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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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A Year of You

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

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.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #fanfiction #shawn hatosy

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leo-in-the-pitt · 1 month ago

Text

Turning Point

This is Chapter 5 of the Beginning to End series !

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: You and Jack are newlyweds who also just so happen to be expecting your first baby. These next 9 months will be the best and worst of your life whether you realize it or not.

Warnings: Established relationship, implied age gap, strong language, some fluff but also porn with plot, unprotected PIV, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, pregnancy, birth trauma

WC: 12.7k

First Night Back

Fortunately for you and Jack, Robby was able to get you a full week off before coming back to work after the wedding. The week was filled with you two sitting on the couch next to each other creating a registry for not only the baby but, for things to fill your home with eventually.

“You ready to go back tonight?”

“I wish I could stay home with you all the time but, yeah, I’m ready.”

The buzz of the ER returned like muscle memory.

You and Jack stood side by side in the locker room. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he'd taken before you left the house. You could smell his shampoo in it.

“Ready for the honeymoon shift?” Jack said, his voice dry but warm.

You snorted. “Nothing says romance like traumas and code blues.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. “At least you’re here to make it tolerable.”

You walked out together, and the noise hit instantly—monitors beeping, a patient yelling from triage, an EMT calling out vitals mid-roll-in. It should’ve felt overwhelming. Instead, it felt weirdly familiar.

“Well, well, well look who’s back.” Robby said from across the ER.

Dana held her arms out. “We’ve got a full board just for you two. Pedestrian versus car in Trauma 1. Sepsis in 3. Psych eval holding in 5 and refusing meds. And,” she added with a smirk, “some kid in curtain 8 swallowed a Lego.”

“So glad to be back here,” you muttered, walking away to find your first case back.

You and Jack split off instinctively, no need to even speak. You caught him glancing at you as he passed. A flicker of we’re okay. We’re doing this.

The night was filled with case after case, barely any time to talk to each other. Mostly just him asking if you were okay in passing. But you always made time to catch each other eyes from across the ER.

There was a lull around 2am when Jack came to find you. He looked over at you, and his expression softened. “You sure you’re okay?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked tonight. Or this week.

You sighed. “I’m pregnant, not broken. I’m fine.”

“Just making sure.”

You leaned your hip against the desk, pretending you didn’t notice the subtle way Jack’s eyes scanned you from head to toe—evaluating.

“Jack.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender but said, “I’m allowed to care.”

You softened. He wasn’t wrong. It was part love, part habit. The way you’d both learned to read each other in triage, in chaos, in the stillness between codes. Except now the stakes were higher.

6:50 a.m. — Change of Shift

You were charting the last of your overnight notes when you heard them before you saw them.

Dana, breezing through the doors with a coffee in one hand and her ID badge already clipped on crooked. Robby beside her, muttering something. And Langdon, as always, trailing behind them.

“Look at you,” Dana said the moment she spotted you, dragging her chair backward across the floor to sit right beside you. “Pregnant and still functioning. Honestly, it’s inspiring. Or maybe terrifying.”

You didn’t look up. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had a nap and a bagel.”

“Fair,” Robby said, dropping his bag on the counter. “But before we begin, serious question: Are you going to have your baby in this hospital?”

“Well, our OB is upstairs so don’t think we have too much on a choice. But no, you guys are not allowed in the room. You can all wait in the waiting room.”

Groans came from all of them before Dana and Robby walked away. Landon staying behind.

Langdon leaned against the counter, his eyes narrowing at your charting speed. “You’ve been up all night?”

“Sure have,” you said, popping the final signature on your trauma note.

“You should be home. Resting.”

Jack, walking past, paused just long enough to throw in, “She also threw a pen across the unit when her monitor froze, so…thriving.”

You shot him a glare, but your lips twitched. “It didn’t hit anyone.”

Langdon grunted. “I’ve seen less motivated attendings take two weeks off for a cold. And you’re still here?”

You shrugged. “Only sixteen weeks, not sixty. I can still do my job.”

“You look like something’s bothering you kid. You fuck up on your first night back already?”

“I’m offended that you would even think that but, no. Its about me and Jack.”

“It’s about your sex life isn’t it?”

“That obvious?”

“Somehow these conversations always turn into a sex talk regardless of how hard I try to say away from it and anyway you guys are married now and you’re carrying his child so even if I don’t want to think about it, obviously you guys are having sex.” Langdon blinked once. “So go on.”

You exhaled, feeling immediately ridiculous but too far in to stop. “It’s just- we’ve been weird lately. Hesitant. Ever since I started showing. I mean of course we had sex on our wedding night and one other time last week but, it felt off in a way.”

Langdon nodded, letting you keep going.

“He’s being careful. Like, overly careful. Gentle in a way that makes me feel like I might shatter. And I know it’s coming from a good place. I just- I miss feeling like myself. Like us. There’s this invisible line we keep dancing around, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s scared of hurting me. Or the baby. Or both.”

Langdon leaned back in his chair. “Definitely both.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen it before, felt it before actually,” Langdon said. “New father, already in love with a kid he hasn’t met yet, suddenly sees his wife as precious cargo instead of a woman with her own needs and desires.”

“So what, I’m just a vessel now for this baby?”

“No,” he said, firmly. “You’re still you. But he’s navigating something new. He’s terrified. And you’ve always been the strong one, so his instinct is to protect what he doesn’t understand.”

You were quiet for a moment. “And how do I deal with that?”

“Talk to him,” Langdon said simply. “Tell him you’re not made of glass. That being close, being touched, being wanted—it still matters. Pregnancy doesn’t erase who you are in the relationship. It just shifts the balance. He needs permission to stop treating you like you’re breakable.”

You nodded slowly. “And if he still hesitates?”

Langdon gave you a look. “Then you remind him who the hell you are.”

You laughed, tension breaking just a bit. “You’re not the worst at this, you know.”

Langdon reached for his coffee. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

“Mel is really lucky to have you.”

He smiled gently. “Not as lucky as I am to have her.”

You stood. “Thank you.”

He looked up. “For what it’s worth, you two are solid. You’ll figure it out.”

You nodded again, already composing the conversation in your head. It wasn’t just about sex. It was about closeness. About not letting this new chapter turn into distance.

You grabbed your bag and stood slowly, a hand reflexively brushing your belly.

Jack appeared behind you, looping his fingers through yours. “Ready for our appointment?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Oh my god. I forgot about that.”

“That’s what you have me for.” He kissed your cheek.

As you walked out together, the ER faded behind you. There was no need to sneak out the back door to go upstairs to your OB. Basically the whole hospital knew you and Jack were expecting. News spread like wildfire once you told Dana, Mel, Robby and Langdon that they were allowed to tell whoever they wanted.

———————————————————————

16 Weeks - OB Appointment

The waiting room was quiet, bathed in that too-soft, too-warm light that always made you feel like you might accidentally fall asleep sitting up.

You were still in your scrubs, badge clipped to your collar, shoes a little scuffed from twelve hours of trauma and chaos.

Jack sat beside you, one leg bouncing restlessly.

He nudged your knee. “You good?”

You nodded. “Just tired.”

“Want me to be quiet?”

You glanced at him. “You’re never quiet.”

Jack smirked but didn’t argue.

The nurse called your name, and you both stood. Jack’s hand instinctively found your back as you followed her down the hall. She didn’t comment on the way your steps slowed, or the way your eyes flicked toward the ultrasound machine.

“Hop up here,” she said gently. “The doctor will be in soon. We’ll take a listen first.”

You lay back, pulling up your scrub top just enough to expose the curve of your belly. The nurse squirted cold gel onto your skin and pressed the doppler into place.

It took a moment—one long, aching second—before you heard it, the whoosh-thump-whoosh-thump of a tiny, relentless heart.

Jack let out a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. His hand found yours without needing to look.

“Strong,” the nurse said, smiling. “Mid-150s. Baby’s happy to be in there.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden sting in your eyes. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way Jack was staring at the monitor like it held every answer to every question you hadn’t asked.

Then the doctor came in. “Vitals are great, weight is on track, and baby is measuring right on schedule. Any new symptoms?”

You hesitated. “Some weird pulling when I twist or stretch. Sleeping’s harder.”

“That’s normal—your uterus is growing, everything's are adjusting. Stay hydrated, rest when you can, and if it gets sharp or constant, page me.”

You cleared your throat. “Can I ask something?”

Jack looked at you sharply.

The doctor nodded. “Of course.”

You didn’t look at Jack. “Is it safe, you know to- to keep being intimate?”

He almost choked letting out a cough.

“Absolutely. Unless your having complications—which you’re not—sex is totally safe. The baby’s protected by the uterus and amniotic fluid. It’s normal for things to feel different, emotionally or physically, but there’s no medical reason to stop unless either of you wants to.”

He stared at the ceiling, cheeks burning. Jack’s hand tightened around yours again.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

The doctor smiled at you both. “Just listen to each other. This is new territory, but you’re a team. You’ll figure it out.”

When he stepped out, the room was quiet again, save for the faint echo of that tiny heartbeat still ringing in your ears.

He turned his head toward you. “Didn’t see that coming”

You shrugged, sheepish. “I wanted to hear it from someone that’s an expert in this field.”

He laughed. “I needed to hear it too.”

Later That Night — At Home

The house was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp in the living room and the blue flicker of the TV.

You came out of the bathroom in one of Jack’s old t-shirts and boxers, towel-drying your hair. He was on the couch, legs stretched out, wearing sweats and a t-shirt with the look of a man who hadn’t stopped thinking since that OB appointment.

You sat beside him, letting your weight lean into his. He immediately curled an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You just breathed, syncing up with him again.

Eventually, you murmured, “You were really quiet after I asked the doctor that question.”

Jack nodded. “Was just taking it all in I guess.”

You tilted your head toward him. “You’ve been scared around me. I guess I just thought our first week of together after the wedding would be us having sex everywhere and anywhere.”

