 

“I know but no shame in experimenting, who knows he might just be Mr. Right” she shrugged, leaving you alone in the scrub station, dimmed lights and all. 

Truth of the matter was, you haven’t approached the subject of dating in months. One bad breakup sent you spiraling, once healing whatever the fuck that man did to you, you took a chance and fell into a repetitive cycle of sex with an emotionally inept man only to lead you down the downwards spiral of hell. Safely to say, you’re glad you took that sabbatical with Doctors Without Borders, it felt fresh to get out of Pittsburgh, in a place where no one can hurt you. 

You didn’t want casual, or sex, nor did you want commitment and wedding dates; you wanted solitude, with a mix of maybe some personal intimacy. It was Maslow’s rule, currently you were missing the middle section of the hierarchy of needs to which you made up for with an abundance of self-actualization and acceptance. 

You remember it getting so bad you had Emery do a brain scan on you just to see what the fuck was going on with you. She recommended therapy, you took that as a sign to befriend your lovely, ever-growing, liquor cabinet. If it was any consolation, you never mixed your work with your interpersonal relationships, Emery was the closest anyone ever got to you. 

Day shift ends at 7 pm sharp, too afraid to deal with union complaints, Gloria and the chief of surgery made sure you all knew about night shift phasing in. Deciding to take up Emery’s proposal for drinks, you got dressed in your car; no matter what you had at least a spare change of clothes in your backseat.

“Y/n!” Emery flagged you down when you walked into the Irish pub she told you to meet her and her mystery guy. You noticed the man from your internship at Presby, last time you remembered, he was a second year internal medicine prospect, one thing you did note, he was quite respectful. Explains the great sex. 

You smiled in response, it was only polite. Avoiding bumping shoulders with other people, you walked to the booth Emery sat with the two guys, the friend being quite attractive. 

“Sorry for the hold up, forgot there was a Pirates game” you inhaled deeply, taking the space next to Emery in the booth. 

Mystery guy’s friend was named Jason, financer tech-mogul adjacent, part shareholder at Presby, a complete capitalistic wet dream, therefore, a huge turn off. 

He wasn’t pushy, wasn’t expecting you to be highly in tune with his tech jargon, neither were expecting him to be invested in your entire lexicon being medicine or something graphic about a patient. You both understood each other through some sort of lens that you could not understand from the innermost part of your brain processes. 

Nevertheless, you let him walk you to your car when the night grew colder in Pittsburgh and the uproar of the city was prevalent from the Pirates winning. 

“You know I know my tech jargon is a mouthful but I had a good time tonight” Jason confessed, hands in his pockets with his breath icy. 

“Yea- my nerdy medical tendencies isn’t fun all the time either” you joked, smiling back at the guy. “Look I don’t date- it’s a me thing, I don’t plan on it or necessarily want it… Just so we’re on the same page” you sighed.

“That’s cool” he shrugged, looking off at the bumper stickers on your car, “Brother a vet?”.

“Huh?” you shook your head, moving it to where his eyes were, your esteemed United States Navy sticker that was worn and damaged to the point that it has since become one with your car. You lightly smirked, stunned by the questioned, “No— that’s mine” you took a moment to pause, “I was a lieu- instead of undergrad I served thinking it’d be— you don’t need to hear this” you awkwardly butchered the explanation. 

“Cool, thank you for your service” he laughed to ease the tension, “Emery didn’t mention that, I would’ve probably paid the b-“.

“She doesn’t know so…” you trailed off, “I don’t really flaunt it” you shrugged realizing the sticker that you thought would be invisible to the naked eye, was in fact a form of flaunting. “We don’t have to do that thing where we explain emotional baggage it was a long time ago”.

“You’re like what… twenty-six?”.

“Twenty-five” you corrected, “I was given a guaranteed offer as a surgeon if I completely competency exams and did a fellowship— surgery was an obvious choice” explaining furthermore before ducking out abruptly, only seeing it as right as you just spilled more details about your life than your coworkers seem to know. 

Those who knew were slim, Princess knew— by association, Perlah knew, Gloria knew as she was the one who hired you, your attending knew, and that was about it. You got enough attention as is from your family, the last thing you wanted was it to bleed into work. 

The next night shift, you stood on the roof, cigarette in hand; the cold air of Pittsburgh pinching your cheeks red and nose began to slightly run. The menthol felt warm against your lips and cold in your lungs, the ledge felt like a kiss of adrenaline to an already swamped night, it was your 15 minute break therefore, smoking, seemed like the only probable outcome for the slither of time.

“You know that could kill you right?” a voice greeted you at the entrance door across the roof. Both annoying yet strangely comforting. 

“The fall or the cig?” you quipped as a joke, looking at the brunette attending, “It’s a once in a blue moon thing— used to have an insane oral fixation”.

“If I knew you better, I’d make a dirty joke by now” Jack replied, pulling out his own pack of Newports, gaining a look of hypocrisy that painted your face, “Once in a blue moon”. 

After you two shared a few silent puffs, it ate away at your insides of not knowing his dirty joke, “What was it?”. 

“Hm?”.

“The joke… let’s hear it” you shrugged, your eyes meeting his, the catchlights making his eyes sparkle almost. You two sat on the guard rails, gently swinging your feet. Jack chuckled only to realize you were serious and about to be added to the long list of women he has had the pleasure of humoring.

“It’s not really a joke, it's more of a crude com-“.

“Just tell me” you impatiently sighed, puffing the cigarette once more, knowing for a fact that he’d probably bring up blowjobs or that he too had to satiate an oral fixation with cunnilingus. 

“Junkie I respect you too much” he used the excuse, smiling back at you. “Your tags are showing” he pointed towards your scrubs, you furrowed your brows on instinct, immediately touching your chest, feeling no metal to your touch. Only for Jack to reach for the nape of your neck, fingers cascading your skin and tucking in the clothing tag. 

“Thanks” you murmured, “You know this is my spot right? Can’t be sharing it with anyone else” you joked after a moment of silence creeped up on you both.

“Your spot is safe with me” Jack nodded, then came silence— a fond and comfortable silence until you sighed and climbed off the railing. 

You checked the watch that you wore on your left wrist, it read 2:48 am, you thanked the silence that made time feel faster when your brain would be on autopilot. Once it reached 6 am, you really needed your stiff back to crack and a cold beer or another menthol. 

You never wandered around once 7 am hit, you’d just go straight to your car. If you saw someone, you’d wave, other than that, they’ll see you when they see you.

“You truly are an enigma” you heard a voice emerge from behind you as your hands fumbled your car keys. The statement led you to give the man a look of confusion.

“What makes you say that?” you tilted your head as you unlocked your car, the small beep emitting in confirmation. 

“Well you disappear into the shadows for one” Jack smiled lightly, “You smoke, you’re a scalpel junkie, your car is older than some of the interns, and by all accounts… you don’t talk to anyone”.

“Ouch…” you feigned offense as you looked Jack up and down as a means to tell him you too, were studying him, “I do.. talk to people, Emery and I are friends”. 

“Evil twins almost” Jack quickly quipped, walking off to his black truck two cars down from you, “Don’t worry about it Y/n, medicine is an isolating field”. 

You furrowed your brows from the comment to yourself, nevertheless getting in your car and driving off with no shame of waiting for the car to warm up after hours of no usage. 

Normally comments wouldn’t get to you, though ones from a man you thought highly about, made you think a tad bit critical of yourself. You had to hand it to Jack, the intense eye contact leads to more emotion to which his words falter. But the words remained in your earshot for the rest of your emergency rotation. 

“Do you think I’m talkative?” you asked Emery as you took your hair out of a bun and scratched your scalp, it was a rough shift and it was barely time for your mandated break. Trying desperately to crack your back but not getting into the right position. 

“Fuck no” Emery released her breath as she cracked her wrists, “It’s a good thing though, you’re pretty intense when you talk”. 

“What do you mean?”.

“You know how you have a thing to make eye contact with every single person you talk to… Intense in this day and age, you’re only at par with Abbot and I wouldn’t take that as a compliment” Emery chuckled, looking at the ER board one last time before walking with you to the staff lounge. 

Once you sat down, you asked the question that’s been eating you alive, “What do you think of Abbot?”. 

“He’s good at what he does, and apparently, he fucks good” Emery added on, “Trisha from OB went on a date with him like four years ago— to this day she’ll say he’s the best she’s ever had and she is married with a kid now”.

You slightly cringed from the statement, not being able to picture your de-facto boss for the week having sex— and being good at it. In your opinion, guys were never really good at sex, with the harrowing reality of your PTSD and SSRI intake, orgasms are sparse and near unachievable, with technological intervention which men see as a threat somehow. You paid no mind to the picture Emery and Trisha painted, as much as it intrigued you, he’s your boss.

The second half of shifts was always the most intense, marked at 4 am, Emery liked to say it’s due to the “freaks coming out”. You like to think it’s just a superficial thing that every emergency room must face.

“Inserting the catheter” you whispered as Doctor Steele looked down at you like a hawk with Doctor Holden, vascular attending. Leaving no room for error as you were about to perform a REBOA on a 17 year old girl who got into a car wreck with three others. 

“Perfect form Doctor L/n”. 

“And inflating the balloon again” you bit your lip, looking the teenager's stats raise to an appropriate amount, “Okay she’s stable, she’s all yours Doctor Holden” you spoke out as Holden took over the bed to wheel her to surgery. 

Going back to the Nurse’s station to see a displeased Bridget, “Everything alright?” you asked, grabbing a chart from the side of you.

“I don’t know what we’re gonna do without you and Emery” Bridget sighed, looking at the board as it lessened within an hour, “No chance of being a trauma fellow?” she quirked a brow as she dialed on the landline.

“Gotta explore my options… not even too sure I’ll do my fellowship here” you shrugged. In actuality the statement would be seen as selfish, though healthcare officials do it all the time. It would make sense, with your history and record, to be a trauma surgeon, it would also make sense for you to explore your options especially as your residency program is coming to a close within a few months. 

Bridget simply nodded as you walked off into a trauma room with the EMTs settling everything and giving Jack a debriefing. 

“What do we got?” you asked as you snapped the blue sterile gloves on your hands, the band smacking your wrist painfully to wake you up. 

“Kennedy Davis, got into a car crash with a claw clip— it’s lodged into her skull” Jack responded, looking at the young girl's head, “It’s metal, already paged neuro to help you”. 

“I’m not scrubbing in, I have to alert Steele though” you sighed, there was a tinge in your chest you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A tinge of self-doubt and almost fear. “Send her to OR 6, Steele should be there soon” you told one of the nurses who quickly nodded his head, you took your leave before hearing a voice behind you.

“Hey what happened right there?”.

“Nothing. I’m not her surgeon… I’m a resident” you responded, still sighing and taking your leave to another patient in order to ease congestion. 

Jack felt offended, the callous of your voice that he never once heard struck a chord he didn’t even know was active. He felt a tinge that he couldn’t describe, one of hurt and chalance. 

So when the clock struck 7 am, he knew he had to catch you at your car, again.

“You working tomorrow?” he asked as he walked a few paces behind you, his truck again, parked close to your car. 

“Yeah.. peds round though— I logged too many neuro hours this week— so I’m out of your’s and Robby’s hair ‘til my next rotation” you answered, it was a harmless question. “Following me to my car again Abbot? I thought you were above stalking”. 

“You seemed off today”. 

“You don’t know me” you sighed back, grinning slightly from the hint of him caring, “I’m tired, underpaid, and looking forward to working tomorrow night after uninterrupted sleep” you teased. 

Jack stood there, not knocked speechless but knowing he had nothing else to say. He stood there as you drove off, wondering if the words were sticking. He didn’t know you. He knew you as a good surgeon, magic hands as Robby would call it, painstakingly stoic since last year, emotionally closed-off and most importantly, a hidden gem.

“Hi honey, what’s your name?” you beamed as you entered a little girls room, she didn’t seem too old to be above and over baby talk; you knew her name from her chart but, it was always a good part to break the ice. 

“Lisa” she answered, her front teeth were missing, causing her ‘s’ to become ‘th’. Her mom had just came in from behind you, two drinks in her hand.

“Good evening, you must be Mrs. Adebayo” you smiled at the mom, her eyes revealing tiredness and worry. “Lisa here is scheduled for surgery at 9pm tonight, quick and easy appendectomy and while we’re there, we’ll check on her gallbladder like you’ve asked”. Her mom nodded, rubbing her eyes before you continued. 

“Now gallstones are common for kids with sickle cell, you can always choose to pass them via medicine or we can go in there laparoscopically— that’s when we put a little camera in you to see what’s being problematic” you explained, “Little Lisa here, may be predisposed to having a bile duct blockage from passing them if you choose medicine, that can cause her to become septic if it worsens”.

“If the gallbladder is fine would you still remove it?” her mom asked, running a hand on her daughter’s hair and forehead. 

“The body doesn’t need the gallbladder, some doctors keep it in there even after experiencing attacks if there’s a low risk factor. If you would like the removal via surgery, we have some additional papers for you to sign”. 

“I’d like to sign them please” she quickly answered, for the first time in hours, she felt relief, “Would you be the surgeon no offense but, you look awfully young?”.

You smiled, “I’ll be assisting, I’m a resident” you nodded. 

“Thank you mama, you’ve been more helpful than the other doctor” she sighed, feeling more and more relieved from being aware of her daughter’s condition.

“You’re very welcome, I’ll have one of the nurses come and bring the papers and we’ll get you prepped honey in a couple of minutes” you smiled at the two before taking your leave.

Peds was both healing and destructive. All departments had their pros and cons: neuro was exhilarating and mentally-draining, general was average and morbid when it came to surgical drawbacks, cardio was rewarding and existentially challenging, ortho was precise and traumatic in operation complications, urology was interesting but not interesting enough to specialize in, oral was bleak with no pros in your mind, vascular was a high contender with interesting and complex cases but the department is disparaging underpaid, oncology felt too depressing albeit it is a miracle to challenge the blight of cancer, ob/gyn was also a high contender— women’s healthcare both in knowledge and practice is certainly subpar in the states; you could work the system from within, and trauma, where you do it all but with extreme time demands. 

Emery matched to specialize in neuro until she saw an old man with Parkinson’s become brain dead, now she’s considering cardio or ortho. You matched with cardio, changed to neuro, now it’s looking like trauma might have them both beat.

“Normally, I don’t date within the workplace but Y/n, would you like to go out for drinks after our shift?” Caden Thorne, attending pediatric surgeon— the doctor Mrs. Adebayo highlighted as being less than helpful when it came to explaining her daughter’s care. He stayed glued to the paper as he charted, as if his confidence carried him in ways eye contact wasn’t needed. He was attractive, freshly divorced, and there was a power imbalance— his words alone would send anyone up a few floors to human resources. 

People gush over pediatric surgeons and caregivers, they keep one of the most vulnerable populations alive and well, they wear colorful scrubs, have decal stickers in rooms, and carry an arsenal of stickers and jolly ranchers for the kids to choose.

“I’ll see you in 30 minutes Doctor Thorne” you replied, sighing deeply before walking away from the nurse’s station. In a way you were offended, you rotated here to learn and practice pediatric surgery not be propositioned for drinks at 7 am because someone wanted to test the waters with you. 

It was gross, absurd, slightly flattering, ultimately flawed. Just as Abbot’s words began to leave your mind, Thorne’s came down to single you as just a woman, in a male-dominated field. It showed you that he wasn’t there to teach you, he saw you as a thing he’d be entitled to.

Therefore you hit him where it hurt. 

“Doctor Thorne the mother specifically requested the gallbladder to be removed, her daughter came in with a gallbladder attack” you spoke beneath your mask as he insisted to keep the gallstone ridden organ, “The Adebayo’s already signed the consent forms, she has sickle cell which only makes her more susceptible—“.

“You think I don’t know that?” he chuckled beneath his mask lightly, you gazed around the nurse’s and the anesthesiologist all of whom stared at each other wondering what the hell is possessing him to have a weird sense of judgement. “By all means go for it Doctor L/n since you’ve seen to know the most out of all of us”.

You blinked beneath your mascara, hands slightly trembling internally. You’ve assisted, you’ve operated on your own but never on a child.

But you had to give Lisa a chance to wake up and not feel terrible abdominal cramps from her genetic predispositions. So, you operated, tediously and with rage seeping out from you due to his malpractice. 

“You ever pull that fucking shit again I will have you kicked from this program do you understand me?” He yelled at you in the hallway outside of the operating rooms, spit landing on your cheek. Yelling wasn’t what provoked you, it was the audacity. 

“Doctor Thorne” a voice emerged from the side, his hand coming up to silence her, “Doctor Thorne” she said again albeit with a stern tone the next, “Step away from my resident, get your ass back to peds, I will handle Lisa’s post-op care and forms, leave” Doctor Steele approached you both. 

You exhaled deeply as you lowered yourself from the tall stance you held in front of him, his leave meant for your relaxation for the past thirty minutes of tension and torment. 

“You okay?” Steele asked— Natasha was her name. Natasha Steele attending and department head for trauma. 

“Yea- Yeah. Nothing I’ve haven’t— experienced” you repeatedly cleared your throat, your ears ringing. It felt perverse, dealing with such abuse in your own workplace, felt degrading and hostile.

“I can ask if you can change back to trauma—“.

“No it’s okay, I’ll just work with Abby the rest of the week” you shook your head, composing yourself.

“Okay” she nodded her head, “Let me know, I’ll fill out the paperwork ASAP” she reassured, patting you on your back. 

You spent the next several hours with paperwork and another two surgical cases. Then came another parking lot interaction with Doctor Jack Abbot.

“How was peds?” Abbot breathed out, this time by your side, not ahead or behind. His backpack slung on his shoulder.

“It was—“ you tried to bite your tongue, almost wanting to hide the truth, “Doctor Thorne wanted to go out for drinks” you sighed, “Kinda got all… woe is me during surgery so he’s on suspension”. 

“I heard” he chuckled lightly, “It confuses me, the medical field used to be predominantly women, you’d think that’d make someone less… of a cunt” he ranted, it astonished you for the refreshing view.

“You’d think,” you nodded.

You were starting to take comfort in the sparing interactions in the parking lot.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (5)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.6k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, smut, fluff, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, tension, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, stress, exhaustion, apologies, fear of backlash, trauma response/PTSD, self-worth crisis, press, fear of doxxing, industry manipulation, slight public announcement explicit: praising, kissing, missionary, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, body worship, post-sex intimacy

A/N: things are really picking up 😭 pls lmk what you think! 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

prev ♡ next

═══════

In every version of this moment I imagined, I cried at the gate.

I thought I’d step off the plane and dissolve into memory, into regret, into whatever you call the feeling of coming back to something that used to hurt.

But instead, I was calm.

Tired.

Focused.

Eun Ae clutched my hand as we made our way through immigration, her little backpack bouncing with each step. She kept whispering questions, half excitement, half nerves.

“Do you think he brought snacks?”

“Will Daddy Kookie speak Korean all the time now?”

“What if he forgot what I look like?”

“He didn’t,” I said softly. “He’s been waiting.”

And then he was.

Standing just beyond the barrier.

Black hoodie. Hair tucked into a cap. Mask low around his chin like he’d forgotten to pull it up. A bouquet of wildflowers in one hand. A nervous, open smile on his face like this was the first breath he’d taken in years.

I froze.

He didn’t.

He walked toward us carefully, like he was afraid to move too fast and scare me off.

Eun Ae saw him first.

She dropped my hand and ran.

I barely had time to exhale before she was in his arms, her voice ringing across the arrivals terminal.

“DADDY!”

He dropped to his knees to catch her, flowers still clutched awkwardly in one hand, her backpack slipping from her shoulders and landing at his feet.

He held her so tight I thought they’d both disappear.

“I missed you,” she said over and over again.

“I missed you more,” he whispered into her hair.

And I just stood there.

Still.

Watching.

Trying to memorize the way it felt to finally witness the thing I used to dream of when the nights felt too long and the crib beside me was too quiet.

When he looked up at me, he didn’t move.

He just searched my face like a man trying to remember what solid ground felt like.

Then - slowly - he stood.

We stared at each other for a second too long.

Then he held out the flowers.

“They’re probably squished.”

I took them.

“I like them that way.”

He smiled, and it was familiar.

Familiar in a way that didn’t feel like falling back.

It felt like… forward.

We didn’t hug.

We didn’t kiss.

We just stood there while Eun Ae danced between us, tugging on our sleeves and demanding we look at everything: the posters on the walls, the vending machine with weird soda, the sign that said “Welcome to Seoul” like it knew.

Outside, the car was warm. Clean. Quiet.

The drive passed in a blur of blinking lights and highway lullabies.

And then we pulled into the driveway.

His house.

Ours now.

Eun Ae looked out the window, wide-eyed.

“We’re really here, huh?”

That’s when I cried.

Not loud.

Just enough.

Because yeah… we were.

Really, truly, finally here.

═══════

They walked through the door like the wind.

No announcement. No trumpets. Just soft steps and wide eyes, their presence rewiring the air, shifting the weight in my chest I didn’t know I’d been carrying.

Eun Ae ran in first, feet thudding against the hardwood, her voice echoing in every room like she already belonged to the walls.

Y/N followed slower.

Eyes on everything.

I stayed by the door, trying not to hover, trying not to make it about me, even though every room in this house was about them. Every lamp, every plate, every drawer full of Band-Aids and crayons and chopsticks.

“This is real,” I whispered under my breath, and for the first time since I bought this place, it actually felt true.

Eun Ae ran straight into her room.

I followed just in time to watch her see the mural again- the one she helped me design over FaceTime months ago and promptly forgot about.

She gasped.

“Oh my gosh! You did it!”

She turned, eyes huge.

“Daddy, you really did it!”

I knelt down. “I told you I would.”

She launched herself at me.

I caught her.

And I nearly broke.

Y/N stepped into the doorway a second later.

She didn’t say anything.

Just looked.

The wildflowers on the wall.

The tiny desk.

The bed with the bunny blanket folded neatly at the edge.

I wanted to tell her how many nights I sat in that room imagining what it would sound like when they walked in. What it would smell like with her shampoo and Eun Ae’s fruit snacks. What it would feel like to not be alone anymore.

But I didn’t have the words.

So I just stood there and watched her heart start to settle into the space I’d made.

Later, after Eun Ae passed out mid-sentence on the living room rug, I tucked her in.

Y/N lingered in the doorway again.

“Need anything?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just a second.”

I gave her that.

And went to bed.

I left my door cracked open.

Not as a message.

Just as a reminder- I’m here. You can come in, or not. You’re safe either way.

I lay in the dark for a while. Listening. Breathing.

And then the tears came.

Not loud.

Not broken.

Just soft.

Relieved.

Because this could’ve never happened.

Because I almost ruined everything.

Because they were here now.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was waiting to be forgiven.

I felt like I was allowed to stay.

═══════

The first full day in Seoul felt like jet lag and emotional vertigo.

The sun hit differently here. Brighter, flatter. The light through the windows didn’t feel like mine yet, even though the curtains were ones I helped choose on a video call weeks ago.

Eun Ae, of course, adjusted instantly.

She danced barefoot down the hallway, opening every door like she was discovering treasure. “Look, Mommy! The shower has buttons!” “We have slippers with ears!” “This toilet says hello!”

Her joy carried me through breakfast.

Until it didn’t.

Until the silence came.

Until I opened the cabinet to find the same brand of ramen I used to live off of in high school and, somehow, it felt like it belonged to someone else now. Until the kitchen smelled like him and not like us. Until I walked down the street to pick up garbage bags and turned the wrong corner, and the air smelled like a city I loved but didn’t yet trust.

It wasn’t culture shock.

It was something quieter. Trickier.

Like being in a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved just enough to make you stumble.

By mid-afternoon, my patience frayed. Eun Ae asked if we could paint the kitchen and I told her too sharply, “Not right now.” She didn’t pout, but her shoulders sank.

That’s when Jungkook stepped in.

“I got dinner,” he said from the hallway, holding two bags of groceries. “But I need help. I bought mushrooms I’ve never cooked, and the rice cooker’s giving me a complex.”

“You bought a rice cooker that confuses you?”

“It has a voice. It talks, Y/N.”

I cracked a smile. He handed me a cutting board like it was a peace offering.

Eun Ae turned on music. Something fast and upbeat. Jungkook dropped a carrot on the floor. I added way too much sesame oil. The rice turned out edible but clingy like it had abandonment issues.

Halfway through prepping a veggie stir-fry, I laughed.

Like really laughed.

The kind that happens when you’re not trying to fix anything- just letting something good happen without permission.

Eun Ae danced around the island, wearing a plastic bowl as a hat. Jungkook offered a dramatic bow when the stove didn’t explode. For the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel like I was walking on someone else’s carpet.

I felt like I belonged.

That night, after dinner, I tucked Eun Ae into her new bed. She fell asleep with her arms around her flamingo drawing like it was a map.

I kissed her cheek.

Turned off the light.

And stood in the hallway listening to the sound of her breathing.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t panic.

I just… felt okay.

Maybe not entirely steady.

But maybe that wasn’t the goal.

Maybe this wasn’t about landing perfectly.

Maybe this was about letting something good begin.

═══════

She laughed tonight.

Really laughed.

The kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes and forces her to lean forward like her ribs can’t hold the sound in.

I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it filled the kitchen.

We were trying to cook something that looked like a stir-fry and ended up tasting like chaos. Eun Ae danced with a soup ladle. Y/N rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look tired for once.

She looked here.

And that- more than the mural, more than the keys she held, more than her suitcase by the door- made this real.

She was here.

But I still hadn’t said it.

Not fully.

Not the words.

I love you.

I want to marry you.

You’re the mother of my daughter and the woman I ruined my life by losing.

Every time I got close, something held me back. Not fear. Not shame.

Just… respect.

Because I already said those things before. And back then, I let her down.

So maybe this time, the words don’t mean as much as the showing up.

So I did.

I showed up.

I washed the dishes. Took out the trash. Let Eun Ae brush my hair into spikes and pretend I was a sea urchin named “Daddy Kookie.”

I watched Y/N sneak a photo of it and pretend she didn’t.

I didn’t push.

Even when she stood close.

Even when she lingered after dinner, her hand brushing mine when we reached for the same towel.

I didn’t rush.

When she said goodnight, I stayed in the kitchen.

I wanted her to come to me.

I wanted to earn her choosing this- not because it was easier than starting over, but because it was better.

I went to bed with the door cracked open again.

Not as a question.

As a promise.

I lay there in the dark and whispered the words into the pillow instead of her skin.

“I love you.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And if I had to say it a thousand more nights before she believed it with her whole body, I would.

I’m not in a rush.

I’m just… ready.

═══════

I couldn’t sleep.

Not from anxiety, not from noise- just from the hum under my skin. The weight of the transition is still settling.

It wasn’t insomnia. It was awareness.

Of the house.

Of the man sleeping down the hall.

Of the choice I made.

The choice I was still making- moment by moment.

I got up quietly.

Padded into the kitchen with bare feet, wrapped in the thin blanket I hadn’t unpacked yet. I made tea I didn’t want. Sat on the counter. Let the quiet wrap around me.

Then I heard him.

Soft footsteps.

Jungkook turned the corner in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded.

He froze when he saw me.

“I was trying not to wake anyone,” he whispered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed the room slowly. Gave me the chance to move.

I didn’t.

He leaned on the counter across from me, hands gripping the edge like if he let go, he’d reach for me.

We didn’t say anything.

The silence between us was warm now.

Not distant.

Just full.

I looked at him - really looked - and it hit me all at once:

This wasn’t the boy who left me.

This was the man who stayed.

Even when it got hard.

Even when I doubted.

Even when I didn’t know how to ask him to.

“Do you want me?” I asked quietly, my voice steady despite the storm of nerves in my chest.

His eyes closed for half a second, like he was gathering himself, before he opened them again, his gaze locking onto mine. “Yes. But only if you want me too.”

“I do,” I whispered, reaching out to take his hand. 

His fingers were warm and calloused, and when our skin touched, it felt like coming home. 

I led him down the hallway in silence, the weight of the moment heavy between us. His room was still dim, moonlight slicing across the floor in pale ribbons, casting shadows on the walls. The air felt thick, pregnant with anticipation.

We didn’t rush. 

Every movement was deliberate. 

Every touch a question

Every kiss a reassurance. 

Jungkook’s hands moved slowly over my body, like he was memorizing every curve, every dip, every inch of skin he’d missed for so long. 

His touch was gentle, soft, like I was something precious, something he was afraid to break. I shivered under his fingertips, my breath coming in shallow gasps as he traced the line of my collarbone, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. 

I reached up to pull his shirt over his head, my fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, the ink that snaked up his arm. 

Clothes came off slowly, piece by piece, until we were both bare, exposed, vulnerable. 

Jungkook’s gaze was hungry but tender, like he was seeing me for the first time all over again. He dipped his head to kiss me, his lips soft and insistent, his tongue teasing mine in a way that made my knees weak. 

I moaned into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes dark with desire. “Can I-”

“Yes,” I interrupted, my voice hoarse. “Please.”

He nodded, his hands moving down my body, his touch deliberate, worshipful. He knelt in front of me, his gaze never leaving mine as he pushed my legs apart, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. 

My heart was pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the most intimate part of me.

“Jungkook,” I gasped, my hands gripping his shoulders as he kissed me there, his tongue teasing, his mouth hot and wet. 

He took his time, savoring every inch of me, his touch slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every nerve ending, every secret place that made me shudder and moan. I felt myself unraveling under his mouth, my body tightening, coiling like a spring, until I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Jungkook, please,” I begged, my voice desperate.

He hummed against my skin, his fingers pressing into my hips as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that had me crying out, my body arching off the floor. 

My orgasm crashed over me like a wave, intense and all-consuming, and I heard myself screaming his name, my hands tangling in his hair as he held me there, riding it out until I was trembling, boneless, completely undone.

When he finally stood, his eyes were soft, his expression almost reverent. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

I reached for him, pulling him close, my hands roaming over his body as I kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. “I want you,” I murmured against his mouth. “Now.”

He nodded, his hands gripping my hips as he guided me back to the bed, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the room. 

We moved together slowly, every touch, every kiss, every breath a reminder of what we’d lost and what we’d found again. When he pressed into me, it wasn’t desperate- it was worshipful, like I was something holy and fragile and entirely his.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he moved inside me, his eyes locked onto mine. “You’re everything.”

I held his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as he thrust into me, slow and deep, his body moving with mine in a rhythm that felt like coming home. 

