#first cup of coffee and dark thoughts

[doctorslippery]

[doctorslippery]

Shouldn't there be one called Coffee looking down on them all.

[doctorslippery]

[cosmictheo]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 | bob reynolds

(gif credits to @tomundsen )

—summary: it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 7k (oops) —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, some porn with some plot, fingering, he talks to you through it, really passionate sex, a lot, lot of body worship, praise kink goes brrr, sub!bob, bob just loves his powerful strong girl too much. confident and self-assured bob is so dear to me.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

“H–hey, here's your milk— woah,” Bob interrupted himself when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor so he could look at you. His eyes fell on your figure, roaming up and down shamelessly, scanning in wonder-struck silence at the way you looked in the new suit. 

You were in front of your full-length mirror, analyzing with squinted eyes the way the suit that had just arrived, restyled and upgraded, looked on you. All the details you had mentioned were fixed now.

It looked good on you, you thought. It fit your body like a second skin though. But the fabric was pretty much perfect, it was comfy and flexible, it was designed to match your abilities and fighting style, without excessively exposing you.

And you still had to put on the cape, a feature Valentina had insisted on adding to the final look, that way you would impose more respect and appear more intimidating, according to her.

Bob stood frozen at the entrance of your room, in his hands he was carrying cups of milkshake he had ordered not too long ago, one of them probably meant for you.

Even though you had told him many times that you didn't like to eat or drink before a mission, he did it anyway. He cared too much about you to not to. So every time he ordered himself something, he had to order something for you as well.

“Thank you, Bob,” you offered him a kind smile nonetheless in appreciation, turning your head so that you could face him. His countenance was all flushed red and the content of the cups swirled a bit with the tremor of his hands.

“Can you help me with the cape?” you then asked, watching him as he awkwardly set the cups down on the small coffee table in the center of your bedroom before making his way towards you with swift steps, as if you were the center of gravity of the entire universe, of his universe.

He couldn't control how his eyes drifted down from your face and swept along your back, drinking in every curve, every outline of your gorgeous, perfect figure, relishing in the way the tight black fabric clung to your body like a second skin. 

Bob's gaze traced a very slow scan across your lower back, through the shape of your hips, the curve of your ass, the complex of your thighs—

“Isn't it too much?” you wondered out loud, making him flinch. Your eyes were looking at him through the reflection of the mirror as Bob stumbled to set the cape where it supposed to be, hooking it onto your shoulders very carefully, with trembling fingers. 

You could catch a glimpse through the mirror of the way his eyes were glowing under the soft yellowish light of your room, you could see your own reflection within them, melting into all the darkness of his particularly dilated pupils. The darkness in his eyes surrounded you completely.

He finished settling the cape on your back and Bob took a couple of steps back from you, permitting himself to gaze at you in awe, his mouth falling half-open.

“You're— you look nice.” He responded to you, in a stammering but entirely truthful voice, nerves racing on his tongue as he pronounced one of the many compliments that were flooding his head as he ogled you with big eyes. “L–like, really nice.”

He nodded his head in a short frenzy, approving the words from himself. Then his eyes searched yours through the reflection of the mirror and he found himself swooning as you spun around to face him, your cape twirling in the air with the effortlessly graceful motion.

You raised an eyebrow as you saw how Bob held his hands out in front of him, fingers clasped together casually. He kept an innocent visage, though his cheeks were flushed, nervous eyes dropping to the ground as he saw you walking towards him in all your glory and beauty, like a goddess stepping down from the heavens. And you didn't have to coax him into surrendering to you, he already stood in the palm of your hand, wrapped around your pretty finger.

You flustered him so much it was silly. Every step you took stirred an earthquake inside him.

He was as yours as the sun is to the moon, as darkness is to light, as craving is to love.

His heart raced as you stood in front of him, gazing at him from all your power and majesty. And Bob knew he was long gone.

“Are you okay?” you asked him in a tone that conveyed raw concern, just as much as what your eyes shared with his in their familiar, heart-warming silent intimacy.

You had your head slightly tilted and your brow just barely furrowed in worry. You looked so beautiful, so cute, that you had him speechless for a few moments.

“Y–yes, I—” Bob stuttered, jerking his head gently, dismissing any sign of worry he might spark in you. “I'll s–see you after the mission—”

Immediately after that, he rushed to grab his beloved milkshake, flashed you a lopsided smile all crooked with nervousness and stormed out of your room, almost tripping over the box full of vinyls you had yet to organize on the shelves.

Shortly before he left, Bob turned once more to look at you, with that sheepish little grin curving his lips and you noticed how he struggled to hold his cup of milkshake now low in front of him, trying to cover up the prominent bulge that had grown painfully harder the more he watched you in that suit.

And then he just disappeared.

You stood in silence, dumbfounded, staring at your door with puzzled eyes and gaping mouth. Then you glanced down at yourself, searching around for something wrong, something that looked ugly maybe, something that would cause such an outburst in Bob. 

But there was absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, you looked perfect. 

When you came back from the mission, the first thing you looked for in the living room once you stepped out of the elevator was Bob, naturally, eyes flicking to the couch where he usually lay down to read or gaze at the cityscape.

Yelena and Bucky were talking animatedly beside you, exchanging a single knowing glance as they both caught a glimpse of disappointment surfacing on your face, still a little sweaty from all the physical exertion the mission had taken. It had not been difficult. The guys had especially relied on your skills to accomplish it successfully.

For that, you were a bit tired, your mind and body had given up a lot to the energy of your abilities. You were still buzzing. Adrenaline was throbbing in your veins. And normally when you were like this, you reached for Bob's comfort to anchor you back to earth.

Your cape fluttered behind you as you made your way towards the hallway to the bedrooms, looking defeated.

Yelena huffed a small chuckle at you, taking a sip of water from the glass Bucky had offered her, “I can't believe that less than thirty minutes ago you were at full power, levitating off the ground, with your eyes glowing and all, and now you go crawling back to your boyfriend like this.”

You just shrugged, offering them both a small tired smile before continuing to walk towards Bob's room, needing to see him and hug him. You didn't even care that you were still wearing your suit.

You stopped in front of the door and as you were raising your hand to knock on it, it swung open with a ‘wooshh!’, revealing a very distressed looking Bob. His hair was a bit messy, he was still wearing that black shirt that looked so good on him. He had changed his pants, though, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, hanging dangerously low around his hips.

He looked like a hot mess. In every good sense of the term.

“You're back,” he breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath all this time in your absence, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped loudly. His eyes took a quick journey across you and widened as he noticed you were still in your suit. He pulled them back, forcefully, painfully slow back up to your face.

You looked at him strangely, realizing how you were both still standing in his doorway. “Yeah... are you okay, Bob? I feel you... closed off.”

“Yeah, it's just— I didn't want to distract you— before the mission and all that,” he explained, sounding more like a cheap excuse.

“Distract me?” You raised a single eyebrow, repeating his own word, noticing perfectly how his gaze wandered to your chest for just a split of a second, but nonetheless, you managed to catch up with it. A hint of an amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips, leaning against the threshold of his door, and he closed his eyes tightly, ducking his head in shame, knowing full well that he had been caught. Nothing could ever get past you. Not when it came to him.

“Looks like you're the distracted one here, Bob.”

“I'm not—” he stammered, his hands raised to his flushed face, “S-sorry, I don't mean to be like like a wacked out pervert— I don't want you to think less of me. It's just a s-suit.”

The last part seemed to be speaking more to himself than to you, as he grunted it under his breath, verging on a scolding.

But it wasn't just a suit.

It was you.

Your body, your naughty smile, your gaze, your lips tinted with that deadly crimson red.

A couple of beads of sweat led a wet trail down your neck. Bob could smell the saltiness oozing off your sweaty skin, mixed with that exquisite scent of your perfume. He could hear your heart pounding, the throbbing pulse in your jugular vein. Demonstrating that you were real, that you were breathing, that you were right in front of him, dressed like that.

You were devastatingly beautiful. And he was completely at your mercy.

Your hand rose to his face, making him stop his babbling with himself and lift his gaze slowly. His cheek felt warm under your palm, you didn't know if it was because he was a blushing mess or because that was the effect that your touch brought upon his skin.

“It's okay to feel desire, Bob, there's nothing wrong with that,” you reassured him, lowering your tone to a softer, more sympathetic one. “It makes me feel good that you desire me, actually.”

That got a reaction out of him, his lips quivered, hesitating whether or not to speak, until eventually, he made up his mind, “It makes you feel good?”

You nodded your head, your smile morphing to one of a little more shyness, “I thought you didn't like the way I looked in my suit. Since you just ran off without saying anything, I thought that—”

Bob interrupted you right there, shaking his head repetitively. You felt his jaw and flesh move under the palm of your hand as he spoke.

“What? No,” he blurted, huffing air as if it were the most obvious subject in the world. Regret passed over the expression of his face and he uttered your name in that adoring, soft way he did, “You look perfect. It drives me crazy, h-honestly. I haven't been able to stop t-thinking about you. You look so beautiful it makes me want to—”

He forced himself to shut up, suddenly feeling his throat constrict and his face grow even more red. One of his hands ran through his hair anxiously, looking really tense.

“You want to what?” You urged him, your breath feeling warm against his face, your thumb caressed his cheekbone, making him shiver under your touch, “Say it, Bob.”

Bob looked into your eyes again, struggling to maintain eye contact, his hands trembled at his sides, so desperate to reach out to you, to touch you, to grasp you. To hold all of you.

“Make love to you” He mumbled against your lips just before you kissed him, breathing in his air and devouring his words, covenanting them as a mutual yearning. A promise.

Bob kissed you as if you were the air his lungs depended on to breathe, his lips moving with yours like an old habit, like second nature.

“Jump,” he urged you between kisses and shaky breaths, his hands finally being set loose to reach out to touch you and hold your waist.

And you immediately complied, bouncing up and wrapping your legs around his hips. He lifted you up and held you so effortlessly. Sometimes you forgot that this man was the strongest among all of you. The strongest on the planet, most likely.

Without ever stopping kissing you, Bob locked you tightly against him with one arm while the other one stretched out towards the door, closing it behind his back once he started to walk with you in his arms over to his bed. 

Both of his hands grasped your body at the bottom of your thighs, squeezing and cupping your warm flesh through the fabric of your suit.

Promptly you felt the bulge press against the underside of your thigh, so desperate for attention, for you.

Bob broke the kiss, the noise of your mouths slipping apart from each other swept across the interior of his room, so filthy and hot. He looked at you with half-closed eyes, gaze darkened by desire and raw adoration.

He was breathless and feeling so flustered and anxious he was trembling, you could sense it as he held you close against him.

“I-I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel pressured into anything. It—” he mumbled, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he felt your fingers sinking into his hair at the back of his skull, “It just... pops up. It's inevitable when it comes to you. You drive me crazy.”

He was referring to his erection, of course. His big erection. He was ashamed of it. Bob didn't want to appear desperate —although for you, he certainly was—; someone who was unable to control himself. He was striving for control.

“Just shut up and make love to me, Bob,” you murmured, pleaded, right against his lips, your tongue grazing across his bottom lip, pulled outward, his countenance turn into a pout. “I need you inside me, now. Please, baby”

“S-shit,” he hissed a lot of cursing under his trembling breath. He was buzzing, “I-I need you too.”

Bob kissed you one more time as he laid you down on his bed very gently, careful not to trip or get tangled up in your cape.

His lips traced a path of kisses across your face, down your chin, along your neck. Your body quivered as you felt his tongue run across your skin, wiping away a bead of sweat.

Your legs were still on either side of his hips, one of his hands was running up and down the outside of your thigh and the other was supporting his own weight on the side of your body.

You arched your back for him, grinding against his crotch. Bob groaned lightly into your skin at the friction.

“You drive me crazy— you don't know what you provoke in me,” he uttered, rasping out against the skin of your neck, like an unhinged man, blinded by lust and longing. “This fucking suit— shit. You look so good, so pretty for me. I need you so bad, baby. All the time.”

Rarely did Bob call you by pet names, but every one of those occasions elicited the exact same reaction out of you. Your gaze would darken and your eyes would squint. You didn't have to tell him anything at all. Your body spoke everything to him, calling out to him in silence, in complicity.

With you, the intimacy, the complicity spoke for itself above the silence.

He knew the power he had in you. He knew exactly how to use it.

“P-please... ah—” yet he still begged you, whimpering just from friction and touch alone, pulling his head out of your neck and bringing his face closer to yours. He kissed your lips once more, just as your legs squeezed tighter around his waist, pulling him closer to you and making him pant against your mouth. “I dreamt of your legs wrapped around my waist. Just like this...”

Even Bob couldn't fully recognize himself. He was in some kind of deep lust trance, everything was blurred, except for you. Just beneath him, your beautiful body squirming, flushed against his.

To think that not so long ago you had been out there, in your nice suit, in full super-heroine mode, helping and saving people. Protecting kids from the bad guys, fighting for them.

They all probably looked up to you with adoration, everyone would most likely be jealous of him if they knew how he had you now.

None of them could ever see you like this. Only in their dreams. 

“Only in their dreams,” a voice murmured at the back of his mind.

“Bobby...” You breathed out his name, pleading for mercy, for him to do something, anything at all. One of your hands was curled around his forearm at your side, squeezing it to attract his attention. Your fingertips absentmindedly traced the veins outlined against his skin trough his arm. You could feel his throbbing pulse on them. Desperate and hepless. Craving. 

“Let me taste you, baby, please” Bob cooed, his voice coming raspy and desperate out of his throat, “I need to taste you, yeah?”

“Y-yes, yes,” your mouth moved faster than your mind, gazing at him with eyes glazed over with lust. “W-wait, I have to take off my suit first, let me—”

Bob cut you off with a sloppy little kiss, pressing his forehead affectionately against yours, his nose nuzzling yours just before he pulled away, “I-I got it.”

He patted your thigh gently and you unwrapped your legs from his waist, following him with your gaze attentively as he settled over you carefully so that his fingers reached around your neck, in search of the zipper of the suit. When he found it, he began to pull it down, looking at you with ravenous eyes, blinking so slowly that it seemed like he wasn't blinking at all.

“Turn a little and lift your hips up, baby.” He said to you once the zipper trail was almost reaching your lower back. As he unzipped the bottom of it, you took off your top to help him, leaving your bare chest on full display for him. “That's it. God...”

Bob shakily exhaled air as he became aware that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, he had to be extremely careful not to tear the zipper into a thousand tiny pieces with the force he squeezed it, pulling it further below your hips.

“You don't wear anything under it? Should I be worried about this?”

His tone of voice was so confident and borderline playful that for a moment you felt like he was someone else entirely. He really wanted to look confident for you, he wanted to provide you that security and comfort. You were stripping naked for him, for God's sake. Bob had to make an extra effort to appear confident and self-assured.

“Just for you, baby,” you assured him, shifting your legs slightly just once to help him pull the suit off completely, tugging it delicately down your thighs. The distinctive noise of the zipper, which this time was reaching your ears like the most arousing noise on the planet, ceased at last, reaching its end.