“Yeah.” His voice was raw honesty. “You’ve been pushing through like nothing’s changed. But everything has. And I don’t want to be the reason something goes wrong.”

You touched his chest, over his heart. “Don’t be fragile with me here.”

Jack looked at you then, fully, like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “And I didn’t know how to get back without hurting you.”

You took his hand and brought it to your belly. “We’re right here. Still me. Still us.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours, like he’d been waiting all day to just be this close.

“We can go at whatever pace you want.”

“Jack, I’m growing a child, there’s are so many hormones flowing through my veins and these hormones are telling me that you need to have sex with me as much as you possibly can.”

“Tell me if something’s too much,” he said softly. “If anything feels wrong. I just- I want you to feel good. Wanted. Safe.”

You smiled. “I already do.”

The kiss started soft but, deepened quickly. Not rushed. Just full of need that had gone unsaid for too long.

His hands found your hips like he remembered them. You pulled him closer, needing that weight, that warmth, that certainty that came only from this—from him.

You climbed on top of him without hesitation. Your legs wrapped around him, his thumbs rubbed small, knowing circles just above your waistband. His tongue finding your mouth, swirling around yours. You lifted yourself around him, resting your bodyweight onto his lap.

He let out a soft groan. You adjusted yourself and felt his excitement growing underneath you.

His hands now inside your shirt around your waist. You reached down to the hem of his sweatpants. He adjusted himself off the couch slightly, just barely giving you enough space to slide your hand into his boxers.

“Ah fuck.”

You wrapped your hand around his already solid cock, your thumb rubbing past his tip, already slick with precum.

“Excited already…daddy?” You whispered, lips curling into a smirk.

He let out a breathy laugh, but there was a softness in it—like this moment meant something more than just release. “Why don’t you keep going and I’ll let you know.”

His hands left your hips and went above his head as you put your hand onto his chest. You other hand began to pump up and down on him. Firm enough to make him squirm underneath you.

He was breathing hard and fast. His eyes closed with his head up to the ceiling. You could feel the veins on his cock pulsating in the grasp of you hand.

His hands left your hips and rested above his head, giving you control. You placed your free hand on his chest, steadying yourself as your grip on him tightened. You began to stroke—slow, firm, deliberate.

He was breathing harder now. His jaw clenched, eyes shut tight, chest rising and falling in quick succession. You could feel him throbbing in your hand, every pulse syncing with his shaky breaths.

You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear. “Cum for me, Daddy.”

“Fu—fuck, babygirl.” His body tensed beneath you, arching as his orgasm hit. You felt him spill over your hand—hot, sticky, desperate.

You stroked him through it, coaxing every last drop out of him. And when you were done, your hand slid out and came to your mouth, licking him off your fingers one by one, eyes locked on his.

“That’s my good girl,” he breathed, brushing your hair back, his hands settling around your neck. “Clean up the mess you made.”

“Love how you taste in my mouth.” You grinned, collapsing beside him on the couch.

He put his hand on your thigh, stopping you from going any further. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Thought you needed a second before we do anything else.”

He nodded his head upwards. “Fuck that, get on top of me right now babygirl.”

He lifted up his hips up, pulling his pants and boxers down to his ankles before sitting back down on the couch.

You stood up off the couch, putting yourself directly in front of him. “Take them off.”

You lowered his boxers on you, red lace panties underneath.

“Those too.” His eyes were dark, voice deep.

Panties hit the floor with you stepping out of them. His shirt the only piece of clothing still on your body, barely covering your lower half.

“Come up here.” He tapped his thighs with both hands.

You straddled him again, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his legs. His hands gripped your waist under the shirt, tugging you closer. You framed his face with your hands and kissed him—hungry, messy, needing more.

He was hard again by the time your hips shifted just enough.

He grabbed himself with one hand, positioning his cock at your entrance. He slid inside you in one long, perfect motion.

Your breath caught.

He filled you. Completely.

He pulled your body closer, lips crashing together.

You rested for a moment, letting yourself adjust to his size inside of you. His hands moved to your lower back, holding you there, grounding both of you in the moment.

“God, baby,” he whispered against your collarbone. “You feel so fucking good.”

You breathed out shakily, forehead resting against his. “I needed this.”

“I know.” His thumbs followed the curve of your hips. “Me too.”

You rolled your hips—slow at first, savoring the way his breath caught, the way his eyes fluttered closed. The drag of him inside you was almost too much, but somehow not enough.

Your bodies moved together, falling into rhythm like muscle memory.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rough and quiet.

And you listened.

He cupped your face with one hand, the other gripping your hip to guide your pace. There was nothing rushed about him.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “Carrying our baby. Still wanting me to fuck you.”

Your heart swelled, throat tightening. You bit your bottom lip as you rocked against him harder, chasing that edge—but not just for the release.

His hands slipped up your back, under your shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. His mouth found your chest, trailing kisses across your breasts, slow and open-mouthed, worshipful. You threaded your fingers through his silver curls, gasping when he sucked gently at your nipple.

“Jack—” His name broke in your throat.

“I’ve got you,” he said, kissing you again. “Let it go.”

You ground down harder, your body tightening, the heat building deep and fast now. He matched you thrust for thrust, his hips lifting up off the couch.

“Cum for me,” he growled into your neck. “Let me feel you fall apart while I’m inside of you.”

Your climax hit fast and hard—hips bucking, breath caught, muscles clenching around him. You cried out his name as waves rolled through you, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He wasn’t far behind. His grip on you tightened, and with a low, groan, he spilled into you, pulling you down to him, chest to chest, heart to heart.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just held each other. Just breathed.

You rested your head against his, bodies slick and tangled and trembling.

“Fuck I missed this,” you whispered. “I missed us.”

Jack kissed your forehead, lips lingering. “We’re still us. Just more now.” He looked down at your stomach.

You smiled into his skin. “Yeah. More.”

His hands settled over your belly, still resting inside you.

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you, too.” You kissed him again—slow, deep, and full of all the things you couldn’t say out loud.

———————————————————————

18 Weeks

“So, been meaning to ask you, you guys doing any better now?”

“Oh, Lang, trust me you don’t wanna know how much better we’re doing.”

“Yeah, I really, really could’ve gone my whole life without seeing the look of your face right now.”

“Whatever, guess your advice worked.”

He lifted his coffee cup up in a salute. “My advice always works. Anyway aren’t you guys supposed to go look at a house later?”

Langdon perked up. “House hunting again? I thought you guys were getting burned out.”

“We are. We’ve looked at, like, fifteen places and nothing feels right. So I’m not getting my hopes up.”

He shrugged, easy and steady. “You’ll find it. That ‘oh, this is ours’ feeling. It shows up when you least expect it.”

You gave a half-smile. “You get surprisingly sentimental when you’re over caffeinated.”

He grinned. “Kid, I get sentimental when I care. And you two? You’re the real deal. Don’t settle for a house that doesn’t feel like it knows your names already.”

After Shift

The sun was at its highest point when you pulled up in front of the house.

Jack was already waiting on the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, rocking on his heels. He gave a small wave when he saw you.

“This the one?” you asked as you stepped out, eyeing the house.

“Apparently,” he said, looking up at the place like it was a riddle he couldn’t quite solve. “Our agent said it just came back on the market this week.“

The exterior was older—white paint a little faded, porch railing crooked. But the windows were big, the trees in the yard were bare, leaves on the ground, and there was a creak in the front step that made you smile for no reason.

The agent greeted you at the door and waved you in with a soft “Take your time. Take it all in.”

You stepped inside—and something shifted.

It wasn’t flashy. The floors were original hardwood, scuffed in all the places that said someone lived here for a long time.The kitchen was dated, but the sunlight poured in like the house knew how to catch it.

Jack walked a few paces ahead of you, quiet. Not cautious—just thoughtful.

You followed him through the living room, past a fireplace that would need work, and into a small room tucked in the back.

You looked around—window facing the yard, soft echo from your footsteps on the floor. Small. Safe.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over to the window and looked out into the overgrown backyard.

“I can see us here,” he said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You stood next to him, shoulder against his. “Even with the popcorn ceilings?”

He smiled. “Especially with the popcorn ceilings. Definitely getting rid of those though.”

Jack followed close behind as you climbed the creaky stairs, your hand grazing the banister that could definitely use refinishing.

At the top, the hallway narrowed. Three doors, slightly ajar.

You pushed open the first one. Small. Bright. The window faced east—you could already imagine morning light filling the crib, soft blankets folded over the chair you’d place in the corner.

Jack stepped beside you. “Definitely the nursery,” he said softly.

You moved to the second room. Bigger. The shape of a bed against the wall, dresser under the window, maybe a little chaos in the corners—Jack’s shoes, your half-read books.

“Our room,” you said.

He nodded, and then nudged the third door open with his foot. The last room.

Neither of you spoke as you stepped in. It was almost identical to the nursery—same creaky floorboard near the closet, same slanted ceiling that gave the space a little character. But this time, when you looked at it, you saw something different.

A twin bed. Toys on the floor. A sleepy toddler dragging a blanket behind them on a Sunday morning.

Jack moved behind you, his hands slipping onto your belly from behind, chin resting gently on your shoulder.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked quietly.

“I might be.”

“A second one?”

You turned your head toward him, half-smiling. “Too soon?”

Jack grinned. “Little bit. But not really.”

The baby kicked again—like he was chiming in.

You laughed. “You hear that? Your brother’s already opinionated.”

Jack kissed your shoulder, his voice warm against your skin. “Guess we’ll keep the extra room ready. Just in case.”

You both stood there a moment longer, wrapped in silence and the distant sounds of the old house settling around you.

———————————————————————

20 Weeks

Your next OB appointment. You didn’t remember this one either. Not that you needed to. Jack kept track of everything—dates, vitamins, test results. He was your living, breathing calendar.

This appointment you wanted go over your birth plan.

“Of course. Let’s talk about what’s important to you. Any specific preferences? Vaginal delivery? Epidural? Who you want in the room?”