“I’ve missed this,” I breathed, my voice shaking. “I’ve missed you.”

He moaned into my skin, his lips trailing kisses down my neck, his hands gripping my hips as he moved faster, harder, his body driving into mine with a desperation that belied his earlier gentleness. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he groaned, his voice raw. “So much.”

I felt myself building again, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, until I was crying out his name, my nails digging into his shoulders as my body shook with another orgasm. 

He followed soon after, his name on my lips, his body pressing into mine as he came, his breath hot against my neck.

We stayed wrapped around each other for a long time.

His forehead on my shoulder. My fingers tangled in his hair.

He didn’t ask what it meant.

I didn’t pretend it wasn’t what I wanted.

Because this wasn’t about the past anymore.

It was about now.

And I was finally ready to live in it.

═══════

I woke up warm.

Not in a metaphorical way. Literally warm- sheets tangled around my legs, sunlight in my hair, the soft weight of an arm across my waist and breath on the back of my neck.

Jungkook.

Still asleep.

Still here.

It was the first time I’d woken up like that in years.

I didn’t move for a long time.

Just listened to his breath, slow and uneven. The faint chirp of birds outside the window. A distant truck reversing somewhere down the street.

This wasn’t a hotel bed.

Wasn’t an accident.

This was our life now.

His fingers twitched against my hip. He shifted, nuzzling into my shoulder with a low, unconscious groan. I turned slightly to face him.

Eyes closed.

Mouth parted.

Hair a disaster.

I brushed a strand off his forehead and whispered, “You snore, you know.”

His eyes opened instantly. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Only a little.”

“Like a baby elephant.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Kill me.”

“No. I like the noise.”

He peeked up at me.

There it was again- that soft, shy smile he only gave me in the morning. The one that still didn’t quite believe this wasn’t a dream.

“Is she up?” he asked.

“No. Let her sleep a little longer.”

We lay there a few minutes more before I finally swung my legs over the edge and sat up.

The room looked different in daylight.

Less like his and more like ours. My sweater draped over the chair. My earrings beside the lamp. The book I was pretending to read half-open on the nightstand.

He watched me from the bed like he was memorizing something.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to write a ballad about my messy hair and morning breath.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

I laughed and tossed a pillow at him before slipping into the hallway.

The kitchen smelled like soap and lemon and coffee beans. He followed a few minutes later, hair wet, a towel slung over his shoulder, wearing sweatpants and a sleepy kind of confidence that made my stomach twist.

He poured two mugs of coffee and slid one toward me. “Toast or rice?”

“Toast.”

He made both.

Because that’s who he is now.

Halfway through plating eggs, Eun Ae stumbled in, her hair everywhere, one sock on, eyes still foggy.

“Is it school today?” she mumbled, climbing onto a chair.

“Yes, baby,” I said. “First full week.”

Jungkook kissed the top of her head. “We’re gonna crush it.”

I stood at the stove, flipping toast, watching them from over my shoulder.

My daughter.

My ex-boyfriend.

My maybe-again future.

And I didn’t feel scared.

Just still.

Like the noise had finally stopped.

═══════

I hadn’t danced like that in months.

Not just training. Comeback training. Which meant:

6 a.m. call time.

Ten-hour rehearsals.

Three choreographers yelling at once.

And exactly zero room for error.

By the end of the second day, I was running on coffee and willpower, crashing on the van ride home with my mouth open and my phone buzzing in my lap with missed messages from Y/N.

But I still got up.

Every morning.

No matter how late I came in or how heavy my legs felt, I got up when she did. Helped make breakfast. Brushed Eun Ae’s hair (badly). Walked them to the door with shoes untied and a protein bar in my pocket, trying to pretend I wasn’t blinking through exhaustion.

It mattered to me.

Not because I thought she needed me to.

But because I needed to show up.

I missed dinner twice that week.

Once because dance practice ran long, and once because I just… fell asleep in the studio break room with my hoodie pulled over my eyes.

Y/N never complained.

She just left food on the stove. Covered. Labeled.

The second time, I saw a sticky note beside my plate that read:

“Still proud of you. Love, E + Y.”

There was a tiny crayon heart beside it.

That almost made me cry.

The next morning, I dropped a pan in the kitchen because I hadn’t slept and couldn’t feel my fingers properly. I didn’t yell. Just froze. Stared at the eggs on the floor. Y/N knelt to clean them without a word.

I wanted to say, I’m trying.

But she already knew.

That night, I forgot to sign Eun Ae’s school form.

Y/N found it.

Signed it.

And said nothing.

But I could tell from the way her shoulders moved as she folded laundry that it hit a nerve.

She wasn’t angry.

She was… tired.

And suddenly, I remembered what tired meant when it was just her.

All those years.

All those nights.

All that silence I left her to carry.

I lay on the couch that night and stared at the ceiling, guilt chewing at my chest.

I hadn’t meant to drop anything.

But I was starting to slip.

═══════

It started small.

A form unsigned.

A load of laundry forgotten.

The wrong lunchbox in the wrong bag.

None of it was worth fighting over.

Not when I saw the bags under Jungkook’s eyes. Not when I heard the way his bones moved after rehearsal, like even standing up was too much to ask.

He was trying.

Really trying.

He made coffee before I asked. Brushed Eun Ae’s hair like it was a skill he was studying in secret. Left me voice notes on my lunch break just to ask how my first week was going.

And still, the balance was tilting.

I didn’t blame him.

But I knew the signs.

I’d lived this whole storm once already- sleepless nights, missed messages, invisible weight on my back while the other person chased something that didn’t leave room for me.

Only this time, he was here.

This time, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening while also pretending I was okay.

I found the school form Thursday night while putting away crayons. It was crumpled, unsigned, tucked into a backpack pocket next to a juice box that had leaked all over a spelling test.

I cleaned it up.

I signed it.

I folded the laundry while he showered and tucked Eun Ae into bed because he’d fallen asleep again, curled up on the couch, shoes still on.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t spiral.

I just felt the smallest, sharpest whisper of something I hadn’t wanted to hear again:

Don’t let this become a pattern.

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But I knew what it felt like to be the catchall. The default. The one who quietly keeps everything upright while the other person tries to survive their own life.

I wasn’t mad.

I wasn’t scared.

I just… noticed.

That night, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote a single sentence in my journal:

“Love isn’t supposed to feel like carrying.”

Then I closed the book.

And kissed him goodnight without waking him up.

═══════

Rehearsal was brutal.

Three run-throughs, two interviews, and a choreography tweak that had my knees questioning every life decision I’ve ever made.

By the time I made it to the break room, my hoodie was stuck to my back and my calves were screaming. I dropped into the couch like a man twice my age and didn’t move for a solid minute.

Jimin passed me a bottle of water and said, “You look like you’re ten minutes from flatlining.”

“I am flatlining.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you used to recover faster?”

“I also used to live off convenience store ramen and get eight hours of sleep,” I muttered.

The guys laughed, but I didn’t join in.

Instead, I rubbed at my temples and said, “I’m trying, but I feel like I’m failing. I come home and I’m exhausted, and there’s homework and lunches and bills and Y/N doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she notices. She’s tired too. And Eun Ae’s too young to understand why Appa’s so quiet some nights.”

They all looked at me.

Silent.

Then Taehyung- who had been lying on the floor, chewing gum and pretending not to care- said:

“Yeah. Sounds hard. Imagine doing it completely alone, right after being abandoned, in a new country, as an eighteen year old.”

The room went still.

I stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t soften it.

Didn’t have to.

Because it was true.

That was Y/N’s life.

For years.

While I was training.

While I was on stage.

While I was too ashamed to even unblock her number.

I stood up too fast, heart pounding, guilt rolling through me like a tide.

“I gotta go.”

Namjoon reached out. “Jungkook- ”

“I just… I need to go home.”

═══════

The front door slammed louder than I meant it to.

Y/N and Eun Ae were in the kitchen- painting or making soup or doing some combination of both based on the smell and the paper towels everywhere.

They looked up at the same time.

Y/N opened her mouth to say something.

I didn’t let her.

I crossed the room, dropped my bag, and kissed her.

Right there.

Hard.

Full.

Like the apology I hadn’t made and the thank-you I didn’t know how to say.

She gasped but didn’t pull away, just melted for a second, her hand in my hair, her body soft against mine.

When I pulled back, I cupped her face and said, voice shaking, “I love you. And I’m sorry. Thank you. For doing it all. For not giving up on her. On us. I love you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then from the side:

“Whoa!”

Eun Ae was staring wide-eyed, paintbrush still in hand. “Was that a real kiss?”

Y/N flushed crimson and gently pushed me back. “Okay, okay, maybe not in front of her.”

I nodded, breathless, trying to smile, but her face had changed.

She wasn’t mad.

But she wasn’t glowing, either.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly, glancing at Eun Ae.

My stomach dropped, but I nodded.

Of course we could.

Because the truth deserved more than a dramatic declaration.

It deserved space.

═══════

We waited until Eun Ae was asleep.

She didn’t ask many questions, thankfully. Just giggled about the kiss for a while, made Jungkook promise never to do “grown-up stuff” in the kitchen again, and fell asleep under her flamingo blanket, clutching a crayon drawing of the three of us.

When I came out of her room, Jungkook was already sitting on the couch, hands clasped between his knees, bouncing them nervously.

He looked up the second I walked in.

“Are you mad?”

“No,” I said, sitting beside him. “Not mad.”

He let out a slow breath.

“Then why does it feel like I just ruined something?”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said gently. “But… you did rush it.”

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

I tucked my knees beneath me, turning toward him fully.

“I know you meant it. And I believe you. I do. But saying ‘I love you’ in front of our daughter? Kissing me like that without warning? That’s not wrong, Jungkook. It’s just… a lot.”

“I panicked,” he admitted. “I was at rehearsal, and I just- Taehyung reminded me about how much you did. How much I left you to do. And I realized I hadn’t said thank you. Not really.”

“You don’t have to panic to love me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to prove anything with a moment. We’re past that.”

He looked down. “I’m scared I’m doing it again.”

“You’re not.”

“But I’m tired. And distracted. And- ”

“You’re here,” I said softly. “You’re trying. That matters.”

We sat in silence for a long moment.

Then I added, “But trying isn’t everything. Sometimes it’s timing. Sometimes it’s pacing. I’ve spent a lot of time learning to trust myself again. I don’t want to lose that by rushing into the version of us we used to dream about.”

“I’m not trying to go back.”

“I know. But I need to go slow. For me. For her.”

He nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. No more surprises.”

I smiled. “Well, maybe some surprises.”

He leaned in a little. “Like what?”

I kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Steady.

No performance. No rush.

Just yes.

When I pulled back, he whispered, “Was that a surprise?”

“That was a reminder.”

He nodded like he understood exactly what I meant.

Later, after we crawled into bed and the lights were off, he reached for my hand under the blanket.

I let him find it.

And I didn’t say anything when he whispered, “I’m in this. As long as it takes.”

I just squeezed his fingers.

And thought:

Good. Because this time, we don’t fall in love.

We build it.

═══════

The happiness felt suspicious.

Not because it wasn’t real but because it was so real.

So soft. So safe. So… steady.

Like walking on glass that somehow hadn’t shattered yet.

Our mornings had rhythm now. Toast, hair ties, mismatched socks. Jungkook learned how to braid- with lots of groaning and YouTube tutorials- and started insisting on doing it every other day, even when he got it crooked.

I’d never seen him more proud than the morning Eun Ae shouted, “Daddy! It’s not even bumpy!”

He packed her lunches when I worked early shifts. I left little notes in his hoodie pockets for rehearsals. On days he had a lot of time, we’d pile into the car with no plan: parks, bookstores, drive-thru fries, holding hands across the console like teenagers.

It was peaceful.

Unearned, maybe.

But desperately needed.

And I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, we were going to be okay.

Until people started looking.

It was subtle at first.

A teenage girl at the playground who kept glancing between Jungkook and Eun Ae like she was solving a puzzle.

A cashier who froze when I handed over my card and asked, “Sorry, but… are you…?”

Two women at the bakery whispering behind their phones after we left.

I didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

But it curled around the edge of me like smoke.

When I picked Eun Ae up from school one afternoon, another parent smiled and said, “She must look so much like her father.”

I smiled back.

But my heart tripped over itself.

They didn’t mean anything.

But they could.

That night, I stood in the hallway after brushing my teeth and watched Jungkook asleep on the couch, TV still flickering against his face, remote dangling from his fingers.

And I felt it.

That old fear.

The one I buried deep under logistics and laundry and forgiveness.

The one that whispered:

What happens when they all find out?

What happens to him?

What happens to her?

What happens to us?

I didn’t wake him.

Didn’t say a word.

I just turned off the TV.

Pulled a blanket over his chest.

And tried to ignore the chill in my own.

═══════

The meeting room was already full when I walked in.

I knew it was serious before the door even closed.

Namjoon was standing. Jin and Yoongi were seated, arms crossed. Taehyung looked worried. Jimin looked pissed. Hobi kept his arms folded like he was ready to catch fire. Our manager was pacing, and two HYBE execs were seated at the end of the table, folders and iPads in front of them like this was a press conference I didn’t know I’d walked into.

Then I saw the screen.

Four photos.

Me. Y/N. Eun Ae.

At the grocery store. Outside our house. Me holding her hand. Y/N standing behind her at pickup.

I froze.

“Sit,” one of the execs said.

I didn’t.

Jin spoke first. “These leaked about three hours ago. Low engagement right now, but it’s picking up.”

“Picking up how?” I asked.

“Trending on some army forums. A few gossip Twitter accounts. Nothing verified,” Yoongi said. “But they’re asking questions.”

And then the exec’s voice cut through the tension like a scalpel.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?”

I blinked. “I took my daughter to school.”

“You exposed yourself,” she snapped. “You went out without a disguise. You were photographed in public holding a child’s hand and smiling like no one in the world has ever heard of Jeon Jungkook.”

My throat tightened.

“That’s my family.”

“That’s a risk.”

Jimin stepped forward, but Namjoon grabbed his arm.

“You’re not just Jungkook anymore,” the exec continued. “You are a brand. You are a cornerstone of a multimillion-dollar strategy. And you think you can just wander into cafés and play house without a single consequence?”

Taehyung muttered, “He is a house. With a child. That’s the point.”

“That child,” the other exec cut in, “is now in the line of fire. She is a minor. She is traceable. And if you don’t do something now, this will explode. And when it does, you won’t be the only one caught in it. You’ll drag BTS, this label, everyone down with you.”

Silence.

My fists clenched.

“So what?” I asked. “You want me to pretend she doesn’t exist?”

“We want you to not confirm. Don’t speak. Don’t post. Don’t hint. You don’t respond at all. The moment you give this oxygen, it catches fire.”

I looked at my members.

Namjoon - torn, but steady.

Jin - protective, jaw tight.

Yoongi - angry, but strategic.

Jimin - holding back rage.

Hobi - quiet, hands white-knuckled.

Taehyung - already shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

No one said anything.

Because what could they say?

“I’m not hiding them again,” I whispered.

One of the execs stood. “You will if you want to keep your career.”

The silence that followed said more than anything.

I turned to leave.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon called, voice low.

I didn’t stop.

I just kept walking.

Out of the room.

Down the hall.

Into the parking garage.

I got in the car and closed the door before my chest cracked open.

I didn’t just cry.

I broke.

Because I’d finally rebuilt everything I ruined.

And now I was being told to burn it all down again.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know how to tell her.

═══════

He came home different.

Not late. Not angry.

Just… off.

The door opened the same way it always did- keys clinking, shoes kicking off, soft sigh through his teeth but the air shifted the second he walked in.

I was making dinner. Something simple. Rice, bulgogi, sliced apples on the side the way Eun Ae liked. She was on the floor drawing pictures of “Appa’s dance stage,” narrating each crayon stroke like she was designing a world we could live in.

“Hey,” I said, smiling.

Jungkook looked up from the entryway.

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey.”

That was it.

No kiss.

No teasing comment.

No pause to scoop up Eun Ae like he always did, even when his body was barely holding itself upright after rehearsals.

I watched him walk into the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and down it like he hadn’t had anything all day.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered, already heading toward the bedroom. “Just tired.”

Something about his voice made my stomach turn.

It wasn’t just tired.

It was something else. Thicker. Heavier.

Like regret.

Dinner was quiet.

He sat across from me but barely touched his food. Nodded when Eun Ae showed him her drawing but didn’t comment on how she’d drawn herself with purple pigtails and wings. That used to make him laugh for five minutes straight.

I tried to catch his eye.

He didn’t look up.

Not once.

After we put Eun Ae to bed, I waited.

I thought maybe he’d open up. Maybe he was just decompressing and didn’t want to talk in front of her. I made tea. Sat beside him on the couch, not touching but not far.

Nothing.

No conversation. No explanation. Just silence, tense and buzzing like something unsaid was crowding the room.

I hated how fast my thoughts turned.

Did I do something?

Did I say too much last night?

Is this the beginning of the end again?

Was all of this just a fantasy we couldn’t hold?

I didn’t ask.

Not because I didn’t want to know.

But because I didn’t want to beg for reassurance again. Not after everything we promised we’d do differently.

He fell asleep on the couch with the TV playing some variety show neither of us was really watching.

I stood there for a long time, watching him breathe.

His mouth twitched once, like he was dreaming something he didn’t want to tell me.

And I felt like a stranger in my own story.

Not because the love wasn’t real.

But because it suddenly felt too far to reach.

I curled into bed alone that night.

The space beside me stayed cold.

And I couldn’t help but wonder:

Was I always easy to leave behind?

═══════

I woke up with a headache and guilt crawling down the back of my throat.

Y/N was already up.

I could hear her in the kitchen. Gentle clinks, soft footsteps, the hum of her voice while she helped Eun Ae pack her bag for school. I didn’t get up right away. I stayed on the couch, eyes closed, letting the silence punish me.

I should’ve told her.

About the meeting.

About the threats.

About the way they said her name like it was a liability.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Because the second I tell her, it’d become real for her, too. And I wasn’t ready to see fear in her eyes again.

I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and caught them at the door.

“I’ll walk her today,” I said, voice still rough.

Y/N looked at me for a second too long.

Then just nodded.

Eun Ae grabbed my hand without hesitation. “Daddy, I made you a heart sandwich today in my dream.”

I smiled. “Best dream I’ve ever heard.”

═══════

We passed two people on the street who did double-takes.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull my hood up.

Didn’t drop her hand.

Didn’t act like holding my daughter’s hand in daylight was something to be ashamed of.

The label told me to lay low.

I’d decided the opposite.

If they wanted silence, I’d give them softness.

Visible, public, undeniable softness.

═══════

Later that afternoon, I stopped by the café near our house. The one where the barista knows Eun Ae’s weird milk preference and draws bunnies in foam when he sees us coming.

I ordered two drinks.

I didn’t wear a hat.

Didn’t wear a mask.

When they asked for a name on the cup, I said, “Jungkook.”

I felt the girl behind the counter freeze.

But I smiled anyway.

And when I walked out holding both cups, hers with a pink straw, I didn’t rush. I didn’t duck.

I just existed.

═══════

The interview was filmed the same evening.

Nothing big- just a pre-recorded segment for an upcoming radio appearance.

Toward the end, the host smiled and said, “Jungkook, you seem really grounded lately. Is it the new album? Or… something else?”

I could’ve lied. Dodged.

Instead, I smiled.

Tilted my head.

And said, “Could be the album. Could be the two girls I get to come home to.”

My manager flinched in the corner.

The host blinked.

The crew laughed like it was just a joke.

But it wasn’t.

I didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t give the label a soundbite they could bury.

Just the truth.

Quiet. Steady. Intentional.

═══════

That night, I stood outside our front door, with two new drinks still warm in my hands.

I hadn’t answered a single message from HYBE all day.

I didn’t care.

I’d given them enough of my silence.

Now it was my turn to choose what mattered.

And every step I took toward our home was a vow:

I will not pretend this isn’t mine.

I will not be ashamed of them.

Let them see me.

═══════

He came home with coffee and guilt in his hands.

He didn’t say anything when he walked through the door and just pressed the warm cup into mine and looked at me like he’d already written the apology a hundred times in his head.

And I hadn’t even asked for one.

I hadn’t asked for anything.

That was the problem.

I’d been so scared to tip the balance that I’d let the distance grow and named it patience.

But I was tired.

Tired of guessing.

Tired of pretending I didn’t notice the tension in his shoulders or the unread texts piling up on his phone or the way Eun Ae asked, “Why’s Appa sad today?” like it was just another weather report.

I set the cup down on the counter.

“Talk to me.”

He blinked.

“Not about work. Not about rehearsal. About this. About what’s happening between us. Because something is, and I’m not going to pretend it’s fine anymore.”

He looked like he wanted to run.

Instead, he nodded.

We sat on the couch. Close, but not touching.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then- 

“I didn’t tell you what happened the other day. At HYBE.”

My chest went still.

He told me everything.

The photos.

The meeting.

The way they said Eun Ae’s name like it was a headline.

The words: brand, liability, risk.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just let it settle over me like rain on a rooftop- inevitable, soaking, not fatal but still cold.

“And you didn’t tell me because…”

“I couldn’t make you carry it.”

I stared at him.

“I already carry her.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But now I want to carry you, too.”

I looked down at my hands. At the way they curled into each other, tight and unsure.

“I don’t want her to be a secret,” I said.

“She isn’t.”

“But the world will treat her like one. And you. And me. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to live like that again.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What if they come for us?”

“They already are.”

“And?”

He leaned in.

Soft. Steady.

“I let them come for me. Not you.”

I swallowed hard.

“I’m scared, Jungkook.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t want you to be either.”

Silence hung heavy between us, a tangible weight in the air.

Then I whispered, “If it all breaks open…”

He took my hand.

“If it breaks open, we break it open together.”

We didn’t kiss right away.

We just held each other for a long time, forehead to forehead, breath to breath. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, I pressed my mouth to his, the kiss unhurried, a silent vow of our own. It wasn’t desperate or hungry. It was a choice, a reaffirmation of everything we’d been through and everything we still hoped to be.

He kissed me back with the weight of that vow, his lips soft yet firm, his hands cradling my face as if I were the most precious thing in the world. 

When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine, and I saw the same fear I felt reflected in his brown irises, but also something else- determination. He took my hand again, leading me to the bedroom, his steps deliberate, slowed.

The room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. 

He didn’t rush. 

He didn’t push. 

Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me gently until I stood between his legs. His hands rested on my hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where my shirt rode up. 

I felt his gaze on me, heavy and tender, as if he were seeing me for the first time all over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down my spine. “Always have been.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. 

“Jungkook-”

“Shh,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to my lips.

He stood then, his hands moving to my shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, his touch gentle, reverent. I let him undress me, my breath hitching as the fabric slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. 

His eyes trailed over my body, lingering on the curves he’d once known so well, as if he were rediscovering every inch of me. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but also cherished.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his hands moving to my bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. 

It fell away, and I stood before him, bare, my chest rising and falling with my quickening breath. He didn’t look away, his gaze intense, worshipful. 

“So fucking perfect.”

His words were like a balm, soothing the edges of my fear. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me against him. 

I could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his chest against my breasts, and I tilted my head back, closing my eyes as his lips brushed my collarbone, my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, filled with an emotion so raw it took my breath away. 

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Always have, always will.”

Those words were a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink of my fears. I leaned into him, pressing my body against his, needing to feel his warmth, his strength. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, his lips finding mine again, the kiss deep and hungry, yet still tender.

When he finally pulled back, his hands were moving, unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans down his legs. I watched him, my heart pounding, as he stepped out of them, standing before me in nothing but his boxers. His body was lean, muscular, a testament to the hours he spent training, but it was the vulnerability in his eyes that undid me.

He reached for me again, pulling me closer, his hands sliding down my body, over my hips, my thighs, until he was kneeling before me. My breath caught as his fingers brushed the waistband of my panties, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he slowly slid them down my legs. I stepped out of them, feeling exposed, yet safe in his presence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a husky whisper. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

His hands moved to my thighs, spreading them gently, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I shivered, my breath coming in short gasps as he leaned in, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the juncture of my thighs. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he kissed his way up, his tongue tracing patterns that made me squirm.

“Jungkook,” I moaned, my head falling back as his mouth found my cunt, his tongue delving deep, his hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against my skin, his words sending a jolt of pleasure through me. “So sweet, so fucking perfect.”

His praise was like fuel, igniting a fire within me. I moaned louder, my hips bucking against his mouth as he sucked, licked, and kissed, his tongue skilled and relentless. 

He knew exactly where to touch, how to touch, his fingers joining in, sliding inside me, stretching me, filling me.

“Oh God, Jungkook,” I gasped, my body tightening, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. “I’m close-”

“Cum for me, baby,” he urged, his voice a low growl. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words were my undoing. My body shattered, my orgasm ripping through me, my cries filling the room as he drank me in, his mouth and hands never stopping, milking every last drop of pleasure from me. I collapsed against him, boneless and breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He stood then, pulling me into his arms, his lips finding mine in a kiss that was both tender and fierce. 

“I love you,” he whispered against my mouth, his hands cradling my face. “Always.”

He laid me down on the bed, his body hovering over mine, his eyes searching mine as he positioned himself at my entrance. 

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

I nodded, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss.

He entered me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, his hands bracing himself on either side of my head. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, our bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time. 

He kissed me, his lips soft, his tongue tangling with mine as he thrust into me, his movements deliberate, unhurried, yet filled with a passion that left me breathless.

“You feel so good,” he murmured against my lips, his hips snapping faster, his body glistening with sweat.

His words were like a spell, binding me to him, body and soul. I moaned, my nails digging into his back, my body arching against his as he filled me, claimed me, loved me. 

The world outside ceased to exist, there was only him, only us, our hearts beating as one, our breaths mingling, our bodies moving in perfect harmony.

“Jungkook,” I cried, my body tightening around him, the pleasure building again, overwhelming. “I- I can’t- ”

“Cum with me,” he growled, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you.”

His command was my release. 

My body shattered around him, my cries filling the room as he followed, his own orgasm ripping through him, his name on my lips as we fell apart together, bound by love, by trust, by a connection that transcended words.

And when it was over- when we lay tangled in each other, sweat-damp and quiet- he whispered into my skin:

“Let them see everything.

Because I’m not ashamed of us.”

═══════

prev ♡ next

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/10/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @mygukkiebaby @roseda @hottigerboba @xmiaacxio @emmie2308 @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @dragonflygurl4 @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @iiamnotsure @lavender2ari @busanbby-jjk @prilnextdoor23 @ecomidnight @annpeachy @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94

[onlypinkslut]

toji fushiguro x slutty pregnant!fem!reader 🍼 NSWF 18+ 🍼

✩ part one ✩ next>>

˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚

cw: emotional neglect, pregnancy struggles, bodily fluids (piss accident), public humiliation, realistic depiction of pregnancy symptoms (swelling, leaking, back pain), visible body changes, body image issues, loneliness, mild degradation, toji gaze, nonverbal tension, soft obsession, breeding themes, toji being a feral man with a quiet fixation.