“J-just for me,” Bob echoed, leaning into you again like a magnet to a gravity core. His lips latched onto your naked thigh, kissing the side considering the position you were lying on his bed now. His wet, leisurely kisses awakened shivers on your skin. He could smell how aroused you were. He practically could taste how wet your sex was. Thinking about it made his mouth water.

“So pretty, so beautiful, my God,” he babbled, his trail of kisses reaching your lower stomach, tickling you in a way that made you sigh. Bob looked up at you for just a moment, his pupils blown out with pleasure, “How could someone like me deserve something like this?”

It all seemed more like a conversation with himself, like if he was walking through a daydream.

Your hand came to rest on his face, cupping his cheek, and he leaned against your palm instantly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Bobby, please,” you pleaded.

And he gave in immediately, kissing the palm of your hand, “You don't have to beg me for anything. You already have it.”

His kisses trailed back down your stomach and you arched your back so beautifully for him. When he pulled away from your hand, it fell to the side of you on the bed. You clenched in a trembling fist all the fabric of whatever you could catch hold of.

“Are you— are you sure about this?” he looked up to you for consent, his fingers soothingly caressing your thighs, hands pressing them to either side of his face and settling them on his shoulders. When he saw you nodding your head, too much overcome with lust, he brushed a kiss on the inside of your knee, attempting to get your full attention back, “I need words, baby.”

You hurried to answer, babbling, gazing down at him, kneeling so pretty in between your legs as if they were the gates to heaven, “Yes, Bob, baby, please.”

He kissed your other knee now and then licked his lips, hungrily.

“I want to see you fall apart under me,” his hot breath brushed against the skin of your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider with a delicate but assured grip. “You're soaking wet, baby,” he marveled, in awe watching your pussy dripping with his adored honeyed water, yet his voice sounded disappointed, “you're wasting my meal.”

The mere sight of how his eyes sparkled with adoration as he gazed at your pussy could have made you cum right there if you started to think about it too much. Bob looked at you as if you were the center of the universe, the entrance to paradise, the sun he orbited around. 

It all made sense when you were there. Your presence in the room shifted the whole gravity of his being. His everything was for you. He was all made for you.

All the sense he could possibly envision now was to devour your pussy as if it were his last meal. He devoured it like a starving man, like reaching an oasis in the most arid desert, drowning and sheltering into it.

The sloshing sounds that spread with each stroke of his tongue between your wet folds made you flush all over, throwing your head back against one of his pillows and squeezing your eyes tightly shut, muttering and moaning his name out like a prayer.

To Bob, that noise was the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard. He sucked particularly hard onto your slit, pushing his tongue just barely into your gushing hole, pulling a loud, raspy moan from your throat. Oh, that noise...

His name sounded like the utmost hopeless and religious chant out of your pretty mouth. At that moment he was loving his name, loving the way you moaned it and kept murmuring it, as if it was yours, holding it close to your heart.

Amidst all the acoustic thrill of raw passion, mingled with his own soft whimpers breathing out into your core, Bob could nearly hear the stars themselves just above his red, hot ears. 

Your cunt was pulsing all around the tip of his tongue and Bob sensed, tasted your heartbeat through it. 

To feel that close to you nearly made him cum right there in his sweatpants.

One of his hands unclasped your leg, crawling up through your skin, his digits drawing a smooth path up your stomach, through your ribcage, all the way to reach your chest, cupping one of your breasts with a possessive hold.

“Bob— uhh—” you croaked out his name, glancing down at him with half-closed eyes, searching for his gaze in desperation.

Your back curved into such a perfect arch, your body squirming up against him as you felt his tongue flick your clit, his fingertips gently caressing your nipple. The stimulation would soon knock you into fucking heaven.

“Yeah, baby,” he responded to your call, disconnecting his mouth just an inch from your pussy, feeling lust-drunk enough to hold your gaze. His whole mouth was drenched with you, the slickness glistening under the dim light of his bedroom. His other hand sneaked between your legs, just barely brushing your pulsating cunt, “I'm here, hm? I got you, angel.”

Angel. That one was new.

You looked as close as he could ever imagine to an angel; sprawled on his bed, your body, magnificent, perfect, damp with sweat and arousal, your gaze searching for his in longing. There, in the shadows, Bob saw the whitish gleam of your energy flashing through your orbs, your power lingering in the air, pulsating along with your heartbeat.

You were so powerful, so strong and marvelous.

And you were all his to break apart.

“Are you going to cum for me?” He asked right before passionately kissing your pussy, his fingertips teasing your clit as he plunged his tongue deep into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs. “I got you, I got you.”

Bob felt you clench impossibly tight all around the two fingers he had thrust into your warm, fluttering hole, barely pressing against the spongy walls of your insides. He sucked your clit just right, breathing your name against your hot flesh. That's what pushed you over the edge, making you cum, falling apart so devastatingly beautiful against his mouth.

He slurped and drank in everything you had to offer him, lapping at your cunt as if he was drowning and it was the oxygen he needed to keep afloat. 

He paused to gaze at you attentively as he made you cum, your whole body buzzing, squirming so beautifully under his touch that you resembled some ethereal, otherworldly sight.

His name rasped out of your throat, as if it were your own religion.

“There you go...” Bob cooed, his eyes hazy with adoration, licking his lips clean and kissing your twitching pussy once again. “So good to me. So good...”

His lips kissed a trail upwards, swiping his tongue occasionally across the scars and freckles that decorated your skin as a constellation that appealed to him to adore. Eventually, Bob reached your face, looking down at you with pure love and a glimpse of that gentle shyness of his natural mannerism.

“A-are you okay?”

Bob watched your soul slowly crawl back to the ground and to your body, right back to him, finally snapping out of your post-orgasm trance. He propped his weight against the bed on the side of your waist with one hand, his thumb brushing against your bare skin and he brought the other to your face, caressing your cheek reassuringly. 

Your response was your mouth seeking his to join in a deep, loving kiss. Bob closed his eyes, kissing you back, his hand cradling your face.

You could taste yourself through his lips and tongue. And that managed to turn you on even more. 

Wrapped in an adrenaline surge of lust pumping through your veins, you rolled both of you over on the bed, laying him underneath you now. 

It was nice that you had much more stamina and energy than a normal human. Although there, you didn't feel like a human at all.

You were animals driven by their own instincts.

Bob gasped against your lips, his eyes barely opening so he could visualize you on top of him now, grinding your ass down on his rock-hard erection as you sat so prettily on his lap.

“Shit,” he croaked out your name, his hands grabbing as much of you as they possibly could, sliding past the curve of your waist to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him in urging. “If you keep doing that— I-I'm going to—”

You stopped all movement of your body and sat perfectly motionless on his lap. Bob whined hoarsely in protest, but you didn't let him utter a word, your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him instantly.

“I want you to cum inside me, Bob.” You purred against his ear, your tongue lazily stroking his earlobe. He froze speechless, just staring at you flabbergasted, still delighting in the way you had said those filthy words, so softly and lovingly. He strained himself to keep strong and not burst into his boxers at your words alone. “Let me take your clothes off, okay? Can I see all of you, baby?”

“Yes, p-please, just take everything of me— it's all yours” he promised you, helping you take off that black t-shirt he knew you loved to see on him so much. Exactly why he had put it on that morning.

When his naked torso was fully exposed for you, you bent down to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his pecs, your tongue spent some extra time fondling his sensitive nipples and Bob's legs twitched under your thighs.

The light in the room flickered for a split second and you just grinned against his flushed skin.

“I-I'm sorry—” he apologized with his voice lowering sheepishly, embarrassed. Then he closed his eyes when you raised your head to hush him with a kiss that was more tender than anything, reassuring him in silence.

Then your lips specifically grazed the spot where his heart was, beating maniacally on the other side of his skin.

He was so perfect, effortlessly perfect.

Bob was the most powerful man on planet Earth and yet, he was crumbling beneath you, bowing to the mercy of your touch.

You might as well just tear his chest apart and take his heart, it was already lying open for you, so full of you.

It was yours to take, to hold, to shatter.

You took your time to strip off his gray sweatpants, kissing his thighs, his knees and his calves, gently tugging at the hem of the gray fabric until you eventually slid it off his body and tossed it on the floor, forgotten alongside your scandalous suit.

Bob stared at you with a blushing, timid face as you rose again up through his body, your fingers lightly fiddling with the hem of his boxers now, fully ruined by all the pre-cum he'd been spilling. And you lifted your gaze, searching for his, silently asking for his consent.

He nodded tremblingly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

With wobbly hands he helped you take off his boxers, lifting his hips so you could slide them down his body and toss them into the pile of clothes lying on the floor as well.

His cock sprung free and you looked at it in awe.He was so big, bigger than you had ever had before. It was long too, hard, powerful and desperate for you, just like him.

It's head was furiously red, throbbing and oozing pre-cum incessantly. You found it impossible not to bend down to his groin and swipe your tongue along his slit, scooping up every essence of him and savoring it delightfully. Your tongue lolled along the prominent vein that bulged all along his shaft.

Bob's eyes rolled back and in a blur of bliss, he had to struggle to guide a hand to your head, fingers brushing across your cheek to get your attention. You looked up at him with big, lustful eyes, swallowing everything you had slurped out of him. The taste was bittersweet, hot, familiar, like him.

“No— don't do— don't do that, p-please,” he begged for your mercy in a raspy, cracked, breathless voice. “Come here.”

His hand gripped yours as you took it and carefully, but hurriedly helped you to position yourself on top of him once again, his digits latched onto you your waist, holding you as you squatted just above his lap, straddling him.

You grabbed his cock and held it up against your pussy, the swollen tip slowly sliding in between your wet folds, pushing achingly slow through your entrance.

Both of you sighed at the contact. Wet, hot, shaky and desperate.

Slowly you began to sink down on his cock, hands pressed on his shoulders, clenching them more and more with every inch he pushed inside you. 

Bob whimpered shudderingly, choking back the deep, heavy moan that crawled up his throat. He could feel his whole body shivering, squinting his eyes as he leaned his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, struggling to steady his breathing. It was like his soul was slipping out of his body and merging with yours.

No one had ever been so close to his soul. And he didn't think anyone else would, either. No one did it like you. 

His veiny hands at your waist gripped your flesh, yet they never pressed you hard enough to push you lower any faster, no, he would wait for you so patiently, giving you the pause to accustom yourself to his size.

“You do it so— so good.” Bob praised hoarsely into your shoulder, his wet lips grazing across your skin, drooling all over you, “you take it so good, you take me so good. There's n-no one like you— no one.”

Heavenly, him pressing against you, his lips laying softly upon your neck, marking you on the outside and inside, his mouth felt like heaven, his kisses falling upon you like stars, shaping a constellation of raw adoration. 

Your pussy fluttered around him, squishing him deeper inside. 

One of his hands wandered down to your back, fingers tracing your spine reassuringly. He just took the time to reassure you amidst all the blissful trance of pleasure you made him feel.

“Just a little more, baby,” he murmured, his hand caressing your ass appreciatively. Your warm, spongy walls clamped down tight around his cock and Bob's voice cracked. “Oh— S-shit—”

You moaned so loudly against his forehead that your whole spine seemed to twitch, finally feeling your ass pressed down on his lap. He was so deep that you easily thought his tip was almost reaching all into your guts now. 

“You're so deep, Bob” You whined, just barely pulling away from him so you could look at him. His eyes were already locked on yours and you caught a glimpse of that golden sparkle flashing through them, his irises glowing like two suns in the twilight. “Bobby—”

Your words struck him to the core and his eyes flashed golden once again, utterly starting to lose control. 

“I'm here,” he hissed, panting your name breathlessly, his hands caressed your skin, scoring his imprint on it. He kissed you sloppily, “I got you, I always got you.”

As you began to move on top of him, Bob suddenly felt like he was in heaven. He could no longer envision a life where he didn't feel this way, where he didn't feel you. He shall be yours in every life.

He dropped back on the bed as your hand pushed against his chest, bending down with him and bouncing your hips so lusciously against his that you actually could see his eyes filling with tears, looking up at you riding him in pure adoration. 

Bob whimpered your name endlessly, crying it out in a hoarse, broken voice, his hands squeezed your waist, your hips, your ass, anything they could possibly grope out of you.

“My God—” his eyes rolled back, arching his back as you delivered a particularly hard bounce down his cock, so deep that he saw the stars twinkle in the darkness right behind you. 

The constant filthy noise of flesh slapping against flesh soon merged with the pornographic acoustic medley of moans, shattered sighs, slurred whispers of names and nonsense words.

You kissed his lips lazily, then his nose, and his chin as you cooed, “You feel so good, baby.”

The bed was beginning to creak beneath the ruthless sway of your hips, ass bouncing up and down heavy against his thighs, so deep that every time you bottomed out you felt him in your throat. His heavy balls were pressed hard against your ass, throbbing, so ready to give you everything they had, to fill you up to the brim, as if it were his sole purpose in life. 

“You're perfect— perfect,” he croaked out so pathetically to you, thrusting his hips up to meet yours, plunging into you as if you were his nest, engulfing himself within your soft, warm, spongy walls, pressing against that squishy spot that knocked the breath right out of you.

He kissed your lips once more and in a fragment of a second Bob flipped you over on the bed, rutting into you so good that it made you gasp between kisses. 

Bob began to set the pace just as your legs wrapped around his hips, pressing him impossibly close to you.

“Right there?” he whispered, burying his head down on your chest, nuzzling your sternum. “You feel perfect— so tight, my God—”

He kept on praising you endlessly, kissing you, grasping you, breathing in the air you breathed out, sharing the same oxygen, the same time-space that existed between you, that little inches that belonged to both of you and no one else.

“You feel like heaven.”

That was enough for him to have you cumming again, in some way even more earth-shattering than the last orgasm. Your body started to wobble, your pussy squelching and clenching so tightly wrapped around his cock. 

The light voltage in the room lowered and raised, matching the racing beat of your heart.

Bob sensed the energy sparking off your body and blending with his own, merging and intertwining as one. 

After feeling that, after feeling you so close, so inhumanly close, beyond the physical plane, beyond anything he had ever felt in his life —it was euphoric, overwhelming—; he was cumming too, picking up the pace to reach the apex of his high. 

He buried himself in you to the hilt, sobbing out a ragged whimper as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

The atmosphere shifted and the light in the room flickered once again.

His load felt hot and thick inside you, coloring your insides with his color, spurting what resembled an ocean of him inside your womb. His hips jerked, his cock shooting out ropes and ropes of hot seed, marking you from the inside.

Bob remained motionless on top of you, panting up against your face, keeping his eyes closed, buried to the fucking hilt inside your overwhelmingly stuffed pussy, making sure nothing could spill out.  

And even though his body was drained and succumbing to post-orgasm limpness, he was careful not to collapse his full weight on you, supporting his hands on either side of your shoulders. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him close to you, hands soothingly caressing his back. He sighed against your lips, slowly opening his eyes.

Until then you hadn't realized that the room was completely dark now. 

“I think we just blew out the voltage of the room.” You uttered after a comfortable silence, your throat felt scratchy and though you were still in the haze of the afterglow, your voice came out rather playful.

Bob glanced lazily away from you, finally noticing that there was, in fact, no light. He was grateful for that in a way, that way you couldn't see the blushing, tear-stained mess that was his face, snuggling it against your chest. 