You looked at Jack first. He gave you the tiniest nod, that quiet go-ahead he always gave when the decision was yours, and he’d back you no matter what.

“I’d like to try for a vaginal delivery,” you said. “And I want an epidural, if I don’t need to feel all the pain, I don’t want to.”

The doctor made a note of it. “Totally fair. Birth doesn’t always go according to plan, but we’ll make sure you feel supported every step of the way.”

“And I’ll be there,” Jack added, like it wasn’t even a question. His voice was steady, but there was something in the way he said it. You reached for his hand without thinking, and he took yours immediately.

The OB smiled again. “Husband in the room. Got it. Anyone else?”

“No, just him. No matter how much anybody else wants to come in, I need them to stay in the waiting room, unless they need to drag jack out of the room for freaking out too much.”

“Which is a very real possibility.”

“Got it. Any thoughts on interventions? Vacuum, forceps, C-section if needed?”

You hesitated. That part scared you more than you liked to admit. But Jack squeezed your hand before you could answer.

“I’d like to avoid a C-section unless absolutely necessary,” you said. “Same with everything else, if possible of course. But do whatever you have to.”

“Completely reasonable. We’ll aim for low intervention, high support. I’ll note that flexibility is key. How long are you planning on staying at work?”

“As long as I can.”

You didn’t need to look at Jack to know that he was shaking his head.

“All up to you. If you want a note that you need to stop working let me know. It’s yours whenever you need.”

You exhaled slowly. It felt like you were drawing the map for a trip you couldn’t see yet but, at least now, the path had a shape.

The rest of the night was spent relaxing before your next shift. Going over your plan with Jack again. And getting some much needed sleep before work.

That night, between cases and chaos, you caught him just as he was sitting down to chart.

“Hey, um—can I talk to you really quick?”

His head snapped toward you, brows pulling in. “Yeah. What happened?” His hand went straight to your belly.

You placed your hand gently over his. “The baby’s fine. Perfect, actually. I just...need to show you something.”

You held out your hand, fingers beckoning. Jack narrowed his eyes, voice softening. “Where exactly are you taking me?”

You smirked. “Don’t worry about it.”

You tugged him into the empty on call room, backing up until your spine met the wall.

His eyes darted around the space. “What are we doing in here?”

“Everything,” you whispered, grabbing the front of his scrubs and pulling him in close. “I need you right now, Jack.”

He hesitated only a beat, eyes going toward the door. Then he sighed, low and hungry.

“Well, if we’re doing this here...” His hand slipped away from your waist. “At least let me lock the god damn door first.”

The soft click of the lock was the only warning before you reached for your waistband, untying your scrub pants. Your top hiked up slightly, revealing the curve of your belly.

Jack’s eyes darkened as his hand found your stomach.

“God, you look so fucking good,” he murmured, voice rough. “Carrying my baby. Still this desperate for me to be inside of you.”

His hand moved lower, cupping you over your panties. “Fuck. You’re soaked already.”

“All for you,” you whispered.

His thumb pressed through the fabric, slow and deliberate.

“Ja-Jack,” you gasped, shifting your hips into his hand. “Please. I need your fingers inside me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He slid your panties aside, two fingers running along your folds—slow, teasing strokes that sent electricity racing through your core. He dipped just enough to coat his fingers in you, but not enough to satisfy.

Then, finally, he pushed inside.

You bit down on your lip, head falling back against the wall.

His other hand came up fast, covering your mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispered in your ear. “Quiet, babygirl. Don’t want anyone knowing how fucking filthy you get for me.”

Your hands searched behind you, gripping for anything to brace yourself. The angle. The pressure. The thickness of his fingers curling just right.

Moans broke from your throat, muffled against his palm.

He moved faster, deeper. Fingers fucking you with practiced precision while his thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit.

Your body started to quake.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Falling apart on my fingers. My perfect girl. My perfect mommy.”

Your eyes rolled back as the orgasm slammed into you—white-hot, unexpected, unstoppable.

You shook against him, clinging to his arm as your legs threatened to give out.

Jack held you upright, never letting go, fingers slowly easing out as he kissed your temple.

Still breathless, you whispered against his shoulder, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not a chance. You’re carrying my whole world in there.”

Jack pulled his fingers from you slowly, like he hated to let go.

You were still trembling, thighs pressed together, leaning against him for balance as he gently fixed your panties back into place.

“Fuck,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes glassy, breath still uneven. “Yeah, yeah Just don’t think I can walk back out there yet.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “You’re gonna have to. I’m not carrying you back to the nurse’s station with your legs like jelly and my cum on your thighs.”

You smacked his chest, trying not to laugh.

A sound. The unmistakable knock on the door.

Both of you froze.

Then came a voice—muffled but unmistakable.

“Hey, Abbott you in there? We got a GSW coming in 5!”

Dana.

Jack’s eyes went wide. You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the nervous laugh bubbling up.

He mouthed fuck and motioned silently for you to stay put while he moved toward the door.

“Yeah, one second” he called, voice a little too casual.

In one smooth motion, he straightened his scrubs, cleared his throat, unlocked the door—and stepped out.

“Sorry,” he said to Dana, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s go?”

Dana blinked at him, skeptical. “You’re sweating. You okay?”

Jack smiled. “Yeah just- just wanted to grab a quick nap. You know how these rooms get, pretty stuffy in there.”

You could hear the forced calm in his voice, and it made your cheeks burn.

Dana glanced past him, trying to peer into the room. “You in there alone?”

Jack blocked the door slightly with his body. “Yup. Just me.”

A beat passed. Then she raised an eyebrow.

“You seen your wife?” Dana asked. “She just kinda disappeared. Gonna need her for this one too.”

“Bathroom, I think,” he said smoothly. “You know, gotta pee all the time when you’re pregnant.”

Dana made a face. “Ugh. Say no more.”

Jack waited until she turned down the hallway before he exhaled and slipped back into the room, shutting the door behind him again—quietly this time.

You were still against the wall, lips parted in disbelief. “Did we seriously just almost get caught by Dana?”

He grinned. “We absolutely got caught by Dana.”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing—quiet and breathless and wild.

“I can’t believe you just lied to her face like that.”

Jack leaned in, hands braced on either side of your head. “I’d do a hell of a lot more than lie to protect this.” His voice dropped low.

Your laughter faded into something softer. More vulnerable. You reached up and brushed a thumb along his jaw.

“Next time,” you whispered, “we pick a room that doesn’t echo.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering.

“I’m already looking forward to next time.”

“Oh, you’ll get a next time. I’ll make sure of it.”

———————————————————————

22 Weeks

Just four weeks after looking at the house, you two were moving in. Everyone had been helping. Everyone.

People constantly at the apartment helping you pack things into boxes. Robby and Langdon going to the store with Jack to pick up all the furniture you wanting for the house. Dana, Collins, and Mel helping you find the perfect decor.

And now here you stood in the middle of your new living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the faint smell of old wood and fresh paint.

Jack was upstairs, wrestling a dresser up the narrow hallway, swearing under his breath in the gentlest way possible. You could hear the dull thud of a drawer sliding out, followed by the scrape of furniture against the banister.

Your hand rested on your belly. Twenty-two weeks. So close, yet so far.

You turned slowly in a circle, trying to decide which box to open first. The one labeled KITCHEN – FRAGILE stared back at you like a challenge. You ignored it and went for the one marked BOOKS – LIVING ROOM.

Jack thumped down the stairs a minute later, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Okay,” he said, out of breath. “I don’t care what the listing said, that hallway is not ‘spacious.’”

You grinned. “You got it up there, though?”

“Barely. I think it’s staying with the house when we die.”

You sat on the arm of the couch, letting the stretch in your lower back ease out. “I was going to start on the books.”

Jack glanced at the box. “Start with the ones we never read but pretend we did. Those can go on the living room shelves.”

He crossed the room to you and crouched down, one hand brushing against your knee, the other settling on your belly. “How’s he doing?”

You shrugged. “Chattier than usual. I think he likes the noise.”

“Or he’s already judging our furniture arrangement.”

You looked around. The couch was at an awkward angle, the coffee table hadn’t made it in yet, and you still hadn’t decided if the painting from your old apartment belonged anywhere in this new place.

It was chaos, but it was yours.

Jack leaned his head against your leg. “We’re really doing this,” he said, quieter now. “This whole thing. House. Baby. All of it.”

You ran your fingers through his silver hair. “We are.”

You felt home.

——————————————————

24 Weeks

Your belly had rounded out more noticeably now. Jack couldn’t keep his hands—or his eyes—off of. Even during the most chaotic shifts, he found a way to check in: a hand on your lower back, a squeeze to your palm during charting, the kind of quiet glances that spoke louder than words.

You were 24 weeks today, at work while he was at home. Hopefully putting together more furniture that had just come in.

He texted you during rounds. “24 weeks. Viable. Our little one could make it of their own now.”

That night, it stormed. The kind of downpour that made traffic impossible, left sirens echoing too often, and made everything feel a little more raw.

You came home late, soaked and silent. Too tired to cook. Too wired to sleep.

Jack was the one who finally said it, after hours of half-watching some muted show from the couch.

“Come here.”

You were already next to him, but he opened his arms like he meant it—like he needed more.

You crawled into his lap, careful of your belly. He cradled you against him, one hand on your thigh, the other curved protectively around your stomach.

“The baby kicked earlier today,” you whispered into the crook of his neck.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to wait until it was just us.”

His expression softened. He brought both hands to your belly now, thumbs brushing side to side like he was trying to feel her through will alone.

And then, like magic, another kick.

His face lit up like he’d been handed the universe.

You nodded, and he exhaled the kind of breath people only release when they’re holding too much love at once.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so in love with something I haven’t even met.”

You leaned forward and kissed him—soft and slow.

Your hand slid under his shirt, fingers tracing the planes of his chest. His lips moved against yours like a promise.

He lifted your shirt carefully,, until your belly was exposed.

Then he sank to his knees in front of you on the couch, lips brushing against the stretch of skin just above your navel.