♥︎40k words

six months ago you didn’t know this was how you’d end up. you didn’t picture yourself waddling in a sundress with swollen ankles and a back that constantly ached. you didn’t imagine waking up in sweats at 3am, leaking through your flimsy bralettes, cheeks hot, thighs slick, stomach bloated and heavy with a baby you were growing alone. you thought he loved you when it happened. you thought he’d change.

but he didn’t.

he kept saying it was an accident.

you told him if he didn’t want to be a father, then he should’ve worn a condom. but that conversation replayed every night now, his words like needles. he barely touched you since. never kissed you goodnight anymore. didn’t care when you cried over your sore nipples, didn’t care when your back gave out in the kitchen and you needed help getting off the floor. you didn’t recognize your own body anymore. your hips had widened into a full slope, your thighs touched now when you walked, jiggled with every step, and your once-small belly button had popped forward like a button on a shirt too tight. even your arms had gotten softer, rounder, heavy from cradling your stomach. you looked in the mirror and didn’t see a woman anymore. you saw a thing that was made to be used, filled, bred.

and worst of all… you were horny.

feral.

pregnancy hormones had made you into something sick. you got wet over ads for formula. you rubbed your thighs together when you felt the baby kick. your nipples were always sore and swollen, so sensitive they ached if your bra rubbed wrong. and your boyfriend didn’t even want to look at you.

toji fushiguro hadn’t touched his fiancée in over seven months and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. it was because she didn’t let him.

the first year of their engagement had been fine. empty, curated, expensive, but fine. hana liked luxury and he didn’t mind buying it. handbags, skincare fridges, matching sets from paris that sat untouched in velvet-lined drawers. she was polite and pristine, a pilates instructor with perfect posture and cold hands. but she had rules.

she slept with her face mask on. she cried over gaining three pounds. she timed her orgasms like they were workouts, breath sharp, core tight, never letting go too much, never messy, never sloppy.

he should’ve seen it coming.

she froze her eggs the same week she bought her new veneers.

when he told her he wanted a baby—really wanted one, not in some theoretical future, not as a borrowed cousin at brunch—she looked at him like he said he wanted to raise a wolf.

she said it would ruin her body.

she said he didn’t understand the trauma of childbirth.

she said adoption exists and we can hire a surrogate and you’re being selfish.

and he tried. fuck, he tried. he nodded through her presentations, even met the poor art student she suggested should carry their child. she looked about seventeen and couldn’t even look him in the eye.

and still, hana asked if he was happy.

he was not.

he was not fucking happy.

he was thirty-eight. his back hurt every time he tied his boots. he was tired of drinking protein sludge and being around women who smelled like almond milk and botox. he wanted to smell skin. milk. birth.

he wanted something real.

and lately, he’d been having the same dream.

someone warm in his lap. soft. heavy. crying. breasts leaking down his arms, stomach big and tight against his chest, thighs sticking to his legs. he’d wake up rock hard, humping the sheets like a dog, teeth clenched.

he never told hana.

instead, he started driving at night.

aimless loops through old streets. past playgrounds, daycares, corner markets that sold diapers and baby wipes and off-brand pacifiers in pastel plastic. he’d park and sit there sometimes, engine running, his hand fisted in his lap, thinking about what it would smell like to press his nose to a breast that had fed a baby.

he couldn’t explain it.

he didn’t want sex. he wanted breeding.

and every time hana spoke now, he felt something crawl up his spine.

she booked a couple’s massage for them that morning. he skipped it.

she texted him a blurry selfie from the spa, legs crossed, glass of lemon water in hand. you’re missing out, she wrote.

he didn’t reply.

he was already in his car.

you had to sit on the edge of the bed just to put your shoes on.

your thighs kept swallowing your panties. your ass had gotten so fat you could barely pull your old underwear over it, and you’d long given up wearing anything with a waistband. your stomach sat like a heavy globe on your lap, skin tight and itchy and patterned now with angry pink lines. your nipples darkened so much they looked bruised and your bras were stained from constant leaks.

you used to cry about it.

used to beg him to tell you you still looked pretty. but he barely touched you anymore. said he was tired. said he didn’t feel attracted to you when you were like this.

you’d scream and ask what like this meant.

he’d say he didn’t mean it like that.

you stopped asking after that.

you weren’t even supposed to be pregnant. he said he was gonna pull out. he said it was an accident. and when you peed on that stick and came out crying, he just stood there. said you should think about options.

but you couldn’t.

you’d felt something the second that second line appeared.

you felt it now too. every kick. every roll. you knew you were doing this alone but you still felt… alive.

horny. god, it was sick. but you were always wet. always aching. even now as you waddled beside your friend in a too-tight sundress, your thighs chafing, your back sweaty, your breasts heavy and bouncing slightly with every step. your belly was pushing the fabric so far forward the dress looked see-through from how taut it was stretched.

you’d only come out to buy pacifiers.

but now you were sweating through your dress and hungry and needed to pee.

you were mid-sentence when it happened.

a loud horn. a screech.

your friend screamed and yanked your arm so hard you almost toppled.

you screamed too, not even thinking, not even breathing—just instinct, arms wrapping your belly, feet locking in place, every nerve in your body snapping shut like a cage.

the car missed you by a hair.

but the fear made you lose control.

a gush of hot piss rushed down your thighs, soaking your dress. you felt it drip into your shoes.

your face burned.

your heart thudded in your ears and your breath caught in your throat as the truck skidded to a stop, tires shrieking.

and then the door opened.

you barely heard your friend swearing beside you, too dazed to focus on anything but the figure that stepped out.

he was huge.

broad in the way that filled doorways. thick thighs wrapped in black canvas, boots heavy enough to crush bones, shoulders stretching a plain t-shirt that looked dark grey but might’ve once been black. sweat clung to the sides of his throat, his sleeves rolled tight over veiny forearms, one thick vein bulging from his neck like a rope as he walked forward.

he had a scar across his lip.

his eyes were green.

they hit you like a truck harder than the one he almost drove into you.

his gaze dropped immediately.

to your soaked thighs.

to the wet fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the underside of your belly, the hard outline of your nipples through your dress.

he didn’t blink.

and then, for a split second, he breathed in.

like he could smell you.

you felt your knees buckle.

your lips parted.

and in that moment, neither of you said a word.

you couldn’t move.

your soaked shoes squelched when you shifted and the piss had already cooled between your thighs, clinging to the inside of your knees, dripping down to your ankles. your fingers were locked around the underside of your belly, cradling the heavy weight like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. you were trembling. cheeks flushed. eyes wide and wet.

he stopped right in front of you.

and stared.

your stomach, tight and round and stretching the fabric until it went sheer under the light. your breasts, so full and heavy the seams of your sundress were straining, nipples clearly outlined and puckered. the patch of soaked cotton between your thighs, dark and humiliated.

aecha’s voice cut through the air before you could even catch your breath.

are you crazy?!

her words snapped the silence like a whip.

you were still frozen, heart pounding in your throat, thighs sticky, feet soaked. the heat of your piss had already turned cold, clinging to your skin and dripping down to your ankles, your sandals squelching softly beneath you. you clutched the underside of your belly tighter, like it might slip out of you if you let go.

she spun on him, voice sharper now.

you didn’t even stop at the red light. are you fucking insane?! you almost hit her!

toji’s eyes didn’t leave your body.

he didn’t flinch.

his head turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge her—but his gaze kept dragging back to you, slow and tense like his jaw.

his tongue moved behind his cheek before he exhaled low, steady.

i didn’t see them.

his voice was flat. deep. rough like it hadn’t been used in hours.

you were still gasping, lips parted, your belly rising and falling beneath your dress as you tried to breathe through the shock. you could feel the fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, your thighs, your inner legs slick with piss and sweat. your friend hadn’t noticed yet. she was too busy stepping in front of you, protective, furious.

she’s pregnant, she snapped. look at her! she pissed herself, you asshole! you think this is okay?

toji didn’t move.

he looked down. at your legs. your shoes. the dark patch spread between your thighs. his eyes didn’t jerk away like most men. they stayed there. his lashes heavy, mouth tense.

i didn’t mean to scare her, he said, slower now, quieter.

his shoulders rolled as he breathed again, but the breath was tight. controlled.

you barely heard them. your ears were ringing. all you could do was stand there, trembling, hands gripping your belly like a shield, heart still stuck in your throat. you weren’t crying. not yet. but your eyes had gone blurry, hot, wet.

you blinked once and your vision caught him.

he was massive.

his chest stretched the fabric of his shirt. veins curled over the bend of his arms like rope. a scar dragged the corner of his lip. his hair was damp at the temples like he’d been sweating behind the wheel.

his mouth moved like he was about to speak, but then you shifted your weight and your belly moved again—soft and slow—and his mouth stopped moving.

his jaw locked.

his gaze traced the underside of your belly like he was memorizing it.

sir, what the fuck, her voice hit again, too close this time.

her hand was on your elbow now, tugging you back instinctively. you took a step, one sandal slipping slightly, the sound wet.

she kept yelling, waving an arm toward the truck, toward the red light, but his attention didn’t drift again.

it was glued to you.

and when he spoke, his voice was more clipped now.

i’ll drive you to a hospital.

your friend let out a sharp breath.

oh, so now you’re gonna be helpful? you try to kill us and now you’re suddenly a gentleman? get the fuck out of here. you’re lucky she’s okay.

he exhaled through his nose, slower this time.

he looked like he was about to argue but then you moved again.

your thighs rubbed. your belly shifted. your chest rose—and the outline of your nipples was visible now, two swollen circles pressing through the cotton. your dress clung to the wetness between your legs. your lips were parted. your eyes glossy.

his face twitched.

your voice broke the moment. small, quiet, soft like you’d forgotten how to speak.

s’kay… sir…

it was barely more than a breath.

you hadn’t even meant to say it.

you just wanted the heat to end. the embarrassment. the tension. you weren’t thinking.

but the second it left your mouth, he changed.

his stomach pulled tight under his shirt. his shoulders rose just slightly—his whole body flexed, once, like he was biting something back. he swallowed hard and you watched his throat twitch.

he didn’t say anything.

he just stared.

and in that second, you could feel it.

the shift in the air. the burn behind his eyes. the way he was looking at you—not like a man who made a mistake. not like someone worried.

like someone starving.

you lowered your eyes, breath shallow, and let your arms hug your belly again.

he stepped forward once.

and your friend moved to block him again, furious.

you’re not going near her. we’re calling someone. you’re a fucking pervert.

he didn’t answer.

his eyes dropped one last time to your thighs, your roundness, the soaked patch darkening your dress.

he clenched his jaw.

you were still trembling when you heard her again.

your friend’s voice—loud, breathy, full of panic and disgust—like she was trying to speak enough outrage for the both of you.

you could barely process the words. your pulse was ringing in your ears, blood hot and wet behind your knees, and your thighs were still slick with piss, sticky and clinging under the weight of your sundress. the fabric sucked to your skin now, outlining the full curve of your belly, your swollen breasts, the soft part of your ass that had doubled in size since month four.

he was still standing there. staring.

his body hadn’t moved. broad frame parked right in front of you like a barricade. thick arms loose at his sides, fists flexed once—like his hands were caught between apology and something darker.

she was still yelling, something about suing, about the red light, about how you could’ve fallen. how you could’ve lost the baby.

but the words didn’t feel real.

only the ache in your bladder. the hum in your belly. the burn in your throat.

you blinked. the back of your hand brushed your stomach again, slow and automatic, like your body was trying to shush itself. like maybe if you rubbed enough, the heat would stop climbing.

you looked up at him.

it took effort to speak, voice thin and scratchy from the shock.

he didn’t mean to.

your friend stopped.

turned to you like you’d just betrayed her.

what?

you could barely meet her eyes.

it’s okay. really. just—just calm down.

he didn’t even touch me, you wanted to say. he didn’t hurt me. you couldn’t explain the tremble in your knees, the way your fingers curled tighter under your stomach like you were shielding something sacred.

toji’s voice came low behind you.

not sharp. not defensive. just heavy. irritated.

you need to stop yelling.

he wasn’t looking at your friend.

he was looking at you.

she’s already scared.

the air went quiet for a beat.

your friend scoffed, eyes darting between the two of you like she couldn’t believe what was happening. like she was about to explode.

and still, he didn’t move.

he was so much bigger up close.

you hadn’t realized how much until now.

he was standing in front of you fully, body blocking the sun, taller by at least a foot. his chest rose slow and thick under a worn black tee, his belt sitting snug across a hard waist and broad hips, cargo pants hugging his thighs. the outline of his biceps twitched slightly under rolled sleeves. his neck, veined and flexing with each slow breath, looked like it could snap jaws.

he looked down at you like he was studying something raw.

a creature he’d never seen before.

he glanced once more at your belly—still shifting softly with the baby’s movement—then back to your face.

you barely reached his chest.

you rubbed your bump again, slower this time. you weren’t thinking. your fingers just needed to move.

the silence was thick now. uncomfortable.

and he broke it.

let me take you to a hospital.

his voice was lower now. slower. his throat worked through a swallow as he added—

or at least let me buy you new shoes. new clothes.

his eyes dropped to the puddle near your feet.

your soaked sandals. the piss glistening across the tops of your feet, tracing your ankles, your calves.

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers were still rubbing slow circles at the top of your belly, like a woman hypnotized. your lips felt dry, but your eyes were soft now, too soft, blinking slow like you were calming down—because he was calm.

he was so calm.

and your friend was standing beside you, breathing hard, arms crossed, trying to regain control.

we don’t need your help.

toji didn’t even look at her.

he took one half-step closer. not enough to threaten. just enough that you could smell him.

you tipped your head back to look up at him, lashes fluttering as the shadow of his body covered yours again, heat crawling up your neck like shame.

but he didn’t mock you.

he didn’t pity you.

he just looked at you like he saw everything.

your fattened thighs, your stretched stomach, the leak-stained crotch of your dress, the quiet way you trembled under pressure and still tried to be good.

you didn’t know why your lips moved again.

but they did.

soft. breathy.

okay…

your friend made a noise behind you, somewhere between disbelief and rage.

you didn’t hear her.

you were still staring up at him.

and he—

he hadn’t blinked once.

aecha’s voice came sharp behind you.

tighter this time. pissed. frantic.

no.

you flinched.

no, you don’t know him. you don’t even know him. just because he’s got some fancy car and a belt that costs more than your rent doesn’t mean you can trust him.

her hand wrapped around your wrist without asking, tugging once. hard. like she thought if she pulled fast enough, you’d snap out of whatever spell you were under.

but it wasn’t a spell.

you screamed.

not loud. not theatrical. just a soft, strained, pregnant scream—high and aching, more like a cry than a yell. your sandals squeaked, your balance slipped, and your free hand flew to your belly protectively as your whole body buckled forward.

aecha.

you whined it. breathless.

what’s wrong with you?

tears blinked down your cheeks without warning. hot, fast, shameful. your voice cracked around the edges, too hormonal, too broken, your other hand still pressed over the top of your belly like you were cradling the baby through the shock.

aecha didn’t back off.

she was fuming.

no. i’m not letting you go anywhere with him. i don’t care how he talks or how fucking pretty you think he is. he’s a stranger, and you’re pissing yourself in the street, and you’re six months pregnant—your boyfriend is going to flip out.

you snapped your wrist from her grip before you realized you were moving.

don’t.

you yanked your arm away with a force you didn’t know you had, your breath ragged now, lips trembling.

dae wouldn’t even care.

you didn’t mean to say it. it came out like a gasp.

if dae was here, he’d be embarrassed. he wouldn’t be helping. he’d look at me like i’m disgusting.

you paused, one hand still pressed against your belly, dress soaked and clinging to your thighs.

he wouldn’t have stopped the car.

aecha’s face twisted. something between betrayal and helpless rage.

then fucking go, she hissed. her arms went up, face burning red.

go with your pervert. good luck.

she glanced once over your shoulder at him, then back to you, eyes narrowing.

good luck, slut.

and then she turned.

she didn’t say goodbye.

you stared after her, stunned, lips parted, heart thudding in your throat.

and that’s when you felt it.

warmth behind you. a shadow moving closer. no touch. no breath. just presence. heavy and thick and masculine and impossible to ignore.

you didn’t have to look to know it was him.

he was behind you now.

and towering.

his voice came low. not soft. not mean. just flat with quiet judgment.

looks like you got some issues to work through with your people.

a pause.

let’s go, pretty girl.

you blinked slow.

you turned your head, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder.

you could smell him.

spiced cologne. versace eros. musk and heat and the faint burn of a cigar smoked hours ago. not fresh. just clinging to him like memory. like sin.

you didn’t say anything.

you just started walking.

your steps were slow. sticky. the wet fabric between your thighs chafing. your breath still uneven. your face hot with shame.

he didn’t guide you. didn’t rush.

he walked ahead, a step or two in front of you, broad shoulders stretching his shirt. his back was wide. tapering into that solid waist, thick belt, heavy boots. he opened the passenger door of his black range rover and held it without a word.

you stood there.

staring at the interior. the leather seats. the glossy touchscreen. the quiet hum of luxury. the cleanliness.

your eyes flicked down.

you were soaked.

your legs were dripping again, slowly, and the hem of your dress was stained from where the piss had clung and dried along your thighs.

your voice was so small when it came out you almost didn’t hear it.

do you have… a towel or something i can sit on?

he turned his head toward you.

his brows rose. barely.

and then a quiet snort. not amused. not cruel. just slightly exasperated.

he tilted his head, leaned an elbow on the door, and looked down at you fully now. his pecs flexed under the cotton of his shirt as he breathed, arms heavy and veined, his expression unreadable except for the bare twitch in his jaw.

it’s just piss.

you flinched.

he blinked slow. looked at the seat. looked back at you.

a lil mess.

his eyes dropped once—belly, tits, thighs.

ya think i care?

his voice dropped lower.

i’ll get it cleaned. that’s what car washers are for.

he leaned in just a little.

what you should care about is that you didn’t get your belly crushed by a fuckin truck.

you blinked again, glassy-eyed.

now sit.

you nodded.

slow. obedient.

and you did.

the leather stuck to the backs of your thighs the second you sat.

it was warm. not from the sun, but from the seat itself, like his truck had been running long enough to trap body heat inside, to soak it into the cushions. the piss that had dried into your panties dampened again from the pressure, and you could feel it pressing up, warm and slick between your thighs as your weight sank in. the stretch of your hips forced your knees to spread slightly, and your belly rose high between them, taut and round and full, pushing against the lower curve of your breasts. the seatbelt was too tight. the air smelled like pine and men’s cologne and the lingering ghost of a cigar—smoke and sweetness, burnt sugar and old breath. your breath stuttered. your fingers hovered over the seatbelt, unsure where to start. your hands were trembling. your panties were sticking to your folds. your thighs still burned. and he was standing there. outside. his shadow cutting across your lap through the windshield, frame so wide he filled the driver’s side window before even opening the door. you looked down at yourself and felt so exposed, even in the air-conditioned silence of his car. your nipples were hard again. your stomach shifted. your lower back was starting to ache but you didn’t say anything. you just sat there with your knees sticky and apart and your fingers curled in your lap like a child, body sore, face hot, mouth dry, and the part that scared you most was how safe you felt. how wet you were. how good it felt to be looked at. not with pity. not with disgust. not like dae did. but like you were something to keep. your breath hitched as he finally opened his door and slid in—his presence loud even in silence, engine purring as he shut the door and filled the cabin with nothing but heat and him. toji.

and you couldn’t look at him yet. not yet. not without gasping.

he drove with the kind of ease that only came from a man who was used to being in control. one hand on the wheel, broad palm curved over the leather grip, the other resting low on his thigh, thumb tapping the denim like a rhythm he didn’t notice. he slouched into the seat but still took up all the space—spread knees, wide back, the muscle in his forearm flexing every time the car turned. the cabin was cool but heavy with heat, the kind that lingered after bodies had been inside too long. the faint hum of the engine, the low thud of tires rolling over patched concrete, the quiet pulse of the air vents—it all blurred together as the city smeared past the windows.

you hadn’t said much since getting in.

you were still adjusting to the way the leather clung to your thighs. your stomach sat heavy in your lap, tight and round, straining the fabric of your dress, rising and falling with each uneven breath. the belt stretched uncomfortably across the slope of your belly, biting a little into your side, and your feet had already begun to swell again. you stared out the passenger window, arms curled loosely around yourself, hands smoothing down the same spot over and over—just below your navel, like you were trying to convince the baby inside that everything was fine. that you weren’t trembling. that you hadn’t just been humiliated in the street.

his voice broke through the hum.

how far along?

you didn’t look at him. just blinked slowly, lips parted from the weight of everything.

six months.

he hummed low. not a word. just that sound men made when they were thinking but didn’t want to give too much away.

you like it?

you breathed out through your nose. not a laugh. not an answer. just something tired.

it’s hard.

you could feel his eyes on you even if he didn’t turn his head. just that quiet, crawling weight of being watched. it didn’t feel judgmental. just present. too present.

in his head, he compared you to hana.

hana, who used to stand in front of the mirror pinching her skin between her fingers like it was a threat. hana, who rationed her food in ounces. hana, who said things like my body is my business and i don’t owe anyone a baby and then cried when her period made her bloat. he hadn’t seen her naked in months. hadn’t wanted to. she was delicate, yes. beautiful in the way you admire from far away. but she didn’t feel real. not like this.

you—soft, flushed, visibly struggling to stay upright in the passenger seat, leaking into your soaked panties, cheeks blotched, thighs swollen, belly round and shifting beneath your own hand—you looked like a woman who had been taken. like you’d been filled up and left to carry it, like your body had bloomed in real time from pain and pressure and feral need. you looked like you needed someone to hold you up and drag you through the fire, not give you protein shake recipes.

he shifted in his seat, thumb tapping harder.

the screen lit up.

hana.

incoming call.

you saw it. you didn’t need to stare. the photo—her white teeth, perfect tan, frozen in that fake-candid look. the call pulsing on the glossy black screen, vibrating softly beneath it.

he ignored it.

you said nothing.

it came back. again. same call. same name.

his jaw ticked once. he silenced it with a flick of his finger, then pressed into the touchscreen and disconnected bluetooth completely.

you heard him clear his throat. like it meant nothing.

got any cravings? want me to get you some sushis.

your eyes drifted toward him, half-lidded. your lips curved, lazy. slow.

he was trying.

you’re really gonna offer sushi to a pregnant woman?

you turned your head to the side and looked at him, properly, for the first time.

he didn’t smile, but his lip twitched. the scar across it stretched. he looked back at the road.

look, i don’t know the rules.

his voice was rougher now. the kind of hoarse that came from clenching too long, holding something in.

you rested your cheek against the window for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as you rubbed your belly again.

mmm. just get me something greasy.

he glanced sideways. the kind of glance that scanned too much in too little time. his eyes dipped over your knees, your thighs, the curve of your ass flattened against the seat, the soft roll of your hip pushing against the seatbelt.

anything in particular?

you shrugged.

fast food. something shitty.

he laughed—barely—but it cracked his chest open. a low, grating sound, deep from his stomach. he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and muttered something like okay under his breath, his eyes lingering longer this time. not on your belly.

on your mouth. your thighs. the way you shifted when you said shitty like you wanted to be seen.

you sat there. leaking. swollen. unbothered.

he turned the wheel one-handed again.

and took the next exit.

he didn’t talk too much at first.

his voice had that weight to it—masculine in the quiet way, the kind of voice that stayed low, gravelly, a little dry at the edges like it only got used when necessary. deep but not showy. like he could make your whole name sound filthy just by saying it once in that slow, half-bored tone.

but now that the silence had cracked, he let the words come easier.

you didn’t even know how the conversation started. he said something about how hot it was lately, how the city smelled like pavement and sweat, and how your man should’ve been the one out there with you, carrying your bags, watching the road.

you hummed. didn’t say much. just rubbed your belly and pretended you weren’t throbbing between the legs.

his voice kept going.

sometimes steady, sometimes quiet, always low. god, so low. like his whole chest vibrated with it. and you tried not to react. you crossed your legs and then uncrossed them. you shifted in your seat and every time the tires hit a bump in the road, your swollen breasts bounced under your dress, nipples raw and aching. you knew. you knew he noticed. his hand never left the wheel but his jaw kept flexing tighter.

your thighs rubbed with every movement, sticky with sweat, the soaked fabric of your dress wedging between them like it belonged there. your sundress had ridden up almost to your hip by now and you hadn’t even realized until his eyes dropped for a second too long at a red light and he caught the crease where your thigh met the swell of your ass.

he didn’t say anything.

but he knew you saw him look.

you twirled your hair around your fingers and turned toward the window again, pretending not to care. pretending you weren’t horny out of your mind. pretending your pussy wasn’t hot and wet and swollen, pressed into your ruined panties, clenching every time he spoke low beside you.

he sounded like he could fuck with his voice alone.

the kind of voice that didn’t rush. didn’t ask permission. the kind that told you what to do and made you want to do it, even while your pride made you cross your arms tighter under your sore tits and act like you were listening to the radio instead.

he said something about how nobody gave a fuck anymore. how men these days were soft. too scared to deal with blood or stretch marks or leaking or mess.

you glanced at him out the corner of your eye.

and you couldn’t help it.

you smiled.

a tiny little smirk tugged the corner of your mouth and you let it sit there, quiet, like a secret.

he caught it.

he didn’t say anything at first. just glanced back.

what?

his voice curved a little. not quite teasing. but it had a different texture now. a subtle pull. a hook.

nothing, you said, twisting your hair again.

he didn’t push.

you wished he would.

you were chewing the inside of your cheek now, pressing your thighs together, trying to sit still but you couldn’t. everything ached. your back. your feet. your pussy. you wanted him to say something disgusting. you wanted him to stop acting normal. to reach over and drag your leg over his thigh and press your hand to the bulge you knew had to be there.

but he didn’t.

he just drove like he wasn’t about to lose it.

like he hadn’t been staring at your soaked thighs ten minutes ago like he was starving.

he adjusted the mirror. rubbed the back of his neck again with that big, veiny hand. cleared his throat like it might calm something in him.

you liked the way he drove.

one hand on the wheel. broad fingers tapping sometimes. arm flexed enough to make the veins shift up his skin, thick forearm stretched out under the sun. he leaned back a little more now, like he was getting comfortable.

you peeked at his lap.

quick.

low.

his zipper was bulging slightly. not obscene. just present. enough to make your mouth dry.

he asked if you were always from the city. what you did before. what you were planning to name the baby. he didn’t sound like he cared for small talk—he sounded like he wanted to know. like he’d memorize every word. like he’d store it somewhere.

you gave short answers. didn’t want to talk too much or seem desperate. you weren’t the kind of girl who poured her heart into the first man with a car and muscles and a voice that made her spine buzz.

but you were squeezing your thighs together again.

and he noticed.

you knew he did.

he didn’t speak for a while after that. just breathed.

the window was cracked and his cologne was still thick in the air—versace eros and something else. tobacco. his skin. sweat. something dark.

you hated how much you liked it.

he asked if you needed to stop. if you were hungry again. if there was anything he could get you.

and you couldn’t stop your lips curling again.

you didn’t even look at him when you said it.

i already told you.

his eyes flicked toward you.

fast food. nothing cute.

he huffed a breath out his nose.

half laugh. half groan.

you eat like a guy.

you smiled wider.

you drive like a guy.

he laughed at that. really laughed. voice deeper when it cracked open like that, his grin pulling crooked over his scar.

you like it?

you turned toward the window again.

smiled.

maybe.

and god—he wanted to pull over.

he wanted to stop the car right there and make you say it again but slower. messier. with your lips wrapped around the word.

his hand flexed tighter on the wheel.

and you?

you just kept rubbing your belly.

playing innocent.

and bouncing softly with every bump in the road.

the dress was too small.

he’d handed it to you outside the fitting room like it was just a quick fix. said nothing special, just something soft for now. it wasn’t fancy—just a blush-colored thing, simple cotton, ribbed texture with a soft hem and v-neck that dipped too low—but you didn’t expect it to cling like it did.

it pulled tight under your chest the second you slid it down. the fabric caught the curve of your breasts and pressed there, lifting them up without a bra, the cotton molding around the swollen weight of them like a second skin. you could see the dark outline of your nipples through it immediately. the hem refused to go past your thighs. it stopped high—mid-thigh in the front, rising even more in the back where your ass had filled out from the pregnancy. the side seams looked stretched already. you couldn’t even bend over in it without flashing everything.

but it was soft. and it was his.

and when you stepped out, biting your lip, shifting your weight, mumbling something about how fat you felt—he didn’t laugh. didn’t tease.

he just looked at you.

and nodded once.

perfect.

you didn’t realize how high the heat would climb until after lunch. it was already late—sun starting to slope orange against the sky—and the fast food had settled heavy in your stomach, mixing with the bloat of hormones and heat. you felt stuffed. full. thighs rubbed when you walked. your black panties were too tight now, sticking to the lips of your pussy under the cotton, digging into the crease of your hip. every step you took, you felt them ride higher. cling deeper.

and you liked it.

he helped you back into the car again, hand resting on your hip as you climbed in slow, your belly swaying, the thin dress catching against your ass. he adjusted the door for you, hand brushing lower than it needed to go, steadying you—and the pressure of his palm against your waist made your thighs clench before you could stop it.

you bit your lip.

looked up at him.

he didn’t say anything.

but he was smirking.

and you didn’t even hide your smile when you leaned back in the seat and let the dress ride up higher.

you lounged sideways in the passenger seat now, belly rising in the middle, thighs spread slightly, one hand idly smoothing the front of the dress while the other twisted into your hair. your cleavage was soft and obvious, breasts heavy and pushed up by the tight cut of the neckline, stretch marks faintly visible along the upper curve. you let your legs fall open just enough that the edge of your panties peeked out. black. soaked. tight around your hips.

he didn’t say anything.

but he wasn’t pretending not to look.

the screen buzzed once—another call from hana—and he shut it off with a flick of his thumb. didn’t even flinch.

thank you, you murmured, not meeting his eyes.

for the dress. for the food.

your voice was warm. syrupy. that kind of sweet that made men think they weren’t being manipulated.

and sorry, you added. about my friend. she’s always been like that.

he raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you as he pulled onto the highway.

like what?

bitter.

you smiled, softer this time.

we’ve known each other since high school. she’s… competitive. when we were younger, if i got attention from guys, she’d make this face. like she was offended by it.

his jaw worked as he merged lanes.

so she’s always had that energy.

you nodded.

mhm. the you-think-you’re-special energy. the i’d-look-better-in-that energy. she never liked when men paid attention to someone else.

he nodded slowly.

yeah.

his voice was darker now. not angry. just quiet.

i get it.

you watched him for a second. the way his neck flexed, one hand still loose on the wheel. his chest rising under the soft stretch of his tee. the bulk of him completely taking over the driver’s seat like the car was made around him.

he didn’t ask anything for a while.

then—

your boyfriend.

he said it flat.

he lucky to have someone like you?

your smile curled slowly.

you didn’t answer right away.

just twisted your hair tighter around your finger and dropped your eyes to your lap.

soft giggle.

i think he’s still figuring that out.

toji exhaled through his nose. one of those deep, quiet sounds men make when they want to say a hundred things and swallow them all.

he looked at your thighs again.

your stomach.

the line of your black panties between your legs.

he didn’t hide it this time.

you saw him look.

you didn’t stop him.

you smiled again.

he’s not exactly hype about the whole baby thing, you said lightly, adjusting your tits with one arm as you spoke, pretending it was casual.

he wanted me to end it.

toji didn’t respond.

he was gripping the wheel tighter now. his knuckles pale.

and you?

you shifted again. thighs spread wider. dress riding up.

i wanted it.

he didn’t look away.

you smiled again—slow, slutty, aching from the inside out.

you asked, and he answered.

my girlfriend hana doesn’t want kids too, he said, voice rough now.

you tilted your head.

but you do.

he didn’t answer.

he didn’t need to.

you could feel it.

and the silence sat between you now—thick, hot, alive.

your panties were soaked.

and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

the air had gotten quieter.

not awkward, not stiff—but that kind of silence that starts to gather when two people are sitting too close and pretending they’re not thinking the same thing.

you were still lounging in the seat, belly rising with every breath, thighs parted from the weight of it all, the pink dress riding high enough now to tease the crease between your leg and hip. your panties had long soaked through. you could feel it each time you shifted, the cotton sticking and pulling between your lips. it was obscene, how hot and wet you were just from talking to him.

and he was still pretending to drive like it was nothing.

you didn’t know what made you do it.

maybe it was the way he stared at the road like it had done something to him. maybe it was the clench of his jaw when you mentioned your boyfriend not being excited. maybe it was the vein that curled over his hand as he gripped the steering wheel, that thick forearm flexing with every slight movement.

but when you looked at him again—really looked—something caught in your chest.

you gasped. soft. barely audible. more breath than voice.

he noticed.

you didn’t hide it this time.

he turned his head slightly, still driving, and you saw it—the frustration sitting in his jaw, the way his mouth tightened around it like he was chewing something bitter.

you okay?

you nodded, but your eyes were still on him. still wide.

he sighed.

it’s nothing.

he glanced over at you again.

i just think your man’s an idiot. that’s all.

you blinked slowly.

your hand rubbed over your stomach again, gently, without thinking.

i don’t get it either.

his mouth twitched. like he didn’t want to say what came next but couldn’t stop it.

you show up like this. all soft. glowing. you chose this. carried it. wear it like it’s yours. your back’s hurting and you’re still smiling like it’s worth it.

he ran a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated.

and some guy has that—you—willingly, and he’s too fuckin blind to know what he’s got.

you shifted again. slowly. your thighs spread further, the hem of the dress crawling higher.

you looked out the window to steady yourself.

he kept going.

hana froze her eggs last year. told me she wanted to preserve her options. said pregnancy’s a trauma to the body.