“I'm s-sorry,” he stammered in his own raspy voice as well, embarrassed, as if he wasn't balls deep inside you, his seed gushing out of your pussy. “I think— I think it was me.”

“I think it was both of us.” You smiled lovesickly as you kissed his sweaty forehead, fingers tracing his shoulder blades. “Don't worry, we'll fix it. Just give me a few minutes.”

Bob placed a couple of kisses on your chest before he began to reluctantly push himself up, carefully pulling out of you. You both sighed lightly at the over-stimulation and the loss of connection. Although, even when he had already slipped his cock off you, you could still feel him inside, leaking out of your gaping pussy, trickling down your thighs.

Bob rushed off in search of a washcloth, stumbling over the pile of clothes you had tossed on the floor. The sound of his feet walking clumsily back to you made you grin.

Then he swiped the cloth in between your legs, very delicately, wiping you clean. The contact made you shiver from the sensibility.

And even through the shadows of the darkness, you could see him frown slightly, very much focused on taking care of you, sensing how the fabric of the cloth felt uncomfortable against your sensitive skin, “I'm sorry.”

“You apologize too much, baby” you tried to reassure him, already in need of him close to you again. “Come here.”

Bob instantly flopped down on the bed next to you, careful not to crush you, but with your arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him tight against you it was complicated.

In between hugs and caresses, he ended up being the little spoon, happy to be able to feel your chest pressing against his back, arms embracing his torso.

“Did I— I do okay?” he asked after a brief silence, anxious.

“You were perfect.” You assured him, tenderly kissing his shoulder.

“You too” Bob whispered back, grabbing one of your hands on his chest and bringing it to his mouth, planting soft kisses on your knuckles. The words raced up his throat even before he could think, “I love you.”

He let the words carry up into the silence of the darkness and held his breath, already considering that he had ruined everything.

“I love you too, Bob.”

If it hadn't been for you holding him, his limbs tangled with yours, and because well, you were there, Bob had jumped out of his bed in joy.

But, because you were there, he stayed still, perfectly still, and smiled, utterly in love, savoring the way you had said the three words to him.

You were closing your eyes, drifting off in exhaustion when, through your super-hearing you heard steps approaching through the hallway, of more than a pair of feet, mixing with the voices of your teammates.

“What could have happened?” You heard Ava's voice ask, her tone hovering somewhere between worried and annoyed.

Yelena sighed. “I don't know. Some power failure?”

“A power failure in the whole city?” John remarked, as snarky as usual.

Your eyes opened wide and Bob halted his cute kisses on your hand, turning his head so he could look at you like a deer dazzled by lights.

[doctorslippery]

SIDENOTE: Morning, not enough coffee yet, thoughts: Hopefully the modern lighthouse uses LEDs and there won't be any burning off of the dingus when attempting to fuck the light.

can someone hire me as a lighthouse keeper. my grip on reality is soooo stable and i will behave so normally under conditions of extreme isolation. and i promise i wont try to fuck the light

[doctorslippery]

[abbotjack]

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

[sosa2imagines]

Are you mine?

Warnings- Angst, Steve and Bucky are idiots.

Being in love with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes felt like living in a dream.

A dream so perfect, so utterly untouchable, that even the ghosts of the past couldn’t tarnish it. The three of you had fought wars together, bled together, and survived against impossible odds. You trusted them with your life and, more importantly, with your heart.

Steve, ever the protector, held your hand through the nightmares, his voice a quiet promise in the dark. Bucky, all sharp wit and unspoken devotion, pressed kisses into your hair when he thought you weren’t paying attention. They made you feel safe, like nothing in the world could shake the foundation of what you had.

You belonged to them, and they belonged to you.

The compound had always been your sanctuary, a place where the weight of being an assassin and an Avenger didn’t feel so heavy.

Missions were brutal, but coming home to them made it worth it. Your mornings were tangled limbs and soft murmurs, their warmth pulling you from restless sleep. Your nights were laughter and whispered confessions, hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

Everything was fine, until she arrived.

A trainee named Cassidy.

Sent to the compound for a few days of “intense training” with the Avengers. Young, eager at least, that’s what Fury had said. But from the moment she walked through the doors, it was clear training was the last thing on her mind.

You caught the way her eyes lingered on Steve's broad shoulders, the way she smiled just a little too sweetly when Bucky grunted in response to something she said. You noticed the way she conveniently positioned herself between them whenever she could, the way her touch lingered just a second too long.

It was nothing. Just admiration, maybe even hero worship. You told yourself that, again and again. Steve and Bucky were yours. They loved you.

And yet… doubt had a way of creeping in, even where trust once lived.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar in your own home.

Unease.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

Part 2

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

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@peaches1958 @sebbymybaby21 @ghalouha

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Secret No More

Summary: The rest of the Thunderbolts* find out that you and Bucky are married.

"So…are they?"

"It definitely seems that way."

"But they could just be really good friends."

"They're far too close to be just really good friends."

You quietly laugh to yourself from the corner where you're hiding, slipping into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. All your morning blues have been lifted by the conversation you've accidentally stumbled on, and you couldn't be more grateful to the duo for it.

"They're definitely together. There's no way they aren't." A new voice sounds from the dining room where the conversation is happening. "Have you seen the way Bucky looks at them?"

"I'm sorry I don't stare at the Winter Soldier all day 24/7." You're pretty sure Ava rolled her eyes after that because John lets out a snort of annoyance.

"Careful." A low voice murmurs softly next to you, followed by the warmth of a familiar hand. "Wouldn't want them to find out you're eavesdropping just because you spilled hot coffee all over yourself, would we?"

"Hey Buck." You lean in to press a quick kiss to his cheek after checking that the coast is clear. "Want some?"

"Can't say no to good coffee this early in the morning." He takes a carton of milk from the fridge, pouring in just the right amount in your cup. You pour some coffee in his cup, pushing the packet containing today's beans at him so that he can read what flavours are in the dark liquid before adding sugar to his cup. Two teaspoons, like always. It used to be more but you've been trying to curb his sweet tooth so he's been sulking lately. You would pity the villains he's been fighting but he has been far more effective in bringing them down ever since you cut down his sugar intake so you're not complaining. However, because of that, Bucky has been more picky about what flavour of coffee he drinks, which has made your coffee bean shopping harder.

His arm gently brushes against yours as he takes his cup from you, giving you a soft smile before heading to the dining room , presumably to scare the living daylights out of the group gathered there. You decide to hang around the kitchen first and take stock of what supplies need to be bought, a good move judging from the commotion that's happening in the dining room right now.

"I wasn't informed about any team meeting today." You detect a hint of amusement in Bucky's voice.

"Bucky?!" John exclaims followed by incoherent shouts from the others. "We were uh —"

"Are you and Y/N together?" Bob casually asks, eliciting more exclamations from everyone else. You're pretty sure Yelena just covered Bob's mouth in an attempt to stop him from asking any more questions since his voice becomes muffled but Alexei just continues asking on his behalf, clearly curious.

"Comrade, it is a beautiful relationship, you and Y/N. Why so shy? They are strong, kind, and very hard to replace."

"Alexei! You can't just say someone is hard to replace!"

"But they are! There is no one like comrade Y/N, even if you go to the ends of the world!"

Bucky can't help but chuckle, then he calls for you. "Babe, do we tell them?"

"I don't know, do we?" You step out of the kitchen, trying not to laugh as everyone dissolves into more hysterical screaming. "They don't seem ready for it."

"How long has it been?" Yelena asks. John groans in the background, muttering something about how he should have noticed it earlier with how defensive you were over Bucky back when you first met.

"I think it's been a good few months since we got married?" You frown, pretending to be deep in thought. Bucky bursts out laughing as the rest of the team erupts into even more chaos somehow, with Ava screeching at the top of her lungs, Bob exclaiming about rings, Alexei shouting about how marriage is a beautiful thing, and John face plants the nearest wall. Yelena looks stoned for a while, and then gives up.

"Wait, then why have we never seen your wedding rings?" Bob asks, gesturing wildly at the both of you.

"I can turn things invisible, remember?" You touch Bucky's neck and a gold chain shimmers into view. Bucky lifts the hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before untucking the chain from underneath his shirt, revealing the ring that hangs from it.

"That is such a boring ring," Yelena deadpans. "Couldn't get anything fancier with your Avengers paycheck? How much does Tony Stark pay the Avengers anyways?"

"We decided to keep things simple, or it might get in the way during a fight." You take yours out, letting out a yelp as Bucky yanks you down onto his lap.

"We're going to be here for a long time, might as well get comfortable," he sighs, nuzzling into your hair. You lean against his chest and feel his arms automatically wrap around your waist, securing you to your new spot. "I hope you have more of those coffee beans because I'm going to need more coffee after this interrogation session."

"You don't want to try the other beans?"

"I like the lavender taste," he hums, the sound vibrating in his chest.

"They're so cute together, how did we not notice?" Ava hisses. Yelena shrugs in response. Alexei forces John into a chair and Bob happily takes a seat, clearly excited about the gossip that's to come and your interrogation begins.

"So, when did the two of you first meet?" Bob asks the first question.

"It was when Steve brought me to the safe house you were hiding in during the UN bombing, right?" You turn to face your husband.

"Mmhm." He fiddles with your ring, clearly not paying attention to the interrogation going on.

"Hey, you're not allowed to leave me alone to face all their questions!" You give his cheek a poke and he gives a dramatic groan.

"I signed up for this when I married you, didn't I?" He sighs.

"Yes you did." Your cheeky grin causes the corners of his lips to curve upwards and he pokes you back.

"I suppose there's no escaping this."

The team eagerly lean closer as you detail your first encounter with Bucky, followed by your first date with him and the wedding itself. It was tiring, answering every single question, but fortunately Bucky stepped in every now and then, helping to answer some of them. His ice blue eyes would crinkle in amusement whenever he recounted a funny incident, followed by a teasing poke to your ribs which would cause you to squirm but you can tell he's enjoying himself, remembering all the little moments of light in his life.

You would give anything to make him smile like this more often.

Once the interrogation is over, the team split up, mulling over the new cascade of information they've just received. You, meanwhile, remain in your spot on Bucky's lap, feeling his hand run through your hair.

"I can't believe we managed to hide our marriage from a Widow, a Walmart Captain America, the Russian Captain America and a spy who can phase through walls." You laugh, snuggling against his chest. His steady heartbeat reassures you, reminding you that he's right here, by your side.

"I can. After all, we're the world's greatest assassin and a spy who can turn anything they touch invisible." He smiles softly, turning you around to face him. His hands cup your cheeks, cradling your face and he leans in to kiss you on the lips. "I can finally do this without having to worry about anyone catching us."

"I like that." You pull him into another kiss, savouring the taste of his lips. "Makes mornings less stressful."

"It also means I can constantly hold your hand now." He presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. "And tell you how insanely perfect you are."

"Does this mean I can tell you how extremely handsome you are?" You whisper teasingly, unable to contain the smile on your face.

"Always, love. I'll never grow tired of hearing that."

"Get a room!" Bob yells from his hiding spot around the corner. Ava anxiously shushes him but it's too late. You and Bucky turn to see three heads disappear behind the wall, and you scramble to smack said heads but Bucky tugs you back down onto his lap.

"We're claiming the dining room!" He hollers, then gives you a peck on the cheek. "Go find another room!"

"Buck!"

Your husband only laughs in response, hugging you close. "I'm not letting this opportunity go. I already have you here, I'm not moving anywhere."

"Just admit you're too lazy to move back to one of our rooms."

"And risk spilling coffee on the sheets? Never!"

"Oh, but it's fine to spill coffee on your metal arm?"

"That only happened once! And there's always the dishwasher —"

"No! If I ever see your arm in the dishwasher again, I will personally slap you with it!"

"Fineeeeeee." Bucky sighs. "No more metal arm in the dishwasher."

You let yourself flop back onto his chest, basking in his secure embrace as he finishes his cup of coffee and picks up his book to continue reading.

"I like this coffee." He presses his cheek against yours, purposely rubbing the stubble on your skin because he knows he can irritate you like that and get away with it.

"More than me?" You're not sure why you're feeling so playful today, maybe it's because of the weight that has been lifted after telling the rest of the team about your marriage to Bucky.

"Nothing will ever come close to stealing your spot as my number one favourite." He boops you on the nose, dodging your return attempt with his super soldier reflexes and a wide grin. "Try harder, love."

"You're asking for it, James Buchanan Barnes! Now take it like a man!"

[beloveds-embrace]

Bakery/coffee shop au where you had a very specific policy: you never served people what they asked for.

It wasn’t out of spite, nor was it an act of rebellion against customer service norms. It was simply your way of making sure people got exactly what they needed rather than what they thought they wanted.

Most of your regulars had adapted to this- especially the elderly man who came in every morning demanding a single plain scone and left delighted with a caramel-drizzled apple turnover. But then you got a new group of people.

The first time they walked into your bakery, you knew exactly what kind of men they were.

Soldiers. Hardened, disciplined, probably running on fumes and caffeine, and if the way they carried themselves wasn’t an indication, it was their clothes. Though you weren’t surprised; there was a base nearby, and you’d wondered when soldiers would start dropping by.

They carried the weight of long nights and heavier burdens, eyes scanning every corner of your cozy little shop like it was some kind of trap. Which, to be fair, it might have been.

Because nobody left your bakery with what they ordered.

The first stepped up to the counter. Blue eyes settled on you, sharp and assessing, like he expected you to obey just like that..

“Black coffee, love. No sugar, no cream.”

You glanced him over. Stiff shoulders, exhaustion hanging off him like a heavy coat. He needed warmth. Comfort. Something to loosen the knots in his back before they set in permanently.

“Got it.” You said.

Next up was the one in the balaclava. Tall, imposing, eyes dark as pitch. “Tea. No sugar, no milk.”

You raised an eyebrow. Tea wasn’t a bad choice, but judging by the way his fingers twitched against the counter, he wasn’t looking for something soothing- he was looking for something mindless, something habitual. He needed a bit of a shake-up.

“Sure thing.” You lied.

The third one leaned against the counter. The cap on his head was placed strategically to make him look more attractive than he already was when he tilted his head. “Americano.”

“Of course.” You said, already planning something completely different.

And then there was the last one. Built like a tank, with a mohawk and a Scottish accent.

“Black coffee.” He said.

You nearly laughed. Absolutely not.

With their orders taken- and their fates decided- you got to work.

A few minutes later, you carried their drinks to their table, sliding them in front of each man with a satisfied smile.

Mutton Chops was the first to frown. He stared at the London Fog in front of him, the soft scent of lavender and vanilla wafting up from the cup.

“…This isn’t black coffee.” He said.

“Nope.” You hummed. “It’s Earl Grey, steamed milk, touch of honey. You looked like you needed something smooth. Something to relax.”

He studied you for a moment, then grumbled something under his breath and took a sip. His beard twitched slightly- almost a smile.

Balaclava, meanwhile, was frozen in place, staring at his Mexican hot chocolate like it might explode. “This isn’t tea.”

“You do actually like tea, but I think you shouldn’t be ordering it.” You mused. “You just drink it because it’s simple and familiar. This? Better than tea for now.”