“Hi baby,” he whispered. “It’s Daddy. You keep growing strong in there, okay? I’ll take care of her out here.”

You blinked back sudden tears, heart too full, body aching with love and something deeper.

He looked up at you, reading your expression instantly.

“C’mere,” he said softly, rising to his feet.

“Let me take care of you, too.”

———————————————————————

26 Weeks

The nursery didn’t look like much yet—just a pile of boxes, a folded-up rug, and the smell of fresh paint still lingering faintly in the air. You stood in the doorway with a mug of chamomile tea, watching Jack wrestle with the instructions for the crib.

You stepped inside, careful over the half-unrolled rug, and knelt beside him. “Want me to read while you build?”

“God, yes. I’ve been pretending this part makes sense for twenty minutes.”

You took the manual, flipping through to the page with the exploded diagram. “Step one says attach Panel A to Side B using bolt type—wait, why are there three types of bolts?”

Jack looked at you like he might cry. “They’re identical, I swear.”

You laughed, and he softened at the sound, reaching to squeeze your knee. “Don’t laugh at the father of your child in his hour of need.”

“I’m laughing with you.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Not yet.”

You handed him the correct bolts—probably—and settled beside him, your back leaning against the wall.

You watched as he slowly pieced the frame together, getting into a rhythm. The room felt warm, despite the January air outside. You two had basically ignored the holidays with everything else going on.

The walls were pale blue now—soft and quiet.

Jack slid one of the sides into place, then sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Oh god, it’s done,” he declared.

“Certified by the ER doc?”

“I’ll get it notarized.”

You looked around. The rocking chair was still in the box. The mobile was still in the bag. There were folded baby clothes in a laundry basket in the hall, waiting for a dresser you hadn’t found yet.

But the crib was up.

Jack sat beside you, his shoulder against yours, both of you looking at it like it had just made something real that wasn’t quite real before.

“You okay?” he asked after a while, voice low.

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just hitting me a little.”

“What part?”

You took a breath, exhaled slowly. “That there’s going to be a baby sleeping in that crib soon.”

Jack looked over at you, and his expression softened into something you’d seen a thousand times but never got tired of. That quiet, steady awe he reserved just for you.

“Our baby,” Jack said.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You think we’ll be any good at this?”

“I think we’ll be tired. And messy. And figuring it out every day. But yeah.” He kissed the side of your head. “I think we’ll be pretty damn good.”

You closed your eyes for a second, letting the weight of the moment settle.

“You know,” Jack said, voice casual, “we still haven’t settled on a name.”

You smiled. “We’ve ruled out a lot, though.”

“That counts for something.”

Jack looked over at you. “Okay, so what do you like?”

You hesitated, watching the light from the window spill across the floor. “I keep thinking about names that sound solid. Not trendy. A name that would be good for when he’s an adult trying to get a job.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I still like Wesley for a boy.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. That one can stay on the list. Even though you heard it on TV somewhere and it has no meaning to us”

“It’ll have meaning once theyr'e here.” He turned his head toward you.

“I think it kicked just now, maybe it is a boy after all,” you whispered, one hand on your belly.

Jack moved to kneel in front of you, resting his palm gently over yours.

“You like that one, huh?” he said to your stomach, smiling.

You both sat with it for a minute in silence. It was the kind that stretched and softened between people who knew how to share it.

“So Wesley for a first name or middle name?” Jack sat up, crossed his legs. “Do we honor someone? Or do we just pick something that sounds good?”

You shrugged. “We still have a couple weeks. I’m sure something will come to us by then.”

Jack looked up at you, eyes soft. You reached for his hand, and together, you sat there, naming the future, one piece at a time.

———————————————————————

28 Weeks

You hadn’t planned on finding out.

At first, it was just going to be a surprise. Something you’d discover together in the delivery room, sweaty and overwhelmed and crying. But over time, the not-knowing started to weigh heavier than expected.

Jack never pushed. But you caught him daydreaming from time to time, talking to your bump in quiet moments, cycling through baby names. Jack had a strong feeling you were carrying his son. Only talked about boy names.

So when your OB offered to write it down in a sealed envelope, you nodded without hesitating.

You didn’t want to open it. Until tonight.

“I want to know,” you said softly, sliding the envelope across the kitchen counter to Jack. “If you still do.”

He looked up from where he was getting dinner ready, eyes wide.

“You sure?”

You nodded, pulse already racing.

He wiped his hands on a towel, drying them carefully before picking it up.

“You open it,” you said.

“No,” he said gently, “I want to see your face when you find out.”

Your chest tightened. Hands trembling just slightly, you broke the seal. You unfolded the single piece of paper.

And read the word.

BOY.

It didn’t hit you all at once.

Then Jack stepped around the counter, reading it over your shoulder.

And everything stopped.

He laughed—but it broke halfway through, a sound caught between disbelief and something close to a sob. He pressed his forehead to yours, arms wrapping around your waist and belly in one movement.

“A boy,” he whispered. “We’re having a son.”

You laughed too, and suddenly the tears came fast.

Jack held your face in his hands.

“A son,” he said again, voice. “I swear I’m going to love the hell out of this kid.”

You ran your hands through his hair, brushing it back from his face as his eyes stayed locked on your belly.

“I think he already knows,” you said.

Jack looked up at you, eyes glassy. “He’s going to know everything. Every day. How much we love him. How much he’s wanted.”

And for the first time in weeks, the future didn’t feel so far away.

———————————————————————

32 Weeks

Your schedule had barely lined up with Jacks in the past couple weeks. But once it did, Jack had plans for you two.

The night went on, chaos as usual. Until 4AM.

He caught your eye in the hallway—just a glance, but you knew that look.

You had just sat down to eat a quick snack when he appeared behind you, voice low, warm against your ear.

“Follow me.”

You glanced around. “Jack—”

He turned, walking away like he hadn’t just whispered something that set your skin on fire.

You followed him anyway.

The on-call room door clicked shut behind you a moment later. The lights were off. Jack didn’t turn them on.

He just backed you against the wall with a hand on your belly and a kiss that made time stop.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured against your mouth. “You’re happy. Glowing. Carrying our son.”

His hands slipped under your scrubs. One slid around to the small of your back, the other resting protectively over your bump.

“I love how you say our son,” you whispered, already breathless.

“Say it again?”

You smiled. “Our son.”

His hand dipped between your legs without hesitation, cupping the heat he knew was waiting for him.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he groaned. “You’re always so ready for me.”

He lifted you onto the edge of the nightstand, working fast but careful.

Your legs parted, scrubs halfway down, his mouth on your neck, hand moving between your thighs until your head hit the wall behind you.

“Quiet,” he whispered. “You know these walls are paper thin.”

“Then don’t make me moan,” you shot back, voice thick with want.

His grin was wicked. “No promises.”

He dropped to his knees and disappeared between your legs, and all you could do was bite your knuckle and hope the shift stayed quiet five more minutes.

Jack’s tongue dragged through your folds like he was memorizing you all over again.

Slow. Deep. Obsessive.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your hands gripping the edge of the cot so tightly your knuckles ached.

“Jack—” You breathed his name like a warning.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.

His tongue circled your clit with precision while his fingers slipped inside you, curling up at just the right angle.

It was too much yet somehow not nearly enough.

You came hard and fast, biting back a cry as your body arched.

He stayed with you the whole way, holding your hips, riding out every pulse of your orgasm like he wanted to feel it himself.

By the time you opened your eyes, he was already standing, undoing his scrub pants with one hand, eyes locked on you like he might not survive another second without being inside you.

“Turn around,” he said, voice rough and ragged.

You obeyed, turning to face the wall, breath still uneven.

He slid into you slowly, deep and the sound that came out of both of you was pure relief.

“God, you feel so fucking good around my cock babygirl.” he groaned.

Your forehead pressed to the wall, mouth open, body rocking back to meet his every thrust.

“Harder,” you whispered. “I can take it daddy.”

He gave you what you asked for. Each stroke slamming into that sweet spot inside you, his body hot and heavy behind yours, his rhythm fast and hungry.

“You’re mine,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “My wife. The mother of my child. My whole fucking world.”

You pushed back into him harder, chasing that edge again.

“Then don’t stop,” you gasped. “Show me.”

And he did.

The pleasure built fast. Frantic and unstoppable. You reached between your legs, fingers circling your clit.

“Ja-Jack—”

“Fuck, I’m close.”

“I’m gonna—”

You came together, your body clenching around him, his hips jerking deep inside as he spilled into you.

The only sound in the room was your breathing, shaky and uneven.

He leaned over you, still buried inside you, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck.

“Get dressed before someone…

A knock at the door made you both freeze.

“Hey!” came Robby’s voice. “Tell me you’re not doing what I know you’re doing in there!”

Jack groaned and dropped his head into your shoulder, chuckling.

“One minute!,” he whispered. He pulled out of you slowly. “Worth it.”

Since this had become somewhat of a habit, Jack had towels ready to clean himself off of you.

You tried to walk out first. Tried to act like it was just another on-call nap.

But you didn’t even make it to the nurse’s station before the ambush.

Robby stood with a cup of coffee in hand, leaned against the counter with the same smug look he wore anytime he caught anyone doing something even almost against the rules.

“You two owe me new ears,” he said flatly. “And a therapy session.”

Dana, sitting beside him, didn’t look up from her chart. “At least pretend to be subtle next time. We have patients trying to survive, and you two are in there giving the walls a show.”

You felt Jack step up behind you, his hand finding your lower back as always.

“We were gone maybe twenty minutes,” he said.

Dana finally looked up. “You were gone forty-five minutes. And you walked out looking like you just finished a marathon.”

Jack grinned unapologetically. “Best forty-five minutes of my life.”

“Yeah, we all know that wasn’t the first time.” Said Robby while rolling his eyes.

Langdon appeared from around the corner, perfectly deadpan. “If HR asks, I didn’t hear a thing. But if I ever get stuck in that on-call room, I’ll just sleep outside instead.”