he scoffed once. dry.

called it that word—trauma. like it’s a disease.

your brows knit as you turned back to him.

she can, though. right? she’s able to?

he nodded once.

yeah.

then she’s stupid.

your voice was firm. no giggle. no sugar.

there’s so many women who can’t. who’d kill to carry once. and she can? and won’t?

he didn’t answer right away.

he looked straight ahead, chest rising.

i always wanted it, you know.

you were quiet now.

wanted a team. kids everywhere. house noisy. gym gear all over the floor. sons i could raise hard. teach them not to take shit.

he paused.

and girls i’d spoil so much they’d never need some prick to tell them they’re pretty.

you bit your lip.

your voice came quieter now.

you’d be a good one.

he looked at you.

not with pity.

not like you were some single mom in need of saving.

he looked at you like you were his already.

and you touched him.

you didn’t think. you just let your fingers reach across the console, brushing against the warm skin of his arm, right below the sleeve.

it was harder than you expected.

dense. hot. tight with muscle.

your fingers looked small against it—soft and slow as they moved over the grain of his forearm, up toward the curve of his bicep.

he didn’t move.

but his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

you’re not wrong, he said finally.

his voice was lower now. hoarse like it was dragged up through his chest.

i don’t care about weight. i don’t care if she’s sore or messy or loud or cries for no reason. i’d still take care of her. i’d train harder. go to the gym more. lift more. carry her if i had to.

he paused.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, your hand still resting against his arm, heat from his skin seeping into your palm.

some women don’t know how lucky they are.

he looked at you again.

you think i’m lucky?

you met his gaze, cheeks flushed, breath warm.

you don’t need to ask.

he didn’t smile.

not really.

but his hand shifted.

and yours stayed where it was.

you kept it there, resting gently against the rough swell of his forearm like it had a right to be there, like it belonged. your fingers were soft, too soft—he could feel the difference instantly, how much smaller they were, how different they felt from what he was used to. you weren’t doing anything special. you weren’t stroking or gripping. you were just there. pressing against him like it was natural. like you didn’t need to ask.

you watched the road, but you weren’t looking at it. your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing. you were too aware of the heat rising up your thighs again, of the wetness clinging under your panties, of how tight your dress felt now that you’d eaten. your belly was heavier. the pressure made you spread your legs more, the hem riding up again, black panties peeking in the corner of his eye as he turned the wheel.

you glanced at him.

his jaw was still clenched.

he looked straight ahead, his mouth drawn tight, hand gripping the wheel like it owed him something. but he didn’t tell you to move. didn’t shrug you off. didn’t say a word about the way your palm was still pressed to his skin, how your nails had grazed a vein a minute ago and made it twitch under your touch.

you swallowed softly.

he finally spoke again, voice rougher than before, like gravel pressed into asphalt.

i tried to talk to her about it once.

his throat moved as he swallowed, fingers tapping once against the leather of the wheel.

told her it wasn’t about control or forcing her to be something she’s not. it was about what i wanted.

you listened.

not with pity. not to flatter him.

but because he sounded tired.

not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

just a man who’d spent too long wanting the wrong thing from someone who couldn’t give it.

she said i was trying to change her.

he laughed, but it wasn’t a good one. it was hollow, low in his chest.

i said i’d love her no matter what. even if she gained weight. even if she got pregnant by accident and hated it at first. even if she screamed through every month.

he paused, jaw tightening again.

told her i’d be there. i’d train harder. protect her. spoil her if she needed it.

he turned to look at you for just a second.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, biting your lip.

your hand squeezed his arm—just once, soft, reassuring—but you didn’t pull away.

some women just… don’t get it.

your voice was quiet now.

they want to be wanted, but not needed. they want attention but not weight.

you felt the tears sting at your throat suddenly. not the dramatic kind. just that little ache when someone says something that hits too close.

and you said, almost in a whisper—

i would’ve killed to hear that from my boyfriend.

toji turned his head again.

looked at you.

really looked.

his eyes dropped—slow, unhurried—to the soft curve of your belly, the gentle way your dress clung to the roundness, the stretch of the fabric across your full breasts, the faint peek of your black panties between your thick thighs, the sheen of sweat under your cleavage.

he looked back up.

you’re too good for him.

your heart knocked once against your ribs.

you shouldn’t say that.

but you didn’t mean it.

he didn’t answer.

his hand left the wheel for just a second—long enough to rake through his messy hair again, push it back like he was trying to cool himself down.

he laughed once, quieter this time, more like an exhale through his nose.

you’re bold for a pregnant woman.

you smiled.

pregnancy makes me bold.

you shifted again, crossing your legs in the seat, the fabric stretching tighter across your ass as your stomach jutted higher. your thighs clamped together, sticking from the heat. your dress hiked again, and the waistband of your panties caught just under the curve of your belly.

you didn’t bother to fix it.

he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking.

and when his eyes dragged up from between your thighs to your breasts again, you let them linger.

he said, softer this time—

it’s good.

his voice was low now, like it belonged in a bedroom and not a car.

that women like you exist.

you tilted your head, letting the air settle.

you mean messy? tired? hungry? always needing help standing up?

he chuckled once.

i mean real. not empty.

you smiled again, slower this time.

stretch marks and all?

his answer was immediate.

especially those.

and you laughed. but it broke into a soft sigh, because you believed him. you wanted to. even if it wasn’t your name he’d said over the phone. even if he hadn’t touched you. even if you were still pretending this was just a ride.

he didn’t take his eyes off you at the next red light.

and you didn’t look away either.

you just rested your hand on your belly again.

and kept your legs parted.

you shifted again in the seat.

slow. deliberate.

your thighs parted wider as you leaned back against the cool leather, one hand resting under your belly, the other smoothing up toward the top curve of it, fingers trembling slightly as the pressure shifted. you could feel the kick coming before it happened—the little roll beneath your skin, the low tight push that made your breath catch in your throat.

and then—there. sharp, firm.

you gasped.

not soft this time.

a real sound, laced with something deeper—like a moan that didn’t know where it belonged. it left your mouth open, lips parted wet, and your head tipped back for a second as your thighs shifted again, trying to accommodate the stretch of movement inside you.

mpf fuck.

you whispered it like it was nothing. like it belonged to the air between you.

he gripped the wheel tighter.

you rubbed your bump again, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of your dress, just above the peak. the cotton was so tight now you could see the outline of your belly button, the shape of the kick pulsing against it.

another gasp.

you bit your lip.

his voice broke the silence. strained. low.

you alright?

you nodded slowly, still panting, still rubbing.

yeah.

you turned your head to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth open just enough that your breath hit the window when you exhaled.

he’s kicking again.

toji’s throat moved.

you hummed again, but this one was filthier—lower, breathier, like it was meant for someone. your thighs tensed, parted slightly again as your back arched gently, belly tilting forward.

you can feel it… if you want.

your voice didn’t come out innocent. not anymore.

he turned toward you—just for a second—but that second was enough.

your dress was pulled so tight now across your chest that your nipples were visibly hard beneath the fabric. your breasts were on the verge of spilling out with every bump in the road, cleavage slick and full and heaving with each moan. your thighs, spread open around your belly, let the black band of your panties peek up again, soaked and clinging. your stomach moved once more beneath your palm, the kick pressing out like a signal.

he stared.

you’re gonna make me fuckin insane, you know that?

his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.

you bit your lip again and smoothed your hand lower, pressing gently just above the kick.

he’s strong.

toji let out a breath, slow and tight, adjusting his grip on the wheel like he didn’t trust himself not to swerve off the road.

you still want to feel?

your voice was lower now. nearly a whisper. but not nervous.

you wanted this.

his hand came off the wheel.

and he reached for you.

his hand left the wheel like it was instinct. like his body moved before he gave it permission. fingers flexed once in midair, hesitating, unsure of where to go—her thigh? her belly? the waistband of those soaked black panties peeking between her legs like a secret?

you didn’t look at him at first.

you kept your eyes out the window, lashes low, rubbing slow circles over the roundest part of your stomach, where the baby had shifted again, pushing into your palm from the inside like it knew. like it was putting on a show.

you moaned again. this time softer.

higher in your throat.

a breathy little sound that wasn’t innocent but still tried to wear the costume.

toji’s breath caught. you heard it. low and hot, right before he cleared his throat and spoke again, trying to steady himself.

where?

you turned toward him slowly, like it took effort.

your lips were parted. your cheeks flushed. your thighs still slightly open, dress bunched up at the top of them now, cotton stretched so thin across your breasts it looked translucent in the light.

you lifted your hand and touched a spot—low, near the right side of your belly, just above your waistband.

here.

he moved closer.

his hand hovered now, a few inches from your stomach, broad palm trembling slightly with restraint.

you waited.

bit your lip.

tilted your head like you were thinking about something dangerous.

you don’t have to, you said softly, lashes fluttering.

but your voice betrayed you. that breathy little twist at the end made it sound like you wanted him to. like you wanted him to know you were too polite to beg but your body was aching to be touched.

he didn’t answer with words.

his hand lowered.

and pressed gently over yours.

you both gasped at the same time.

your hand was soft. his was rough—calloused, thick, hot even through the thin cotton of your dress. the weight of it on your stomach made your thighs twitch slightly, made your spine curl forward just a bit, belly pressing into his palm like it wanted to be held.

he didn’t rub. didn’t move. just rested it there.

like he was grounding himself.

the baby kicked again. hard.

your breath caught, lips twitching.

you moaned. sharper this time. almost a whimper.

he felt it.

his fingers tensed slightly, thumb brushing over the fabric where your skin curved up beneath it, tracing the shape of the movement.

his jaw clenched.

he’s strong, huh?

you nodded, biting your lip again, curling your fingers under the hem of your dress like you were fixing it—but you didn’t pull it down.

you let it bunch up more.

your thighs spread a little wider.

he’s active lately, you murmured, shifting your hips just slightly in the seat.

probably feels all my tension.

you glanced at him now. eyes glassy. lips wet.

then maybe you should relax, he said.

you giggled.

you’re sweet.

his hand didn’t move.

your stomach moved again beneath it. your dress was nearly riding up over your hips now.

you looked down at his hand.

big. veiny. flexing slightly every time your body shifted under him.

your fingers brushed his wrist—barely—just as another kick moved under the skin.

you smiled like it tickled.

and then you sighed, slow and breathy, as if the weight of his hand somehow settled your entire body.

mmh. yeah. right there.

you weren’t talking to the baby anymore.

and he knew it.

you didn’t move his hand. not even when he flexed his fingers, broad palm dragging lightly over the curve of your stomach, thumb grazing the rise of your bump like he was memorizing the weight of it. the baby kicked once more—gentler now, like it was settling—and you sighed, leaning further back into the seat, letting your legs relax, your dress riding higher with every breath.

you rubbed over his hand slowly. like it was normal. like this was something people did. your fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, the callouses across his palm, the edge of his wrist where his veins stood out thick beneath the skin. you let your thighs part just a little more and pressed his hand flatter against the top of your belly, humming quietly like it soothed you.

he was driving slowly now. slower than needed. the streets were mostly empty, just sunset bleeding into dusk and soft city lights flickering on like sighs. the hum of the car, the soft brush of your fingers against his, the heat of your skin—it filled the air between you like smoke.

he spoke again, voice quieter now. lower. almost like he was pretending to ask something innocent, something polite.

how’re your breasts holding up?

you turned your head and looked at him, pout forming before you could stop it. your eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy, mouth open slightly from the heat pooling in your core.

mmph. sore. disgusting. huge.

you shifted in the seat, one arm sliding up to cup the weight of one. your hand barely covered it.

nipples are… dark. fat. i hate them.

toji’s jaw ticked once, fingers flexing again where they rested on your stomach. he made a soft sound. not quite agreement. not disagreement either. just… pressure.

mm. happens.

his hand slid lower, rubbing in slow circles over the tightest part of your belly.

you cupped both breasts now, tugging the dress down slightly—not too far. just enough to let the neckline pull lower, the swell of cleavage more visible, soft skin marked with faint reddish stretch lines that glowed in the warm light. you didn’t hide it. you showed him like you were showing a friend a rash. like it was helpful.

see?

he nodded once.

tight. controlled.

yeah. looks heavy.

you let out a breathy little laugh.

they are. everything’s heavy.

he rubbed lower.

your thighs twitched again.

the ride was quiet for a few more blocks. your eyes fluttered slightly, head resting against the seat. the movement of his hand over your belly had slowed, turning into gentle strokes. your fingers had drifted back to his wrist, tracing him. grounding yourself.

when he turned onto your street, the headlights caught the curve of your apartment building, familiar and dim.

you straightened a little, twisting toward the window.

he’s not here.

your voice was small. hollow.

you stared at the driveway. your boyfriend’s car wasn’t parked.

again.

you tried to sound annoyed.

but you just sounded… tired.

toji’s voice came after a beat, warm and low.

you want me to walk you up?

you hesitated.

then smiled a little.

nah. s’kay. i should walk. sitting too long makes me sore.

you started shifting in your seat, preparing to gather your bag, your limbs heavy and sticky from heat and arousal and all the weight you carried. you adjusted your dress, but didn’t pull it down all the way. you still let it sit high across your thighs.

thanks for today.

you looked at him when you said it, trying to smile fully, but your voice cracked just a bit.

really. i… i’m glad i met you.

he nodded once.

eyes steady.

but he didn’t speak.

he just reached over slowly, his hand sliding down.

at first it was casual. neutral.

his palm moved across your thigh—thick, warm—fingers curling slightly as they met the meat of it, squeezing once.

you gasped softly.

he didn’t flinch.

s’nothing, he muttered.

his hand moved slightly. back and forth. rubbing slowly over the top of your thigh.

man’s supposed to help.

his voice was deeper now. quieter.

especially when women get like this. pregnant. tired.

his hand moved again.

you were frozen.

his palm slid higher, fingers brushing over the seam of your inner thigh now—pressing, then pulling back, then pressing again like he was testing what your body would allow.

he squeezed your thigh again.

and then—lower.

just a little.

the heel of his hand brushed the crease where your pussy met your leg.

you twitched.

he didn’t react. didn’t apologize.

his voice stayed steady.

feels hot.

his palm settled there.

you looked down.

your panties were soaked. you knew they were. drooling, almost. the outline of your pussy pressing against the cotton like it was begging. swollen, puffy from the heat, from the attention, from the sheer frustration of being untouched for so long.

you moaned softly. not loud.

just a breath that came out too thick to hide.

he rubbed once more.

still pretending it was nothing.

still staring forward like he was only helping.

and you sat there. legs open. tits sore. panties wet. eyes wide.

letting him help.

you didn’t even notice how tightly you were squeezing your thighs until he pulled his hand back.

his fingers dragged slow over the seam of your skin, where your panties had already begun to stick from how wet you were. the cotton clung to your pussy, soaked and puffy, every inch of you swollen with heat and pressure and the weight of everything you weren’t getting at home.

his thumb brushed higher—just barely.

enough to graze the edge of your lips beneath the fabric.

you twitched.

gasped softly.

your eyes fluttered.

he didn’t say a word.

just rubbed his hand over your thigh again, slower this time, dragging the wetness upward—until it glistened faintly in the glow of the console light.

then he pulled back.

you watched him.

dazed. throbbing.

he didn’t meet your eyes.

just sniffed once—quiet, subtle—like clearing his nose.

but you saw the way his fingers hovered near his mouth before he wiped them quickly on his jeans.

casual. nothing to see. like he was drying sweat.

but he knew.

you both knew.

his door opened first.

the air changed immediately—the warm thud of summer night sweeping in, thick and heavy, the sound of his boots on the pavement, his keys jangling softly as he turned toward your side.

you sat there. thighs wet. heart racing.

he opened your door slowly.

his scent hit you all at once.

man. not boy.

spiced cologne and soap and something low and smoky, like the back of his neck had held a cigar once and never let it go. the smell of chest hair and heat. of someone who never needed to speak too loud.

his shadow fell across you as he leaned down.

c’mon.

you blinked.

i said i’m good, you muttered, shifting like you were going to step out.

but your knees didn’t follow.

your body was too heavy. too hot.

and he didn’t wait.

he bent down and lifted you—slow, deliberate, one arm slipping under your knees, the other beneath your back.

your ass dropped onto his forearm with a soft thud. skin to skin. hot. bare. the dress had ridden up too high now and you weren’t wearing anything under it but those soaked, thin panties.

you gasped again.

your arm looped around his neck out of instinct, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt.

toji.

mm.

he didn’t look down. didn’t adjust his grip.

just straightened with you in his arms, shifted your weight against him like you didn’t weigh anything at all.

his free hand reached into his pocket and clicked the key fob.

behind you, the car beeped softly, locking with a low whine.

you felt his bicep flex beneath you.

felt the sweat on your back.

felt the way your thighs stayed parted from how wide his arm stretched them.

you turned your head slightly, breath catching.

you didn’t have to—

your voice cracked a little.

he cut you off.

man’s not home, is he?

you swallowed.

no.

then let me do my job.

his voice was flat. clipped. almost annoyed.

he carried you to the stairs like it was nothing.

like you didn’t weigh eight months of softness and craving and water and blood and aching need.

like you weren’t pressed right against his chest, tits full and rising against him with every shallow breath.

he didn’t speak again until your feet touched the ground at the top of the stairs.

you were flushed. gasping a little from being held like that.

you know…

you turned around, one hand on the doorframe, your voice soft.

you can leave now.

his brow twitched.

just slightly.

leave?

he repeated the word like it offended him.

i didn’t carry your ass up here so you could say that.

you blinked.

he looked you up and down—slow, like he was taking inventory.

the way your dress clung to your stomach.

the wet outline between your thighs.

the stretch marks high on your tits, the way your nipples dented the cotton.

your hair twisted, messy. cheeks flushed. pupils wide.

he stepped closer.

i didn’t drive you. feed you. dress you. carry you…

he reached out—touched your belly again.

soft. reverent.

just to get dismissed like a fuckin delivery man.

you swallowed hard.

didn’t say anything.

he looked at you for another second.

and then, softly—

you want me to leave?

you didn’t answer.

your pussy said no before your mouth could.

you didn’t even pretend to argue.

you stood there in the doorway with your hand curled around the edge of your belly and your dress sticking to the curve of your ass and you said it under your breath, lashes low—

m’kay. you can stay.

he didn’t say thank you.

didn’t smirk.

he just nodded once and muttered—

that’s what i thought.

then reached past you to open the door himself, his arm brushing your side, heavy and warm, the keys still in his hand as he turned the knob like it was his house, like he’d done it before.

you stepped in first.

he followed you without hesitation, boots landing slow and deliberate across the threshold. the air inside hit different—cooler, still, softly perfumed from whatever cheap plug-in you’d tucked in the hallway outlet weeks ago. lavender. maybe vanilla. maybe just something warm and clean.

the apartment was quiet, dim but warm from the low amber bulbs you always left on in the evening. not much furniture, but what you had was yours. a small white rug. thrifted couch, overstuffed with throw pillows you never sat on. pale curtains. framed sonogram on the end table. two plastic baby bottles on a folded towel by the kitchen sink.

you turned slightly, face flushed from heat and nerves and unspeakable filth still wet between your legs, and started walking barefoot toward the living room.

your dress clung with every step. you moved slow, almost dragging your feet like you needed him to see the sway in your hips, how the hem rode higher in the back now. the air made your inner thighs prickle, sticky with your own arousal, and when you sank down into the cushions of the couch, you let your knees fall open like it was just comfort—just soreness—nothing more.

but the fabric bunched. the pink cotton stretched.

and the soft swells of your breasts pushed forward, the top of your dress scooped too low to hide the warm brown skin of your areolas. dark now. wide. peeking from the neckline like you hadn’t noticed. your belly sat heavy in your lap, tight and round and twitching now and then from the baby’s soft kicks.

toji lingered at the doorway for a second, his boots still planted on the hardwood, staring around the apartment like he needed to memorize it.

you said something light.

i picked the rug. on sale. and the plants. they’re fake, but…

you smiled to yourself, shrugging.

he looked at you.

at the rug. the table. the bottle warmer.

you wanna take your shoes off? you said, glancing down. i always do when i come in. keeps the floor clean.

he huffed softly, kneeling with one hand on the wall for balance. big hands unlacing heavy boots, sliding them off one at a time. when he stood again, he left them neatly by the door beside your white sandals, his socks thick and dark against the pale carpet.

you were already reclined into the couch. your legs bent slightly now, thighs parted, the dark triangle of your panties barely covered by the dress bunched between your knees. your stomach looked even bigger from this angle. heavy and high. tits full, round, straining the neckline.

toji walked over, slow and solid, and sat beside you without asking.

the cushion dipped under his weight.

his body pressed against yours immediately—his thigh against your thigh, the side of his arm grazing your shoulder, thick and warm and solid like concrete. he threw one arm across the back of the couch, not touching you, but hovering just close enough that you could feel the heat of it behind your neck.

he turned his head slightly.

sniffed once.

not loud. not obvious.

just a quiet inhale through his nose, slow and deep.

you smelled like something soft and edible—cheap body cream, maybe cocoa butter. something with sugar. something sticky.

he exhaled and leaned back further into the couch, eyes scanning the room again.

s’nice.

his voice was low. quieter now.

he let his hand drop lazily to your shoulder for a second, squeezing it with his thumb like it meant nothing.

you sighed, leaning into the couch more, letting your legs open slightly again, belly heavy between them, thighs pressed against his.

your panties were wet enough to leave a mark on the fabric now.

and still, your voice stayed light.

i didn’t think it’d feel this good to sit again.

you smiled.

he looked at your legs.

yeah?

you hummed.

yeah. everything’s swollen. thighs. feet. tits.

he nodded, eyes dropping to the spot where your nipple peeked from the stretch of fabric, the color darker than he imagined. rawer. wider.

he cleared his throat.

you’re… handling it well.

you giggled softly, letting your head tip to the side, toward his shoulder.

you’re handling me well.

he didn’t respond.

but his hand dropped behind your back again. heavier now.

he rubbed once, slow.

and kept breathing you in.

you didn’t move away when his hand dropped behind your back.

he wasn’t even touching you fully, not really. just resting his arm there—casual, possessive in that offhand way men like him were built to be. his forearm grazed your upper back when you shifted, and you knew he could feel it when you shivered. when you exhaled too long. when your thighs pressed tighter and the wet between them warmed into something more dangerous than just heat.

you reached lazily for the remote on the end table, the curve of your breast pressing into your belly as you leaned forward, your neckline dipping just enough that the top swell of your nipple peeked out again. dark. wide. heavy from how full you were.

he watched it.

didn’t blink.

you flicked on the TV, volume low, some late evening news hum in the background.

you adjusted yourself again, resting back into the couch, thighs parting like they needed space to breathe. you felt the wet press of your panties stick and tug at your folds, a slow, warm pulse sitting low in your gut. you didn’t fix your dress. didn’t close your legs. just leaned your head slightly toward him, acting like none of this meant anything.

you glanced up at him, your voice a little lighter now.

you want a drink or something? water? beer?

you stretched your arms a little like it was no big deal, pushing your tits up again under the tight cotton, your belly sitting perfectly round and high between your legs, pressing into the hem of your dress.

he didn’t hesitate.

i don’t need a beer when i got this.

your lips curled into a half-smile before you could stop it.

you rolled your eyes, biting your lip after like it didn’t mean anything, like the heat suddenly building in your chest and dripping down your spine didn’t just flood your panties again.

you’re so full of yourself.

your voice cracked slightly as you said it, but you smiled—flushed and warm and sore, and secretly, aching.

toji didn’t move.

he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you more than he already was.

but he noticed everything.

he saw the way your breathing changed. the way your thighs flexed. the way your dress had hiked so far up now it looked like you were halfway undressed without realizing it.

he turned his head slowly toward you, the side of his nose brushing your temple, voice rough.

and you love it.

you looked up at him.

big eyes. wet mouth. skin hot.

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t need to.

you leaned further into the couch, pretending to get comfortable—but really, you just wanted his arm closer, his thigh touching yours again.

his hand shifted behind you slightly, elbow brushing your shoulder, knuckles grazing the back of your neck in that soft, quiet way that didn’t feel intentional but was.

you reached for the throw pillow in your lap and pulled it down over your thighs, adjusting it like it was for support—but really, it was the only thing stopping you from rocking your hips into the couch.

you didn’t know what you wanted him to say next.

but you knew he knew.

and toji?

he just sat there, breathing you in, letting the tension climb. letting it drag.

the tv played quietly in front of you. meaningless noise. background to a silence so heavy it made your chest throb.

and you couldn’t help the next breath that slipped out of you.

wet. warm.

and just a little too close to a moan.

you shifted the pillow.

slowly. carefully. like you were just trying to get comfortable, just trying to support your sore thighs and aching back. but the second the edge of it pressed between your legs—right against the heat soaked into your panties—you moved again.

softer this time. lower. letting the curve of your pussy drag against the fabric like it wasn’t on purpose.

you sighed.

toji heard it.

he didn’t move. didn’t speak at first.

just watched you from the corner of his eye—your belly rising and falling, thighs tensing slightly under the cotton, your dress now so high up it barely covered the dark triangle where your panties had long been sticking to your folds.

you shifted again. slower now.

his voice came quiet.

rough in the way a man speaks when his mouth is dry but his cock is hard.

what’s it feel like?

you blinked, dazed.

what?

pregnancy.

you looked at him, surprised.

he was watching your stomach now, his hand resting behind you still, his other forearm draped along his thigh. he wasn’t touching you—but his gaze made your skin prickle like he was.

he spoke again, slower.

what’s it feel like. when you pee. when you shit. when you move. you ever feel… trapped in it?

your face flushed instantly.

you swallowed. shifted the pillow again, hips pressing forward just slightly to catch more pressure against your soaked cunt.

it’s weird, you said softly, eyes down.

i used to be normal.

toji’s brow twitched.

you shrugged, pouting slightly, rubbing your hand over the top of your bump like you were grounding yourself.

then i got… soft. everything got big. my belly. my thighs. my tits. nipples went dark. my pussy got darker too.

you laughed once—half embarrassed.

even my pee smells weird now. and i sweat more. it’s like… nothing fits. like i don’t look cute anymore.

he watched you in silence.

then hummed low in his chest.

didn’t say he agreed. didn’t nod.

just let the sound sit there.

and then he leaned back a little further.

s’just tits and pussy.

you blinked. turned toward him.

what?

he looked at you like you were the one being dramatic.

that’s all it is. your body’s doing what it’s supposed to.

he glanced once at your thighs, your dress, the faint outline of your pussy straining against the pillow you were grinding slow and subtle into.

you’re eating for two. sweating for two. feeling for two.

his voice was low now. flat. honest.

so what if your pussy looks different. that’s what it’s for.

your mouth opened slightly.

your hand pressed down harder into the pillow.

your thighs tensed.

he looked at your tits.

you said they got heavier.

you nodded slowly.

he lifted a hand, flexed it once, like remembering.

still light enough for me to carry you earlier.

thank you for reading if you made it this far 🩷 i’m sorry i couldn’t use the usual pink layout this one was just way too long 😭 but i hope the story still hit. love u. part two cmming tmrw filthier and nasty 🎀

onlypinkslut

[chaeuvy]

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑! ⎯ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐀 𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀

summary: Aizawa’s day was already awful—until it ended with a kiss that changed everything. You’ve always been there for Eri… and quietly, for him. When a slip of the tongue exposes the truth, he finally lets himself want something more. But even in the most heated moment, there’s still a little girl with big ears and even bigger dreams of calling you family.

warnings: sfw, slightly nsfw, Fem!reader, Age gap (reader is 23, Aizawa is 32), make out, Mutual pining, Soft Dom!Aizawa, dad!aizawa, Confession during domestic moment, Emotional intimacy, Interrupted intimacy, Found family themes.

wc: 2.3k words.

request: here

Aizawa Shouta never thought babysitting drop-offs could make his day worse—and better—all at once.

He stood in the doorway of his apartment, tie half-done, sleep-deprived as always, Eri clutching his pant leg and a stuffed unicorn. You were inside, crouched on the rug, smile wide, holding out your arms.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you cooed, voice warm and syrupy. Not at him, of course. At Eri. Always at Eri.

But gods, he wished it were for him.

He watched his little girl let go of his leg and scamper over, giggling in a way she rarely did with anyone else. Eri trusted you. Loved you. And so did he—though he’d die before saying that out loud.

“Thanks again,” he said gruffly, scratching at his jaw. “I’ll be back around six.”

You gave him a quick nod, rising to your feet and brushing cat hair off your leggings. You always managed to look cozy and kind. Comfortable. Safe. You made even his shitty apartment feel like a home.

“Take your time, really. Eri and I are painting rainbows today. And maybe having cookies for lunch.” You winked, and Shouta’s mouth went dry.

He wanted to say something clever. Wanted to ask if you’d save him a cookie. Or maybe if you’d stay for dinner. But all that came out was a grunt.

You tilted your head, watching him with that soft, almost amused look. “You okay?”

No. Not even close.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You gave him a smile. “You always are.”

And that was it. Another morning of biting his tongue and walking away from something that almost felt like home. Something he told himself he couldn’t have. You were 23—young, bright, still hopeful. You wore socks with stars on them and called his daughter “sunshine.” And he was a thirty-two-year-old man with a trauma history, a teaching career, and under-eye bags.

He couldn’t—shouldn’t—even think about how much he wanted you. How much he looked forward to coming home just to hear your laugh in his kitchen.

Today was worse than usual.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when he left the house, and the meeting at U.A. had dragged on long enough to make him want to vanish into the floor. He’d downed two energy drinks and still felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

All day, he’d been off his game—thinking about you.

You, sitting on the floor in his hoodie, laughing as Eri danced in sparkly socks.

You, humming while making grilled cheese.

You, yawning with your cheek pressed against your fist, eyes still soft when they looked at him.

It was starting to ruin him.

He wasn’t just looking forward to coming home anymore—he was desperate for it.

So when he finally stepped into the apartment that evening, and the smell of sugar cookies hit him first, followed by your voice—soft, reading something aloud—he nearly dropped his keys.

You were in the kitchen, Eri perched on the counter beside you, giggling as you iced cookies. You looked over your shoulder and smiled like you knew he was there before he even said a word.

That smile did something to him. It cracked something open.

“Hey,” you said, brushing hair from your forehead. “Rough day?”

Shouta swallowed, loosened his tie, nodded. “Yeah.”

Eri ran to him with icing on her nose. “Look! We made stars!”