He didn’t respond, so you continued.

“The chocolate’s warm, familiar, but the spice gives it a bit of a kick. Keeps you from getting too comfortable.”

Cap Guy was next, looking between his caramel macchiato and you with a raised eyebrow.

“Not an Americano.” he (uselessly) pointed out.

“Americano is boring,” you said with a grin. “You seem like the kind of guy who enjoys something sweet. Indulgent.”

He gave you a slow, considering look, then took a sip. His lips parted slightly, eyes widening as the caramel hit his tongue. “…Alright. Fair play.”

Then there was Mohawk.

He had been quiet the whole time, but now, he gawked at the Black Forest frappuccino in front of him like you had just served him a live grenade.

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “I asked for black coffee.”

“And I ignored you.” You gestured to the drink, entirely unapologetic. “You’re buzzing with energy, but you’re also dead on your feet. Black coffee would just make you more jittery. This, though? Sugar, chocolate, cherries- it’ll wake you up and make you happy. Ta-da!”

He eyed the extravagant swirl of whipped cream and chocolate shavings like it personally offended him. Then, cautiously, he took a sip.

Silence.

Then, in a hushed voice, “…Steamin’ Jesus.”

“Well, I only steam milk here… but I’ll take this as a compliment. Enjoy, gentlemen!”

Yeah, you knew exactly what kind of men they were. It might be just a touch too confident of you… but you know they would no doubt return.

[satellite-evans]

best friends

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando becomes best friends with your daughter after taking care of her when she's sick <3

Word count: 4.6k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It was one of those rainy mornings when everything seemed to move in slow motion. The sky was a dull shade of gray, and raindrops trickled down the windowpane, blurring the outside world into a watercolor painting. The sound of distant thunder rolled through the air, a reminder that the storm had settled in for the day.

You stood in your living room, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee, the steam curling up into the air like a ghost of comfort. The aroma was rich, but the exhaustion clinging to your bones made it hard to appreciate. You took a slow sip, hoping the caffeine would work some magic, but the fatigue from the sleepless night refused to loosen its grip.

On the couch, your four-year-old daughter, Sophie, was curled up beneath a thick blanket, her tiny form barely stirring. Her usually bright, mischievous eyes were shut tight, her breathing soft but uneven. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her little hands gripping the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering her to comfort.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face. The night had been long—hours spent checking her temperature, pressing cool cloths to her forehead, whispering reassurances into the dark. She had tossed and turned, whimpering in her sleep, too warm, too restless, too sick to find peace. And now, in the quiet of the morning, you were running on fumes, your body heavy with exhaustion, but there was no choice.

You couldn’t call in sick. Not again.

Your boss had been understanding the last time, but you knew there was only so much flexibility they could offer. And as much as you hated it, bills didn’t pause for feverish nights or exhausted single mothers. You had to push through. That’s what you always did.

Your gaze flickered to the clock. Less than an hour before your meeting.

Your stomach tightened as reality settled in—there was no way you could leave Sophie alone, not like this. The thought of walking out that door while she lay there, weak and vulnerable, made your chest ache with guilt. But what choice did you have?

You chewed your lip, fingers tightening around your phone. There was one person who might be able to help. Someone you weren’t sure you could ask yet.

Lando.

Your relationship was still new, fresh enough that you hesitated before burdening him with something this big. But he had always been kind, always made you feel like you weren’t alone in this, even when you were too scared to believe it. And right now, you needed help.

You took a breath and started typing.

Hey, Lando… Sophie is really sick today, and I have to go to work. I know this might be a lot, but… I don’t know who else to ask. Would you be able to help out for a bit? xxx

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a second, doubt creeping in. Was this too much? Would he feel obligated? Would this change things between you?

But there was no time to second-guess. You pressed send.

The seconds stretched unbearably as you waited for his response. You took another sip of coffee, your throat tight, your mind racing through backup plans—plans you didn’t have. Your gaze drifted back to Sophie, her small frame so fragile, her body lost in the folds of the blanket. She needed you. But she also needed the roof over her head, the food on her plate, the security you worked so hard to provide.

Then, finally, the ping of a message.

Your heart jumped as you unlocked your phone, your breath catching as you read his reply.

Don’t worry, I got you! I’ll take care of her. You’ve got nothing to stress about. I’ll be there in 10 minutes xxx

You let out a sigh of relief, but a small knot still formed in your stomach. The idea of leaving Sophie in someone else’s care, especially someone as new to your life as Lando, felt a little strange. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—you did. He had always been kind, patient, and effortlessly good with people. But Sophie wasn’t just anyone. She was your whole world, and handing over even a sliver of responsibility for her well-being wasn’t easy.

Still, you had no choice.

Not long after, a soft knock at the door broke through your anxious thoughts. You took a deep breath before opening it, finding Lando standing there, a concerned but reassuring smile on his face. He looked effortlessly casual in a hoodie and sweats, hands tucked into his pockets as if this was just another normal day.

“Hey,” he greeted, stepping inside. “How’s our little patient doing?”

You led him into the living room, where Sophie woke up and was curled up on the couch, watching TV with tired, glassy eyes. Although she was awake, she barely moved, fully focused on what was happening indient of her. The moment she saw Lando, she peeked up at him before quickly hiding her face in the folds of fabric, too shy to say anything.

You sighed, kneeling beside her and brushing her hair back gently. Her forehead was still too warm beneath your touch. “She’s still really warm,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else. Then, turning back to Lando, you handed him a small notepad filled with your rushed, yet meticulous, handwriting. “I wrote down everything you need to know.”

Lando took the notepad, his eyes scanning over it with careful focus as you continued.

“Her medicine is here—one dose every six hours. She won’t eat much when she’s sick, but she loves toast with honey and banana slices or the tomato soup in the fridge. She also only drinks apple juice or water, but try to get her to drink more water.”

Lando nodded, already taking mental notes. “Got it. Medicine, toast with honey and bananas, apple juice, and lots of water.”

You glanced down at Sophie, who remained silent but was clearly listening. “She likes Peppa Pig, but her favorite is Bluey,” you added, lowering your voice like it was a secret just for him.

At that, Lando chuckled. “Ah, a kid with taste. Oscar loves it too. Bluey it is.”

You smiled, appreciating how quickly he was absorbing everything. “She’s really shy at first, but once she warms up, she won’t stop talking.”

He grinned. “Challenge accepted.”

Your expression softened. “She also hates loud noises when she’s sick, so keep things quiet.” You hesitated before adding, “And… just call me if anything happens. Anything at all.”

“I will,” he assured you, his voice steady and certain. “You don’t have to worry. We’re going to be just fine.”

You wanted to believe that, and maybe you did, but leaving still felt wrong.

You turned back to Sophie, kneeling beside her once more. Her tiny frame barely shifted beneath the blanket, but when you smoothed her hair away from her face, she blinked up at you, her watery eyes full of unspoken words.

“I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” you promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her warm forehead. “Be good for Lando, okay?”

Sophie’s lower lip trembled, and she clutched the blanket tighter. “I want you to stay,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Your heart clenched painfully. You stroked her cheek, trying to fight the wave of guilt rising in your chest. “I know, baby,” you murmured. “I know. But I have to go to work, okay? Lando’s going to stay with you. He’s really nice, remember?”

She didn’t answer right away, her little fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. Then, slowly, she gave a tiny nod. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Lando crouched beside you, keeping his voice soft and light. “You know, Sophie, I was actually thinking I could use some help today.”

Sophie peeked at him through her lashes, wary but curious.

“You see,” he continued, as if sharing an important secret, “I don’t know the first thing about Bluey. And I heard you’re the expert. Think you can teach me?”

For a moment, there was nothing. But then, finally, Sophie nodded again, just a fraction more certain this time.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Giving her one last kiss on the forehead, you stood, grabbing your bag and coat. Before heading out the door, you turned to Lando one last time, meeting his gaze with quiet gratitude.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion.

His smile was warm, unwavering. “Anytime.”

For the first hour, Sophie was quiet, keeping her distance on the couch while Lando sat nearby. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t try to force a connection—he simply sat beside her, arms resting casually on his knees, watching Bluey with an easy, relaxed expression.

The sound coming from the TV filled the quiet space between them, the rain outside creating a gentle rhythm against the windows. Every so often, he could feel her eyes on him—brief, cautious glances before she quickly looked away, burying herself deeper into her blanket.

Lando pretended not to notice at first, letting her come to him in her own time. But when he caught another quick peek out of the corner of his eye, he finally spoke, keeping his voice light and playful.

“You know,” he mused, as if sharing a secret, “I have a friend named Bluey.”

Sophie blinked at him, intrigued but skeptical. “You do?” she asked softly, her voice raspy from sleep.

“Yup,” he nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. “She’s blue, just like this Bluey, but she’s actually a little stuffed toy my friend keeps in his car for good luck.”

Sophie’s lips twitched, and then, to Lando’s delight, she giggled—a quiet, sleepy little laugh, but still, a laugh.

“That’s funny,” she murmured, curling further into the blanket.

Lando grinned, feeling the tension between them start to melt away.

A little while later, when Sophie’s tummy let out a small grumble, he took it as his cue.

“Sounds like someone’s ready for a snack,” he teased, standing up and stretching dramatically.

Sophie hesitated before nodding. “Toast,” she mumbled, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Lando said with a playful salute, making her giggle again.

He moved into the kitchen, following the notes you had left. He spread a thin layer of honey over the warm toast, slicing up a banana just the way you had instructed. As he placed the plate in front of Sophie, he watched with amusement as she immediately picked at the crust first, nibbling at the edges before moving onto the softer center.

He tilted his head, noticing how familiar the habit seemed. Then it hit him.

“You eat your toast like your mommy does,” he remarked casually.

Sophie paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up to him in surprise. “Like mommy?”

Lando nodded. “Yup. First time I saw her do it, I thought maybe she was just being fancy. But now I know—it’s a family thing.”

Sophie seemed to like that answer because she grinned before taking another bite.

A few moments later, she pouted slightly as honey dripped onto her fingers. Lando reached for a wet napkin, handing it to her with an amused smirk.

“Sticky fingers, huh?” he teased.

She nodded solemnly, wiping her hands with small, deliberate movements. “Mommy doesn’t like sticky fingers either.”

Lando chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “You and your mommy are a lot alike, you know?”

At that, Sophie smiled—really smiled this time—and it was the kind of smile that made Lando’s chest feel unexpectedly full. She looked at him for a moment, her tiny body finally relaxing as if she had decided he was safe. Then, with a small yawn, she snuggled deeper into the blanket, inching closer to his side.

Just as her eyelids started to droop, she mumbled sleepily, “Mommy says you has pretty eyes.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. “Oh, really?”

Sophie nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “She told her best friend, Louisa. She said they’re ‘so dreamy.’”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Did she now?”

Sophie made a soft noise of agreement, already half-asleep. “She likes you.”

Lando’s heart swelled at her innocent words, warmth spreading through him in a way he hadn’t expected. He glanced down at her peaceful face, looking exactly like you.

Gently, he brushed a stray curl from her forehead and whispered, “I like her too.”

As the day stretched on, Sophie’s initial shyness melted away, replaced by giggles and small moments of trust.

At first, she was cautious—watching Lando out of the corner of her eye as he sat on the floor beside her tiny play area. But with patience and gentle encouragement, he managed to pull her into small activities. They built a pillow fort in the living room, carefully stacking cushions and draping a blanket overhead to create a cozy hideout.

“This is the best castle ever,” Lando announced dramatically, lying on his back inside their creation. “I think we should declare this as The Kingdom of Sophie.”

Sophie giggled, adjusting the stuffed animals she had lined up as “guards” at the fort’s entrance. “And you can be the knight,” she declared.

Lando gasped, clutching his chest. “Me? A knight? That’s a huge responsibility.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Do I get a sword?”

Sophie considered this very seriously before nodding. “But only a soft sword,” she said, picking up a plush toy and handing it to him. “No hitting, just protecting.”

Lando chuckled, accepting the stuffed animal with a solemn nod. “I will guard this kingdom with my life.”

After their castle adventures, Sophie pulled out her collection of books, choosing her favorites and snuggling into Lando’s side as he read to her. She listened intently, her little fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie while he brought each story to life with silly voices and exaggerated expressions.

“You’re funny,” she told him at one point, peeking up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I try to be,” Lando admitted. “But between you and me, I think you’re the funniest one here.”

She giggled again, clearly pleased.

Later in the afternoon, when her energy dipped, they settled at the coffee table for a quiet coloring session. Lando grabbed a handful of crayons while Sophie carefully worked on her masterpiece.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, peering over her shoulder.

Sophie held up the paper proudly, revealing a childlike drawing of three stick figures. One was clearly her, with curly scribbles for hair, another was you, and the last one—labeled “Lando” in wobbly letters—stood right beside you.

Lando’s heart clenched in the best way possible. “Wow,” he said, genuinely touched. “This might be the best drawing I’ve ever seen.”

Sophie beamed. “It’s Mommy and you! And me!”

“I love it,” he told her, nudging her playfully. “You’re a real artist, Soph.”

After a fun-filled afternoon of pillow forts, storybooks, and coloring, Lando noticed Sophie beginning to slow down. Her energy had dipped significantly, her tiny body slumping against the couch as she blinked sluggishly at the TV.

He frowned, reaching out to feel her forehead the way he had seen you do earlier. The warmth against his palm made his stomach twist uncomfortably—she was still running a fever.

“Alright, kiddo,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl away from her face. “Time for a little check-up.”

Sophie groaned, her response muffled by the blanket she had pulled up over her nose. “Noooo.”

Lando chuckled. “Come on, your mom left me very strict instructions to make sure you’re feeling okay. I don’t mess around when it comes to doctor duties.”

Sophie peeked out, her cheeks flushed from the fever. “Are you a real doctor?”

Lando gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I am Dr. Lando, and I am very serious about my job.” He reached for the thermometer you had left on the coffee table. “Now, open up, little miss.”

She pouted but obeyed, letting him slip the thermometer under her tongue. Lando sat patiently, watching the numbers climb before it beeped. He pulled it out, checking the screen.

“Not bad, but still warm, Soph,” he murmured, concern flickering in his eyes.

Sophie just hummed sleepily, curling further into her blanket.

Lando glanced at the notepad of instructions you had left, then back at her. “Alright, first order of business—water. Your mom said you have to drink some, and I’d rather not get fired on my first day as a babysitter.”

Sophie groaned but didn’t argue when he grabbed her little cup of water and held it out to her.

“Just a few sips, okay?” he coaxed. “I’ll even let you have a super exclusive VIP sip while sitting in the fort.”

That got her attention. She let out a weak giggle before reaching for the cup with small, clumsy fingers. Lando helped guide it to her lips, watching as she took a few tiny sips before wrinkling her nose.

“Bleh,” she mumbled.

Lando smirked. “Not a water fan, huh?”

She shook her head, but Lando tapped the cup gently. “I get it, but we gotta make sure you don’t turn into a little raisin.”

Sophie giggled at that, taking one more sip before handing the cup back.

“Good job, kiddo,” he praised.