You groaned and buried your face in Jack’s shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around you like a shield. “Hey, she needed a break. Doctor’s orders.”

Robby snorted. “Oh yeah? Was the baby involved in that medical necessity?”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. “He approved.”

That brought everything to a halt.

Dana’s eyes widened. “He?”

You blinked, cheeks warming. “Yeah. We decided to open the envelope.”

Langdon raised a brow. “So the orgasm was celebratory?”

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Can we please change the subject?”

Too late. Dana stood, walking around the counter to hug you with a wide grin.

“A boy,” she said warmly. “God help us all.”

Jack leaned in and kissed the side of your head, completely unbothered by the teasing. And for a moment—amid the chaos, sarcasm, and inappropriate comments, it felt like everything was exactly how it should be.

“Hey, you ready to head home?”

“Yeah, I just need to talk to Robby first. Should be quick.”

“Glad you’re finally taking your time away from here.”

You went to Robbys office where Collins was sitting inside talking to him.

“Hey, you mind if I steal your husband for a couple of minutes?”

“He’s all yours.” As she was walking past you, she put her hand on your growing stomach. “Hey there baby boy!”

You stepped inside and shut the door. “Ugh, this back pain is going to have me admitted soon enough.”

He nodded and gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. Talk to me kid. Whats going on?"

You lowered yourself into the chair slowly—thirty-two weeks in, and even basic everything came with sound effects now.

Robby leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “How you feeling?”

“Tired. Hungry. Nervous.”

He nodded. “So, business as usual.”

You cracked a smile. “I- I wanted to get started the paperwork for maternity leave.”

Robby didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at you. Not with surprise, he knew it was coming.

“When are you thinking?” he asked.

“I’ll think I want to work up to 36 or 37 weeks, depending on how I’m feeling.

“Think that’s a good idea. How long do you want after?”

“Well I think that 12 weeks would be good enough but, Jack wants me to take 6 months.”

“If you take 3 months or 6 months, you’ll always have a place here.”

There was a quiet moment. He scratched something on a notepad, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You know it’s going to be weird here without you.”

“Don’t worry, you’d have to physically drag me out of here to keep me from coming back after.”

“I know.” He gave a faint smile. “Still going to be weird.”

You shrugged. “You’ll have Jack. He’ll keep you in line.”

Robby snorted. “Jack barely keeps Jack in line.”

“Yeah about Jack actually.” Your tone became more serious. “He’s just been so anxious recently, you know all the baby stuff and now the house and work. I- I need to know that if something goes wrong during delivery…if something happens to me…” You took a deep breath. “You’ll take care of Jack.”

Robby didn’t move. For a long second, he just stared at you. Then he leaned forward, slow and steady, until his arms rested on the desk in front of him. “You think he wouldn’t be taken care of?”

You shook your head. “No, that’s not—he’d survive. Of course. But he’d fall apart first. And he wouldn't let anyone see it. Not even Dana. Not even Langdon. Not anybody. He’d keep working. He’d try to act like he was okay, and it would eat him alive.”

Robby sat back slowly, his face unreadable. Then he spoke, and his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “You think I haven’t already thought about that?”

You blinked.

“I’ve known Jack for too long,” he said. “Watched him lose patients. Watched him get in fights. Watched him fall in love with you so fast it scared the hell out of me.” He let out a dry breath. “I’ve already thought about what I’d do. I just hoped I’d never need to.”

“I know it’s unlikely,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “But things go wrong. Even when they’re not supposed to.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ve been on both sides of the trauma bay. You know better than anyone.”

The room went quiet for a long time.

Then Robby leaned forward again, lacing his fingers on the desk.

“If something happens,” he said, “I’ll take care of him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t drown in it. I’ll bring him home. I’ll put food in his fridge and get him to shower and tell him he’s not okay, and that’s fine. I’ll do all of that. As many times as it takes.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

“But,” Robby added, “You don’t get to disappear on us. You hear me?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.”

“I mean it. You’re allowed to be scared. But you don’t get to check out. Not if I’ve got a say in it.”

You nodded, brushing at the corner of your eye.

Robby stood and came around the desk. For a second, he just looked at you—like a brother would. Then he reached down and pulled you into a hug, careful of your belly but not at all careful with his heart.

“I got you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”

And for the first time in weeks, your breath felt like it reached all the way down into your chest again.

You let the silence settle for a beat, eyes drifting to the framed photo on Robby’s desk— a picture of Collins and their child at the beach, sand stuck to their legs, wide grins that didn’t care about sunscreen or the time.

He caught your gaze. “It changes everything you know. Having a kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ll be good at it, though. Both of you.”

You blinked a little too fast and looked down at your hands. “We’re trying to figure it out.”

“You don’t have to know everything yet. You just have to show up.” He paused, then added, “That kid’s already luckier than most.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded. Let the words sink in.

Robby cleared his throat and reached for a folder. “I’ll email you the HR packet. We’ll work out the schedule. You just tell me if anything changes, okay?”

You stood, placing a hand on your belly with a small smile. “Thanks, Robby.”

As you turned to leave, he added, “Hey.”

You looked back.

“If I hear even one more thing about you and Jack using that on-call room like a honeymoon suite, I’m locking it from the outside.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

And as you stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you, you felt a little lighter.

One step closer to meeting your son.

———————————————————————

34 Weeks

Jack stood alone at the supply cart, restocking syringes with mechanical precision. The rhythm of it was almost meditative.

Robby found him there, hands in his jacket pockets, lingering like someone who had something to say and didn’t quite know how to start.

“Glad she took the night off.”

“Yeah she spent the whole day throwing up, almost had to bring her here as a patient. But she’s okay now, just needs to rest for a couple days.”

“You think she’ll make it to 36 weeks here?”

“For the baby’s sake, I hope not. But knowing her and her stubbornness, she will."

Robby leaned against the wall, silent for a moment. “She came to see me 2 weeks ago.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “About the maternity leave?”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “But not just that.”

Jack set the last syringe into place and shut the drawer. “Okay?”

Robby watched him for a second. “She asked me to take care of you.”

Jack stilled.

“She said if something happens, during delivery, if so…meshing happens to her, she wants to make sure you’re not alone.”

The silence stretched between them.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared at the closed drawer like it could explain something.

Robby stepped forward, lowering his voice. “She’s scared, Jack. Not of being a mom. Not even of labor, I don’t think. But of what it would do to you if something went wrong.”

Jack’s jaw clenched. He nodded once, like that was all he could allow himself.

“I told her I’d look out for you,” Robby said. “I told her I already planned to.”

Jack finally looked up. His eyes weren’t wet, but they were close. “She shouldn’t be thinking about that.”

“She’s a doctor. A damn good one. She knows the risks. Seen more than anyone should have to.”

“I know, I know.” His voice was rough, low. “I just- I don’t want her scared.”

“She’s not scared of dying,” Robby said gently. “She’s scared of leaving you. It’s not the same thing.”

Jack looked down again, rubbed a hand over his face. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, quietly: “You’ll keep your word?”

Robby didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I will.”

Another pause.

“I can’t lose her Robby,” Jack whispered. “I won’t make it.”

Robby put a hand on his shoulder, solid and sure. “You’re not going to.”

Jack nodded, slow. Then rubbed both hands over his face again, this time with more force—like he could scrub the fear off.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Robby let his hand fall away. “Just- when she needs you to act calm, act calm. And when she needs you to panic a little? Panic with her.”

Jack cracked a faint smile. “You give this speech to every soon-to-be dad?”

“Only the ones who might implode if things go sideways.”

Jack smirked, barely, but it was there. “Fair enough.”

They stood there a minute longer both carrying more than they said.

And then, like always, they went back to work.

Except now he pulled every OB resident he trusted into side conversations. Asked about signs of hemorrhage. About shoulder dystocia. About NICU protocols and what really happens when things don’t go as planned.

He framed it like curiosity, like professional interest—but Dana knew, and Langdon knew, and Robby definitely knew.

———————————————————————

36 Weeks

You were exhausted. Sitting at home all day wore you out more than you ever thought it would.

The kind of exhausted that made you feel like everything in your body was weighing you down.

Thirty-six weeks. You’d stopped counting days. But Jack still looked at you like you were the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen.

Which, at this moment, made you feel like you needed him just as much as he needed you.

You were lying on your side in bed, a hand resting protectively over your belly, when he came in from his morning shower. Damp hair. Bare chest. Sleepy smile.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking to your bump. “Need anything?”

You looked up at him, slow and deliberate. “Yeah actually,” you said softly. “I need you.”

He crawled into bed beside you, careful as always, hand coming to rest on your thigh.

“What kind of need are we talking here?”

You shifted, moved with deliberate slowness, until you were kneeling between his legs. Belly full and round between you.

His eyes widened—concerned first, then darkening quickly as he realized where this was going.

“Babygirl, are you sure ? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want you. But you’ve just been so tired lately.”

You looked up at him. “Let me take care of you.”

He swallowed hard. His cock was already twitching in his boxers, barely hidden.

You pulled his waistband down, freeing him.

Thick and heavy, already hard in your hand. You kissed his tip first, slow and soft, tasting his precum.

He groaned immediately, hips twitching. “Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth, just the head at first, letting your tongue swirl around.

His hand found your hair, gentle, never pushing, never rushing.

“You’re so good at this my dirty girl,” he murmured. “God, baby, you don’t have to…”

You went deeper, and he lost the rest of the sentence.

You worked him with your mouth, your hand wrapped around the base, moving in slow tandem with your tongue. He was unraveling beneath you, every sound he made proof of how much he needed this, needed you.

He brushed your hair back, groaning your name. “I’m close,” he warned. “You want me to?”

You pulled back just far enough to say, “In my mouth, Jack. I want all of it.”

That was all it took.

He came, hips bucking once, his hot release spilling onto your tongue. You kept going, gentle, milking him through it until he was panting, eyes glazed over like he’d just saw heaven.

When you finally sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he looked up at you like you’d just knocked the breath out of him.