“Mm. Smells like trouble.”

“She said we could have cookies for dinner,” Eri whispered dramatically. “But don’t tell.”

You gave an innocent shrug. “I regret nothing.”

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve gone to change or shower, anything to stop what was coming next. But you looked so at home in his kitchen. In his life.

So he said it. Stupid, without thinking.

“…Wish you were mine.”

Silence.

His heart stopped. His mouth snapped shut. But it was too late.

Your head tilted just slightly. You blinked at him once, slowly, like you weren’t sure if you heard right. “What did you say?”

He stared at the floor. “Forget it. I’m tired, I didn’t—”

“No,” you said. Gentle. Quiet. Almost breathless. “Say it again.”

He looked up.

You stepped closer. Close enough that he could see the flour dusted on your cheek and smell the vanilla on your sweater. Eri had wandered off toward the couch, humming to herself, leaving just the two of you in the low kitchen light.

“Shouta,” you whispered. “Say it again.”

He closed his eyes. His voice was hoarse.

“I wish you were mine.”

And then you kissed him.

It was soft, but sure. Like you’d been holding it back just as long. Like you’d been waiting for this very crack in his armor.

He kissed you back like he didn’t care anymore. Like rules and age gaps and guilt could all burn if it meant having this—you. His hands slid to your waist, grounding himself, anchoring to the moment.

When your lips parted and your breath hitched, he swore quietly and kissed you again—hungrier this time. Deeper. The dam broke.

You whispered his name like it meant something sacred.

And that was it.

“Bedroom,” he muttered. “Now.”

You almost nodded—almost let yourself melt into the warmth of it— until it hit you.

Eri was still awake.

She was in the living room, humming softly as she arranged her toys, blissfully unaware. Or so you thought.

Shouta’s hands were still at your waist, his forehead brushing yours as he caught his breath—until the patter of little feet broke the quiet.

Eri rounded the corner, wide-eyed and grinning.

“You kissed! I saw you!”

You froze. So did Aizawa.

Then she gasped dramatically, throwing her arms in the air.

“Now you just have to marry her! And then we don’t have to share her with anyone else, Dad!”

Aizawa blinked, stunned. And you? You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. it’s kinda short but I hope I did well !

© 2025 chaeuvy ; ━━ do not copy or translate my work !

[verityasian]

hiii!! I loved your ‘i love you’ tiktok trend with jj!! 💖Do you think you could maybe do the ‘current boyfriend’ trend with jj?

Yeeees! I was initially working on one with Rafe but I’m obsessed with goldenretriever!jj and couldn’t stop myself 💀

(Thank you so much for the ask! Hope you’ll like this♡)

“Current boyfriend” . . . with gr!jj

>>> you decide to call JJ your “current boyfriend” just to see how he’d react and he spirals because of course he does.

>>>“Say I love you back”

You’re lying across the hammock strung up in the backyard of the chateau, head resting in JJ’s lap, both of you sun-warmed and grinning after a long beach day.

He’s playing with your hair. Absentminded. Gentle. So stupidly in love and not even hiding it.

And that’s when you pull out your phone, tilt it up just enough to catch the angle, and hit record.

“Spending the day with my current boyfriend—”

You don’t even finish the sentence.

JJ freezes.

Dead still.

Eyes wide. Like you just hit him with a frying pan.

“…Current?”

You blink innocently. “What?”

He pulls back slightly, face twisted. “Current?? Like—temporary current?? Like you’re taking applications after this?? You can’t say that to someone who’s loved you since the eighth grade, dude. I have TRAUMA.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Babe. That’s what you are.”

JJ’s hand flies to his heart. “Okay, first of all, rude. Secondly, I am a forever boyfriend. A lifetime subscription. I am not a trial version.”

You raise a brow, still recording. “That’s a strong reaction for a current boyfriend.”

“Oh my God,” he mutters, already spiraling, “you’re gonna break up with me. You’re gonna leave me for some guy who plays acoustic guitar and smells like artisanal soap.”

You giggle. “You smell like motor oil and coconut sunscreen.”

“EXACTLY. I have flavor.”

He grabs your phone, turns the camera on himself.

His face is so serious you almost lose it.

“Hi, TikTok. I’m JJ. Apparently I’m the current boyfriend. If anyone out there has tips on how to become the final boyfriend, please contact me immediately. I’m losing her to the algorithm.”

JJ turns the camera back to you, eyes narrowed.

“Take it back.”

You blink. “Take what back?”

“You’re it for me. You know that, right? Like… it. So if I’m the current boyfriend, I better also be the last one. The ‘tell the grandkids’ one. Say I’m the guy you’ll bury under the oak tree we love to mack under—I mean, not soon, hopefully, but like… eventually—that one.”

You snort. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I have a vision, woman.”

“Okay, okay. You’re not my current boyfriend.”

He perks up instantly. “Thank you.”

You kiss his cheek, camera still rolling. “You’re my last one.”

JJ melts. Like fully collapses against your shoulder with a loud, dramatic groan.

“You can never break up with me now. You said it on camera. It’s a binding verbal contract.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He looks at you with wide eyes and zero shame.

“I’m passionately in love. Let me cope.”

⸻

BONUS:

<Comment Section>

@johnbrealest: “as someone who’s seen this man cry during Marley & Me, she’s never allowed to break up with him. Ever.”

@kiarakarrera: “i watched this 3x and screamed every time he said ‘I am NOT a trial version’ 😭😭 who let him be this dramatic?? oh wait. i did.”

@sarahcameronobx: “his whole identity crumbled like a ritz cracker in milk and i FELT that”

@popehayward.official: “is your boyfriend single ma'am?😔”

@cleoanderson.wtf: “YOU BROKE JJ MAYBANK IN 0.3 SECONDS. this is a crime of passion! do it again.”

@rafeactually: “bro… don’t stress. if she leaves you, it just means fate is redirecting her to someone better. someone taller.. richer.. probably me. just saying.”

send me more asks and suggestions! Not just for JJ or Rafe!

[hevvxx2]

Title: Blood Owed

Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: SMUT (Super long fic!!) Violence and Gore: Includes graphic depictions of violence.

Torture and Physical Abuse: Mentions and depictions of a character being tied up, roughed up, shot, and physically harmed as a form of leverage or interrogation.

Kidnapping: The Reader is kidnapped early in the story and held against her will.

Psychological Trauma: Themes of betrayal, manipulation, grief, PTSD, and emotional breakdown.

Power Imbalance / Dubious Morality: Central relationship involves a mob boss and a woman who was taken as leverage; consent and autonomy become clearer as the story progresses, but the early dynamic is complex.

Death and Murder: Includes character deaths. (Side characters not important..)

Revenge: Heavy revenge themes.

Gun Violence.

Toxic Relationships and Obsession: Themes of possessiveness, dominance, and morally gray romance..?

15 YEAR AGE GAP! (Bucky's 38 and reader is 23)

Dark Fic

Morally Gray Female Lead

Antiheroine Arc

Graphic Violence

Hurt/Comfort

Slow Burn to Dark Romance

Female Rage

Power Couple (Underworld)

Summary: After being kidnapped by mob boss Bucky Barnes as leverage over her uncle's unpaid debts, a young coffee shop owner is beaten, betrayed, and shot—only to rise from the ashes more dangerous than anyone expected. Fueled by rage and vengeance, she shoots Bucky, hunts down her uncle, and begins a brutal transformation. She was taken as a pawn—but she stayed as a queen.

The last thing she remembered was locking up the back door of her coffee shop.

She had turned the key, humming to herself, the day’s exhaustion pulling at her limbs. The alley behind the shop was quiet, just the hum of a distant car engine and the clatter of her trash bin lid catching in the wind. She didn’t even hear them coming—just a sharp jab to her ribs and something cold like a rag covering her mouth. Everything went black.

When she came to, her wrists were raw. Rope burned into her skin, tied too tightly behind her back. Her ankles were bound, a rag shoved between her lips. The taste of it was stale, like grease and blood and fear.

She blinked against the harsh yellow light overhead. Warehouse lights. The kind that buzzed incessantly.

Voices.

Footsteps.

And then the door opened.

Two men entered first—grunts, built like slabs of concrete. One of them yanked her up by the arm, dragging her across the concrete floor. She whimpered through the gag, her body aching from being slumped on the cold ground for who knew how long.

Then she saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

Black slacks. Dark henley. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. His left arm gleamed dull steel under the light—sleek, silent, lethal.

Next to him stood a blond man built like a tank. Steve Rogers. Equally dangerous. Less theatrical.

And in front of them, bound to a chair, was her uncle.

Her blood ran cold.

"Mmph!" She tried to scream through the gag, her eyes wide with betrayal, confusion, fear.

Bucky nodded at the men behind her. They shoved her to her knees in front of him. She hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t dare look away from the man in front of her.

Bucky knelt, his gloved hand reaching out to tug the gag down.

"I’m gonna give you a chance to speak." He said softly. Voice calm. Measured. Deadly. "Use it wisely."

She coughed, her mouth dry. "What the fuck is going on—?"

Bucky’s hand curled around her chin, tilting her face up. His voice didn’t rise. "This isn’t about you. You’re leverage. Your uncle—" He turned his head slightly toward the man bound in the chair. "—stole a lot of money from me. Lied about having it. Ran."

She shook her head. "I don’t know anything about—"

"I know." Bucky said, cutting her off. "That’s why I’m not mad at you. Yet."

Her uncle, across the room, was pale. Sweating. His wrists bled from where he’d struggled against the zip ties.

"Don’t do this." He croaked. "She’s just a kid." (Reader is 23! don't worry lol)

"You should’ve thought about that." Bucky growled, his jaw tightening. "When you dragged her into your shit."

Bucky stood.

"Make her scream. Make him watch." He said over his shoulder.

One of the men behind her didn’t hesitate.

A fist slammed into her ribs.

She crumpled sideways with a gasp. A boot followed—into her gut, her shoulder, her back. She cried out, the sounds echoing off the concrete walls. Pain lit up behind her eyes like lightning.

'Where’s my money, Cal?" Bucky asked her uncle. Calm. Icy. Unmoving. "You tell me now, I make them stop."

Cal’s face twisted. "You don’t have to do this—"

Another blow.

She screamed this time.

"You see?" Bucky’s voice rose, just slightly. "She’s got nothing to do with this. Doesn’t even know what you did. And you’re letting this happen. For what? Pride?"

Cal sobbed. "I don’t have the money—"

"Wrong answer."

Bucky reached into the holster under his jacket.

The sound of the gun being cocked filled the warehouse like thunder.

Her breath stopped.

Bucky walked forward, slow and deliberate, until the barrel of his gun pressed against her thigh. "I’ve been patient. I’ve been reasonable."

She froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a war drum.

"Don’t—" Cal choked.

"Where." Bucky growled. "Is my money?"

Cal squeezed his eyes shut.

"I’m done asking.." Bucky muttered.

The gun went off.

She screamed—white-hot agony tearing through her leg as she collapsed sideways, clutching at the rope-bound wound. Blood soaked the denim of her jeans, pooling around her thigh. She shrieked again, gasping, shivering.

Still, Cal said nothing.

Bucky knelt beside her again.

"Last chance." He whispered. And then he shoved his thumb into the bullet wound.

She screamed like nothing human. Her body arched off the floor, raw pain blooming behind her eyes like a star going nova. She thought she might black out.

And still—still—Cal didn’t talk.

"Jesus Christ." Steve muttered from the back, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "He’s really gonna let her die."

Bucky’s eyes stayed fixed on Cal. "You just killed your niece." He said coldly. "For what? A lie?"

Her vision swam. Her hands were slick with blood. Her breathing came in gasps, and her whole body trembled.

She looked up at Bucky, hatred in her eyes. And he paused.

Something flickered across his expression.

She wasn’t sobbing. She wasn't crying. Wasn't begging for her life.

She was staring at him like she wanted to rip him apart with her bare hands.

And for the first time all night in years, Bucky Barnes didn’t feel entirely in control.

Blood poured out of her leg like a promise.

Sticky, warm, endless.

It painted the concrete beneath her. Soaked into her jeans. Coated her hands. Every breath came harder than the last—A ragged struggle, like dragging air through shards of glass.

She was cold. Numb. Her skin slick with sweat, trembling from shock.

The warehouse spun.

But she was still awake.

Barely.

The pain was white-hot, searing through her nerves, and somehow that kept her tethered to consciousness. The rage burning in her chest kept her heart beating. The hatred pulsing through her veins kept her alive.

She lifted her head, her face streaked with tears and blood and fury, and locked eyes with him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Mob boss. Killer. Liar.

He crouched nearby, a rag clutched in one hand, the gun still in the other. He hadn’t touched her again, but his thumbprint was still scorched into her wound—Into her soul.

"You’re still awake." He said, almost impressed.

She wanted to claw his face off. Tear him apart with her teeth.

She laughed — a dry, cracked sound. Blood bubbled at her lips.

"Fuck you." She whispered.

Bucky tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

She forced herself upright with shaking arms. She wasn’t sure how she was even still conscious—But the hatred was louder than the pain.

"You think this scares me?" She rasped. "You think this is it?"

Her uncle, still tied to the chair, was whimpering now. Coward. Her blood was soaking the floor, and he hadn't said a goddamn thing.

"You let them do this." She hissed across the room to him. "You let them break me."

He sobbed. "I didn’t—I didn’t think—"

"No." She snarled. "You didn’t. You never did."

Her whole body screamed in protest as she dragged herself an inch closer, her nails clawing at the floor. The pain in her leg was unbearable—And yet it wasn’t as sharp as the betrayal slicing through her chest.

She stared up at them both, blood in her teeth, hate in her eyes.

And then she said it.

"I swear…" Her voice was hoarse, low, shaking, but laced with venom. "I’ll kill you both."

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly.

She bared her teeth.

"I fucking swear it on my dead, cold, lifeless fucking body." She growled. "I will kill you both."

A silence fell.

Not just quiet—Dead quiet.

Even Steve’s expression shifted—Something subtle, like concern.

Bucky looked down at her. His face was unreadable now. Still. Cold. But something flickered deep in his steel-blue eyes. Not fear. Not regret. But respect, maybe.

Or curiosity.

A slow, grim smile touched his lips and he let out a low whistle.

"You’ve got fire." He said quietly.

"I’ve got rage. Anger. Pain." She snapped, blood dripping from her chin. "And it won’t go out until I make you choke on it."

Bucky stood slowly, holstering the gun. His boots stepped through her blood without hesitation.

"Get her patched up." He said to his men, voice calm, final. "I want her alive."

Steve raised a brow. "You sure?"

"She bleeds out, that’s the end of our leverage." Bucky said. "And I want to know what she does… after."

One of the guards stepped forward, pulling out a med kit, but Bucky stopped him.

"Not here." He said. "Take her to the penthouse."

Her head throbbed, her vision blurred. "No… no you don’t—"

"You’re not dying tonight, sweetheart." Bucky murmured, crouching again. "You made this personal. And I want to see how far you’ll go."

She spat blood at his feet.

"Good." Bucky whispered, his voice like velvet wrapped around razor wire. "Hold onto that."

Then the darkness took her.

The room was too quiet when she woke.

Her head was a fog of pain and memory, but her body remembered everything—The kicks, the fists, the gunshot, the screaming. Her thigh throbbed, stitched and wrapped, the sharp ache blooming deeper with every heartbeat. Her mouth was dry. Her skin clammy.

But she was alive.

Why?

She blinked at the ceiling—High, ornate, the molding carved with obscene luxury—And realized she wasn’t in a hospital.

No machines. No nurses.

No restraints.

Not anymore.

Just clean sheets, soft pillows… and a locked door.

She sat up slowly, pain screaming through her leg, but her rage screamed louder.

She gritted her teeth. Dragged her body upright. The bandages on her thigh were soaked red again almost instantly. Her stitches pulled —tore— with the movement. She didn’t care.

He shot me.

Her hand trembled as she pressed it to the fresh blood at her thigh. She forced herself to stand anyway, panting, one hand on the wall for balance.

Because of my uncle. Because of money. Because of HIM.

Because of Bucky fucking Barnes.

She limped to the door and tried it. Locked.

Of course.

But then—Voices.

A soft shift of leather. A throat clearing.

There was a guard posted outside.

Her breathing slowed.

She stepped back, pretended to trip, and slammed her shoulder into the floor—Hard.

The door flew open a moment later.

"You alright—?"

The guard didn’t finish the sentence.

She was already on him.

A flash of movement—A desperate twist—A grab at the holster on his side. Her hand wrapped around the gun just as he reached to pull it back.

CRACK.

The butt of it hit him hard, just under the jaw. He staggered. She hit him again.

Then again.

He dropped.

She didn’t wait to check if he was breathing.

The gun felt heavy in her grip, unfamiliar, but she held it tight as she limped through the hallway—Dragging her leg, leaving a trail of blood behind her like breadcrumbs.

Her breath was ragged. Her stitches torn open. Her hospital shirt clung to her sweat-drenched skin.

But she kept going.

Adrenaline surged through her, blotting out the pain. All she saw was red. All she heard was the echo of her scream from days ago. The promises she’d made.

"I’ll kill you both."

She found the elevator. Jammed the button with the barrel of the gun.

Bucky’s office was at the top of the penthouse.

Of course it was.

The doors slid open.

She limped in.

Up.

Ding.

She stepped out onto sleek marble floors and glass walls, overlooking the city. She knew exactly where she was—She’d seen this building on the news. Bucky Barnes didn’t hide his empire. He flexed it.

But she wasn’t here to admire the view.

She followed the sound of voices. Familiar ones.

A low laugh.

Steve Rogers.

And then—

"—She’s tougher than she looks."

Bucky.

Her fingers clenched around the grip of the gun.

She shoved open the office doors.

Both men turned.

She was a vision of death and defiance—Pale, bleeding, hospital gown ripped open down her thigh where the bandages were soaked dark. Her eyes were wild. Her breath came in gasps. But the gun was steady, even as her hands trembled.

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

Steve immediately stepped in front of him.

"Don’t." He warned.

She leveled the gun anyway.

"Do you know what it feels like to wake up in silk sheets." She snarled. "With blood in your bandages and a bullet in your leg that you didn’t fucking ask for?!"

Bucky stepped around Steve, slowly.

"You need to sit down."

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up!"

Her voice cracked.

"You put me here. You did this."

"You’re alive because I—"

"I don’t care! Do I look like i care?! Look at me!" She screamed. "You shot me! You tortured me! And he—" She jabbed the gun toward Steve—"Stood there and watched!"

"Your uncle lied to me." Bucky said coldly. "And you were leverage."

"I was a fucking barista!" She roared, tears burning down her cheeks. "I closed up my coffee shop and got abducted because that piece of shit—"She choked—"that man who was supposed to raise me put me in your path!"

She limped forward, gun raised.

Steve tensed, eyes locked on her hands.

"Don’t come any closer." She warned. "I swear to God, I’ll pull this trigger. I don’t even care if it kills me too."

Bucky looked at her—And for the first time in his life, he saw someone who didn’t fear death the way they should.

She was past fear.

Past pain.

She was running on revenge. On betrayal. On a promise she’d made in blood and screams.

"I told you." She whispered. "I’d kill you both."

The room felt frozen in time.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

Neither did she.

Her finger hovered on the trigger. Her leg screamed in pain. Her heart pounded. Blood dripped down her thigh, soaking the marble floor.

"I told you.." She whispered again, voice shaking with fury. "I’d kill you both."

"Then do it." Bucky said, voice low. Calm. Too calm. "But understand something, sweetheart—Once you pull that trigger, there’s no going back."

She blinked at him.

Steve stepped forward. "Bucky—"

He raised a hand, stopping him. His eyes never left hers.

"You shoot me, you better aim to kill." Bucky said. "Because if I get up, and you’re still standing—"

BANG!

The shot rang through the office like thunder.

Bucky staggered back.

Blood bloomed across his shoulder.

Steve lunged, but Bucky shoved him back with his metal arm. "Don’t. It's fine."

The gun trembled in her hands.

Bucky swayed slightly, gripping his shoulder with a grunt of pain— but didn’t go down.

Her chest heaved.

The smell of gunpowder and blood hit the air.

She limped forward, her voice raw. "Where is he?"

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, then gave a grim smile.

"You really gonna kill your own blood?"

"Where is he?!" She screamed.

Steve tried again. "You’re not thinking straight—"

"I’ve never been clearer." She snapped, her voice cracking. "He gave me up. Let you beat me. Let you shoot me. Didn’t say a word."

She turned the gun to Steve.

"Where. Is. He."

Blood dripped steadily down her leg and from the corner of her mouth now from her split lip she'd received. Her body was failing—But her will was not.

Steve glanced at Bucky.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

"Third floor." He muttered, voice hoarse. "East wing. He’s locked up."

She didn’t thank him.

Didn’t look at him again.

She turned and dragged herself out of the office, leaving a trail of blood behind her—His and hers both—Staining everything she touched.

The elevator ride was agony.

She pressed the gun to the wall for balance, her blood smearing the silver surface. Her head swam. She blinked slowly. Couldn’t tell what was sweat and what was blood anymore.

But she made it.

The hallway was quiet.

Guards stood posted—Two of them.

They turned when they saw her.

Then saw the blood.

And the gun.

"Shit!"

BANG. One dropped. BANG. The other.

She didn’t even think.

She kept walking.

The east wing was quiet.

One last door at the end of the hall. Reinforced. Heavy.

But not locked.

She pushed it open.

And there he was.

Her uncle.

Cal.

Chained to a chair. Alive. Unharmed.

Sleeping.

She stared at him.

The man who raised her. Who sat at her kitchen table every week. Who used to give her five bucks to sneak her a milkshake.

She limped in.

He stirred. "Wha—?"

Then he saw her.

Bloodstained. Pale. Gun shaking in her hand.

"...No." He whispered. "No, sweetheart, no—"

"Don’t call me that." She snapped.

"I didn’t—look, I didn’t think they’d hurt you—"

"You watched.." She said quietly. "You watched them beat me. You watched them shoot me."

"I didn’t know what to say." He choked. "They would’ve killed me—"

"You let them almost kill me instead." She snarled, taking a shaky step forward. "Because you couldn’t admit what you did. Because you were a coward."

He started crying. "Please, you have to understand, I didn’t mean—"

CLICK.

She cocked the gun and raised it.

He froze.

"I died back in that warehouse." She said. "Whatever you thought I was… she’s gone. You killed her. With your silence. With your betrayal."

"Please." He whispered. "I’m still your—"

BANG.

The shot rang out.

Not in the head.

The leg.

He screamed, dropping to the floor as the chains clattered.

She limped over and stood above him as he writhed in pain.

"That was for me." She whispered. "That was for the girl you betrayed."

And then she raised the gun again, aiming at his chest—

"Stop!"

Bucky’s voice.

From the doorway.

Her finger didn’t move.

"I let you have your moment." He said, breathing hard. His shirt was soaked in blood, his hand pressed to his shoulder. "You got your pound of flesh."

"I’m not done."

"Yes." Bucky said, stepping closer. "You are."

She turned the gun to him again.

"I’ll shoot you again."

He nodded. "You probably will."

And then softer—

"But if you kill him? You become me."

She stared at him.

Something broke in her chest.

Tears welled again. This time different.

She looked down at the gun.

Then at her uncle, sobbing on the floor.

Then at Bucky—Shot, pale, bleeding.

And for the first time in days, she let herself collapse.

The gun fell from her hand.

Her knees hit the floor.

And then—Finally—Everything went black.

The world came back slowly this time.

Dim light filtered in through drawn blackout curtains. Soft shadows moved across the ceiling. She felt cold.

Again.

Pain pulsed through her thigh like a second heartbeat. Her lips were dry, cracked. The air smelled like leather, steel, and blood.

She didn’t need to open her eyes to know she was still in Bucky Barnes’ penthouse.

She didn’t need to move to know she was being watched.

"Still breathing.." A familiar voice murmured, low and rough. "Damn shame."

She opened her eyes.

Bucky sat at the edge of her bed, shirt off now, thick white bandages wrapping around his upper chest and left shoulder. His dark jeans were bloodstained, dried at the knees. One of his knuckles was split. There was a cigarette between his fingers, unsmoked.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked impressed.

"You’ve got more fight in you than half my crew." He said, almost casually.

She glared at him through the pain, voice dry and cracked. "Is that… supposed to be a compliment?"

He gave a short, low laugh.

"You shot me." He said, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

"You kidnapped me." She shot back.

"You killed two of my men." He countered.

"They tried to stop me."

"You pointed a gun at Steve."

"He watched you torture me."

Bucky didn’t answer that. Just exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips now.

Silence stretched between them, taut and bitter.

"You had the balls..." He said finally, voice softer now. "To do it. All of it."

She didn’t respond.

"You dragged your half-dead ass out of bed. Tore open your own stitches. Walked straight into a room with two killers and didn’t blink. Pulled the trigger."

"I told you I would."

"And you meant it."

She didn’t look away.

Bucky studied her for a long moment.

"You know what I see when I look at you?"

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping low.

"Someone who lost everything—And still got back up. Someone who’s not afraid to bleed if it means getting what they want. Someone who didn’t hesitate to hurt the man who betrayed her."

She clenched her jaw.

"I’m not part of your world." She spat.

He nodded once. "Not yet."

She sneered. "Fuck you."

But her voice was weak. Her fury was still there, but her body was failing.

"You had every reason to pull that trigger again." Bucky said. "You didn’t."

"I will."

His lips twitched. "You won’t."

She sat up, barely, wincing. "Don’t act like you know me."

"I do now." He said. "You’re not a barista anymore."

That hit her in the chest harder than a bullet.

She hated that he was right.

She hated that he knew it.

Her eyes burned. Not with tears. With the last remnants of the fire that had kept her alive.

She’d shot him.

Killed his men.

Stared down Steve with a gun and didn’t flinch.

And he wasn’t mad.

He was sitting at her bedside, waiting.

"You don’t scare me." She whispered.

"I know." He said softly. "That’s why I’m here."

She looked at him—Really looked—And saw something worse than cruelty in his eyes.

Respect.

Like she’d earned something she never wanted.

A seat at his table.

A place in his world.

"Sleep." He said, standing, flicking the cigarette into a tray beside the bed. "We’ll talk when you can stand without bleeding."

"I’m not staying."

"You will."

He walked to the door.

She forced her body upright again, her voice dry but venomous. "You think I want to be anything like you?"

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

Then without looking back—

"No." He said. "But you already are."

The door clicked shut behind him.

And she sat there, trembling.

Not from fear.

But because part of her believed him.

TIME SKIP

It took months to heal.

Three surgeries. Physical therapy. Nerve pain that still flared every time the temperature dropped. She could walk now without limping, but some nights she swore she still felt his bullet burning through her thigh. Sometimes she’d wake in a cold sweat, breath caught in her throat, heart thundering like she was still bleeding on that warehouse floor.

But now?

Now she stood in front of the mirror of Bucky Barnes’ penthouse suite—In black, in heels, in control.

Physically, at least.

Everything else?

Not so sure.

The club was loud.

Dark walls, pulsing lights. Bass that rumbled through the bones. Bodies packed together like heat and liquor were the cure to the emptiness they all carried. And power—The kind that clung to the air like smoke—Followed Bucky into the room like a shadow.

People stepped aside for him without a word.

He didn’t wear a suit tonight. Just dark jeans, a leather jacket, and that quiet confidence that made even the drunkest assholes sober in his presence. Steve was somewhere in the back, handling "security matters." which probably meant breaking someone’s ribs in the alley.

She walked beside Bucky.

Not behind.

And that was new.

But so were the looks.

The whispers.

The women flocked him immediately. Clingy, glittering things with red lips and predatory smiles. They draped themselves on him like vines. Like they knew who he was. Like they wanted what he could do to them.

He didn’t react. Just let it happen. Kept walking. Like it was normal.

Meanwhile, men turned their heads when they saw her. She felt it instantly—The appraising stares, the heat, the assumption that she was new, unclaimed, disposable. One man reached out, fingers brushing her lower back like he owned a piece of her just by looking.

Her hand snapped back.

She grabbed his wrist.

Hard.

The man blinked, confused.

She leaned in, voice like poison wrapped in silk.

"Touch me again, and I’ll rip the tendons out of your fucking hand."

He jerked back, eyes wide, stumbling into the crowd.

She looked to Bucky.

He was already watching her.

No smile.

No surprise.

Just quiet amusement in those storm-gray eyes.

She stalked toward him, heels clicking like gunfire, and slid into the booth he claimed like a throne.

He followed.

She leaned back, one arm over the leather cushion, eyes narrowed at the dancers slithering around them, the women still eyeing him like a bitches in heat.

(I am so sorry t.t.. just know I will NEVER speak about women in this way, as me being a woman.. this is just for the sake of the story..)

"Nice whores." She muttered, voice sharp as a blade.

Bucky didn’t flinch. "Jealous?"

She turned to him slowly, her smile razor-thin.

"Jealous? No. Just wondering if they ended up here the same way I did." She said coolly. "If you kidnapped them too. If they had to answer for debts that weren’t theirs. Spill blood that wasn’t theirs. Get beaten for lies someone else told."

His jaw tightened.

The lights above them flickered red for a moment, casting shadows across his face.

"I told you." He said lowly. "you’re not like them."

"No." she hissed. "because I fought back."

"You’re here by choice now."

She laughed—A bitter, quiet thing.

"I’m here because you’ve bled me dry." She said. "Because I’ve got nothing left. No shop. No friends. No family. Just a scar that throbs every time I see your face."

He said nothing.

She leaned in, close enough that he could feel the heat off her words.

"You said we’d talk when I could stand without bleeding." She whispered. "Well, I’m standing. So talk."

Bucky studied her for a long moment.

Then poured a drink. Neat. Expensive.

He slid it across the table to her.

"I wanted to know what you’d do." He said. "When the pain was gone. When there was no bullet to blame, no bandages to hide behind. Whether the fire in you was temporary... or permanent."

"And?"

"I think you were born for this." He said quietly.

She scoffed.

"I think.." Bucky continued. "You hate me. And maybe you should. But you didn’t run. You didn’t break. You stayed. You pulled that trigger. You stood your ground. And now?"

His voice lowered, almost admiring.

"Now they look at you and wonder if they should be afraid."

She stared at him.

Silent.

And then she picked up the drink.

Tossed it back.

Her throat burned. Not from the liquor—But from the truth.

"You made me this." She said.

"I just lit the match." Bucky replied. "You were already soaked in gasoline."