Next came the medicine, which was a slightly tougher battle.

“Noooo,” Sophie whined, pulling the blanket over her head when she saw Lando grabbing the small bottle.

Lando sighed, shaking his head. “C’mon, Soph. Your mom told me you have to take this.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Okay, what if I take some too?” Lando bargained.

Sophie peeked out, squinting at him. “You don’t have a fever.”

“Yeah, but I feel like I could be getting one,” he said with mock seriousness. “Better to be safe, right?”

She stared at him for a moment, considering his words. “…Okay.”

Lando grinned in victory and poured the correct dose into the little plastic cup. He handed it to her, watching as she took it hesitantly before scrunching her face at the taste.

“Bleh,” she groaned again.

“Yeah, medicine’s the worst,” Lando agreed, setting the cup aside. “But you’re a champ.”

Satisfied that he had followed your instructions, he helped tuck her back into the couch, adjusting the blanket so she was snug and warm.

He sat beside her, ruffling her curls lightly. “Feeling any better?”

Sophie hummed, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “A little.”

“That’s good,” he murmured, watching as she yawned and curled closer to him. He reached for the remote, lowering the TV volume. “Alright, you just rest now, okay? I got you.”

Sophie peeked up at him, blinking slowly, her eyelids heavy with sleep. “Mommy was right,” she whispered, her voice thick with drowsiness.

Lando tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as he tried to hide a small smile. “About what?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment.

She yawned again, her tiny body curling further into the warmth of the blanket. “You’re nice,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re officially my new best friend.”

A warmth spread through Lando's chest, more than just the gentle feeling of Sophie’s innocent words. He smiled to himself, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her forehead as he whispered, “That’s an honor, kiddo. You’re my new best friend too.” His voice was so soft, so sincere, and Sophie’s breathing soon evened out, signaling that she was finally drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Lando stayed where he was, right by her side. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of Sophie’s breathing. He glanced around the room, ensuring she was comfortable—making sure the blanket was tucked just right, keeping the environment as calm and secure as possible. He knew how much you’d want this—how much you’d want her to feel safe and loved.

And just as you walked through the door, everything around you seemed still, frozen in a sense of calm that made your heart swell in a way that took you by surprise. The living room was serene. The TV played softly in the background, a nature documentary flickering in the corner, but all your attention was drawn to the sight before you. There, curled up against Lando’s side, was Sophie—utterly content, her tiny hand resting trustingly on his arm. The sight was simple but perfect. She had found comfort in Lando's presence, just like she always found in yours.

You stopped in the doorway for a long moment, frozen by the unexpected tenderness of the scene. Lando moved with such deliberate care, adjusting the blanket around Sophie’s shoulders. He tucked it in gently, making sure she was warm and settled in, completely unaware of how much it all made your heart swell.

It was a moment of quiet beauty, and you couldn’t help but feel a soft rush of emotion rise in your chest.

Lando caught the sound of your footsteps and looked up. His lips curved into a quiet smile, one that spoke volumes without needing words. “Hey,” he whispered, careful not to disturb Sophie. “She did great today.”

You set down your bag, your voice warm with admiration. “Looks like you did too.” Your gaze softened as you looked at them, the scene too peaceful not to melt your heart.

Sophie stirred, the gentle sound of your voice pulling her from the last remnants of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked a few times before her tired gaze landed on you. Her little voice was still thick with sleep when she murmured, “Mommy…”

You knelt down beside her, brushing a few stray curls from her forehead. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you have a good nap?” you asked softly, your heart full.

Sophie stretched slightly, but stayed nestled against Lando, unwilling to leave the safety of his side. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep as she spoke again, her words slow and deliberate. “Lando’s funny,” she said with a yawn. “And he said Bluey is his friend.”

You chuckled softly, amused by her observations. “Did he take good care of you?” you asked, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

Sophie nodded, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Mhm,” she murmured, her voice drowsy but content. “And…” She paused, clearly considering her next words carefully, before her face shifted into a mischievous little smile. “He has dreamy eyes. Just like you said.”

Your whole body locked up, the blood rushing to your cheeks in an instant. Your heart skipped, and your mouth went dry. Your mind raced as you scrambled for a response, but no words came out. Instead, you opened your mouth—then closed it—before finally opening it again, only to find yourself completely lost for words.

Lando, on the other hand, had zero plans of letting this moment pass without teasing you mercilessly.

His smirk spread slowly, his eyes glinting with amusement as he turned to you. “So… dreamy, huh?” he teased, his voice low and full of mischief.

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God, Sophie,” you whined, your voice muffled by your palms. “I’m never speaking in front of her again.”

Lando chuckled, clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment. “No, no,” he teased, “don’t stop now. I’m very interested in this topic.” His voice was playful, but there was a warmth in it that made you feel as though he wasn't teasing in a hurtful way—just in a way that made everything feel even more genuine.

You shot him a playful glare, your cheeks still burning with heat. “I hate you,” you muttered, but the words came out softer than intended.

Lando reached over and gently took your hand in his, his fingers squeezing yours. The teasing smile faded into something warmer, something more sincere. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. “I think it’s adorable.”

You exhaled, still flustered but unable to stop the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. It was impossible not to feel a little bit lighter with him beside you.

Lando lifted your hand and pressed a soft, playful kiss to your knuckles. “And just so you know,” he added, his voice dropping to a playful whisper, “I think your eyes are pretty dreamy too.”

Eventually, as much as you secretly didn’t want him to, Lando had to go. It was already getting late, and though Sophie had been asleep earlier, she was now awake and clinging to his hoodie with surprising strength for a four-year-old.

“Nooo,” she whined, her lower lip jutting out in the most dramatic pout. “Don’t go, stay.”

Lando smiled gently, crouching down to her level. “Hey, I’ll come back, okay? I promise.”

Sophie crossed her arms, her little face scrunching up in stubborn defiance. “Pinkie promise?”

Lando grinned, holding out his pinkie. “The strongest pinkie promise ever.”

She eyed him for a moment before looping her tiny pinkie around his. “You have to come back soon.”

“I will,” he assured her. “And next time, we’ll build an even bigger pillow fort.”

Sophie gasped as if that was the greatest thing she had ever heard. “With lights?”

Lando chuckled. “With lights. And a secret entrance. And maybe even some snacks.”

Sophie giggled, finally releasing his hoodie. “Okay… but don’t take too long.”

Lando ruffled her curls. “Deal.”

Sophie then turned to you and grabbed your hand. “Come, Mommy. You have to walk him to the door.”

Lando arched a brow, clearly amused. “Oh, do I get an escort?”

Sophie nodded seriously. “Mommy has to say goodbye properly.”

Your cheeks warmed again, but you didn’t argue, letting Sophie lead the way as the three of you walked to the door.

When you reached it, Sophie turned to Lando. “Bye-bye, Lando.”

He smiled, bending down to give her a quick hug. “Bye, kiddo. Sleep tight, okay?”

Sophie nodded before stepping back, watching intently as if she was expecting something.

Lando turned to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for trusting me with her today.”

You exhaled, offering him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Lando took a small step closer, tilting his head slightly. “Anytime.”

For a moment, you both just stood there, caught in the quiet, comfortable tension between you.

And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

Lando froze for half a second, his breath hitching ever so slightly—but when you pulled back, his lips stretched into the slowest, most heart-melting smile you had ever seen.

“Was that a thank-you?” he teased, though his voice was lower, warmer.

You laughed softly. “Maybe.”

His eyes flickered between yours, something unspoken passing between you, before he lifted a hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary.

“I really like being here,” he admitted quietly.

You swallowed, your heart skipping a beat. “I really like you being here.”

And then, before you could completely process it, Lando leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, tender kiss.

It was soft and warm, hesitant yet sure, the kind of kiss that left no doubt about where things were heading between you.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “So… should I expect Sophie to tell you stuff about me too?”

You groaned, laughing against him. “Oh God, she totally will.”

Lando grinned, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before pulling back. “Guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

From behind you, Sophie giggled. “Mommy likes you sooo much.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Sophie.”

Lando only laughed, giving your hand one last squeeze before stepping outside. “See you soon.”

And as he walked down the path, you stood in the doorway with Sophie, watching him go—your heart already longing for the moment he would come back.

[doctorslippery]

Superman going around the world so that his first cup of coffee in the morning is always a fresh morning, crisp cup of coffee.

Superman by itoscaresme.

[valkyriexo]

Pheromoan | Lee Know

ᑉ³pairing; Best friend Lee Know x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Fluff, Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ( not spoiling it but it’s smut just … it’s smut)

ᑉ³Authors Note; A huge thank you to @skzdreamer13 for beta reading—you're the best! 💖 Just a quick heads-up: I switch between Minho and Lee Know throughout this fic, so keep that in mind while reading. Hope you enjoy, and feel free to share your thoughts!

Lee Know’s house was quiet when you arrived, the evening air sending a chill down your spine as you stepped up to his door. You knocked twice, shifting on your feet as you waited. A few seconds passed before the door swung open.

And then....

He just stood there.

He looked frozen in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorknob, the other gripping his phone. His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, he didn’t move. His fingers twitched slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. His brows pulled together, eyes flicking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time.

“…Hi?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

He blinked once, twice. Then, like shaking himself out of a daze, he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Still a little thrown by his reaction, you stepped inside, kicking your shoes off and setting your bag down near the entrance.

The scent of coffee lingered in the air, strong and familiar.

Just like him.

You turned to face him, catching the way his fingers curled slightly around the hem of his hoodie. His gaze flicked up, meeting yours for half a second before dropping again.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s with you?”

Minho exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, suspicion taking over. But before you could press further, he turned on his heel, walking toward the kitchen.

You frowned but followed him anyway, watching as he moved around the kitchen with that effortless grace he always had. He reached for a mug, fingers curling around the handle a little too tightly, and you swore you saw the slightest tremor in his hands before he busied himself with the coffee machine.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t like making coffee for other people,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Minho scoffed, keeping his back to you as he poured the dark liquid into a mug. “I don’t.”

A pause.

“But you’re already here.”

Your lips twitched at his halfhearted grumble, but the nagging feeling that something was off didn’t disappear. He was avoiding looking at you, focusing way too much on pouring the coffee, like it required all of his attention. Brushing it off, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table as a grin tugged at your lips. 

“Okay, you are not ready for what I’m about to tell you.”

Minho finally turned, setting your mug down in front of you before grabbing his own. He lifted it to his lips, fingers curling slightly around the ceramic. “Yeah?”

“Well,” you continued, already getting into it, “So, you know how Yuna lives in the same apartment building as me, right? Like, literally two doors down?”

Minho nodded slowly, bringing the cup to his lips, blowing softly over the steam. “Mhm.”

“Well.” You leaned in, dropping your voice as if someone might be listening. “I was leaving for work this morning, just stepping out into the hall, minding my business...when bam! Who do I see walking out of her apartment at six in the morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

Minho’s fingers twitched around his mug, but he took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. “Who?”

“And I don’t mean ‘oh, he’s just an early riser, out for a morning stroll’ kind of vibe. No. This man stumbled out of there looking wrecked. Shirt all wrinkled, tie shoved in his pocket, hair a mess......like he’d just rolled out of bed.” 

Minho swallowed hard, then subtly shifted… just an inch. His eyes flicked to the side before returning to his cup.

You didn’t notice.

“And listen,” you continued, waving a hand for emphasis. “At first, I wasn’t even thinking SCANDAL!!! I was just trying to get a good look at this man. Like, good for you, Yuna, finally with a man, you know? I was ready to send a whole ‘you go, girl’ text.”

Minho cleared his throat, barely audible. His fingers flexed against the mug before he slowly lowered it, resting it on the table.

“But then,” you said, dragging it out for effect, “I saw who it was.”

Minho’s grip on his cup tightened.

You leaned in, eyes wide. “Minho.” 

His jaw tensed.

 “.....It was Park Jin-young”

Minho’s nostrils flared just slightly.

“And then—then—he saw me. The second we made eye contact, his entire soul left his body. Like, this man panicked. He froze, looked back at her door like he could somehow undo reality, then speed-walked down the hallway like a guilty teenager sneaking out after curfew.”

Minho finally moved...lifting his cup back up to his face, but instead of drinking, he pressed it against his lips like he needed the heat to ground him.

You kept going.

“And Yuna?” You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, she was even worse. I caught her peeking through the door crack, wearing somebody’s oversized hoodie.....definitely not hers, by the way.....like she was trying to assess the damage before committing to showing her face.”

Minho’s fingers drummed against the table.....slow, measured taps.

His knee started bouncing.

“She gasped. Like, full-on, hand-over-mouth, eyes-wide, like she just got caught committing treason. And then—do you know what she said?”

He inhaled deeply, pressing the cup harder against his lips, eyes unfocused.

“She had the audacity to look me dead in the eye and say—” You threw up air quotes. “‘It’s not what it looks like.’”

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. He shifted again, subtly angling himself away from you.

You scoffed, oblivious to his distress.

“Like, girl. It is exactly what it looks like.”

Minho’s fingers tapped against his cup, slow and deliberate. His jaw flexed, then loosened, then flexed again.

“And listen, I know it’s technically none of my business, but JYP? JYP?! Of all people?” You shook your head in disbelief. “I mean, come on. She could have—”

“Are you wearing a new perfume?”

You stopped mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Minho’s voice was lower now, rough, like he was barely keeping himself together.

His fingers curled even tighter around his cup, his knuckles just barely turning white. His jaw flexed, and when he finally did look at you, his pupils were slightly blown, his breath coming just a little too fast.

“Your perfume. It’s different.”

You stared at him, momentarily thrown. That was what he had to say? That was what had him completely zoning out while you were delivering the hottest scandal of the year?

Lifting your wrist instinctively, you sniffed your skin. It smelled like…

....well, nothing.

“I literally wear the same perfume every day,” you said slowly.

Minho didn’t respond right away. Instead, he exhaled. Long, measured, controlled. Then, without another word, he stood up from the table, taking his coffee with him, and walked straight to the sink, bracing his hands on the counter.

You blinked. “Minho? What is wrong?”

He shook his head once, exhaling hard through his nose. “Nothing.”

But his grip on the counter told you it was definitely not nothing.

Was there something on your dress? A stain you hadn’t noticed? You subtly glanced down, smoothing your hands over the fabric. No, everything looked fine.

…Wait. Your breath.

Panic flared in your chest as you clamped a hand over your mouth. Oh, God. Had younot brushed well enough? You discreetly exhaled into your palm and took a quick sniff.

Nothing.

So what the hell was going on?

Minho didn’t turn around right away. Instead, he stayed at the sink, his back to you, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His shoulders rose with a deep breath—then fell, slow and controlled, as if he was trying very hard not to spontaneously combust.

You frowned. “Minho?”

No response.

You tilted your head, about to push again, when, suddenl, he moved.

Without a word, without even glancing at you, he took a single step to the side. Then another. Then another.

Your eyes narrowed. “........What are you doing?”

Minho ignored you. Another step. Then another. Like he was casually relocating to the opposite end of the kitchen for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Your brow furrowed as you tracked his painfully slow retreat. He wasn’t even subtle about it. By the time he finally stopped, he was standing absurdly far away—back pressed against the fridge, arms crossed tightly over his chest, coffee cup abandoned on the counter like he didn’t trust himself to hold it anymore.