“So me babygirl. Show me what I gave you.”

He sat up, looking directly into your eyes. You opened your mouth, his cum spilling out of the corners. With his thumb, he guided his seed back into your mouth until you sucked on his thumb. Getting every last drop of him.

“Swallow me.”

And you did.

“I do not deserve you,” he whispered.

You smiled, easing back beside him. “You really, really do.”

He pulled you close after that, one hand on your belly, the other tangled in your fingers.

“Just remind me to return the favor,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You smirked. “You’ve got four weeks, daddy.”

And Jack? He looked ready to make every one of them count.

———————————————————————

37 Weeks

Jack didn’t make a big deal out of the due date. He didn’t talk about it much, didn’t circle it on a calendar or start any countdown. But you knew he was keeping track. He always kept track.

You started noticing the little things first. How your car’s gas tank was always full. How your overnight bag slowly filled itself, snacks, chargers, an extra hoodie he never wore but packed anyway because you liked it.

He just did it. All of it without you ever saying anything.

Sometimes you’d catch him in the nursery at night. Not doing anything, just standing there. One hand on the crib rail, eyes tracing the space like he was rehearsing something he couldn’t quite say out loud.

He rewired the baby monitor so it reached farther. Tested it three times. Installed a soft nightlight in the hallway, not because you needed it, but because he couldn’t stand the idea of fumbling in the dark if something happened.

There was a checklist in his notebook. Not digital—written by hand. Folded neatly in half and kept in his back pocket when he came home from work.

Jack didn’t talk about fear. He didn’t talk about worst-case scenarios, or about what could go wrong. But when you reached for his hand at night, his fingers were already waiting.

One evening, you found him sitting on the floor beside the crib, tightening one of the screws even though it didn’t need it. You leaned against the doorframe and watched.

“You think he’ll like it?” you asked quietly.

Jack looked up at you. Nodded. “Yeah. I think he will.”

You didn’t say anything. You just put your hand over his.

———————————————————————

38 Weeks

You were done waiting. Having your baby in April felt nice.

Every step felt heavier. Every hour dragged.

Thirty-eight weeks, swollen and aching, and somehow still wanting him inside you more than ever.

Jack had been hovering since you took the first test.

You came into the bedroom after your shower, towel slung around your waist, damp hair curling at the edges. You sat on the edge of the bed, your hand resting instinctively over your firm your belly.

“Hey,” he said softly, already reading the look in your eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But I need you to help me.”

He crossed the room quickly, crouching in front of you. “What’s wrong?”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “I need you to fuck me again.”

He pulled back slightly, eyebrows raised, lips parting. “You serious?”

“I’ve read every myth and midwife blog I could find. Sex helps induce labor. And if this baby’s ready, I am, too.”

This wasn’t just sex. It was trust. It was the both of you saying: Let’s do this. Let’s meet our son.

He stood to meet you at the edge of the bed.

You lay back on the bed, shifting carefully, hips wide to make space for everything you were carrying. He climbed over you like he’d done it a thousand times but, this was different.

His hands trailed down your sides, reverent. His eyes never left yours.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmured.

“Only thing that feels wrong is not having you inside of me fucking me into labor.”

That pulled a groan from his throat.

He knelt between your legs, guiding himself into you slowly, carefully. You were wetter than you’d expected. Desperate.

“God,” he whispered as he slid in. “You feel incredible.”

You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling full and stretched and grounded.

Every movement was slow at first, deeper than fast.

Jack bent to kiss you, moaning into your mouth as your hips rolled up to meet him.

“You good, babygirl?”

“Better than good. Don’t stop, daddy.”

And he didn’t.

He moved like he was trying to memorize your body one last time before everything changed. His hands on your belly, his forehead pressed to yours, soft grunts against your skin.

Then suddenly—your body tightened.

Not in pleasure. But in pressure.

You gasped, hand flying to your stomach.

“Jack—”

He stopped instantly. “What? What is it? Did I hurt you?”

“No—no. I thi- I think that might have been a contraction.”

He blinked, his entire body going still. Still inside you. “Like a real one?”

Another one followed, sharper. “Fuck,” you hissed. “That’s definitely real.”

Jack pulled out gently, panic and awe crashing over his face. “Okay. Okay, baby—uh—do we call the OB? You want to go now?”

You grabbed his wrist, eyes locked on his. “Jack. Finish what you started.”

His mouth dropped open. “You still want..”

“I’m not in active labor yet. Might as well fuck me until I am.”

He laughed, full and loud, and kissed you hard.

“Well,” he muttered against your lips, guiding himself back in, “if my son wants to arrive in style.”

And with that, you rode wave after wave—of contractions, of pleasure, of something sacred and wild and absolutely yours.

By the time the next contraction hit, you were already moaning into his neck.

And your labor had officially begun.

———————————————————————

Jack’s hand never left yours during the car ride, one on the wheel with one hand, gripping yours with the other. The go-bag was already in the car with everything you could need while in the hospital. Plus more.

You were timing the contractions on your phone, trying to breathe through them, but they were coming faster now. Five minutes apart. Then four.

By the time he pulled into the hospital lot, you were doubled over in the passenger seat.

“Fuck,” you hissed, clenching his hand. “That one hurt.”

Jack threw the car into park and jumped out, rushing around to your door.

“Okay, let’s go. Slow and steady.”

You were halfway to the entrance when a voice called out—

“Hey, that looks like an ‘I just had sec and now I’m in labor’ face.” Robby. Of course.

Jack just flipped him off without breaking stride. “Call OB, she’s in labor. Now.”

Dana was at the triage desk when you walked in, her eyes wide.

“Whoa, whoa—are you…?”

“Yep,” you gasped. “Contractions. Thirty-eight weeks. We’re about to have a baby.”

She jumped up from her chair. “Got it. OB’s on call. We’ll page them. You need a wheelchair?”

“No,” you gritted out. “I can walk—”

Another contraction hit, and your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you with both arms.

“You’re not walking anywhere,” he muttered, already lowering you into a chair someone had wheeled over. “I’ve got you.”

The elevator ride was a blur. Someone shouted “incoming labor!” over the intercom, and by the time the doors opened on L&D, a nurse was already waiting with a gown and a monitor.

Dana, Robby, and Langdon had followed the chaos up as far as they could. The doors started to close again, but not before you looked back and saw them.

Robby grinning like a lunatic. Dana blinking hard like she might cry. Langdon sipping coffee and saying, “Don’t forget to breathe, Jack!”

Then the doors shut. Hours blurred. Morning into afternoon.

Contractions. Monitors. The deep, low sound of your own breath trying to ground you. Jack never left your side. Even after three coffees and a panic attack in the hallway.

“You’re doing amazing babygirl.” he whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face.

“I better be,” you groaned. “You’re the reason this is happening.”

He laughed softly, kissed your forehead. “Best thing I’ve ever done.”

Then your OB walked in, checked your dilation, and said the words:

“It’s time to push.”

Jack froze. You squeezed his hand so tight he winced.

“Ready?” He asked.

Jack nodded for you both. “Yeah. We’re ready.”

Your legs were up in stirrups. The pressure was unbearable. But Jack was there, one hand gripping yours, the other bracing behind your head.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered. “So, so good. You’ve got this.”

Your OB sat between your legs, calm and steady.

“Okay, next contraction,” he said. “Push for me.”

You nodded, bracing yourself. Then it hit. Face twisting in pain.

Jack was right there, voice in your ear. “That’s it. Come on, babygirl. You’re almost there.”

Your OB’s voice cut through the haze. “He’s crowning! One more big push—just one more!”

Tears blurred your vision. You weren’t sure if they were from pain or adrenaline or love.

Maybe all three.

“Come on, mama. Bring our boy home.”

And with one final, scream—you pushed.

And then,

A cry.

“Time of birth: 2:24 p.m.,” said the OB.

But you didn’t hear anything except the sound of your son’s first breath.

Jack choked out a sob beside you, hand covering his mouth as he stared.

“He’s here,” he whispered. “Oh my God. He’s here.”

They laid your son on your chest, slippery and warm, his fists clenched tight as he wailed against your heartbeat.

You looked down and lost yourself completely.

Tiny nose. Your dark hair. His father’s eyes.

He quieted the second you touched him. Jack leaned over you both, tears streaming freely now.

“Hi, baby boy,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m your dad.”

You looked up at him, your hand reaching for his face.

“We did it,” you breathed.

He kissed your lips, salty and trembling. “You did it,” he whispered. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Alright, have to deliver the placenta on your next contraction.”

You leaned your head over to the left, looking down at what was happening to the lower half of your body.

Your expression faltered. Your eyes rolled slightly.

Jack’s smile vanished. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me,” he said quickly, cupping your face. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyelids heavy. Your sight of Jack directly in front of you becoming blurry.

“Alright we got some bleeding here.”

Blood. Everywhere. Jack could hear it pouring onto the floor below you.

“She's hemorrhaging!” a nurse shouted.

“You shouldn’t be in here Dr. Abbot!” Said your OB as a nurse pulled your son off of your chest.

“No, I’m not leaving her!”

“Someone go get Robby!” A nurse yelled from across the room.

“Jack..” You managed to get out in a whisper.

“I’m right here. I’m right here babygirl. I’m not going anywhere.”

“N-no, his name… Jack.” you breathed. “Your name. He should know who he comes from.”

Jack shook his head, blinking hard, lips trembling. “Don’t say it like it’s goodbye.”

“It’s not,” you whispered, your breath catching. “It’s for him. Just in case. I want him to carry you forever.”

Jack leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, tears slipping from his eyes and into your hair. “Okay,” he choked out. “Okay, we’ll name him Jack. Our boy. He’ll know.”

Your eyes fluttered, body growing heavier by the second. You exhaled, barely audible.

Jack kissed your cheek, your forehead, your lips—desperate to keep you tethered. “I love you. Don’t let go. Please, baby, don’t—”

Your eyes shut.

The commotion around you barely audible as you slipped out of consciousness. “BP’s dropping—she’s crashing!” “Get her to ICU now. We need to intubate and stabilize.”