She didn’t answer.

Because deep down… she knew he wasn’t wrong.

The club raged around them—Lights strobing red and gold, music pounding like a second heartbeat, bodies grinding and laughing and dying a little more with every drink.

But in that booth?

The world was quiet.

It was just her and Bucky.

A king and a girl turned into a storm.

She set the empty glass down, eyes still on him, her voice sharper than the rim.

"You said I was soaked in gasoline.." She murmured. "What about you?"

He looked at her.

For once, not like someone measuring her for weakness… but like someone looking at a mirror that reflected too much truth.

"I wasn’t born into this." He said finally, voice low.

She raised an eyebrow. "What were you then? A baker?"

He gave a small, humorless smirk. "Close. Brooklyn. Before all this… I worked my ass off. Construction, bartending, you name it. Whatever kept the lights on. Had a kid sister. Ma was sick. Dad was long dead. I did what I had to."

She watched him, but didn’t interrupt.

"One night, this guy—Low-level bookie—Came into the bar I was working. Got jumped outside. Five guys on him. I could’ve ignored it. Could’ve walked the other way."

"But you didn’t.." She murmured.

He shook his head. "I didn't. It wasn't in my blood then. I broke one of their arms. Dislocated another’s jaw. Thought I was doing the right thing. Turns out, the guy I saved? Worked for someone important. The kind of guy who doesn’t forget loyalty."

"Or violence." She added quietly.

Bucky’s lips twitched.

"They offered me a job. First it was running collections. Easy stuff. Nobody bled unless they ran. Then it turned into intimidation. Enforcement. Protection. And before I knew it, I wasn’t protecting anyone."

"You were doing what you did to me."

He nodded once, like it hurt to admit it. "Yeah."

She leaned back, folding her arms, eyes locked on him. "And that didn’t bother you?"

Bucky stared into the glass in his hand.

"It did. At first. But every time I tried to walk, someone else paid the price. They threatened my sister. My mother’s medicine. My name got dirtier, and theirs got heavier."

She saw it now—The wear in his eyes. The kind that doesn’t come from bloodshed, but from years of justifying it.

"You killed the man who brought you in.." She guessed.

Bucky nodded. "He crossed a line. The kind you don’t come back from."

"And now you’re him. Aren't you?"

"Better than him." He corrected quietly. "But yeah. Same throne."

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Let the noise of the club fill the silence.

Then—

"You ever think about leaving?"

"All the time."

"But you don’t."

"Because once you’ve bled for a kingdom." He said, voice flat. "You can’t just walk out the front door."

She studied him, watching the way his jaw flexed, the weight behind every word. He didn’t just wear power. He dragged it. Like it had fused to his bones.

"Is this what you wanted?" She asked. "Back then?"

He finally looked at her. No armor. No smirk. Just exhaustion and truth.

"No.." He said. "But now? It’s all I’ve got left."

They sat in silence for a moment.

The booth. The blood. The drinks. The lives they’d lost.

And then she said something that caught even her off guard.

"Then maybe I’m all you’ve got too."

Bucky’s expression didn’t change.

But his grip on the glass loosened—And the ice inside finally stopped shaking.

The bass rolled under them like thunder. The bodies kept moving. The lights flickered like warning signs.

But the booth was still.

Him. Her. A space carved out in the middle of the chaos where nothing could quite breathe right.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table, watching him carefully. His jaw had gone tight after he spoke about his sister and mother. His eyes distant.

"Your mom and sister.." She said. "What happened to them?"

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He stared out over the club—At the women swaying, the men posturing, the security watching like wolves.

Then he finally spoke.

"Ma died the year after I started working collections." He said, voice low. "Heart gave out."

She blinked, heart tugging in her chest.

"She never knew what I was doing." He added. "Or… maybe she did, but she never said anything. She just looked tired all the time. Like she’d already mourned the boy she raised."

"And your sister?"

He shifted.

"That’s… complicated."

Her brows lifted. "She alive?"

"Yeah. Married. Kids. Far away from this."

"Do you talk to her?"

"No." He said quietly. "Not in years. She changed her number. Probably for the best."

The words landed hard. Like a door slammed shut in the back of her mind.

Bucky Barnes—This powerful, untouchable, brutal man — was alone. Really alone.

"I’m sorry." She murmured, and she meant it.

"Don’t be." He said. "It was a long time ago."

But he didn’t look at her.

Didn’t dare look at her.

Because maybe if he did, he’d see pity.

And that would be worse than bleeding.

She let the silence stretch for a beat before tilting her head.

"You ever think about how weird this all is?" She asked. "You… me… here?"

Bucky glanced back at her, amused. "Define weird..."

"I ran a coffee shop six months ago. You shot me. I tried to kill you and the man that practically killed me and now we’re here talking about your dead mom and estranged sister over whiskey in a club full of criminals."

A flicker of a smile touched his lips. "Yeah. That’s a hell of a sentence."

She smirked, then tilted her head again, studying him in the low light.

"You ever gonna tell me how old you are?"

His brow lifted.

She arched a challenging brow back. "C’mon. You’ve got big ‘kept a flip phone until 2020’ energy."

He snorted. "You really wanna know?"

"Yeah."

Bucky leaned in a little, voice soft but firm.

"Thirty-eight."

Her eyes widened. "Jesus."

"What?"

"You’re old."

He laughed—A real one this time—Deep and warm and surprised.

"You’re lucky I don’t shoot people for less."

She smirked. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Since I was twenty-two."

She did the math in her head — slowly.

"You’ve been in this world longer than I’ve been alive."

Bucky didn’t blink. "Yeah."

That sobered her.

Her fingers curled slightly on the tabletop, eyes falling to the rim of her empty glass.

"You’ve lived a whole other life before I was even out of high school."

"I’ve lost a whole other life.." He corrected quietly.

She looked up.

He was watching her now. No smirk. No swagger. Just eyes that had seen too many wars, most of them quiet, most of them personal.

And she realized something then:

He hadn’t brought her to the club to show her off. Or to scare her.

He brought her here to see if she’d stay.

Even after the truth.

Even after the scars.

Even after the number.

"Well.." She said softly, voice steady. "You might be old, but at least you’ve got good taste in whiskey."

Bucky raised his glass in a slow toast.

And for the first time since that warehouse… she didn’t feel like a hostage anymore.

She felt like a threat.

Right where she belonged.

The club buzzed louder now—A different kind of tension in the air. Not just lust or liquor. But pressure. Rival weight.

She felt it the second they walked in.

A group of men—Dressed like they had something to prove and nothing to lose—Moved through the velvet and smoke like oil in water. They didn’t belong, and they didn’t care. All sharp suits and sharper eyes. Everyone in the club noticed.

Even the music seemed to shift when they walked in.

"Rivals.." Bucky murmured low in her ear, his breath warm. "Don't look at them. Don’t talk to them. They’re only here 'cause I allowed it. Temporary truce."

"Why are they here?" She asked.

"Because they wanted to see what I've built. And who I've brought into it."

She caught the weight in those words, but before she could say anything, Steve appeared behind Bucky, nodding him over. "Need a word. Back room."

Bucky glanced at her once. "Stay in the booth. Don’t move. Don’t talk."

She didn’t nod.

Didn’t need to.

He trusted her now.

But the second he stepped away—They moved.

Like vultures sensing the king was gone.

Three of them.

The one in front—All gold chains and shark eyes—Slid into the booth beside her like he belonged there. The other two loomed nearby, smirking.

"Well, well.." Gold Chain purred, his gaze dragging down her legs. "Barnes always did have good taste. But I didn’t think he was into charity work."

She stared at him, expression cold.

"Don’t." She warned.

He laughed.

"Easy, baby. Just saying—If he gets tired of you, we’ve got open hands." His fingers reached out, brushing her arm. "Open laps, too."

Her skin crawled.

She pulled her arm away. "Touch me again, and I'll stab you with a broken bottle."

"Ooh." One of the others sneered. "Fiery."

"Bet she’s all bark." Said the third. "Wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t for sale like the rest."

And then one of them—Stupid, cocky—Grabbed her thigh.

Hard.

Before she could react and grab the bottle—

"Move your hand."

The voice was ice.

Bucky.

He was back.

And death had followed him.

The three men stilled. Slowly turned their heads.

Bucky stood at the edge of the booth like a storm, one hand already gripping the back of the couch, knuckles white.

"I thought I said" He repeated, voice flat. "To move your fuckin' hand.”

The man let go of her like she burned him.

But it was too late.

Bucky stepped into the booth, gaze flicking to her—Checking her and then he reached for her wrist.

She thought he was going to pull her up. Get her out.

Instead?

He pulled her into his lap.

Her body landed on his thighs, legs draped over one of his, her back to his chest. His hand slid up her thigh, possessive.

She stiffened. Heart pounding.

"Now.." Bucky said to the three men, voice dark silk. "Let me make this very clear."

His hand smoothed up the outside of her thigh, over the slit of her dress, fingers ghosting just beneath the fabric.

"She’s not one of the girls on my payroll."

His palm pressed higher—Strong, sure—Until his fingers slid just beneath her dress, just far enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

"She’s not for sale. And won't ever be. She's mine."

His other hand curled around her waist, anchoring her against his chest. She could feel the tension in him—All that violence barely leashed. She could also feel something else beneath her.

Hard.

Thick.

Growing.

Her breath hitched.

Blood rushed to her face.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Every nerve in her body lit up as she realized just how much he meant this—Not just the show, not just the claim—But how real his arousal was beneath her, growing hotter by the second under his tailored slacks.

Her thighs clenched without thinking.

He noticed.

His fingers flexed on her leg—Just enough to remind her he could go higher. Deeper. Rougher.

"And I don’t share what’s mine." He growled, voice low, right against her ear now. "Ever."

The three men didn’t say a word.

Smart.

They backed off.

Bucky didn’t look at them as they slithered away.

She stayed perfectly still in his lap.

But her blood was roaring.

“You’re hard... Really.. hard." She whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"You’re burning."

Her breath caught again—full-body reaction. His hand was still beneath her dress, just resting, dangerous in its patience.

"Let me up.." she said, voice shaky.

"No.." He said simply. "Not yet."

And she didn’t argue.

Because part of her didn’t want to.

The rivals had fled.

The club settled again, pulsing with low music and neon haze, but she was still in Bucky’s lap.

His hand hadn’t moved.

Still under her dress.

Still dangerously close to where her body ached—Not from pain this time, but from the electric heat that buzzed just beneath her skin.

His other hand rested on her hip, thumb tracing slow, idle circles against the fabric of her dress, like he owned every part of her and had always known it.

Her heart pounded loud in her ears.

He hadn’t said a word since they left.

Hadn’t had to.

Because he knew what he was doing.

He could feel the way her thighs pressed tighter together… the way her breath caught when his fingers brushed an inch higher… the way her body tensed with anticipation.

Still, he didn’t move.

He just waited.

Power play.

Control.

He let her feel every second of it.

Every breath.

Every heartbeat.

"You handled them well." He said finally, voice low and rough against her neck. "Didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch."

"They’re lucky I didn’t kill them."

“They’re lucky I didn’t.”

His thumb dragged slowly across her inner thigh.. Right over the scar he left her with—Deliberately.

She clenched her jaw, refusing to let a sound escape.

He chuckled softly. "Still so proud."

"I’m not yours."

"No.." He agreed. "Not yet."

The words made her breath hitch.

And he felt it.

God, he felt everything.

"Say the word." He murmured. "And I’ll stop."

But he didn’t really move to pull away.

She swallowed hard. Her whole body buzzing.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of his jaw, his lips.

"You always like to make a show of it?"

"Only when I want people to remember." He murmured. "What’s mine. What happens if they touch it."

"I can fight my own battles."

“I know.” he said. "That’s why it turns me on so much."

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale.

And still he didn’t move.

Didn’t give in.

Just let the weight of what could happen press down on her like gravity.

"You want me to beg?" She asked, voice low.

"I want you to admit you feel it too." He said. "Every time I touch you. Every time you glare at me. Every time you say you hate me while looking at my mouth."

She said nothing.

But her thighs shifted just slightly in his lap. That told him everything.

And he groaned softly.

"You think I haven’t noticed?" He murmured. "The way your breath catches every time I get close? The way your eyes follow me when you think I’m not looking?"

He slid his hand out from under her dress slowly, teasingly, letting the loss of heat make her skin ache.

"You think I don’t feel you clench your thighs around me when I talk like this?"

Her body shivered.

He leaned in, lips brushing her temple.

"I’ve broken men for less than what they did to you tonight." He whispered. "And I’ll burn every inch of this city to the ground if anyone ever touches you like that again."

She turned to look at him, breathing hard.

“What makes you think I want you to touch me?”

Bucky smirked.

Then slowly guided her hips down on him—Just an inch—Letting her feel how hard he still was beneath her.

Her head dropped back slightly, a gasp catching in her throat.

"Because if you didn’t..." He whispered darkly. "you wouldn’t be this wet right now."

Her entire body lit on fire.

She grabbed his hand, dug her nails into his skin—Half a warning, half desperation—And he just smiled, that slow, infuriating, arrogant smile.

He let go of her. Gently.

"Not here." He said.

"Why not?"

"Because when I fuck you." He said, standing, guiding her to her feet with him, voice low against her ear. "You’re not going to be able to walk out of here. And I still have business tonight."

She was breathless.

Burning.

But she nodded once.

Her legs shaky. Her thoughts scattered. Her blood roaring.

He adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hair back with one hand, then leaned close again, brushing his lips just behind her ear.

"Tonight, I made a statement." He said. "Next time… I’ll make you scream."

And with that, he stepped away from her.

Letting the distance stretch like a live wire between them—Sparking, burning, waiting.

The rest of the night crawled.

Not because it was slow—But because every second she spent in that club, after what happened in that booth, felt like holding a live wire in her mouth.

She felt it.

Bucky’s eyes on her across the room when he left her to "Handle business."

The way his rivals wouldn’t dare look her way again.

The way the girls around the bar whispered—Not about him this time, but about her. The girl who sat in Barnes’s lap like a queen. The girl who walked beside him, not behind.

She stood near the bar now, sipping water, her hand trembling just enough to piss her off. Her skin still remembered the press of his fingers under her dress. The hard shape of him between her thighs. The way his breath had touched her ear like a threat and a promise in one.

And worst of all?

The way her body missed it.

Every breath felt like she was too full and too empty all at once.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

She didn't know the difference anymore.

Across the room, she saw him.

Bucky, leaning against the bar's far end, one hand resting on the edge of a table, speaking low to Steve and one of the club managers. His sleeves were rolled up now, tattoos on his flesh arm on display, veins flexing under the skin. He looked calm.

But he wasn't.

She could feel it.

That same tension that lived under her skin was boiling under his too. That low thrum of want. Of denial. Of control just barely holding.

When he turned—Just briefly—And met her eyes across the crowd, it nearly dropped her to her knees.

No smile.

Just heat.

Unapologetic. Bold.

His.

She turned away, suddenly breathless.

Needed space. Air. Anything.

She moved to the second floor lounge, away from the main floor— Quieter. A wall of glass gave her a view of the city, cold and sharp like a blade. The music vibrated up through the floor but dulled in her chest now.

She gripped the railing and stared out.

Twenty-three years old. A barista. A survivor. A criminal. A woman who shot a man. Who bled in a warehouse. Who now stood in heels, dress clinging to her skin, pulse still screaming because a man with blood on his hands touched her like she belonged to him and made her body believe it.

And then—

"I told you not to move."

She didn't turn.

Just smirked. "You're late."

Bucky stepped up behind her, his reflection joining hers in the glass.

Close.

Not touching.

"Thought you didn't take orders." She murmured.

"I don't.." He said softly. "But I give them."

She rolled her eyes.

"Don't act like you don't like it." He said.

"I like control. Power."

"So do I."

His hand came up—Hovering near her hip but not touching.

"I could've taken you right there." He said. "In front of them all. I wanted to. You know that, don't you?"

Her breath hitched again.

"But I didn't." He whispered.

"Why?"

"Because I want more than your body trembling on my lap."

She turned to face him, defiant—But that fire in her eyes had softened into something else. Something dangerous.

"Then what the hell do you want, Bucky?"

He stepped forward.

Close.

Still not touching.

"I want to earn the moment you fall apart in my hands."

The words wrecked her.

She stared at him, lips parted, chest rising fast.

"And when you do.." He murmured. "I want you to beg me not to stop."

Silence stretched.

Her heart was in her throat. Her thighs clenched. Her brain had shut down entirely.

"Say something.." He said.

She took a shaky breath, smirk curling slow across her lips.

"You're gonna have to try harder than pretty words, Barnes."

And then she walked past him—Brushing against his chest, her shoulder skimming his.

A hit.

A challenge.

A promise.

He turned to watch her walk away.

And smiled.

The sun rose the next morning like it had no idea what had happened the night before.

She didn’t sleep.

Neither did he.

She'd gone back to the guest room in the penthouse. Bucky had said nothing, didn't follow. Didn't touch her again after that moment in the club. But the tension?

It hadn't died.

It followed them both like smoke clinging to their skin.

She stood in front of the mirror now, still in one of the T-shirts Bucky had let her take from his drawer weeks ago. Oversized, soft. It hit high on her thighs, the hem brushing the still-faint scar on her thigh.

She hadn’t meant to walk out of her room like this.

But when she opened the door—Barefoot, hair a little wild—Walked towards the kitchen—And saw Bucky standing shirtless in the kitchen, everything snapped.

He was drinking coffee like it didn’t taste like sin, sweat still drying on his chest from the gym downstairs. His hair was slightly damp, pushed back. His sweatpants hung low. Too low.

She was about to turn back.

But he looked up.

And paused.

Neither of them moved.

His eyes dropped—Once. Slowly. Down her legs. Her bare feet. The hem of his shirt on her. Then back up.

Not a word.

Just that look.

That slow, dark hunger simmering beneath restraint.

She should’ve left.

But instead she stepped in.

Bold.

She didn’t speak. Just walked toward the counter, slow and silent, and grabbed a mug from the cabinet above his head—On purpose. Stretched a little.

His eyes never left her.

"You trying to be cute?" He asked, voice low.

"I don’t try." She said, tone clipped. "I either am or I’m not."

He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms—Arms that still looked tense. Like he hadn’t worked all that heat out at the gym. Like it was still there, pulsing under his skin.

"You've been quiet since the club."

"You touched me in front of a room full of people." She said flatly. "I needed air."

"And now?"

She took a sip of the coffee.

Then walked past him again—Brushing close. Deliberate.

"Now I'm just deciding if I'm going to let you do it again."

That did it.

The growl that escaped him wasn’t loud—But it was real.

Suddenly he was behind her.

Fast.

The mug was gone—He plucked it from her hand and set it down hard on the counter. Coffee sloshing onto the counter.

Then his body was there, pressed to her back, heat rolling off him like a furnace.

Her breath caught.

His mouth dropped beside her ear.

"Keep teasing me like this..." He murmured. "And I swear to God, Doll, you won’t be walking for days."

Her spine arched involuntarily into him.

He grabbed her waist—Hard—Spun her around, and slammed her gently back against the fridge. His forehead leaned into hers. Breath hot.

"I've been so fucking good." He whispered. "Haven't I?"

"Yes." She breathed, chest heaving.

"I haven’t touched you. Haven't ruined you anymore than i have already.

"No."

"Haven't ripped this goddamn shirt off you."

She smirked, barely.

"Looks like you’re losing patience."

His mouth dropped right to her ear.

And then, Finally—Finally—His hand slid up her thigh.

Skin to skin.

Up under the shirt.

She gasped.

"Is this what you wanted?" He whispered darkly. "Walking out here like this? In my shirt? No panties? Acting like you don’t know what that does to me?"

"Maybe." She said, breath shaky.

He pushed his thigh between her legs, pinned her there. She moaned softly—Couldn’t stop it.

"I told you." He said, voice rough now. "When I fuck you, it’s not gonna be soft."

Her eyes met his, wide and wild.

"Then stop talking and prove it."

And for a single, suspended second—Neither of them moved.

That razor-thin moment between fire and ruin.

And then—

His phone rang.

A shrill, sharp break in the moment.

Bucky stiffened. Jaw clenched.

He didn’t move.

Just looked at her.

And slowly, stepped back.

Her body screamed at the loss.

He didn’t look at the phone. Just held her gaze.

"You win this round." He muttered.

She straightened, trembling but proud.

"I always do."

He grabbed the phone, turned away, answering it with a clipped growl—But not before saying, low and deadly:

"Be in my room tonight at midnight."

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Her pulse was already answering for her.

She didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask permission.

When the clock hit midnight, she opened the door to Bucky’s room like she belonged there.

And maybe she did.

He was already waiting—Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, shirtless, the city lights painting his skin in gold and shadow. His sweatpants hung low again, but this time, he wasn’t relaxed.

He was coiled.

Like a predator.

His head turned when the door clicked shut.

Their eyes met.

No words.

No slow build-up.

Just hunger.

She stepped forward—One step, two—And the second she crossed the line—

He moved.

Fast.

She was pinned against the door before she could even gasp.

His hands grabbed her wrists, slammed them above her head. Hard. His body pressed against hers, and she felt him—Thick, hard, ready—Already pressing into her stomach.

"You kept me waiting." He growled.

"You told me midnight."

"It’s twelve o one."

Her smirk barely had time to form before he crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was claiming.

Teeth. Tongue. Possession. Like he was trying to erase the taste of every other man she’d ever kissed. Like he wanted her to remember this one—Feel it in her bones tomorrow.

His thigh forced between her legs again, grinding up until she moaned, helpless against the sheer power of it.

One of his hands left her wrist—The other stayed tight above her head—While the free one his metal arm, Grabbed the hem of the oversized shirt she still wore.

His shirt.

He ripped it.

Just—Tore it in half, shredded fabric falling around her like paper.

She gasped as cool air hit her bare skin.

"No panties.. again?" He muttered, eyes dark as sin as he looked down at her. "Good fucking girl."

Then he bit her collarbone.

Hard.

She cried out—Part pain, part pleasure—And he licked over it like a fucking apology he didn’t mean.

"You walked out this morning.." He growled out. "Like you wanted me to lose it.:

"I did." She breathed out.

"Well, sweetheart…" His hand slid down between her legs cupping her pussy. "You’re gonna regret that."

He didn’t prep her.

Didn’t tease.

He shoved two fingers deep inside her without warning.

She gasped—Back arching, breath ripping out of her chest.

He curled them just right, and she choked on a moan.

"You're already soaked." He whispered against her ear. "You’ve been waiting for this all fucking day, haven’t you?"

She couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

His fingers worked fast, relentless. No mercy. No hesitation.

"Tell me whose it is." He demanded, voice rough. "Say it."

She was panting, dizzy, barely able to form words.

"Say it, or I stop."

"Yours!" she choked. "Fuck, Bucky—yours—"

"Damn right it is."

He pulled his hand away, and she whimpered at the loss—Only to feel the tip of him a second later, thick and hot and already pushing inside.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her.

Her scream echoed off the walls as he drove her up the door, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His hands grabbed her ass, lifting her, anchoring her as he pounded into her like he was trying to brand her from the inside.

"Mine." He growled with every thrust.

"Yours.." She gasped, nails digging into his back, his shoulders—Anywhere she could hold.

"You take me so fucking good." He groaned, slamming into her harder. "This pussy was made for me."

She couldn’t answer—Couldn’t do anything but hang on and burn.

His mouth found her throat again—Kissing, biting, marking. One hand grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look at him as he kept fucking her like a man starved.

"You looked at me like you wanted this from the second you walked into my club." He said. "And now you’ve got it."

He thrust harder.

Faster.

"You gonna come for me, doll?"

She whimpered, nodding desperately.

He pressed his thumb to her clit and circled once—And that was it.

She shattered.

Screamed.

Came hard—Walls clenching around him, body twitching, hips jerking against his.

He groaned deep in his chest—The sound of a man losing his mind— And buried himself in her to the hilt.

His body tensed.

And he spilled inside her, filling her up, holding her tight like she might slip away.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Panting. Sweating. Bodies shaking against the door like two gods who’d just torn the heavens open.

Then—

His forehead dropped to hers.

Eyes closed.

Voice wrecked.

"You’re mine now.." He whispered. "Say it... Tell me. Tell me your mine."

She blinked up at him, barely breathing.

Then smiled.

"Yours."

That only seemed to riled him up... His hips started moving again.

She’d never known pleasure could feel like this.

Could hurt like this.

Could make her body tremble so violently, she forgot her name— Forgot the pain, the past, even the blood that once tied her to him in hate.

Now it was heat that bound them.

Sweat-slick skin. Breathless curses. Her back arched off the sheets for what felt like the fifth time that hour, her legs shaking uncontrollably, her voice wrecked from crying out—Again.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

Her body had given up on keeping count. She stopped saying "Bucky" like a name and started saying it like a prayer.

And still—Still—He didn’t stop.

"You thought I’d be done after one round?" He growled, his chest pressed to her back, his lips dragging down her spine. "That I’d just take you once and be satisfied?”

She whimpered—Body twitching as his hands pulled her hips up again. He was relentless. Merciless.

"You’re mine." He snarled. "You don’t get to walk away after this. You don’t get to look at me tomorrow like I’m just some mistake you survived."

“Bucky—”

"You asked for this, remember?" He hissed, biting the shell of her ear. "You said prove it. So that’s what I’m doing."

He reached between her thighs again—Fingers ruthless, filthy—And her body snapped.

Her vision went white. Her scream tore the silence apart.

She was gone.

Lost.

Ruined.

She hadn’t even known her body could do that—Didn’t know it could give in so violently, so helplessly—Until he forced it from her. Like he said he would.

“I want to earn the moment you fall apart in my hands.”

He had.

He did.

She begged him not to stop.

Over. And over. And over again.

And when she collapsed, trembling, soaked in sweat and something deeper, something wrecked—He didn’t let her go.

Not even close.

He cradled her from behind, whispering against her skin.

"I’m not stopping until you beg me to stop."

And god help her—She did.

Eventually.

Sometime before sunrise.

She begged.

Whispered it.

“Please… Bucky… I can’t…”

But he still didn’t stop.

Because he wanted it to be etched into her skin. Into her legs. Into her lungs.

When I fuck you, it’s not gonna be soft.

He hadn’t lied.

And when she finally passed out—Body shaking, skin soaked, thighs raw, lips swollen—He kissed her temple, slow and possessive.

She wouldn’t be walking tomorrow.

And she wouldn’t want to..

Like my work? Here's my Masterlist! (there is a part 2 to this! I just have to finish it, its so close to being done!!)

A/N: HIHI! IVE MISSED YOU GUYS SO MUCH! IM BACK FROM MY HIATUS AND BETTER THAN EVER AND READY TO START WRITTING AGAIN! I have been working on this for WEEKS! I HOPE YOU ENJOY!

[maddiesentmehere118]

Wide Open: Chapter 1

Jack Abbot x plus size! reader

Word Count: 2.7 k

Warnings: medical talk, birth, infertility talk, body image, light smut

Author's notes: I just started the Pitt today, and I'm obsessed with Jack and Robby already.

Masterlist | Taglist

The moment you are scrubbed out of surgery, you slump outside of the operating room. You had tried to take the most conservative approaches to stop the hemorrhaging, but her uterus was ruptured dand wasn’t responding to tamponade or ligation. She wouldn’t stop hemorrhaging. So you had to do an emergency hysterectomy. Her first and last biological child was born yesterday.

As soon as you stepped into the ER, the first thing you could hear were a woman’s screams of pain. It made your heart drop into your stomach. You had heard women scream from giving birth, but this was different. This was worse. 

You pushed past nurses and other practitioners.

“Tell the bank I need 4 units!” Jack’s voice pierces the air.

“OB here, what’s wrong?” You announced as the doors opened to trauma room three with a mechanical whoosh, pumping hand sanitizer on your hands and reaching for your size gloves. Your OB intern, Mirza, hot on your tail. 

You recognized Jack and one of his residents as they worked on stabilizing the patient. 

“Patient’s name is Ellie Hart, 32, gave vaginal birth yesterday. Came in for excessive bleeding. She’s now hemorrhaging.” 

Jack barely glances up as his man gives you the rundown. But when he hears your voice and his eyes catch yours, you watch him let out an exhale. You hastily grab a medical gown, not bothering to tie it as you rush forward. 

“I’ve already started active PPH protocol. 20 units of Pit, .2 mg Methergine IM, and TXA 1 gram IV.. Started boluses and prepping for blood.”

“Thanks doctor.” You pause as you walk in front of the patient. You grab the hem of the medical gown, rolling it up to rest on her hips. 

Sweat beads on her skin, and the scene on the table and the sterile green gown is horrific. Dark, fresh blood seeps from her vagina. 

“Fuck.” You murmur to yourself, reaching for another pair of gloves to snap on. You introduce yourself to the woman before you start to talk to her and ask questions.

“Ellie, who delivered you?”

“Dr. Schultz.” She pants out before a gut wrenching yelp accompanies the beeps of the monitor.

“Okay. I’m going to have my doctor page her to meet us in the OR. I’m going to start by taking a look at you first though, okay?  I can’t give you anything for the pain just yet, so I need you to stay with me.”

“Yeah.” She grits her teeth, throwing her head back into the pillow. 

You nod at Jack as he kicks the stool towards you. You pull the stirrups from the table, manually placing her legs up. wards you. You pull the exam light down the table to do a brief assessment to identify the source of bleeding.

“I need suction, I can’t see anything.”

Jack jumps in as his resident and Mirza works on the IV and prepping her for surgery. He provides a suction catheter, and you point to the place that needs cleared. 

“Laps, Dominquez, STAT.” The silver haired trauma doctor barks, leaving Mirza for a brief moment as you’re handed materials.

“No exterior lacerations or tears. No large clots.” You look at the speculum that Mirza has waiting for you. You shake your head no at her. “Don’t have time, she’s bleeding fast. I’m going to have to do a bimanual exam.”

You stand up to look at the patient. She’s paleing fast.

“Where’s that blood?!” Jack yells as he reads your panicked expression. “It’s been five minutes!”’

“Mirza, run! I don’t care if you have to steal it, we need it now!” You scream as the heart monitor starts to pick up, the beeping climbing.

“She’s tachy at 140, pressure 80 over 40!” Dominquez turns around, tugging the crash cart and an intubation kit towards her side.

“Ellie, this is going to hurt. I’m going to push on your abdomen to feel your uterus.”