You stared.

He stared back.

A full five seconds of complete, suffocating silence passed between you.

Then—

“So,” Minho said, voice a little too even, “Yuna.”

You blinked.

“…Huh?”

Minho nodded, as if he was conducting a business meeting and not acting like a man on the verge of a breakdown. “Yuna,” he repeated. “You were talking about Yuna.”

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, squinting at him. “Are you—?”

“I think,” he cut in, voice clipped, “you should finish your story.”

Your mouth hung open for a second. Then, your gaze dropped pointedly to the ridiculous amount of distance he’d just put between you.

“You want me to finish my story,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“From over here?”

A single, sharp nod. “Yes.”

You blinked again.

Then, after a long pause—“Okay, what is wrong with you?”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “I already told you. Nothing is wrong.”

You scoffed. “Nothing? You’re literally standing in another area code right now.”

He exhaled, closing his eyes for half a second before forcing them back open. “I’m just comfortable here.”

“Comfortable,” you echoed.

“Comfortable,” he confirmed.

You let out a breath, eyeing him like he was losing his mind. And honestly? Maybe he was. His hands were gripping his own arms way too hard, like he needed to physically hold himself back from something. His jaw was so tight you were surprised it hadn’t cracked.

What the hell was happening right now?

You took a slow step toward him.

Instantly, he stiffened.

You took another.

His back pressed further into the fridge.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re acting so weird right now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Minho inhaled sharply, looking like he wanted to melt into the wall. His fingers flexed against his biceps, then dug in tighter. You swore you saw the tips of his ears turning pink.

“You’re not finishing your story,” he said suddenly, desperate to redirect. “What happened next?”

You tilted your head, suspicious. “You really care that much about Yuna and JYP?”

“Yes.”

A slow blink. “...Minho, do you have a fever?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Finish the story. I'm so interested. ” He said with a deadpanned face.

You raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. You weren’t sure what kind of internal battle he was fighting right now, but whatever it was... it was serious.

But fine. He wanted to play this game? You’d play.

You took another step forward.

Minho’s eye twitched.

Suppressing a grin, you propped your hands on your hips. “Where was I?”

His throat bobbed. “Yuna.”

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, feigning excitement. “So Yuna’s standing there, looking guilty as hell, right? And she knows she’s caught, but she’s still trying to act like nothing happened. And I’m just standing there, like—” You threw up your hands. “Girl. What are we doing here?”

Minho didn’t respond.

Because you had taken another step.

And now, the space between you was dangerously small.

You pretended not to notice the way his whole body locked up. “But do you know what the worst part was?”

Minho’s fingers curled tighter. “W-What.”

You leaned in slightly.

His breath hitched.

“She tried to change the subject,” you murmured.

Minho swallowed.

Your lips curled. “Sound familiar?”

Silence.

He was having a crisis.

But it had nothing to do with JYP or Yuna

Because whatever perfume you were wearing, whatever scent was clinging to your skin, was messing with his head.

It was subtle, but there. Just enough to seep into his senses, curling around his thoughts like smoke, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“You,” he bit out." Are a problem"

You froze. “…What?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring slightly as he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was on the verge of something dangerous. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked frustrated,like he was mad at you, but not in the way he usually was.

“This—” he gestured vaguely at you, at the space between you, “—this isn’t normal. I don’t look at you like this. I don’t—” His voice faltered, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t think about you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

Like what?

Minho let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “But I do, don’t I?” His eyes flicked to yours, something raw and real in them. “I have for a long time.”

Your stomach flipped, your breath catching in your throat as realization started to dawn.

“Minho…”

His name barely made it past your lips before he was stepping closer.

His scent, warm, familiar, ..... and him... wrapped around you, overwhelming in a way that made your pulse jump.

“I thought I could ignore it,” he muttered, voice tight, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Thought I could just—pretend.” He huffed out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “But then you show up here, wearing that damn perfume, looking at me like that, and I can’t.”

You felt lightheaded.

Like that?

How were you looking at him?

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hesitated—just for a second—then exhaled, slow and shaky.

And then—

“…I like you.”

Your entire brain short-circuited.

“…What?”

His eyes finally met yours, dark, sharp, sincere. His jaw was still clenched, his fingers still curled like he wanted to touch you but couldn’t.

But his voice?

Low.

Graveled.

Deadly serious.

His voice, lower than you’d ever heard it, brushed against your ear as he spoke.

“I like you,” he repeated, slower this time.

Your stomach flipped.

Minho let out a quiet chuckle, breath warm against your skin.

“Still confused?”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Minho liked you.

Minho.

Your best friend.

The person who had always been there. Who made fun of you relentlessly but never let anyone else do the same. Who acted like he didn’t care but always, always noticed when something was wrong.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Minho let out a slow breath, his expression shifting....something resigned creeping into his eyes.

“Say something,” he muttered.

You didn’t know what to say.

So instead—

You reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

Minho sucked in a sharp breath.

You hesitated, searching his face, then—

Screw it.

You tugged him forward, closing the space between you. The second your lips met his, he froze.

For a single, breathless moment, he didn’t move….like his brain was still trying to process that this was actually happening. That you had just pulled him in, kissed him like you’d been waiting for this just as long as he had.

A sharp inhale and a split-second of hesitation later... and then his hands were on you. 

One curled around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer like he’d been holding himself back for far too long. His lips pressed against yours, firm and certain, like he was making up for all the time he had wasted pretending he didn’t feel this way.

His breath was warm, his grip just shy of desperate, like he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because Minho kissed like he had something to prove. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones, make sure you knew exactly what he had been holding back all this time. It was slow, intoxicating, and just a little rough.

And God, he was desperate.

Your back hit the counter before you even realized he was moving you.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his grip on your waist unwavering. His breathing was uneven, lips just barely brushing yours as he exhaled.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him, lips tingling, heart racing.

Your lips parted, your mind racing to catch up, but Minho was already moving…his hands sliding up your waist, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—

Teasing.

Testing.

Waiting for you to break first.

And God, you were so close.

“Minho,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

He groaned, a low, almost pained sound, before pulling back just enough to look at you in the eyes.

“You have no idea how hard I’m trying to be respectful right now,” he admitted, voice rough, ragged.

You swallowed, heart hammering.

Your breath was still uneven, lips still tingling, and yet Minho was staring at you like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist, and you swore you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your dress.

“Say something,” he murmured, quieter this time. “Or I’m gonna start thinking that was a mistake.”

Your heart lurched. A mistake? The way he kissed you, like he’d been waiting forever, how could he even think that?

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

Minho swallowed, his grip on your waist not as confident as before. “No?”

“No, it wasn’t a mistake.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of doubt.

And he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he wanted to ruin you.

He was searching…waiting…giving you one last chance to stop this before it went too far.

But you didn’t want to stop.

So you pulled him down, closing the space between you in a kiss that was nothing like the first. This one was desperate, hungry, a silent plea for him to understand everything you couldn’t put into words.

Minho groaned against your lips, his control finally snapping as he kissed you back just as fiercely. His hands tightened on your waist before sliding up, fingers skimming over your ribs, your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body, the way he moved against you—it was dizzying.

His fingers dug in just enough to make you shiver before he lifted you onto the cool surface in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs and caging you in with his body. 

The sudden shift sent a gasp tumbling from your lips, and Minho swallowed it whole, his mouth never leaving yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough.

His hands slid down, skimming the hem of your dress before slipping beneath, his fingertips dragging fire up your thighs. Your breath hitched as he gripped them, pulling you closer until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The low groan he let out sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, ghosting over your jaw, then down the curve of your neck. He paused there, his breath hot against your skin, his hands flexing against your thighs like he was battling himself.

Minho groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his control snapping like a frayed thread.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, voice strained, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. His hands continued to trail, and one made its way to your clothed heat.

Your breath hitched as you felt him rub you through the fabric.

Your fingers slipping under his hoodie, nails scraping lightly against his skin. “And what does that make you?”

Minho lifted his head, his dark, blown-out eyes meeting yours.

“Absolutely fucked.”

His eyes locked on yours, and suddenly, everything slowed down.

It wasn't desperate anymore.

It wasn't rushed.

He was staring at you, his eyes dark, his lips parted slightly, and you realized, in that moment, exactly how long he had wanted this.

For months.

For years.

For longer than he had ever let on.

He was looking at you like he had waited forever for this.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. Your chest was rising and falling fast, your heart pounding.

"Okay," he murmured.

And then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugged them down.

You shivered, the air cold against your skin, and Minho let out a sharp exhale, his hands trailing down your thighs, spreading your legs wider.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough, heavy.

His fingers slipped between your wet folds, the pressure of his thumb on your clit making your breath catch in your throat.

As he continued his teasing, you could feel yourself giving in, the pleasure clouding your judgment. Your hips rocked against his hand, seeking more, and a moan escaped your lips as he slid a finger inside of you.

The feeling of his fingers inside you, curling up just the way you liked, was almost too much to bear.

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. You watched as he kneeled before you, his head dipping between your legs. His tongue finding your clit as his fingers plunged deeper into your pussy. You cried out, your body writhing in pleasure as he licked and fingered you. 

He hummed against your clit as his tongue teased your tight hole.

“oh my fuck.” Your eyes closed tightly as his tounge continued to explored your pussy, darting out to swipe along your folds.

Your moans becoming a melody to his ears.

"You taste so good," he said, his voice muffled

Your hands grip his hair, tugging at his dark hair and forcing his face deeper. It was as if he knews all your sweet spots, as if you had done this before, thrusting his long digits inside of you once more.

He gripped your waist tighter, pulling you closer as he began to thrust his tongue in and out of you, fucking you with his mouth.

You were trembling now, the pleasure almost too much.

It wasnt long before your mouth fell open in a silent scream and your cunt clenched around his fingers, walls spasming as you reached your orgasm and your cum trailed down the expanse of your thigh.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he growled.

But Minho wasn't done with you. Not even close.

"I need you," he groaned, his voice hoarse. "Please."

You couldn't refuse him. Not when he was looking at you like that, with pure, unadulterated want.

He stood up and you could see his cock straining against his jeans, his breathing ragged.

You leaned forward, your lips capturing his in a heated kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth. He moaned against your lips, his fingers tightening on your hips.

You reached down, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. You managed to unbutton them and shove them down his thighs, revealing his achingly hard cock.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking him slowly, reveling in the sounds he was making.

He groaned, his hips jerking against yours, his breathing becoming more ragged as you continued to tease him.

"Do you want me?"" he said, his voice hoarse.

You lifted your hips, allowing him to position himself at your entrance.

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with desire and want.

You nodded. "Yes."

He pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply as he slowly slid his cock between your folds, the tip smearing his precum along your entrance before he pushed in, slow and deep, stretching you out. You gasped against his lips, the feeling of him filling you overwhelming.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, his voice shaking, his hands tightening on your thighs. “You’re... Fuck. youre so tight, baby-”

His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer as he began to move, his cock stretching you.

You could feel the heat of his length throbbing inside of you, the friction sending sparks shooting down your spine.

"You feel amazing," he growled, his voice strained.

He was holding back, trying to take things slow, but you needed more.

"Minho..." you whimpered, your body writhing beneath his.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured, his fingers gripping your hips tighter.

He moaned, his thrusts growing harder and faster. Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Your eyes rolled back with each deep slam of his cock into your squelching wet cunt, and your free hand scrambled to cover your mouth in an awful attempt to muffle the loud noises spilling out of your mouth.

"Don't." he grunted. "I want to hear every moan."

Your body was trembling, your cunt clenching around his cock.

"Please, baby," he groaned. "Let me hear you."

You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, the familiar tightening in your stomach as the pleasure built.

""Ahh- Fuck. I'm gonna-gonna n-n-nn"

You could feel yourself nearing the edge, the pleasure threatening to consume you.

His thrusts became harder and faster, driving his cock deeper inside of you.

"Oh my-"

The pleasure was overwhelming, coursing through you, consuming you, sending sparks shooting down your spine and a wave of warmth to pool in your belly.

Your vision blurred, and for a moment, it was like everything was suspended, the world going still.

As you rode the waves of your climax, your body tensed and convulsed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Minho groaned, his body shuddering as he came.

He was still thrusting in and out of you heping you ride out your orgasm. you could see where your bodies were connected and the milky white ring that was forming at the base of his cock.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged as his arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

You could feel his heartbeat, thudding wildly against yours.

His warmth surrounded you, his arms tightening ever so slightly, as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. Your fingers curled into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp, and he exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a shudder.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The only sounds in the room were your breaths, still uneven, still tangled together.

Minho pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched yours, and for the first time all night, the usual confidence in his gaze had softened into something quieter.

His fingers traced idle patterns against your skin, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should break the silence.

“…Are you okay?” His voice was low, almost careful.

Your heart clenched. You knew Minho—knew the teasing, smug exterior he put on for the world. But here, now, there was none of that. No walls, no masks. Just him.

His gaze dropped, his fingers flexing on your skin again. “I’ve been trying so hard to pretend I’m fine just being your friend. To act like I didn’t want more.” He let out a soft, humorless chuckle.

Your chest ached. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing against his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, something flickering in his expression. Hope. Relief.

“Yeah?” he murmured, like he needed to hear it again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Minho exhaled, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with the kind of gentleness that made your heart stutter.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—something important—but instead, he just kissed you. Slow, lingering, like he was savoring the moment, grounding himself in it.

And then, just as slowly, he pulled back.

You swunging your legs a little where you still sat on the counter. Minho reached for his jeans, slipping them on before turning back to you with an unreadable look.

Then—

“…What perfume was that?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Minho tilted his head. “The one you wore today.”

You frowned, thrown off by the sudden topic shift. “I don’t know? I just grabbed one from my dresser.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You just grabbed one?”

“…Yeah?”

Curious now, you hopped off the counter and dug through your purse sitting near the entrance and pulled out the small glass bottle. You turned it over to check the label—

And immediately froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Minho caught the change in your expression immediately. “What?”

You hesitated.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“…It’s a pheromone perfume.”

Silence.

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, very slowly—

“You what?”

“I didn’t know!” You held up the bottle defensively. “I just thought it smelled nice! I had no idea—”

Minho dragged a hand down his face. “So that’s why I couldn’t focus today.”

You bit your lip. “…Maybe?”

He exhaled sharply, staring at you like you had just changed the entire trajectory of his life. Then, rubbing his temples, he muttered, mostly to himself—

“This whole time, I thought I was losing my mind.”

You winced. “Uh—”

Minho turned his gaze back to you, dead serious. “You’re never wearing that again.”

You pouted. “But—”

He narrowed his eyes. “I swear to God.”

You grinned, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands as you hopped down from the counter. “Fine, fine.”

Minho eyed you for a moment longer, then sighed, pulling you into him again, his chin resting on top of your head.

You giggled. “So… does this mean you are obsessed with me?”

Minho stilled for half a second.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered—

“You have no idea.”