“No, no—” Jack stumbled forward, but Robby caught him, using all his strength to pull Jack out of the room and into the hallway.

Jack could barely breathe.

He didn’t even realize the team pushing your crying baby boy passed and down to the nursery.

“Jack,” he said carefully. “Listen to me.”

Jack shook his head. “She was fine—she was fine a couple of minutes ago, Robby. What the fuck happened?”

“I know. But she’s not now. She’s in the best hands. Let them work.”

“I- I can’t do this without her, Robby. We’re supposed to be talking about the rest of our lives right now. I won’t make it through this alone. I need her.”

“You’re not alone. We’re all here with you. And with her. There’s a waiting room full out there just for you guys. You don’t need to do this by yourself now.”

He lowered himself to the cold, hallway floor. Arms went up, hands above his head, fingers intertwined in his hair.

“I can’t lose her Robby.” His voice broke as he looked up, tears pouring down his face, eyes already bloodshot. “This is all my fault.”

His entire world just changed in the blink of an eye. Because your family just began. But you weren’t there for it with him.

———————————————————————

Wooo, my longest fanfic so far! Y’all I had to take so many breaks while writing this. Also accidentally deleted the whole thing and almost threw my laptop across the room but, here it is! And there obviously has to be another part.

Let me know what you guys think down below please ! :)

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evenyvn · 2 months ago

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All You ; part 02

Idol!San x SingleMom!Reader

Summary : San's visits to the quiet restaurant grow more frequent, drawn by something—or someone—he can’t quite name. A casual conversations with the owner's teasing smile stir something in him, but it’s her little daughter's innocent words that truly shake him.

Cw : she/her reader, sfw, fluff, third person POV, a little smau at the end, downbad san, reader has a daughter, stranger to lovers, un-established relationship (san thought reader are still married), san is girl dad coded, yn feeding san like he didn't eat for a week (lmao)

prev — masterlist — next

San found himself frequenting the cozy little restaurant over the next few days. It had quickly become his favorite escape—a warm place where the food was delicious, the air smelled like comfort, and the company was even better.

He'd grown close to both Hana and her mom—Y/N. They welcomed him like family, and San, without realizing it, began craving the simplicity he found within those four walls. The humble atmosphere somehow reminds him of home—of his family back in Namhae.

Today, he sat at his usual spot on a table near the counter, sipping on warm tea while waiting for Hana to come home from school. Y/N was wiping down the counter when San finally worked up the nerve to ask something that had been lingering in his mind since their first meeting.

"Hey, uh... can I ask you something?" San began, swirling the tea in his cup.

Y/N looked up, curious. "Of course."

"Back when we first met, you said, 'I know.' What did you mean by that?"

A small smirk tugged at her lips. "Ah, that. I recognized you. You’re an idol, right? From that group called... ATEEZ?" San blinked in surprise. "Wait—you know ATEEZ?"

"Oh I know of you. You're from KQ just right on the corner of the street from here right? some of my customers work as a staff there and sometimes play your songs and talk about your groups during break hours. I don’t really follow idols, but I know a few names. Including you."

San rubbed the back of his neck bashfuly, trying to hide the pink rising to his ears. "I know this might sound a bit weird... but who’s your bias?"

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to ponder seriously. "Hmm... Wooyoung. He's adorable." She said with a playful grin making San gasped dramatically, eyes wide with betrayal. "Wooyoung?!"

Y/N laughed as she slid a small dessert plate toward him. "What? He's got that cheeky charm from what I've heard."

San pouted, but the moment his eyes landed on the dessert, his expression brightened like a child on Christmas morning.

"Eat a lot, San. You're still young," Y/N said teasingly making the pout on his face came again. "I'm not that much younger than you, noona."

She raised an eyebrow with a knowing smile. "Still older than you." San raised both hands in surrender, grinning. "Fine, you win."

They shared a light laugh before Y/N stepped away to the kitchen. San stay seated, picking at his dessert and glancing around the space. The restaurant felt even more homely now—he could name most of the regulars, and there was always a seat saved just for him.

At one point, Y/N reemerged and placed a freshly made roll in front of him. "Try this. I'm testing a new recipe."

San took a bite, eyes lighting up. "Oh, this is amazing. You should definitely add it to the menu." Y/N beamed at his words, "I was hoping you'd say that. Your taste is starting to matter here, San." She said as she walked back to the kitchen.

Before he could say more, the door flew open and Hana burst in, her hello kitty backpack bouncing with each excited step. "Uncle San!!"

San turned just in time to catch her as she jumped into his arms. He lifted her with ease, spinning her once before setting her down with a warm chuckle. "Hey, princess! How was school?"

"It was fun! I drew a picture of a big dragon and I got a star sticker from my teacher!" Hana began rambling about her day, words tumbling over each other in excitement.

San listened intently, occasionally nodding, but every now and then, his gaze drifted behind the counter to Y/N, who was busy wiping a plate, completely unaware of the attention.

There's something in San's eyes whenever they set on the woman, there's crystal clear admiration and perhaps awestruck look on his face.

Hana noticed.

She stopped mid-sentence, squinting up at him suspiciously, "You like eomma, don't you?" San choked. "Yes—I mean, what?? No! I mean i do like her but not in like that-"

Hana raised a suspicious eyebrow as she playfully poked San's dimple. "So you don't like her?" He flailed slightly, embarrassed. "W-what even makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "You make the same face my friend Eunji does when she looks at the boy she likes." San opened his mouth, then closed it again, completely lost for words.

He doesn't like Y/N... does he?

San shakes his head, what was he thinking?? he can't have a silly crush over someone who's married let alone with kid at that!

While San having an inner turmoil with himself—Hana just beamed innocently. "It's okay! I like eomma too! Everyone likes eomma. She's the best eomma in the world!"

San smiled, secretly sighing in relief and heart melting at the little girl's innocence. He ruffled her hair softly. "Yeah... I think you're right about that."

A little later, after Hana was off doing her homework in the corner booth, Y/N returned with another plate—this time, something sweet and warm.

"Is this for me too?" San asked with a playful tone.

"You keep helping out around here and keeping my daughter company. It’s the least I can do," Y/N said, her eyes soft.

San helped clean up some trays as the afternoon sun spilled golden light into the restaurant. He was humming softly to one of his group’s ballads when Y/N paused mid-step and chuckled. "You really can't escape music, can you?"

San grinned sheepishly. "Not really. It's kind of in my DNA now."

Y/N leaned against the counter and watched him for a moment. "It must be strange, going from all that attention and chaos to this little restaurant. Not many people came in here, only regulars and occasionally new curious people"

San looked around, then back at her. "Honestly? I think I like this kind of quiet more."

Their eyes lingered for a beat too long before San looked away first, cheeks faintly pink. Y/N seems aware of San's bashfulness just smile teasingly at the younger man.

And somewhere behind them, Hana peeked from her homework—mischievous smile on her lips as she whispered to herself, "He definitely likes eomma..."

taglist : @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @flambychan @dumplingsyum @iwuberic @kirilunimimi @thedistractedwriter @d3kstar @rosydipity

honestly this series is just something that i didn't really mean to continue lmao so i didn't expect so many people enjoyed it and even asked to be tagged, nonetheless it really means alot to me🥹🫶

taglist are closed!

divider by @.adornedwithlight | likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

#✦;; san #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez fanfic #choi san imagine #san x y/n #san imagine #choi san x reader #san x reader

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miapotterismyfav · 1 month ago

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Innocence

—————————————————————————————————————————

Summary: Sirius Black thought he had Y/N all figured out—until one offhand comment sends his world into a tailspin and unearths far more than he bargained for.

Matching: Siriusxfem!reader, Remusxfem!reader

Next part

———————————————————————————

Chapter 1: Only One of Those Things Is True

Sirius Black didn’t mean to end up in a cupboard with Marlene McKinnon. Not really.

But she had smirked in that reckless, Marlene way, and someone had yelled “seven minutes” across the Gryffindor common room, and well—he wasn't a prude.

What he didn’t expect, however, was the door to swing open five minutes in, mid-snort-laugh (hers), mid-eye-roll (his), and reveal you.

You.

The girl who used to make mud pies with him in the garden, who he almost kissed behind the shed during a game of hide and seek—before you’d blinked at him, panicked, and ran straight into a thorn bush. You’d always been like that. Quick to blush, quicker to bolt.

He hadn’t really spoken to you since First Year, when the Sorting Hat had dropped you squarely into Slytherin and Sirius had loudly declared, “Traitorous hat, obviously malfunctioning.”

You didn’t cry. You did, however, tell him his fly was down in front of the entire Great Hall.

So, when the cupboard door creaked open and you stood there, arms crossed and brow arched, Sirius’s brain lagged five full seconds before catching up.

“What,” you said coolly, “No socks-on-the-doorknob system? Or do Gryffindors just smell out each other’s hormones now?”

Marlene giggled behind him. Sirius grinned wolfishly, masking the sharp edge in his voice. “Careful, love. Wouldn’t want you slithering off to turn us in. Not like it’d be your first act of repression. Virgin snake and all.”

You blinked once. Then smiled—slow, dangerous, the kind of smile that meant someone was about to lose a limb, metaphorically or not.

“Only one of those things is true, Black,” you said sweetly. “And Marlene can confirm which.”

Then you winked at her, turned on your heel, and shut the cupboard door.

Silence.

Long, heavy silence.

Then:

“...wait, what?” Sirius turned, bewildered.

Marlene was bright red, suddenly very interested in her shoelaces.

“Did you—Did you sleep with her?”

“I—well, not just me. There was Amos. Diggory. Last year. It was foggy.”

“It was foggy?”

“In the room!” she squeaked. “Incense! I think it was for ambiance—”

“You had a threesome with her and didn’t tell me?” Sirius hissed, scandalised like someone had cancelled Christmas.

Marlene blinked rapidly. “Why—why would I tell you?!”