You stand up, leaning in between her legs. Jack continues suction as your fingers push on her lower stomach, feeling her uterus. You sing a mantra in your head as she screams, talking her through it the best you can. All of the color in her skin is gone as she grasps at the table with one hand, other yanking at her hair.

Spongy and soft. She likely needs a fundal massage.

“Jack, start a fundal while I look internally, please.” You slide back down onto the rolling stool. “Can I get more light please?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

He reaches above you, tilting the light at a better angle. Mirza appears with blood, darting over to hook up the bag to the other line. 

“Ellie, I’m going to put fingers in you to feel your cervix and walls.”

“Please, make it stop!”’

You slide your hand into her vagina, palm up. Your fingers curl up, brushing against her service. Your fingers brush against Jack’s as you replace his hands. A spark of energy jolts down your spine at the contact. 

“Uterus is boggy. Start more Pit, Dominqueze. I need suction, Abbot!”

“How much, doctor?”

“Add 20 additional units to that bag, open wide. I need this uterus contracting ASAP.”

“Mirza, call Schultz and get us an OR. I want anesthesia ready for a possible hysterectomy.”

As the pitocin enters her blood stream, a large clot expels and blood gushes out, coating your gown. You try to hide your gasp from her, but then everything goes down south. Fast. She becomes tachycardic, her BP drops as her body starts to fail from the extreme blood loss. She’s lost probably over a liter in five minutes. 

Jack straddles the patient, doing compressions as Mirza bags her. Your hands are occupied, under Jack as you bimanually massage the uterus for contractions. All of you running down to the OR. 

You don’t miss the look of adrenaline, passion in Jack’s eyes as he leaves.

“Thought you might need this.” 

His voice rips you out of your thoughts as you lift your head up from in between your legs. You let out a sigh, giving a small yet sad smile as he stands above you.

“Thanks.” You whisper as you take the cup of coffee. The warm liquid warms your fingers up from the cool environment of the operating room. “I’m glad Schultz has to deliver the news.”

Tears start to bubble up. You think about your own life. You’re 36, a young person with no kids. Not being able to have kids is devastating. You want kids. You have spent the last 11 years in school and focusing on medical training. After this case, it’s time to start thinking about the future. . 

It’s something that isn’t talked about in the medical field. The feelings of hitting a wall after a high-stakes case. The hard crash as epinephrine and norepinephrine dropped, leaving stress levels high.

 It was a normal physiological reaction to the rush of hormones that invaded your body, sending you into fight-or-flight mode as you fought for your patient’s life. Most days you feel tired and just need to rest, to have a breather and a moment alone to feel. To embrace the emotional rawness before collecting yourself for the next case.

Other days you feel physically sick. Shaking, nauseous. Pale, hot. Chills. On edge. Anxious. Tearful.

Today, it’s all of it. A case that seems to hit too close to home. 

“Hey, how about we go on a walk?” 

You nod. But you don’t move. You stare off into space, lost in your thoughts.

“Come on, let’s get you to an actual chair.”

You bite your lip with a nod. You put your hand in his as he helps you onto your feet. You reach up, swiping your palms under your eyes. Your body shakes, and Jack’s hand lingers against yours, helping steady you as you sway towards him. His fingers dig into your hip, not saying anything. Just letting you feel.

As you stroll down the hall towards the on-call room, a surg tech walks your way. Jack grabs your lower back, pulling you to stand in front of him. A warm blush sets in your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Jack questions as soon as the door closes with a click of the lock. His back rests against the door. You start to pace the length of the room.

“Having to take her uterus out at 32-” The lump in your throat thickens. “I’m 36, Jack. I’m considered an advanced maternal age if I have kids. And I want kids so bad, I do. But I’m married to my job, and my love life is shit. I haven’t gotten laid in months because no one wants to be with someone always on call or my size.”

You freeze in your tracks. Your breath hitches, heart beats hammering in your chest. 

“God, I don’t even know you and I’m telling you all of this embarrassing stuff.”

Shaking your head, you head over to the mini kitchenette. Leaning your weight on your hands, you hang your head low, rolling your shoulders and neck.

Your mind drifts to the man behind you. You didn’t work with him directly daily but you knew of him because of attendee meetings and your regular weekly calls down to the ED for various OB traumas. 

And despite having the biggest crush on the man, here you were, making a complete embarrassment of yourself. 

Besides you weren’t likely his type. You were plump and full of curves. Your thighs touched, arms jiggled, and stomach was plush. He was toned and could have any other woman. 

And as far as you knew, both of you were currently married to your careers, and you thought about how bad workplace romances could be. Yet you didn’t work in the same department at all. It would be perfect. You would understand the high stakes adrenaline of working in emergency situations and would have different things to talk about. 

“Hey. Turn around please.” His voice is closer, and you feel his presence near you. You jump, hot tears of embarrassment and shame rolling down your cheek. His arms are crossed against his chest, stepping to lean against the countertop with you.  “It’s not embarrassing. It’s real and human. You’re 36 years old, you have time. And you’re a respected OBGYN, you know how to take care of a pregnancy.

“You’re not the only one getting older. I’m 42 doc. I’m in the same boat as you- married to the job. I’ve thought about it, two little ones running around in a cozy little backyard. But time gets the best of us sometimes.”

You glance up at him. He wears a small smile, nudging your shoulder. 

“How are you single, Jack?”

“Could ask the same about you, sweetheart.” His voice softens. “You know I’ve watched you? In the endless meetings and in the ER. I see you. And your body? Doesn’t scare me.”

What? Your heart skips a beat, chest tightening with fuzzy joy. He has watched you? 

“Really?”

He chuckles gravely, his voice husky as his eyes darkened with lust. He twists his body to face you, leaning over you. His thumb swipes against your cheek, wiping away a tear. Carefully, cautiously, his palm lays on your jaw. His skin is warm and firm. Your lips upturn, tilting your head as your eyes fill with a watery sparkle. 

“Yeah.” He swallows hard, looking away for a moment to gain composure. His voice lowers, gravely as he continues. “And if you keep looking at me like that, I’m not going to be able to control myself.”

Your breath hitches. Nodding your head, you reach out to grab his arm, dragging your fingertips up his forearm and towards his bicep.

“Jack-”

“Tell me no and I’ll step away.”

“Please.”

His other hand slides to your waist, snaking around your lower back. He pulls you towards him as he steps backs to start guiding you to the single bed in the on-call room. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, hot breath sending a chill down your spine. 

“Should have done this earlier.” He presses a warm kiss against your forehead, nuzzling your nose as he kisses his way down to your lips. 

The moment the back of his knees hit the bed, he spins around, gently moving you to lay down. Your chest heaves with anticipation, feeling truly seen, truly wanted as he keeps his eyes on you. He lazily throws his shirt off before lowering himself down, body covering yours. 

And just like that, the second your lips touch, hands move in a frenzy, lips turning hungry. Your moan, as Jack grabs at your covered hips, his fingers digging into your thigh as he lifts you up to wrap around his waist. He guides your hips, grounding down against you. 

Your heel digs into the meat of his thigh as you roll your hips upwards. Jack groans as you brush against his hard cock, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth. He shifts his grip to the bottom of your scrub top, pushing upwards to reveal your stomach, inching the fabric up to rest above your breasts. 

“Fuck, you’re absolutely gorgeous.”  He breathes out, eyes scanning over your body. Each stretch mark visible, each blemish and imperfection perfect in his eyes.

You lift your arms for Jack to tug your shirt off. It lands beside the bed with a soft clink of your badge reel. You drag your nails against the muscles in his back as they flex with each move of his body.

You don’t realize that you’re crying until he kisses away the tears rolling down your cheeks. He stares at you, brows furrowed with concern.

“What’s wrong pretty girl? Why the tears?”

“I just, this doesn’t feel real. You and me.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that. It’s real. This… is real.” He rolls his weight off of you, leaning his forehead against the side of your temple as he pauses. His palm rests against your stomach, thumb brushing over your skin. The body part that you hate the most, makes you feel wanted as he caresses it, sending a pang of arousal to your core as you clench around nothing.

 “We don’t have to do this. We can just lay here and talk, cuddle for a little bit. Take you out for some pancakes and coffee. Well, I’m going to take you out regardless.”

You laugh as the corner of his eyes crinkle. Your fingers tangle in his grey curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. He growls slowly, hand slowly inching down to the elastic of your scrub bottoms. Wrapping a curl around your middle finger, you tug, and Jack ruts his hips against the outer part of your thigh. 

Until the sound of a pager ruins the moment. You let out a noise of protest, frustrated at the moment now being ruined. But it’s not you being paged, because your pager is on your other hip.

“Going to kill whoever this is.” He grumbles as he lifts his hips to unclip the pager from his waistband. He scans the message, letting out a sigh as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. You sit up, leaning over to grab your own shirt.  “MVC in 5. Going to need at least three of those minutes to solve this.”

You follow his hand as it motions down to the tent in his pants. You give a sympathetic sound, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips. He deepens it by pulling your head into him. Your fingers brush against his inner thigh teasingly. 

“Fuck, we have to stop. Or I'm going to ignore Robby and take you on this bed instead.”

“As good as that sounds, I think we should both get back to work.” You push yourself off of the bed, bending over to pick up your shirt. “I’d give you my number, but you know where to find me.”

[comradekarin]

now, i haven’t had twitter for a hot minute now, but I’m remembering a thread me and oomf had about why the “theoretically, zuko would have taken lightening for anyone” claims are irrelevant, and wanted to just put it up here. this argument kind of treats katara as some interchangeable placeholder for “zuko’s redemption” and undermines how the nature of zuko’s sacrifice impacts katara directly and heavily. i don’t think zuko sacrificing himself for her is supposed to signal, yes, he is fully redeemed now. I think it’s actually supposed to show how he cares very deeply about katara. I mean, sure, zuko would taken that hit for other members of the gang, but the narrative significance wouldn’t weigh as heavily as it does with katara. even the 1st pov shots of them reaching out for each other, the music, the soft looks wouldn’t really make sense for other characters, either.

katara had to watch her mother die in arguably the worst way possible, and a part of her trauma is the fact that she ran away, helpless, and was too late to save kya. kya died protecting katara, and that’s something she has to live with. now we get the finale where zuko—another person possibly going to die for prioritizing her safety over his own, who knows what happened to kya, who was with her when she confronted the man who killed kya—but this time, katara is not only able to stop the present threat, but she’s also able to save zuko’s life. imagine if zuko had died here? what would that mean for katara? it makes me so upset because the nature of kya and zuko’s sacrifice are very similar, but this is something they just never talk about again despite it being so pivotal to both their arcs.

this is all to say that people saying that scene doesn’t matter because zuko would have done it for anyone do not see the importance of katara as a character (and her very unique dynamic with zuko). i think it’s a bad faith argument to make. the question isn’t whether zuko would have done it for anyone else (he would have), the question should be, would that scene look and feel the way it did if you had swapped katara for another character. my short answer is, no. and that’s the point.

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance: Part Eight🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Warnings: relationship abuse, emotional/verbal (not physical), stalking, manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress

A/N: i feel like this chapter is kind of spotty and maybe hard to follow, sometimes I forget people who read this can't see inside my brain soooo if it's a little hard to follow, all will become much clearer in chapter nine OR you're more than welcome to message me and i'll clear things up!

Chapter Eight

The moment the air hit your face outside the compound, it was like waking up mid fall, no safety net, no plan, just raw panic pushing you forward.

Your legs moved on instinct, driven by something primal, rage, grief, betrayal, you weren’t sure anymore. The sky felt too wide, the world too loud. You didn’t even realise your hands were shaking until you tried to unlock your phone and dropped it.

Six years

Six years of your life turned into someone’s project file.

Someone’s subject.

Your name didn’t even make the cut.

P4-06.

That was you.

And somewhere out there, Prescott’s name still sat on the ‘Target’ line. You weren’t just collateral, you were the weapon they slid into her life. Had they set you up? Had you been that blind?

You’d loved her. She’d saved you.

Had she known?

You stopped walking, suddenly dizzy.

Had everyone known?

Maybe if you’d been better, smarter, faster, less besotted by everything Evelyn did for you, you would’ve noticed the cameras tucked into the shadows, the rhythm of footsteps never quite falling out of sync with yours. The tailing. The way you constantly felt eyes on your skin in the early stages of the relationship, that Evelyn had brushed off with being the girlfriend of a 'political figure'.

And maybe now, if you hadn’t been unraveling, you’d have caught the glint of a lens in the window, the flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. Maybe then, you’d have seen the man behind you.

Felt the shift in the air, braced for it.

But you didn’t.

And by the time the hand closed over your mouth, it was already too late.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Tower

The doors slammed behind her and it was like the oxygen left with her.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

The screen was still glowing, still pulsing that cursed header across the display like a taunt.

PROJECT: FIDELITY

SUBJECT: P4-06

OPERATIONAL USE: PROXIMITY DESTABILISATION VECTOR

STATUS: REMAINS UNAWARE

Natasha stared at it like it might set her on fire.

“She was never supposed to see that.” Clint finally muttered, voice low, like he was trying to crawl inside his own mouth. “It wasn’t- it was just surveillance. I wasn’t- I didn’t know it was her.”

“Bullshit.” Nat snapped. It was almost a whisper, too quiet, too calm. That was the danger zone.

Clint turned to her, hands raised. “I didn’t watch anything, Nat. I didn’t even know it was her. I signed on to a low-clearance domestic op a decade ago, one of Fury’s ‘contingencies’ for potential political instability. It was routine. It wasn’t like this.”

“Oh, routine?” Natasha barked, stepping forward.

Steve moved in before she could get too close, a hand at her waist. Bucky flanked her on the other side, jaw locked.

“You helped put surveillance inside her house, Clint.” Her voice cracked around the edges. “You logged her behavioural patterns. You let them map her marriage like a combat zone.”

“I didn’t-“ He shook his head. “I was just the intake. I filed the initial report. I didn’t stay on it.”

“You were the lead.” Steve said, flatly. “It has your name on it. Not a note, not a file, not a redacted memo. A command line.”

“She basically a goddamn kid, Clint.” Nat’s voice was ragged now, shaking. “Just a civilian. She thought she was safe with us, with me. And you were the fucking architect.”

“I didn’t know-“ He looked at all of them now, helpless. “I didn’t know they were going to use it like that. That it would escalate. I didn’t even know who she was when you brought her here!”

“That’s the point.” Bucky growled. “You didn’t care to know.”

Clint’s face twisted. “Come on. Don’t do this. You’ve all run ops. We’ve all worked assets. This wasn’t some twisted personal-“

“Don’t you dare try to level us with that.” Natasha snapped, stepping forward now. “We’ve never done this. Not to someone innocent. Not to someone we were supposed to protect.”

Vision looked like he was malfunctioning, frozen mid-thought, trying to reconcile programming and morality.

Sam was pacing, seething.

Wanda was basically crying.

Natasha finally broke.

She surged forward with a fury that shook the room.

Steve and Bucky had to grab her, one arm each holding her back as she lunged.

“I trusted you!” She screamed at Clint. “I let her trust me and you were the one who laid the foundation for everything that tore her apart.”

“She’s gone, Clint!” Sam added. “You get that, right? She walked out of that door and she’ll never trust us again. She’s vulnerable to anything and everything out there.”

“She was trying to breathe again.” Wanda whispered. “And you made her a ghost.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything the room had ever held.

No one looked at Clint.

Not anymore.

And Natasha?

She stopped struggling. But the look on her face, rage and grief, hollowed out into something surgical was worse than anything she could’ve said.

“Pray we find her before they do.” She muttered and then finally, she walked out.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Tower

The entire city was awake on the screens.

Cameras blinking in and out. Heat signatures. Transit overlays. Noise maps. Facial reconstructions. Thousands of live feeds and synthetic models spooling across the main display, a brutal dance of technology trying to catch one human soul.

Vision hovered mid-air in the middle of the data storm, his eyes flickering with artificial intensity.

“I’ve accessed every public and private surveillance node across the boroughs.” He said, voice level. “Transit hubs. Street-level security. Traffic feeds. ATM reflections. Nothing.”

Natasha leaned over a workstation, fingers flying across the keys. Her jaw was clenched so hard it looked painful.

“No credit card usage. No burner phone ping. No facial matches. It’s like she didn’t just leave the tower, she vanished.”

“I’m trying to feel her.” Wanda whispered, eyes shut tight.

She sat on the floor, palms pressed to the concrete like it might hold echoes. Energy hummed softly around her fingers but it was erratic, broken waves instead of the usual current.

“I could always feel her.” She said again, more desperate now. “Like a thread just under the skin. At first, she was always so loud, so openly crying for help that it rang in my chest. Then it turned into this contagious happiness when she was with you.” She spoke to Natasha. “But now… it’s silent.”

“Someone could have taken her. She could be sedated.” Natasha offered, too practical for comfort. “Or behind psychic shielding. Hell, even dampening tech from the old SHIELD vaults.”

“She’s not dead.” Wanda said, trembling. “I would know if she were dead.”

A moment of silence.

Vision rotated mid-air. “The last traceable image was three blocks from the tower. Traffic cam picked her up crossing 3rd Avenue, hood up. After that-“ 

“Static.” Nat finished.

Wanda stood suddenly, wild-eyed and spiralling, clearly a little delirious from all of the energy she’s used up. “What if she’s not on this plane? What if someone took her off-world, or into another dimension? What if she’s with Evelyn now?”

Natasha’s eyes darkened at the name.

“She’s not with Evelyn.” She replied, quietly. “Prescott’s gone. She’s gone and buried in her world, she wouldn't go back to her. That’s not the part of this story that’s repeating.”

Vision landed softly beside them, his tone gentle but firm.

“Whatever’s blocking her… it’s deliberate. Coordinated. We are not dealing with a civilian abduction.”

“She’s an asset.” Wanda cried, bitterly. “A classified variable. She screamed that at us and we let her walk out the door like she wasn’t right.”

Natasha swallowed hard and turned away.

“We didn’t let her do anything. We failed her, again.”

The screen above them blinked. Another false ping. Another dead end.

The sun was coming up over the skyline. Bright. Golden. Cruel.

And she was still gone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was dark.

That was the first thing you registered. Not just the absence of light but the kind of darkness that pressed against your eyes even when they were open. You blinked once. Twice. It didn’t make a difference.

Your body ached, not everywhere, just in sharp, localised points. A throb in your ribs. Something hot and tight under your eye. The ghost of pressure around your wrists, like they’d been bound too long and too tight.

You tried to move. Your body answered, sluggishly, stiff but it answered.

Good.

Maybe.

Your head swam. Cold concrete? Metal? You weren’t sure what you were lying on, only that it was hard and unforgiving. There was a scent in the air, industrial, maybe. Chemical. Damp. The kind of place not meant to be inhabited, just used.

Your mouth was dry. Throat, worse. You didn’t speak. Didn’t call out. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was… instinct.

You weren’t sure how you’d gotten here.

You remembered yelling. The Tower. Faces. Natasha. Clint. But the rest slipped away like smoke. There’d been hands. A sting at the back of your neck. Then black.

Had it been hours? Days?

Were they coming for you?

Did they know?

A metallic creak somewhere behind you made your spine lock. Footsteps? The sound came and went. No voices. No orders. Just that low, grinding scrape of movement somewhere too close and too slow.

You didn’t move or breathe.

You weren’t sure if you were alone anymore.

You weren’t sure if you ever had been.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Tower

The lab was quiet except for the low hum of servers and the sharp taps of Tony’s fingers flying across the keyboard.

Everyone else had turned in for the night or tried to. Wanda had practically passed out from exhaustion after pushing herself too far that Steve had basically carried her to bed. Vision had shut himself down in meditation mode to conserve processing power. Natasha was pacing like a caged panther. Steve and Bucky hadn’t said a word in hours.

But Tony couldn’t stop.

He’d rerouted every satellite pinging the tristate area, cracked into half the private surveillance networks in lower Manhattan, reran heat signature data from the last twelve hours on a four-block grid. Yet nothing. Not a single trace of her.

Until something… blinked.

He frowned. Scrolled back. Slowed it down.

There it was again, barely a flicker, a compression artifact in a feed that shouldn’t have had any. The corner of a security camera, a government one. Static. Skip. Return. Normal.

But something about it was off.

He dug deeper, bypassing the firewall with a few muttered curses and a custom string of code only he understood.

“There you are…” He whispered.

The video scrubbed frame-by-frame. For half a second, no more, a van appeared in the alley. Unmarked. No plates. Plain white. The timestamp was scrubbed. But the tire pattern was familiar, military grade but not American. Something older. Eastern European. Russian.

Tony’s eyes narrowed.

He pulled up a side screen, running the tread pattern against known vehicles. The result blinked up: ZR-12 Extraction Transport. Cold War Era. Modified.

He barely noticed Nat step into the lab behind him.

“You found something?” She asked, voice raw.

Tony didn’t look up. “Not much. Just a ghost van, carrying a ghost asset, using Cold War tech that hasn’t been registered since the Soviet archives went dark in 1996.”

He paused.

“But somebody’s using it now.”

Natasha’s expression changed, hard and calculating.

Tony leaned back, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Tell Barnes to wake up. I think one of his old friends came out of retirement.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Darkness pressed against your eyelids, thick and oily. It was hard to tell if they were even open.

Time didn’t pass here. Not the way it should.

You tried moving once. Your arms were heavy, your legs heavier. A sting flared up your side, not sharp but dull and blooming, like bruises too deep to reach.

Something beeped, soft and distant.

Then silence again.

You breathed in. The air tasted wrong. Clean but artificial. Like a place meant to look sterile without actually being safe.

Your thoughts came slow. Sluggish. Your name felt far away.

A click echoed in the dark. The kind of sound a machine makes when it shifts, like a lens focusing.

Were they watching?

You couldn’t say how you knew. You just did.

Your throat was dry. Your hands were shaking or maybe they weren’t. It was hard to tell what your body was really doing anymore.

Then a voice, barely a whisper filtered through the static of your mind. Cold. Familiar.

“She’s waking up. Finally.”

You stirred again, barely.

Metal groaned beneath you, not a bed. A table. Cold through the thin fabric stuck to your skin. Your wrists itched. Restraints.

Voices hovered just beyond the veil of your consciousness.

“She’s smaller than I thought.” One said, amused. A man.

“She was never supposed to be big.” Another replied. “She’s a tether, not a bomb. Design was always proximity. Quiet kill. No flash.”

Laughter. Sharp and ugly.

“She look like a killer to you?”

A pause.

“She doesn’t have to look like one.”

You blinked against the dark, something dim and blue pulsing far above you. A ceiling screen? A sensor?

Your mouth opened, dry air scraped your throat raw. No sound came out.

A shape moved close to your side. Gloved fingers tapped something near your ear. You flinched.

“She’s lucid.” The first voice said, louder now, like speaking to a room rather than to you. “Should’ve dosed her heavier.”

“She doesn’t need to be coherent. Just alive.”

You tried to turn your head. Pain spiked behind your eyes. A flash of white.

“Relax, sweetheart.” One of them said, mockingly. “You’ve already done your part. We’re just making sure you don’t fuck it up.”

Something hissed. Gas? A needle? You weren’t sure.

You slipped back under again, not asleep.

A dark kind of drifting.

A void dressed up to look like rest.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Tower

The team was already waiting when Tony walked in, a portable display clipped under his arm.

“She’s alive.”

Everyone snapped to attention.

“Where?” Steve asked.

“Somewhere upstate. Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. communications relay. Supposed to be offline since 2014 but someone’s been bleeding minimal power through it for about two years. Just enough to keep the system ‘dead’ to surface scans.”

“Coordinates?” Nat asked, already reaching for her vest.

“Fifteen miles outside Albany. Remote. Forested. No heat signatures, no radio traffic but there’s movement. I pinged a Stark drone and it didn’t come back.”

“So we’re going in blind.” Sam sighed.

“With backup.” Tony replied. “I’m calling in a few favors. Quiet ones.”

Wanda stood, her face pale but steady. “If they've hurt her-"

“They have.” Natasha cut in, strapping a knife to her thigh. “We don’t need to guess.”

Clint hadn’t said a word. He was in the corner, arms folded, staring at the floor.

“You’re staying here." Steve said, without turning, stating the obvious to everyone that is in the room besides himself.

Clint lifted his head. “No, I’m- Let me help.”

“You’re staying." Natasha echoed. Cold and final. “You’ve done enough.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You stirred.

A hard cot beneath you. One arm throbbed from where they’d yanked something out. You couldn’t remember what.

No windows.

No sense of time. Only flickering halogen lighting above, the hum of something mechanical in the walls.

You tried to move, a sharp sting at your neck made your breath hitch.

There were voices outside. Low. Male.

“…She’s still stable… Just keep her under, we don’t need her lucid…”

“…said she’d be volatile if she figures out what..."

Silence.

Then the door clicked.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

When they came again, you'd managed to clear the fog from your mind just slightly. Your hands were cuffed, heavy restraints biting into raw skin. You were happy you could feel the pain, feel something.

When they entered, they'd sat you up, groping, dirty hands pulling you whichever way they wanted. The only light was on a tablet infront of them, the projection ever so slightly lighting up their smirks as they moved. The single screen flickered to life in front of you, casting blue light across your bruised face.

You blinked against the brightness.

Then you saw her.

Evelyn Prescott.

She was seated in some kind of office, pristine, glossy. Her signature dark lipstick, a navy blazer, pearls. Poised.

A man behind you muttered. “Watch closely.”

A timestamp in the corner showed the footage was from only hours ago.

A split screen showed you, slumped in your cell. The bruising. The restraints. Then the camera panned across the sterile hallway outside your room. Guards. Weapons. Stark concrete.

You looked awful but you looked real.

She watched it all on her screen.

Then she sighed, lifted a hand and dismissed the footage with a flick of her fingers.

“Another fake." She almost laughed. “I don’t know what this is meant to achieve.”

A young aide beside her leaned forward. “Should I flag it for Romanoff-”

“No.” Evelyn said, cutting him off sharply. “She’s gone. She doesn’t matter. Don’t waste our time chasing ghosts.”

She didn’t even say your name.

Didn’t look twice.

Didn’t care.

The screen went black.

You sat there, motionless, breath shallow. Something cracked inside your chest that wasn’t bone.

One of the guards chuckled.

“She really didn’t even blink.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder than they should be.

You barely reacted when the door opened.

Two of them stepped in, indistinct behind the glare of overhead lights. The taller one was always the one who spoke first.

He crouched, real casual, like you were something to observe.

“Funny..." He muttered. “This is the woman you threw your life away for?”

You didn’t answer. You barely breathed.

“She’s not losing sleep.” The second one chimed in. “Did you think she’d come storming through the gates for you?” A beat. “Hell, she didn’t even watch the whole video.”

You clenched your fists, wrists already raw from the cuffs. That bitter sting behind your eyes came without warning.

“She wouldn’t care if we dropped your cold, broken body at her feet." The first one continued, voice cruelly soft now. “She’d step over it in heels.”

A pause, then the tone changed.

More… curious.

“Unless…” He smiled. “Maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way.”

The second one leaned in. “Wouldn’t you love to see her face when you walk into the room again?”

You turned your head slightly, confused.

Not enough light to see their faces but you felt the shift in the air.

“Wouldn’t you love to be the one to put a bullet in her head yourself?”

Silence stretched.

The taller man stood, brushing off his hands.

“Mm. Maybe we’ll have you pull the trigger." He mused. “Closure’s good for healing, after all.”

The door shut behind them with a hiss of hydraulics.

You were alone again, heartbeat loud in your ears, a single phrase echoing in your mind.

Pull the trigger.

[nyc-tophile]

𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 | Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x fem!reader

The extraction may have saved your lives, but peace is never free. As S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefings begin and plans form to root out Hydra’s resurgence, something deeper begins to unravel in Bucky. Trapped between the man he’s becoming and the weapon they want back, he starts to spiral. But this time, he isn’t alone. And neither are you.

Warnings - ooc winter soldier, angst, hurt/comfort, gun violence, physical injury, psychological trauma, strong language, emotional distress, manipulation, abuse.

Author’s Note: I’m genuinely so sorry for not posting on time. I honestly kind of burnt myself out a little, and then I’m just also going through some other stuff in my personal life. I hope all is well with you guys, though. I hope you guys enjoy this part. Love y'all lotss xxxx

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟕 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟗

The extraction vehicle rolled to a slow halt outside the facility—low, windowless, and buried in the folds of forest hills that swallowed sound and light alike. It didn’t look like much, just concrete and steel bolted into the earth, but Natasha had called it the last real safehouse. And her word still carried weight in the fractured remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Inside, it was silent.

No gunfire. No trees snapping under boots. No whirring drones or shouting Hydra agents. Just the hum of powered systems and sterile air laced with the sting of old antiseptic and metal. A place built for war and recovery, though never quite enough of either.

You stepped out first, boots crunching on gravel. The chill bit into your lungs, but it was nothing compared to the storm still crackling under your skin.

Bucky followed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to; you could feel the weight rolling off of him in waves. His eyes swept the treeline before trailing up to the facility, unreadable.

He hadn’t spoken since the SUV.

Not after the fight. Not after the run. Not even after the bullets stopped.

The doors opened with a low hiss, and you stepped into the dim, humming heart of the facility. The lights flickered on in stuttering succession, motion detectors waking like old sentries.

The silence in here wasn’t peaceful. It was dense. Watchful. Haunted by missions long past.

And Bucky looked like a ghost walking back into his own grave.

-----

Natasha disappeared down one hallway without looking back. “Briefing room’s two levels down,” she called over her shoulder. “Ten minutes.”

You turned to follow Bucky, but he stopped just before the corridor turned. His voice was rough, low. “I need a minute.”

You nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

He hesitated, then nodded once. Tired. Quiet. Relieved, maybe.

The quarters were small and cold. Two bunks, a metal locker, a sink. You closed the door behind you, and the quiet settled again.

He sat on the edge of the lower bunk, elbows on his knees, his metal hand twitching with a steady, repetitive rhythm. Like he couldn’t quite convince his body that the fight was over.

Like it didn’t feel over.

And maybe it wasn’t.

You stood by the door for a long moment before crossing the room slowly, kneeling in front of him. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

You reached out, your hand closing over his. Cool metal met warm skin, and still he flinched, barely, but enough to break your heart.

“You saved us,” you said. “Again.”

“I brought it to you,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the floor. “I led Hydra to you.”

“No,” you said firmly. “Hydra did. They were always going to come.”