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Little Ballerina | M.R X Reader

a/n: i feel like that mouse eating rn...but yay more lovebug and robby!! pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch X Single Mom!Reader wc: 2.8k warnings: semi proofread!!

previous | requests open for dr. robby | masterlist | next

Robby sighed into his thermos as he finally sat down on a desk.

As he signed onto the computer, he didn’t pay attention as someone sat down beside him. “Morning robinavitch.” 

Turning to face the person, robby stopped, surprised to see you sitting on the chair beside him, two coffees in your hands. “What are you doing down here?” He asked, slightly excited as you handed him one before logging onto the next computer. 

“Gloria said if I covered for dr. ellis today, I could get saturday and sunday off.” You grinned, tapping your badge. 

“I always forget you were cross trained..” Robby chuckled before going back to the screen. 

“Yep, oh that’s for you!” You pushed the cup of coffee towards him, robby nodded in thanks before taking a sip. “I always see you drinking black so I got you a dark roast.” You explained to him before picking up your coffee, sipping as you typed something up before getting up.

Robby nodded, lost for words. “Thank you.” He muttered, watching as you scanned the board before going to a room. On the opposite side, Dana stared at him and laughed, her glasses slipping to the edge of her nose. 

“You’re like a little boy with a crush on his older neighbor!” She laughed, robby quickly waved her off, the tips of his ears flushing.

 - - - - - - - -

The interns had followed you most of the day like lost puppies, watching in awe of how attuned you were to the ED.

As you entered a room with Victoria, your heart broke a bit at the sight in front of you; A young dad sat on the uncomfortable hospital chair, leaning over his baby trying to calm the poor baby down. 

You introduced yourself and the others before beginning your assessment. 

“I don’t know why he keeps crying, night and day. He only stops when he tires himself out!” The dad rambled, tearing up himself. You nodded at the information and began checking on the baby with a frown on your face.

“Is he allergic to anything?” You asked. Victoria quietly watched as you examined the baby. “Not that I know of..” He sighed into his palms.

You nodded once more before softly turning the baby to check for any rashes. You quickly turned to Victoria and smiled politely. “Could you get me a towel with warm water and a warm blanket please?”

At your request Victoria took off to find the items. Leaving you only with the young father and crying baby. “My wife passed away during childbirth, I’ve been struggling real bad with him…does he hate me?” The young man broke down crying, making you sigh; he had reminded you of your days with lacey.

“He doesn’t hate you, probably the opposite, he must adore you but he’s just a little upset he can’t outright say what’s wrong with him.” you comforted the dad.

“I thought the same when my daughter was born, her biological dad wasn’t around so I was left on my own with a baby. I was convinced she hated me, but she always adored having me around. Now I have a little sidekick for everything.” You added, making the dad lift his head up at you. “Does it get easier, y’know being on your own with a baby?” He questioned.

You nodded and smiled. “You boys will be great together, always put his heart first even over yours.” You smiled reassuringly at the dad.

Victoria walked into the room, a warm towel in hand and robby behind her, tugging on his stethoscope.

“What’s going on with this little guy?” Robby asked, you quickly filled him in as you scooped up the baby and bounced lightly with him in your arms as victoria laid out the warm blanket. You skillfully and swiftly unbuttoned the baby’s onesie before laying the warm towel on his stomach and the baby on the warm blanket.

You all watched as the baby’s cries stopped and turned into sniffles. The baby boy relaxed into the warmth, making you giggle as he visually relaxed and sighed. 

“What kind of formula do you give him?” You asked, turning to the dad who watched with a smile now that his son had stopped crying. He quickly fumbled for his phone and pulled up a photo, once you saw the container you nodded and smiled at the dad.

“Poor thing is lactose intolerant.” You chuckled, running your gloved hand over the chubby baby cheeks.

“I’d recommend switching him to lactose free, and if it starts again just place him in the bath or even the sink and have warm water and a warm towel, it’ll help release the gas bubbles.” You explained, smiling down at the baby, not seeing the look of admiration from robby.

The young father thanked you profusely, making you smile and nod. “I have to ask though before I discharge you both…can i hold him please?” You asked, robby found it cute, the way you tilted your head like a little kid.

The father agreed and let you pick the baby up once more. You squealed as the little boy nuzzled into your neck. “He’s so cute and tiny!” You said in a high pitched voice, making victoria and robby smile. Victoria excused herself to see another patient while you and robby stayed behind.

The dad had placed the boy’s binky in his mouth while the boy was readjusted by you and now sat his head by your shoulder. You lightly swayed, enjoying the little warmth from the infant.

Too busy yawning, the little boy dropped the binky from his mouth, internally you cringed imagining it’d hit the dirty hospital floor. Robby watched in awe as you managed to swiftly catch the binky before it fell to the ground, you sighed and handed the pacifier and the baby back over to the dad.

“I’ll have a nurse come in and give you the paperwork for discharge and instructions for the warm baths, otherwise you two boys have a great life together!” You smiled and excused yourself and robby away.

Walking back to central you began to start the discharge paperwork, robby slowly chuckled before clapping at you, standing in front of your spot at central.

“How did you do that?” He asked, making you glance up at him. “Do what?” You questioned.

“The whole thing, the formula, the baths, oh or the pacifier!” He listed the examples off.

“Instincts, dr robinavitch.” You winked at him before going back to typing. 

 - - - - - - - -

After your stressful day in the ED, you had joined some of the workers in there after work drinking activity. You sighed as you sat on the bench, declining a beer by robby.

“Alright, I gotta go before I miss my train.” Donnie sighed, getting up from the bench. Mohan nodded and joined him, leaving you and robby to be the last ones in the park. You sighed as you checked your watch, lovebug was already sound asleep at your brother and sister in law's house, they had agreed to watch Lacey under the gist of a sleepover with her older cousins.

Robby smiled as you got up and turned to him. “I gotta go too, need to stop to get dinner for myself.” You sighed, robby quickly jumped up and motioned the way to your car. “I’ll walk with you– y’know for safety.” He added watching as you giggled before nodding and guiding him the way to your car.

As you both approached your vehicle , robby was confused, normally his three beers wouldn’t have gotten him tipsy or drunk but before robby could stop himself the words tumbled right out. “What are you doing tomorrow?” He asked, standing up straight.

Slowly warmth grew on your face at his question. “Um– I’ll probably be at my mom’s ballet studio…why?” You asked, excitement growing in your stomach. “Maybe, we could uhh- get coffee tomorrow?” He proposed, nervously waiting for your response.

“How about coffee in the morning and then dinner later?” You asked, clutching your bag strap tightly. Robby chuckled and nodded at you. “I’ll text you the cafe..goodnight.” He smiled like a school boy as you got into your car and took off.

Once out of sight, Robby silently celebrated.

 - - - - - - - -

The next morning was a rush despite being your day off of work. Lovebug had forgotten her ballet bag and needed you to bring it to the studio.

You had gotten ready in a rush before heading out to hand off the bag.

It was crazy how fast you had gotten looped into doing little girls buns as they scurried into the studio bathroom. You sighed as you finished the small line of girls asking for a bun. With the crack of your neck you turned to see lovebug in her tutu practicing rat with the other older kids.

With a chuckle you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket. Quickly pulling it out your heart fell; robby’s phone number popped up.

You quickly answered, feeling guilty. “Robinavitch, i’m so sorry I forgot about our coffee and i need to run to the ballet studio, i swear i’m just right up the street-!” You were cut off by his chuckle.

“It’s alright, I was calling since I'm running behind too.” You both sighed, with a pause he asked. 

“Do you need to reschedule?” 

You quickly denied it, “I'll be there I swear.” You reassured, already picking up your purse from the bench outside the studio room. Robby chuckled and let you go.

With a flustered face, you quickly stopped in the studio’s bathroom once more to freshen up before walking to the cafe up the street. Opening the door the smell of coffee beans wafted through the air.

You did a quick look around the room, thankful you had beat robby there. As you stood in line, you swayed light waiting for your turn to order, reading over the menu. As you stepped up to order, another person slides beside you.

You turned, ready to be upset at the line cutter but stopped and smiled warmly at robby.

“Dr. robinavitch, it’s nice to see you out of scrubs and that jacket.” You teased earning a hearty laugh. “That’s what I was gonna say, no compression jacket?” He quipped back. You both quickly laughed about it before ordering your coffees.

“Seriously though, you look very nice.” You compliment, smiling at his outfit. 

His ears turned red, “Same to you, I like the overalls.” he motioned to the embroidered overalls; they had been a matching set with lacey.

“Thank you, the embroidering was all done by my grandma.” You grinned, posing for him.

He chuckled, his heart melting at the sight of you out of the workplace. “So you work at your parents' ballet studio?” He asked as you both stood off to the side for the coffee, helping you sit on a bar stood by the window.

“Occasionally, like for the busier seasons.” You explained, placing your face on your palm. Robby nodded. You both had begun to talk about work and different patients and diagnoses.

You turned, ready to get down from the stool to grab your drinks when robby stopped you and grabbed them before returning, handing you your cup. “Thank you robinavitch.” you smiled and took a sip, robby sat in silence for a second before chuckling. 

Glancing at him, you raised a brow. “What is it?”

“You never have called me Robby, or anything else.” He chuckled, making your face feel warm. “That you know of.” You joked, “I never really thought about calling you anything other than robinavitch..” you pondered.

“It’s jewish right?” You asked, earning a nod.

Robby smiled at you, “Now I gotta hear you call me robby.” 

You both laughed as you kept stopping yourself from speaking. “C’mon honey, just say robby.” he tried to coach you. With a flustered giggle you turned to him, “Stop it robby.” You tried to wave him off. Robby stopped, his heart skipping at the sight of you laughing and saying his name, it was sight for sure.

Noticing his now quiet demeanor, you slowly dropped your smile and looked at him concerned. “Are you ok?” You asked, earning a nod from him. “How did it feel?” he asked, making you smile into your cup.

Swallowing the coffee quickly you snickered. “It felt different”; A good different, it was new and exciting.

He smiled and nodded before picking up his cup. As you both talked about your personal lives you stopped and waved to the passing ballet dancers who passed by the window, them doing the same as they walked past to get lunch.

“I used to be a ballerina, up til I was eighteen; I stopped and decided to follow my brothers into the medical field.” You explained, Robby sat up and listened intently.

“Your brother met his wife there, at your parents' studio?” he clarified, making you nod.

“She was new and he was so fast to offer her a tour of the building, we all teased him. Marissa is a great dancer, my mom hoped I would've followed in her steps..” You sighed, swirling the almost empty cup around.

“Ahh yes, the prima ballerina; the star of the show.” he said jokingly, earning a confused smile.

“She never made it to be the studio prima ballerina; since I left my mom never chose another.” You offhandedly explained, making Robby raise a brow at that.

“:Lacey said her mom was-!”

As he opened his mouth to say something your phone began to ring, you glanced over and picked up. 

“She’s what, I'll be right there!” You said in a panic, quickly getting off the stool and walked to the door, “I’m sorry, Robby, I need to go deal with something!” You apologized before running out the door and back to the ballet studio.

Robby watched, confused; turning his head to your now empty seat he froze as he noticed the item on the table.

You had been too busy being in a hurry to notice you had left your purse. With a heavy sigh he got up and picked up the leftover cake pop you had ordered and grabbed your purse and attempted to follow you.

 - - - - - - - -

Walking into the ballet studio, a group of kids stood in a circle as they watched Lacey and another little girl fight. 

You marched through the crowd and pulled lacey away. “What are you doing? We never hit people, that’s mean and there is no excuse to do that!” You lectured, holding the seething five year old, who chomped her mouth at the other little girl who was being held back by her caretaker.

“She told me that her nanny said you’re a witch and will always be alone and that’s why you don’t go on dates!” Lacey explained, huffing as she recalled the little girl's words, ready to bite someone’s ankle if they made her snap once more.

“She said what?!” You scoffed and turned to the nanny before you both ended up on the studio’s floor, you began to slap the nanny, saying names you never thought of saying in front of your daughter or the other students.

Walking in, Robby froze at the sight of a crowd surrounding a fight, he quickly placed your purse onto the front desk before getting in the middle and helping hold you off the nanny.

“Talk shit about me again and I'll make sure every plastic surgeon knows to give you a messed up nose job!” You yelled, trying to claw your way out of robby’s arms and towards the nanny once more.

Robby quickly walked away with you, cornering you to calm down, blocking out the other lady from your sight. “You alright?” He asked, checking for any bruising or wounds on you. “I’m alright, it would've been better if i broke her nose some more!” You called out, making Robby chuckle before glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see a crowd of traumatized kids only to see them all chattering and laughing about the fight.

Lacey walked over to you both and checked on you herself before nodding and sitting down beside you against the wall. “Are you ok girlfriend?” You asked, earning a tired sigh from lovebug.

“She didn’t get me, but I wanted to bite her ankle so she can't do snow angels..” She scoffed, shaking her head. Robby chuckled as he stared at you both.

You turned to robby with a confused look, “You didn’t have to follow me here.” you told him as you rubbed over a part of your jaw. “I kinda did, you forgot your purse.” He chuckled and motioned for the front desk where you laughed and nodded.

Turning to lacey you smiled at her. “Got you a cake pop.” You nodded your head to the white paper bag by your purse.

She perked up but didn’t move. “But I was in a fight, and you said it’s mean…” She sighed, her eyes downcasting to her shoes.

You shook your head. “You stood up for me, though maybe in the future you just tell me what’s said about momma ok?” You smiled at her.

With a grin she nodded before running to the front desk to receive her treat, leaving you with a shocked robby.

“You’re her mom?”

next pt

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[loveesiren]

Choi Seunghyun x reader virgin🤭 (if you are comfortable)

𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎

Choi Seung-hyun (T.O.P) x virgin!reader

synopsis: Y/n decides her boyfriend, Seunghyun, should be her first

warnings: smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, fluffy goodness

wc: 3.7k+

Lazy days like today were your favorite. There was something so blissful about having no obligations, no responsibilities pulling either of you away. It was your day off, and for once, Seunghyun didn’t have to be at the studio or in rehearsal. After months of back-to-back shows and endless travel, BigBang had finally wrapped up their tour, and all he wanted was to spend every possible second with you.

You still remembered the night you met him like it was yesterday. A year ago, you had been working a shift at the event center, slinging drinks for excited fans after the concert. He had walked up to the bar, all confidence and charisma, ordering a glass of wine with that signature smirk of his. What was supposed to be a quick drink turned into an hour-and-a-half-long conversation, laughter weaving between you like an unspoken connection. His manager had practically dragged him away, but not before he scribbled his number on a napkin and told you to call him. And now, a year later, three months into your official relationship, you had never been happier.

Both of you were private people, and that suited you just fine. There had been rumors, of course—whispers in fan circles, pictures snapped of the two of you together—but neither of you had confirmed nor denied anything. Instead, you lived in your own little world, undisturbed by outside noise. Seunghyun treated you like royalty, taking you to lavish restaurants, surprising you with bouquets of flowers and little gifts, constantly reminding you of how beautiful you were. He never pushed, never made you uncomfortable, always the perfect gentleman. It was almost too good to be true.

Today has been nothing short of perfect. The two of you curled up together on the couch, legs tangled, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence. The rain drummed steadily against the massive windows of Seunghyun’s apartment, casting soft, gray light over the room. Takeout containers littered the coffee table and a movie played in the background, its dialogue little more than a hum beneath the rhythm of the rain.

A particularly spicy scene flickered across the screen, and you shifted slightly, your mind drifting to thoughts that had been plaguing you for weeks. Since being with Seunghyun, something inside you had ignited, a desire unlike anything you had ever felt before. The late-night thoughts, the lingering heat pooling between your thighs—it was all because of him. Pleasuring yourself in the shower, like you had done for years, no longer satisfied you. You craved something more. Something real.

Seunghyun knew you were a virgin, and he respected that, never pushing for more than what you were comfortable with. But you wanted him. Needed him. Weeks ago, you had made up your mind—you were ready. You had been extra flirty, touching him more, giving him subtle hints, but he never took the bait. At first, you thought maybe he didn’t notice. Now, you were convinced he was holding back on purpose.

Frustration simmered beneath your skin, and you decided enough was enough.

Slowly, you shifted, turning to straddle his lap. His dark eyes flickered with surprise, but he didn’t move, watching you carefully. You cupped his face, pulling him into a deep, lingering kiss. He responded instantly, his hands finding your hips, his lips moving in sync with yours. When his tongue slid against yours, you let out a soft moan, pressing down against his thigh, seeking friction where you needed it most.

His grip on you tightened. “What are you doing, baby?” he murmured between kisses, his voice low, strained.

“I want you…” you whispered, trailing your lips down the column of his throat. You felt him tense beneath you, his breathing growing uneven, and when you shifted again, his arousal pressed against you, hot and hard even through his sweats. A satisfied smile tugged at your lips before you crashed your mouth back onto his.

Seunghyun groaned against your lips before suddenly pulling back, his hands gripping your waist to still your movements. “Mmm, fuck… baby, stop…”

You frowned, your brows knitting together in confusion. “Why?”

He let out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Because, you’re really turning me on right now.”

“That’s the point,” you countered, tilting your head slightly, eyes locked onto his.

His expression softened, but there was something else there, something deeper—conflict. “Baby…”

“I’m ready, Se,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I want it to be you.”

He leaned back into the couch, his hands still resting on your hips. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find any hesitation, any doubt. But there was none. All he saw was you—flushed, eager, beautiful. And in that moment, every unholy thought he had been suppressing came rushing to the surface.

He exhaled deeply, his grip tightening just slightly. “You don’t know how hard it is for me to hold back with you.”

“Then don’t.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The rain outside continued to fall, the movie long forgotten in the background. It was just you and him, the heat between you threatening to consume everything in its path.

And then, finally, he pulled you down, crashing his lips to yours, surrendering to the inevitable.

You smiled, pressing your body flush against his, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his clothes. His lips moved against yours with an intoxicating rhythm, tongues tangling in a slow, deliberate dance. Your hands, desperate and trembling with need, flew to his waistband, fingers fumbling with the fabric in an attempt to rid him of it.

"Settle, baby," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "Let me take care of you first, yeah? Gotta get you ready…" He punctuated his words with a sharp nip at your neck, making you shudder beneath him.

"Okay…" you panted, breathless, your body already pulsing with anticipation.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, his fingers tracing over the damp heat between your thighs. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as his middle finger ran teasingly through your slick folds, barely pressing against you. Your body trembled at the sensation.

"You tell me if you want me to stop, okay? At any point," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jaw, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

"O-okay…" you stammered, barely able to form words. "Keep going, please."

Your plea was all he needed. His finger moved slowly, collecting your arousal before pressing inside your aching core. A sweet moan spilled from your lips, your head tilting back as pleasure consumed you.

"Shit… you're so fucking wet," he groaned, his voice dripping with restraint as he fought to control himself.

His finger pumped in and out at a torturously slow pace, the cool metal of his ring adding a delicious contrast to the heat pooling between your thighs. His free hand trailed up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lips before pressing inside.

"Suck, baby," he instructed, his gaze locked onto you, dark and hooded with desire.

You obeyed without hesitation, wrapping your lips around his thumb and swirling your tongue over the pad. His eyes darkened further, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he watched you with a mix of hunger and adoration.

As his fingers worked you open, your hips instinctively moved to match his rhythm, rolling against his touch in slow, desperate motions.

"I'm gonna add another finger, stretch you out a bit, okay?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Mhmm," you moaned, nodding eagerly.

He slipped another finger inside, curling them slightly, and you gasped, gripping his shoulders as your walls clenched around him. The initial discomfort melted into pleasure, and soon, you were rocking against his hand, chasing the overwhelming heat building deep within you.

"This okay?" he asked, his gaze searching your face, his voice softer now, filled with concern despite the raw desire consuming him.

You nodded, relaxing against him. "Feels so good…" you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder.

He angled his fingers just right, pressing against that perfect spot, and your body jerked in response. A whimper escaped your lips, sending a rush of satisfaction through him. His thumb found your swollen clit, circling it in slow, tantalizing strokes, building you up higher, faster.

The tension coiled in your stomach, your breaths growing shorter, panting his name like a prayer.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he coaxed, his lips tracing the curve of your jaw. "Cum for me like a good girl…"

His words were your undoing. The knot in your core unraveled, pleasure washing over you in waves as your body trembled on top of him. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your nails digging into his shoulders as you let go with a cry of bliss.

"Fuck!" you gasped, your body pulsing against him, shuddering as he helped you ride out your high.

"That's my girl…" he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, watching you with dark, lust-blown eyes.

As your body relaxed against him, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips. His tongue darted out, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours.

"That was amazing…" you panted, a lazy, sated smile tugging at your lips. "I want more."

Seunghyun exhaled a shaky breath, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "You sure?"

You nodded eagerly. "Please. I want to have sex with you."

A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his chest as his hands found your hips, gripping them firmly. "Fuuckkk…" he exhaled, his head dropping to your shoulder for a moment before lifting to meet your gaze. His hands slid down to palm your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh.

Then, with effortless strength, he lifted you into his arms. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Where are we going?" you asked, your voice soft, innocent despite the fire still burning between your thighs.

He smirked, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before whispering, "Your first time is not going to happen on the couch. I’m going to make love to you properly. In our bed."

Your heart swelled at the possessiveness in his tone, at the way he said "our bed" like it had always been yours, like you belonged there—with him.

Smiling, you tightened your hold around him, letting him carry you away, excitement building at your core once again.

Seunghyun’s lips molded to yours, slow and deep, before he gently pushed you back onto the bed. A surprised giggle bubbled from your lips as you bounced against the soft mattress, your breath catching when you looked up at him. The way he stood there, dark eyes locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths—it sent heat rushing through your veins.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, he peeled his shirt over his head.

Your lips parted slightly as you took him in, the golden glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows over the defined ridges of his body. He was tan, toned, every inch of him sculpted like a masterpiece. You’d seen him like this before, but something about this moment felt entirely different—maybe because you knew you were about to experience all of him. No barriers, no teasing restraint. Just raw, unfiltered desire.

A shiver ran down your spine as he leaned down, hovering over you, his warmth seeping into your skin. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers tracing along your jawline with an almost reverent touch before he guided your lips back to his. His kiss was slow, intoxicating, his tongue gliding against yours in a way that made your head spin.

You moaned softly into his mouth, your body arching instinctively toward him. Sure, you’d kissed Seunghyun plenty of times before. But not like this. Not with this kind of hunger—like he was trying to memorize the taste of you, like he needed you to breathe.

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips featherlight as they traced over your stomach, your ribs, before settling on your breast. A sharp gasp left your lips as he massaged the soft flesh, his thumb grazing over your nipple before rolling it between his fingers. The sensation made your breath hitch, your thighs pressing together in anticipation.

“That feel good, baby?” His voice was husky, dripping with desire, his lips brushing against your neck, tracing a path down to your shoulder.

“Mhmm…” you whimpered, barely able to form words. “S’good…”

Seunghyun sat up slightly, his fingers curling around the hem of your shirt—well, his shirt, the one you’d been lounging in all day. He tugged it up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you beneath him, bare and vulnerable, but entirely unafraid.

“You’re so fucking beautiful…” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Warmth bloomed in your chest at his words. You believed him when he told you that. With him, you never had to second-guess, never had to doubt.

Still, you couldn’t help but tease him, arching your back slightly as you looked up at him through your lashes. “I wanna be sexy,” you murmured, lips curling into a playful smirk.

Seunghyun groaned, dropping his forehead against yours. “God, you are so. fucking. sexy.” His voice was strained, thick with want, before he crashed his lips onto yours again—this time, rougher, more desperate. His kiss left you breathless, lips swollen, body aching for more.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You think I didn’t notice how flirty you’ve been the past few weeks?” His hand trailed down your stomach, slow and teasing, before slipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. “Wearing those tiny shorts around the house… giving me those innocent little looks with those big, pretty eyes…” His fingers dipped lower, grazing over the growing heat between your thighs. “Pressing your tits together just to see me react.”

You gasped as he slid a single finger into you, your body jolting at the sensation.

“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy,” he growled, watching your reaction intently, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you still.

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with something dark and knowing. “Yeah,” he murmured, slipping his finger out only to circle your entrance, teasing, taunting.

You let out a needy whimper, your body straining toward him. “So, what are you gonna do about it?” 

He sat back, hooking his fingers into your sweatpants and dragging them down your legs with a slow, torturous precision. He tossed them to the side without a care, his gaze locked onto you, devouring you whole. And then, with a wicked grin, he settled between your thighs. “Guess you’re about to find out.”

You barely processed his words before his tongue found your clit, swirling over your sensitive bud with a slow, devastating precision. A shuddering gasp left your lips as pleasure shot through you like a live wire, your fingers clawing at the sheets, searching for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

“Oh, fuck! Seunghyun!” Your voice was wrecked, desperate, a plea wrapped in pleasure.

Your hands found his hair, threading your fingers through it, tugging just enough to feel him groan against you. The vibration sent another sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core. He devoured you like a man starved, every stroke of his tongue possessive, every flick of his lips insatiable.

“God, you taste so fucking good…” he murmured, voice thick with lust before diving back in, his tongue lapping at you like he couldn't get enough.

Your thighs trembled, the telltale knot in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter, seconds away from snapping. It was overwhelming, his mouth, his hands gripping your hips like he owned you, the heat pooling in your lower belly—

“Oh, God, I’m close—Seunghyun, stop!”

The words left you in a breathless rush, and instantly, he pulled away, his head snapping up in alarm. His lips were slick with you, his eyes wide with concern.

“What? I’m sorry!” His reaction was immediate, panicked, as if he’d done something wrong.

A breathless giggle bubbled from your lips as you reached for him, your fingers tilting his chin up. “No, it’s okay,” you reassured him, still panting. “I just want to cum on your dick.”

His pupils darkened, his lips parting slightly at your words. A slow, sinful smile spread across his face as he crawled up your body, his hands trailing reverently over your curves, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“Are you sure you want this?” His voice was softer now, hesitant. His biggest fear wasn’t the moment—it was making you feel anything less than cherished.

Your hands framed his face, your thumb stroking over his cheek. “I do, Se. I love you. And I trust you.”

Something shifted in his gaze, something deeper, something sacred. His entire body seemed to melt at your confession, and he captured your lips in a kiss so slow and tender it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I love you, too.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it was raw, unfiltered, filled with emotion.

He sat back just enough to rid himself of his sweatpants and boxers, his gaze never leaving yours. Your heart raced in anticipation as he settled between your thighs, his tip teasing your entrance, running through your slick folds.

Your breath hitched, every nerve ending in your body alive with anticipation. This was it—a moment you had dreamed about, wondered about, and now, it was happening.

He pressed into you slowly, his thick length stretching you inch by inch. The pleasure was laced with a sharp sting, your body adjusting to the new intrusion. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you gasped.

“Shit…” you breathed, trying to relax around him.

His brows furrowed immediately. “Want me to stop?” His voice was urgent, worried.

You shook your head. “No, no. Keep going. Just…slow…”

He nodded, placing a grounding hand on your hip as he continued to push in, giving you time to adjust. His breath came out in a shudder when he bottomed out, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” he groaned, his grip on you tightening as he fought to stay still.

You let out a shaky chuckle, the initial discomfort giving way to something warmer, something deeper.

“Feel okay?” he asked, his lips brushing over your jaw, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

“Yeah…” you whispered, your body finally accommodating him. “Just…God, you’re big…”

A low, amused laugh rumbled from his chest, and he kissed you softly. “Just try to relax, okay? We can stay just like this if you need to.”

You took a slow breath, allowing your body to mold around him, to welcome him. His lips trailed featherlight kisses across your face, his patience endless.

Then, finally—

“Okay,” you breathed, meeting his gaze. “You can move.”

He searched your face for any uncertainty, but when he found none, he gave you a slow, deep kiss and pulled out just enough before thrusting back in. The motion sent a delicious spark through you, the pleasure beginning to eclipse the ache.

His movements were deliberate, slow and steady, giving you time to adjust, to feel every inch of him. And then, the pain was gone—replaced by something so intoxicating it had you gasping his name.

“You feel so good…” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck as his pace increased just slightly.

“Go faster, please,” you begged, your voice breathless, needy.

He groaned at your words and obeyed, his hips moving with more urgency, more purpose, hitting that perfect spot inside of you. A strangled moan escaped your lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Oh my God…” you panted, pleasure coursing through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last long…” Seunghyun admitted, his voice strained, his control slipping.

“Me either,” you whined, eyes shut tight, the build-up sending you dangerously close to the edge. “I’m on the pill.”

His movements faltered for half a second, his eyes flicking to yours in shock. “What?”

A breathless smirk played on your lips. “Told you I was ready.”

Something snapped in him at that. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and he grabbed your leg, pushing it back just enough to hit even deeper.

“I fucking love you, Y/N,” he groaned before pounding into you with newfound intensity, his thrusts deep, desperate, perfect.

The coil in your stomach twisted tighter and tighter, your moans turning into cries of ecstasy as it finally snapped.

“Oh, Seunghyun!” You shattered around him, clinging to him as your body trembled through the waves of pleasure.

His thrusts became erratic, his breath ragged as he chased his own release. A strangled moan left his lips as he spilled into you, his entire body tensing before collapsing onto you, spent and breathless.

The world felt hazy, your bodies tangled together, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing and the faint pounding of your heart.

Slowly, he pulled out, rolling onto his side and immediately pulling you into his arms. His lips pressed to your temple, warm and reverent.

“Was that okay?” he murmured against your skin. “Did I hurt you?”

You smiled sleepily, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “That was fucking amazing, Seunghyun. Thank you.”

He exhaled, as if relieved, and wrapped you tighter in his arms, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s take a shower, and then I’ll make you dinner, okay?”

“Mmm, can’t move,” you teased, your limbs still boneless from pleasure.

“Then I’ll just have to carry you,” he chuckled, standing up and scooping you into his arms effortlessly.

You giggled, curling into his warmth.

That night, as he cleaned you up, cooked for you, and held you close, Seunghyun couldn’t stop thinking about how much he loved you. And as you finally fell asleep in his lap, his heart full, he realized something—

One day, he was going to marry you.

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