He finally looked at you.

And god, his eyes.

They weren’t angry. Not with you. They were hollow in a way that had nothing to do with the mission, and everything to do with what it was dragging out of him. The Winter Soldier wasn’t just a ghost from his past; it was a mirror, and he’d been staring into it too long.

“They’re rebuilding what I was,” he said, voice quiet. “Only now they don’t want memories. Don’t want mistakes. They just want weapons. And I was proof they could work.”

“You were proof they could be broken free,” you shot back. “That they could heal. You’re not what they made. You’re the reason they’re so scared; they’re trying to replace you.”

He closed his eyes.

And for a long moment, you didn’t say anything else.

You just stayed there, grounded in the silence. Breathing together.

Finally, he spoke again. Barely above a whisper. “I thought I was better.”

You brushed a hand through his hair, gently pushing it back from his face. “You are. Better doesn’t mean perfect, Bucky. Better means still trying.”

His hands twitched again. You caught them.

“I’m scared I’ll lose it,” he admitted. “Lose myself again. Lose you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered. “Because you’re not alone this time.”

-----

Later, the debriefing came.

Maria waited in the command room, flanked by dim monitors and half-buried surveillance feeds. The room smelled of old coffee and power cables. Her posture was sharp, but her eyes softened slightly when she saw Bucky.

“Welcome back to the war,” she said grimly.

No one laughed.

The screen behind her bloomed to life, displaying a digital map punctuated with red markers, Hydra locations lighting up like infection points. Some old. Some news. All active.

“We’ve confirmed,” Hill said. “Hydra’s mobilizing. Whatever hit you in the forest was just the beginning.”

Natasha crossed her arms. “Coordinated attacks?”

“Too precise not to be. They’re activating old sleepers. Reclaiming assets. And worse…” She tapped the screen again.

Another name flared to life on the screen:

PROJECT: REVENANT.

The room chilled.

“I thought that program was shut down,” Natasha muttered.

“It was,” Hill said. “On paper.”

You glanced at Bucky.

He didn’t react. But he wasn’t breathing, either.

“They tried to rebuild the Winter Soldier program,” Hill continued. “Only this time, without the parts that made it... unstable.”

“Human,” you said quietly.

Hill nodded. “They want pure execution. No resistance. Full obedience.”

“They want machines with bones,” Bucky said. “Not soldiers. Not people.”

Hill looked at him. “That’s why we need you. We’re planning to hit the nearest Revenant site before it activates. You leave at 0400.”

No one said anything. You all knew what it meant.

They wanted him back.

But this time, he wasn’t going quietly.

-----

Afterward, you returned to the dorm. Bucky didn’t say much. Neither did you.

But when he sat down on the bunk again, you sat beside him.

And this time, he didn’t flinch when you touched his shoulder.

Didn’t pull away when your hand found his.

His head dropped, finally resting against yours, and in the silence that followed, you felt the tightness in his chest ease, just slightly.

It wasn’t over. Peace had a cost.

But for now, for this moment, he wasn’t spiraling.

He was still here. And so were you.

-----

LATER THAT NIGHT

The facility had settled into an eerie kind of stillness.

It was the kind of quiet that came just before something cracked open—the eye of the storm, the hush before orders turned into violence and movement and blood again.

But for now… the night held.

You sat cross-legged on the lower bunk, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, watching as Bucky stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the blood from his hands. The overhead light buzzed softly, catching faint bruises blooming along his ribs, his jaw.

Neither of you had said much since the debrief.

But you didn’t have to.

Not anymore.

He dried his hands with slow, deliberate movements, then turned, leaning against the sink. His gaze settled on you, not guarded like it used to be. Not unreadable. Just tired. Human.

“You should sleep,” he said softly. “We have a couple of hours before they wake us.”

You shrugged. “You too.”

He exhaled, a breath that didn’t quite reach relief. “I don’t… sleep easily before missions.”

“You think I do?” you said gently, tilting your head. “You’ve seen how many knives I keep under my pillow.”

A small smile ghosted across his face—barely there, but real. It was rare, and when it came, it made you want to protect it more than anything else.

You scooted back against the wall, patting the space beside you. “Come here.”

He hesitated—not out of resistance, just that quiet uncertainty that always lived in his bones. Like, he still didn’t quite believe he was allowed softness.

But then, he moved.

He sank beside you, careful and slow, until his shoulder touched yours. You both sat there, legs brushing, breaths syncing, backs against the cold concrete wall like a line of defense against whatever waited outside.

He was the one who leaned in first.

His head found your shoulder, warm and heavy, and your hand came up instinctively to thread through his hair, fingertips brushing lightly at the base of his neck. You felt the way his whole body eased into it, like touch was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You’re not him anymore,” you whispered, fingers never stopping. “No matter what they try to drag out of you tomorrow. You’re not theirs.”

His voice was quiet. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s still true.”

He didn’t argue this time. He just sat with you.

You could feel his heartbeat through where your bodies touched, steady, but slower now. Calmer. Grounded.

Time passed without you tracking it.

It was just the sound of breath, and the hum of lights, and the silence between two people who had survived more than they should have.

“Do you think it ever gets easier?” he asked after a while. “Living with… the before?”

You didn’t rush your answer.

“No,” you said honestly. “But it gets less lonely. Especially when you let someone stay.”

Bucky turned his face slightly, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing over the scar at his temple. “You survived. That’s enough for me.”

A long silence passed.

He shifted, not away from you, but toward. One arm slid around your waist, pulling you in as he tucked his head beneath your chin like he didn’t care how it looked anymore. Like he’d finally stopped trying to carry all of it alone.

You held him like a promise.

And for the first time in days, you felt him breathe out. Not on guard. Not halfway to fight. Just here.

With you. If the world ended in a few hours, it would have to wait.

Because for now, he was safe.

And so were you.

-----

You woke to the low hum of lights warming overhead, your eyes squinting to read the bold red numbers on the alarm clock on the side of you, 3:42 am.

Bucky was still wrapped around you, head resting just beneath your chin, arm anchored across your waist like he was still afraid you’d vanish. The warmth of his breath fanned your collarbone, steady. Steadier than you’d felt him breathe in days.

You didn’t move for a moment.

Didn’t speak.

You just listened to the hum of machines outside, to the soft rhythm of his breathing, to the fragile calm that existed in this thin sliver of time before the mission started.

Then, as if he felt the shift in your heartbeat, he stirred.

His voice was husky, sleep-rough. “Is it time?”

You nodded against his hair. “Almost.”

He didn’t pull away right away. Just held you tighter for a beat. Long enough for the fear to settle and the strength to return.

Finally, he sat up, pushing a hand through his hair. His face was unreadable again—but not in that old way. Not locked down and unreachable. This time, it was focused. The kind that came from knowing exactly what was at stake.

You sat up beside him, the cold seeping in fast now that the warmth was gone.

He looked over at you, and then, quietly, reached for your hand again.

A grounding touch.

“I’m good,” he said softly. “Just needed to remember why I’m still fighting.”

You squeezed his fingers. “You’re not the only one who needed that.”

A knock came at the door. Three short taps, Natasha’s rhythm.

“You guys up?” she asked through the wall. “Because we roll in twenty.”

You exhaled and stood, stretching the tension from your spine, “Yeah, we’re up, we’re coming now!” you said back.

Across the room, Bucky grabbed his gear and started suiting up.

The moment was over.

The mission had begun.

-----

The prep room was all steel and shadows, weapon racks lining the walls, crates of equipment stacked in neat, grim towers. A sharp contrast to the quiet intimacy of just an hour ago. Now, it was all for tactical purposes.

Bucky was already checking ammo clips and sliding blades into the seams of his vest when you walked in. His movements were precise, but you could still see the slight tremor in his fingers when he paused too long between tasks.

You moved beside him without a word, pulling on your gear, checking your pistol, loading a second mag into your belt.

“You good?” Natasha asked from across the room, tightening the strap on her thigh holster.

“Define good,” you muttered, snapping your vest into place.

Natasha’s smirk was faint but approving. “Just don’t die. I’m too old to be training new partners.”

“You’d miss me,” you said dryly.

“Maybe,” she said, before turning to the weapon rack. “Bucky, you ready?”

He nodded, slipping a knife into the sheath strapped to his leg. “As I’ll ever be.”

He looked at you then, the corners of his eyes creased, not with worry, but with something softer. Not quite peace. But purpose.

“We stick together,” he said, voice low. Firm.

You met his gaze. “Always.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You two gonna make me nauseous, or are we going to stop a covert resurrection of Hydra’s worst experiment?”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Neither did Bucky. You just exchanged one last glance, shared breath, and turned toward the exit.

The elevator opened with a metallic chime.

The three of you stepped inside.

As it descended into the belly of the earth, Bucky reached for your hand again—just for a moment, a brief squeeze.

No one spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

But beneath the weight of weapons, trauma, and unspoken fear, you carried something else now.

Each other.

And that was something Hydra could never recreate. Not with programming. Not with blood. Not with all the monsters they could drag back from the dark.

join my тαgℓιѕт -

@avgdestitute, @chimchoom, @xoxo-moonlight, @justanotherlonelybard, @spring-soldier, @vyviiennestar, @janetsnakehole02

[snoopledrooplecheesedoodle]

Yandere Platonic Fae Parents

This is in older times where parents cared little for their children and would willingly sell them if they were poor. It is yandere so be prepared to be disturbed as fae don't understand human misery.

CW: abuse (not by the fae parents), trickery, infertility, the couple look down on you slightly (because you're their fragile human), not fully fleshed out, trauma, honestly scarier than most of my romantic ones

Background

Celden and Lilinasmin are a powerful fae couple being nobles in the Seelie court. Married to tie the houses together but fell in love over time. However, Lilinasmin is unable to get pregnant despite attempting to have a child of their own. Distraught, Celden wanted to make his wife happy so he set out in search of a suitable child.

First Meeting:

Lilinasmin will be the first one to find you as she likes walking in a village near the portal to the Fae Realm. Seeing the smiling children does cause an ache in her heart that hasn't disappeared in quite some time.

What she didn't expect is to meet the most endearingly rambunctious human. She meets you after you bump into her running from the local baker, red in the face with anger.

"This is the last time a dirty bastard child like you will steal from me!" The burly man feels a crushing grip grab his hairy arm to block his swing. The burning look in the tall and lithe woman frightens him. "You will do no such thing, take your payment and leave." Lilinasmin hands a heavy pouch of human coin to the baker before releasing him. The man runs off with his tail tucked between his legs.

The fae doesn't particularly mind the crime you committed as she is more concerned with how many bruises covered your small little arms and legs. Especially the angry red ring around your neck. "Goodness child what happened to you?" Compelling you was easy as you cry and hold onto her. "I don't want to go back." Lilinasmin feels a spark of maternal instinct as you cling to her legs tightly.

"Oh sweetling, I'll never let you go."

Lilinasmin comes back to the child as she promised, bringing treats and trinket for the grateful mortal. Foolish human, gifts from the fae never come free. The woman smiles affectionately at your gullible nature, good thing she didn't want to hurt you. No, no, she would love you like any good mother should.

The elegant woman hums a childish tune as she clears the dust from the abandoned nursery. After all the centuries of pain and waiting she would finally be a mother. After all a baby was coming, her baby. Sweet (Y/N).

Celden hears his beautiful wife gush about the child she met in the village, and chuckles. If you make his wife so happy he'll gladly kidnap you. All for his wife's smile and laughter.

Celden tracks down the child of his beloved's description to a ramshackle hut with a door hangs on its last hinges. How could a child live in such a run down place. A shrill scream hits the poor fae's sensitive ears as a woman drags a screaming child out of the house. Celden hides himself from sight and watches from afar.

How brutish humans were to their own offspring, as the woman took a switch and beat the crying child black and blue. The child with (e/c) eyes and (h/c) (hair texture) hair. That was his wife's child. His disdain for the mortal woman grew at the sight of his wife's pride and joy in pain.

Unable to reveal himself he watched as the woman stormed back into the house. You lay sobbing as fresh mark begin bleeding from the switch. Celden decides to ease your pain to gain your trust. The fair man leans over your broken form and craddles you towards his chest.

Chanting in ancient tongues the fresh wounds disappear like they never existed in the first place. You stare blearily at the man shaking with fear. Celden chuckles as he plays with your hair. "No need to cry dear robin, I've got you now." You relax at the gentle cold touch, much to the delight of the male fae. His beloved was right, never had he seen such a pure and innocent babe. The soft rise and fall of your chest and peaceful expression steeled the man's resolve. Celden would take you far from this all into his manor with him and his wife.

How they get you:

The couple disguise themselves as human nobles and bring an entourage with them. Quite the spectacle to your poverty stricken family. The younger siblings rush out to see who the mysterious guests may be. Liliinasmin and Celden stare with cold indifference at the small humans. No one could compare to their darling ladybug. A rotund man and his hideous yellow toothed wife approach with greed in their eyes.

Fae believe in fair exchanges no matter how disgusting the person may be. Celden shows the hefty bag of fine jewels to which the couple salivate at. "You shall have not a single coin until we have a child. The ogre of a man laughs flashing a wide smile "You can have all of them if you want, good riddance I say." Lilinasmin shows a sharp neatly manicured nail pointing towards a child struggling under the weight of a large wooden bucket filled with water. "We shall take that one."

You scream in fear as two armed guards grab your tiny frame. Attempting to run to hide behind your parents who shove you in disgust. Clawing the dirt you beg your parents to not send you away, that you'll be good. However your parents and the rest of the brood turn their back on your desperate cries. Fat tears rolling down your sunken cheeks as two tall ethereal strangers coo at your distress. Celden pets your head while Lilinasmin threatens the guards if a single scratch marred your flesh.

Your desperate cries muffled by the large fir trees of the Ominous Forest. The carriage shaking with each stone the wheels encounter, you lay motionless from fear. The woman sings a lullaby while you lay against the man's firm chest. Tired from the stress and fear you fall into a deep sleep.

How You are Treated:

Lilinasmin and Celden treat you almost like an amusing pet rather than a child at times. Baby talking when you beg to be taken home while handing you your favorite dessert. You don't want for anything but their affection is smothering.

Not allowed to leave the manor without one or both by your side. You are apart of a family so act like it. Will chuckle and gently guide you away as you beg another fae to help you return home. Our child has such the big imagination don't they?

Friends are basically non existent as the ones you have are servants and their children who are under your "parents" control. Complain too much and they might be taken from you too.

You are going to be forced to turn into a fae, forever stuck in the body of a child. Perpetually forced to play the role of an adoring baby, their baby. Aging leads to romantic interests or other interests outside of the family, and nothing will take you away from them.

The transformation is painful, you scream as your body convulses in pain. Your "mother" hushes you while stroking your hair while your "father" kisses away your tears. It'll be over soon dear, just hold on a bit longer.

Isn't it what you wanted? A loving family who will never leave you.

Always and forever

[abbotjack]

Do you think Jack Abbot is a feminist?

He doesn’t look like a feminist.

When we meet Jack Abbot, he’s alone on a hospital rooftop in the raw pink quiet of 7:00 A.M., past the railing. His shift is over. A veteran is dead, one who’d survived three tours just to be wiped out by a drunk driver on Jack’s watch. He’s bone tired, probably still covered in someone else’s blood, his jaw clenched around something deep. Robby finds him up there. There are no theatrics, no speeches. Just two men and the hum of trauma that really doesn't clock out.

That’s where it begins. Not with heroics, but with a man stepping back. We don’t tend to recognize that as radical. But it is.

Jack doesn’t wear feminism on his sleeve. He doesn’t say the right things. As we know, he barely says much at all. But feminism isn’t a performance. It’s dismantling. And what Jack Abbot offers in the way he moves, such as the way he refuses to dominate, in the way he insists on care over conquest... is in fact quiet dismantling.

I. The Soldier Unmade

Virginia Woolf, in Three Guineas, does not begin her feminist critique with the home, but with war. She brings attention to the systems that educate men for conquest and glorify their injuries as honor. In Woolf’s world, the man returned from the battlefield is not a hero. He is a cautionary tale: proof of a culture that values power more than life.

Jack Abbot’s body is marked by this system. War took his leg, and with it, we can infer, part of the man the world tried to make him into. But The Pitt doesn’t offer us Jack as a hardened warrior. Instead, it presents a man who has already been through the masculine crucible and has come out on the other side quietly refusing to live by its rules.

Where Woolf speaks of the “fathers and brothers and uncles” who trained men for the battlefield, Jack walks away from that inheritance. He doesn’t refuse it with rebellion, but with ritual. His rebellion is care. He chooses not to dominate the world that hurt him, but to heal inside of it... he does that healing too by being a doctor.

II. The Night Shift as Queer Refusal

Judith Butler tells us that gender isn’t something we are, it’s something we do. A repetition. A script. Masculinity, in that sense, is less a birthright than a costume: barked orders, stillness under pressure, the refusal to cry even. It’s a role played for an audience, often unconsciously.

Jack Abbot has stopped playing.

He works the night shift. Not just as a scheduling preference, but as a form of escape. Night is the hour when the performance fades. When hierarchy softens. When the people who show up aren’t there to be seen. Jack doesn’t chase prestige or titles or praise. He says, half joking, “My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness.” But it’s not just comfort... it’s arguably freedom. From the day shift's bright, competitive rituals. From performance masculinity.

In Butler’s terms, Jack has interrupted the act. He’s stepped offstage.

That refusal is radical. Especially in medicine, a field so deeply steeped in hierarchy and masculine coded performance/control. In the ER, doctors are often expected to take up space, speak first, move fast, be right. Jack doesn’t do any of that. He moves like water. He observes. He intervenes when it matters. And he leaves space when it’s someone else’s turn to step in.

When Trinity Santos performs a solo REBOA, a high-risk vascular procedure with no attending to approve it, Jack could’ve torn her down. Instead, he tells her calmly that she can’t do things like that, but then, after confirming the save, adds: “You did good.” That’s not how power usually works in the ER. But Jack isn’t hoarding power. He’s using it to build trust. He’s not interested in being the smartest guy in the room, he’s interested in keeping the patient alive.

Now lets look at Dr. Samira Mohan, the third year resident whose whole medical existence is an act of resistance.

Samira is methodical, cautious, and deeply empathetic. Traits that draw criticism from Robby, who tells her she’s too slow, too careful, too emotional. Samira is, in so many ways, the antithesis of what ER medicine supposedly requires: she hesitates. She over explains. She trusts her instincts even when they defy expectations. And she feels things out loud.

In a field that rewards snap judgment and cold detachment, Samira is a patient listener, a hand-holder, a hugger. She’s the one who recognizes sickle cell anemia when others see only a “drug-seeker.” She’s the one who spends too long helping a father process the diagnosis of his daughter’s imperforate hymen. She’s the one who pushes a psych diagnosis aside because her gut told her the influencer’s symptoms looked like poisoning instead.

And for that... her care, her attention, her refusal to move faster than her empathy... she’s ridiculed. Called “Slow-mo.” Told she doesn’t belong.

Jack doesn’t call her that.

Jack doesn’t say much at all, but his presence is a kind of mirror. He, too, is quiet. Deliberate. Deeply felt but rarely expressed. The difference is, Jack’s refusal has already hardened into steel. He’s past the point of caring whether anyone thinks he belongs. Samira is still inside that struggle, but in choosing precision over speed, attention over applause, she echoes Jack’s ethic.

Their refusal is feminist. Their refusal is queer! Not in orientation, but in the way it disrupts scripts. They refuse to perform the ER’s narrow version of what a good doctor should be. They refuse speed as virtue. They refuse to strip their work of meaning in order to make it attractive to those above them.

In the thick of the PittFest chaos, Samira drills a blind burr hole to relieve pressure on a patient’s brain. It echoes Trinity’s unsanctioned REBOA. And it echoes Jack too, who, in one of the most devastating moments of the night, quietly tells Robby to stop transfusing blood into a girl with no heart left to save. These aren’t clean victories. They don’t look heroic. But they’re brave in a different way. It's messy, human, and rooted in the kind of care that refuses performance and chooses reality instead.

But that’s the point!

These characters, especially Jack, move through medicine not as machines, but as humans. Jack doesn’t see empathy as weakness. He sees it as risk. And he chooses it anyway. He trusts Samira’s kind of care, even if he never says so out loud. He sees the way she’s trying to hold the weight of the world in her hands and still treat every patient like they matter. He doesn’t correct her when she lingers. He doesn’t chastise her when she slows down.

Because Jack knows what the rest of them haven’t figured out yet: that slowness isn’t a flaw.

It’s a form of resistance.

III. What Remains When Nothing Can Be Saved

There’s a scene in The Pitt where the camera doesn’t need to push in, because the weight is already unbearable. Leah, seventeen, arrives on the back of a pickup truck. Jake has his hands over the gash in her chest. His voice shakes when he says she was still talking when they left the festival, but now she isn’t saying anything. There’s blood everywhere. There’s too much blood.

Inside, the emergency department is triage at full throttle. Robby is leading compressions. A femoral pulse slips away, then flutters back. There’s O-negative in one line, plasma in another. Still no response. Still too much blood. Every few seconds, another decision has to be made: do we push harder? Hang one more bag? Go to thoracotomy?

The room is pulsing with desperation. Robby’s pushing everything he has, not because it’s working, but because he needs to believe it might. And then, without raising his voice, Jack Abbot says the one thing no one else can bring themselves to say:

That it’s over.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t moralize. He just says it: Leah’s heart is gone. The wound is too catastrophic. The blood they’re pouring into her is blood they don’t have. Blood that other patients still need. He says it low, like a man who’s had to say it before. Like someone who knows what it costs to tell the truth in a room that doesn’t want to hear it.

This is what Trans Care theorist Hil Malatino calls “the quiet violence of care”—the truth that sometimes, even care must choose. That the world doesn’t have enough warmth, enough hours, enough blood. That some lives end. That others depend on us not spending everything we have trying to rewrite that.

And that someone, eventually, has to draw that line.

Jack draws it.

Not because he doesn’t care. But because he does. Because care, real care, the kind that holds up when the walls collapse isn’t about feeling good. It’s about staying present when the easy thing would be to disappear into grief or guilt or drama. It’s about seeing what the situation really is, and then making a decision you can live with.

And if you know anything about Jack, you know that he doesn’t make decisions lightly.

He understands what it means to lose someone on the table. He’s carried bodies. Buried friends. He knows the sound of a room that turns to silence too fast. And so when he says, “We’ve done all we can,” it means something.

It means: Let her go.

It means: Save who we can.

It means: Keep the room standing.

But that moment, that clean, brutal line between what is possible and what is not....doesn’t come out of nowhere. You can see it being practiced, quietly, earlier in the day.

Before PittFest, Jack tells Robby about a girl who’s coming in for mifepristone. A seventeen year old, pregnant, coming back for a medical abortion. Her name is Kristi Wheeler. Jack doesn’t embellish. Doesn’t editorialize. Just notes it during handoff, like he’s making sure her name doesn’t get lost in the shuffle.

And then she does get lost.

Or almost.

She comes in. Gets her exam. The ultrasound shows she made it, ten weeks and six days. Just under the limit. She’s scared, but relieved. She starts the process. And then her mother storms in and everything unravels. Kristi locks herself in the bathroom. Says her life is over if she has to go home. Says she wants the pills. Says she can’t do it, not like this.

It’s not Jack who speaks to her next. Robby takes that moment. But Jack was the one who remembered. Jack was the one who made sure her case got handed off clearly, that she didn’t become just another line on the chart. In a place where the loudest emergencies get the most attention, Jack made space for the quiet ones. The scared ones. The girls who want their lives back and aren’t sure how to ask for them.

This is what care looks like when it isn’t centered on ego.

When it isn’t performance.

When it isn’t about who gets to be the savior.

Hil Malatino reminds us that real care isn’t always soft. It’s exhausting. It’s repetitive. It’s unglamorous. It often goes unnoticed. And it demands that we recognize our limitations without turning away from one another. Jack does that. In both cases. With Leah. With Kristi. He doesn’t offer guarantees. He doesn’t promise miracles. But he stays.

He stays long enough to say her name. He stays long enough to say, “That’s enough.” He stays when the rest of the room still wants to pretend that effort is the same as hope.

Because Jack knows it’s not.

Kristi gets to leave. She gets her pills. She gets a second chance. Leah doesn’t. And Jack carries both of those outcomes in the same quiet way. Doesn’t talk about them. Doesn’t use them to prove a point. He just keeps walking the halls, keeps showing up, keeps doing the work no one else wants to claim.

That’s what makes his care feminist. Not because he says the words. But because he understands that care is not about being seen, it’s about seeing. About holding the world steady while everyone else is panicking. About knowing who’s bleeding, who’s waiting, who’s still reachable... and how to let go of the rest.

He doesn’t save everyone. He knows he can’t. But he never stops trying to save the room.

And sometimes, that’s the only thing you can save.

IV. The Ethics of Love

In All About Love, bell hooks writes that love is not a sentiment. It is a verb. An ethic. A commitment to justice. Love, she argues, is the ground upon which all liberation is built, not because it is soft, but because it is honest. Because it does not abandon you.

Jack Abbot doesn’t talk about love. But he practices it... daily, instinctively, and without reward.

Love is present in the way he treats patients. How he writes a letter to a grieving sister of a veteran he couldn’t save, because someone had to say it. It’s there in the way he sees Robby, his colleague unraveling, and gently holds the silence until Robby can speak. In the season’s closing mirror of the rooftop scene, Jack becomes the one who steadies someone else. He talks Robby down. He tells him: “You rocked it out there.” He means it.

He doesn’t diagnose Robby’s weakness. He doesn’t step into the savior role. He just remains. He sits with him. Later, they share a drink. Not in celebration, but in solidarity.

This is hooks’ love. Not romantic. Not possessive. Not loud. But radical, because it says: I see you. I will not leave you behind.

V. A Body That Does Not Apologize

Jack’s prosthesis is not introduced until the end of the season. When we finally see it, it's not accompanied by revelation. No one gasps. No one explains it. There is no grand monologue. Instead, Jack sits with the rest of the staff, unstraps the leg, and cleans the blood off his shoe. It's a mundane act. But also a private one, done in public. A gesture that basically says: I will take care of myself, here, beside you.

This moment definitely embodies feminist disability politics in action. Jack does not offer his body up for inspiration. He does not hide it, but neither does he demand it be interpreted. His injury is neither a metaphor for moral failure nor a narrative of redemption.

It simply is.

This, too, is feminist. Because it resists the objectification of pain. Because it does not turn the body into proof. Jack’s body does not need to be justified. He is not strong despite his injury. He is not brave because of it. He is a man who lives inside a wounded body and does the work of staying human anyway.

And that is power.

So, Jack Abbot is not a traditional television feminist. He doesn’t 'say the language'. He doesn’t quote the politics. But he embodies something enduring. This enduring is a quiet, consistent, radical refusal.

He refuses domination. He refuses spectacle. He refuses to stop showing up. Feminism, in its truest form is about interruption. About breaking cycles. Jack does this not with ideology, but with instinct. With the steady ethics of presence. With care that does not inflate itself. With masculinity stripped of cruelty. With love that has no audience.

In a world where men are taught to conquer, he chooses instead to remain. To repair. To stay. And in that staying, Dr. Jack Abbot becomes, quietly, inevitably, a feminist.

[blueminnies-blog]

Title: "Black Liner & Red Flags"

Pairing: Mingyu x female reader

Warning: cursing

Summary: mingyus the campus heartthrob and the fuckboy had his reputation with either hook up with most of the girls at the campus or sleeping with the other half, yet not satisfied! Because his eyes are on that one girl, you, the sassy, mean girl with sharp eyeliner and untouchable altitude.

Should I write part two? Part²

°•`~☆°•`~☆°•`~☆

The dorm party was chaos — music thumping through the floors like a heartbeat on caffeine, bodies packed into a too-small living room, the air thick with sweat, cheap beer, and bad choices.

She stood near the exit, back pressed to the wall, red cup in one hand, phone in the other. Black dress smooth like second skin, falling mid-thigh, and slit just high enough to draw breath from the weak. Fishnet tights disappearing into knee-high boots. A choker snug around her throat. Her eyeliner was brutal — wings so sharp they could cut, with a dash of silver glitter dusted on her lids like warpaint.

She didn’t laugh, didn’t smile, just sipped, watched, and judged. And across the room — Mingyu noticed.

Leather jacket half-off, white shirt slightly unbuttoned, chain glinting against his collarbone. He looked like a fallen god from a cologne ad. Hair tousled, lips parted. He had a red solo cup in hand but hadn’t touched it.

His eyes were locked on her.

She flicked a glance up and caught him staring, didn’t blush or smile, just lifted her brow with a deadpan ' Really? '

He grinned like a man with nothing left to lose, and within seconds, he was beside her, all tall presence and swagger, “Didn’t expect to see you here, Hellcat.”

She sipped again, voice bored,“Didn’t expect you to still be chasing girls with full-functioning trauma responses.”

He laughed, hand on the wall beside her head now, eyes searching hers,“You’re sharp tonight.”

“I’m always sharp. You’re just used to dull toys.”

He whistled low, leaned in an inch closer, “You watch me a lot for someone who claims to hate me.”

She turned her head just slightly, lips brushing his ear, “I watch crime documentaries too. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck the serial killer.”

He flinched — but barely.

“That’s unfair. I’m charming.”

“You’re a tall walking sex dream with no sense of boundaries and too many groupie stories for a man your age.”

“Still looking at my mouth.”

“Still full of shit.”

He smirked, and she stepped forward, letting her body brush his chest deliberately. A test. A taunt. His jaw twitched.

“You always this mean to the guys who want you?”

“Only the ones who think they deserve me.”

Silence and static in the air. Her body heat was melting into his now, but her eyes stayed dagger-sharp.

He lifted a hand to touch her cheek slowly and cautiously

She grabbed his wrist at the speed of light. Her nails were long, painted black, digging just slightly into his skin. Her voice was velvet lined with venom, “Touch me, and I swear I’ll break every finger you own, pretty boy.”

Mingyu let out a shaky breath,“You’re hot when you threaten me.”

“And you’re pathetic when you’re horny.”, she smirked.

He grinned wider. “So... always?”

She leaned in. Her breath ghosted over his lips, “You want a girl who moans when you wink and lets you lie to her between classes.”

“No,” he said, voice low, rough,“I want you.”

Her lips curved,“Then burn for it.”

And she turned, walked away — slow, swaying hips, confidence bleeding from every step.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, ruined.