“Because it’s Y/N! She colour-codes her quills and used to send in extra homework for fun! She told on James in third year for hovering too loudly!”

“She didn’t tell on you just now, did she?” Marlene pointed out, arms folding. “In fact, she smirked. And winked. At me. That’s not very frigid of her, is it?”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Maybe it was sarcasm. Maybe it was one of those ironic, know-it-all Slytherin things.”

Marlene coughed.

“Wait. Wasn’t it?”

She fidgeted.

“Marlene.”

“It was a very long party.”

“Marlene.”

“There was incense involved—a lot, actually, I think someone knocked over the dish—”

“Marlene.”

“It wasn’t just Amos!”

Silence.

“…Excuse me?” Sirius asked, voice a dangerous octave higher.

“I didn’t mean to say that!” she said quickly, hands flying up like she was surrendering to the Aurors. “I mean—I meant Amos, obviously, but also—there was—well, technically it was after midnight, so it counts as a new year—”

“What counts as a new year?”

“Remus,” she breathed, eyes wide. “It was Remus.”

Sirius froze. “Moony?”

“I don’t know what happened!” she cried. “One minute she was doing shots of firewhisky and arguing about werewolf legislation, and the next minute they were gone and when I found them again she was wearing his jumper and they were playing Wizards’ Chess and he let her win! Remus never lets anyone win!”

Sirius stared at her. “You’re telling me that Y/N—my childhood almost-kiss, shy, nervous, ‘oh no Sirius we can’t snog behind the Quidditch shed someone might see’ Y/N—has slept with Amos Diggory and Remus Lupin and winked at you like the devil in a library skirt, and I’m just now hearing about all of this?”

Marlene, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, nodded. “I thought you knew. Or at least had eyes. She’s terrifyingly fit.”

“I need to talk to Remus.”

Marlene blinked. “To fight him?”

Sirius was already halfway out of the cupboard, nearly ripping the door off its hinges.

“No,” he called over his shoulder. “Fact-confirming mission only.”

———————————————————————————

New series alert!!!!!! As mentioned this is Sirius or Remus (or both), it will be a series. Let me know what you think!!!!

Next part

#harry potter #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #marauders #sirius black x reader #sirius black #sirius being sirius #james potter

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chucky-vs-the-giant-tortoise · 1 year ago

Text

clingy

Rafe Cameron x reader

(REQUEST): Hey. I just came across your tumblr and I lovedddd the Billy Hargrove x platonic sister reader it was sooo cute yet so Billy coded 😭. I was just wondering if you would write a Rafe x romantic gf reader based upon something along the lines of that they are at a party and Rafe despite being around his friends Topper and Kelce, he's just low key paying attention to the reader. A lil bit of separation anxiety if you catch my drift. Hope this request isn't too much trouble for you to write 😭😭😭

warning(s): sexually suggestive content!

a/n: i'm so glad you liked my billy snippet! your support means the world darling, and fulfilling your request is no trouble at all. i just hope that i did it justice.

Y/N hadn’t expected this from Rafe.

After all, Rafe Cameron was hardly the type to be so obvious. Y/N knew from experience that he preferred to keep things to himself, shielding his emotions from potentially prying eyes. He wouldn’t dare be caught in such a vulnerable position, yearning for his girl despite her standing only a few feet away from him.

However, that didn’t seem to stop him tonight as he watched Y/N from across the room, his eyes tracing her swaying hips as she threw her head back in drunken delight. Even in her state of intoxication, Y/N had felt Rafe’s eyes on her ever since they’d arrived at one of Topper’s infamous ragers. He’d long abandoned his conversation with Top and Kelce in favour of taking her in between shots of hard liquor, his fingers itching to find the small of Y/N’s back.

“Yo, you good man?” Kelce smiled, patting him jovially on his shoulder. Rafe turned to meet his friend's eyes, heat rising to his cheeks. He did his best to blame it on the alcohol.

"Yeah. Yeah man, 'm alright."

The words fell effortlessly from his lips, but Rafe wasn't even sure that he believed them. He wasn't used to this tightness gripping his chest, his body aching for the feeling of Y/N’s soft skin against his.

"He's fine, Kelce," Topper smirked over the rim of his drink. "Our boy here's just feelin' a little pussy-whipped. Aren't you, Cameron?"

Rafe's face hardened as the two boys laughed, his jaw clenching. "Fuck off, Top."

"Hey man!" Topper put his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling as he spoke. "No need to get all embarrassed. Just didn't know getting with Y/N would make you so soft, that's all."

Rafe gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to lose his temper. Y/N always hated when he thought with his fists and not his head, and he reckoned she wouldn't be pleased to watch him throw his best friend into the nearest wall.

Instead Rafe chose to stand with a slurred whatever, man, opting to leave Kelce and Topper behind in favour of the only person who could keep him calm.

"Hey," Y/N said softly, looking up as Rafe’s presence loomed over her shoulder. She couldn't help but smile as she felt Rafe's hands admire her figure from behind, shuddering as they found their way around her waist. Rafe pulled her close to his front, swaying with Y/N as she continued to dance on unsteady feet. "Got bored of Top already, huh?" She nodded over to where his idiotic friends were now busy offering shots to any girls unfortunate enough to cross their paths.

"Nah," Rafe said, his voice low and gravelly from the alcohol. "Just missed you, kid."

Y/N turned, resting her head on her boyfriend's chest, and Rafe brought his hand up to cup the nape of her neck. God, he'd been craving this all night. Y/N's weight against his chest, the addictive smell of her perfume—just her presence had a way of pacifying him like nothing else could.

Finally Rafe felt himself relax, his face buried in Y/N's hair.

"That so?" Y/N whispered into the sensitive skin of his neck. Rafe chuckled, using his free hand to move a few strands of hair from her face.

"What're you playin' at, hm?"

"Nothin'." He found himself lost in the sickly sweet tone of her voice, pooling like honey in his ears. "Just surprised. Didn't think the Big Bad Rafe Cameron would miss little ole me."

Y/N whimpered suddenly as Rafe's grip tightened around the back of her neck, his hair brushing against her cheek as he leant down to her height.

“Why don't we get out of here then, kid." Goosebumps broke out over Y/N’s arms as Rafe spoke, low and steady. "Let me show you just how much I missed you."

#obx #outer banks #the outer banks #rafe obx #rafe imagine #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron fluff

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duskidolsmut · 3 months ago

Text

"Betrayed and Fucked"

Irene, a battle-hardened lesbian secret agent with a razor-sharp desire, endures a nightmare of handcuffs and brutal sex that tears through flesh and soul. Betrayed and pushed to the edge, she turns violence into power, vowing a revenge as savage as the pleasures that scarred her.

Tags: DarkFic, EnemiesToLovers, BDSM, LesbianForcedSeduce, SexualRevenge, DirtyTalk, SizeKink, AfterSex, BrutalSex

W: 4.533

Irene, a secret agent who leads a double life. At 33 years old, she is pure elegance and danger – a predator who hides a breathtaking body under impeccable suits and a smile that disarms and dominates in equal measure.

Her long, silky black hair falls over delicate shoulders, framing that doll-like face – full lips that have already drawn sighs and moans, eyes that capture you with a look and hands that know exactly where to squeeze, loaded with a magnetic glow that has already made women writhe in moans of ecstasy, legs trembling under her touch. Her reputation in espionage circles is legendary: a mind as sharp as her tongue, capable of deciphering codes and bodies with equal ease.

Away from missions, Irene lives for the forbidden. Her encounters with lovers—always women—are intense and clandestine, a refuge where she surrenders herself without restraint, her fingers tracing damp curves, the salty taste of female skin ingrained in her memory. But at work, she is relentless, a shadow that glides among the powerful, collecting secrets like trophies. Her current assignment has taken her to the heart of a criminal organization that traffics sensitive data between governments and cartels, a network as slippery as the sweat that runs down the back of her neck on hot nights. Undercover for months, she has built a perfect facade—until the betrayal.

The blow comes from an ally, a familiar face she never suspected, and now Irene is vulnerable. She wakes with a snap in her mind, her body heavy, the damp, fetid air of an underground room invading her nostrils. The dim light of a pendant lamp reveals stained concrete walls, the cold floor beneath her torn boots. Her wrists, thin but strong, are bound by icy steel handcuffs, the metal biting into her white skin and leaving red marks that burn with every movement. The sound of the chains clanking echoes like a warning. She lifts her chin, her disheveled hair falling over her face, and stares at her captor.

Before her stands Levi, a mountain of a man, nearly seven feet tall, his muscles defined beneath a dirty T-shirt that barely contains his broad chest. His hands are rough, calloused like sandpaper, thick fingers that seem made for breaking bones—or gripping flesh. His short, disheveled hair frames a rough, scarred face, and his eyes, small and dark, devour her with a raw, almost animal hunger. He stares at her as if she were a banquet, his heavy breathing filling the air with the smell of tobacco and sweat. Irene feels the weight of his gaze sliding over her body—from the curve of her breasts beneath her torn blouse to the firm thighs squeezed by her leather pants.

The basement stank of mold and dried blood, an acrid smell that clung to the nostrils like a rotten memory. The light from the single hanging bulb wavered like a dying heart, casting quivering shadows on the damp walls—slender, twisted shapes that looked like hungry fingers crawling over Irene’s body, tracing the contours of her exposed skin. She was on her knees on the rough floor, the concrete scraping her soft flesh through her torn stockings, but there was no defeat in her posture. The tight black latex dress—the last vestige of her identity as the seductive undercover agent—clung to her like a second skin, glistening in the dim light, every curve of her body outlined in sinful detail. Her pert breasts strained against the fabric, her hardened nipples marking the latex like a silent invitation, while her hips lifted in a promise that Levi devoured with his eyes, the saliva almost visible in his half-open mouth.

“You’re going to die here,” he growled, his voice rough as concrete being dragged, low enough to vibrate in her chest. Levi stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the floor, the smell of sweat and metal rising from him like raw steam.

Irene laughed, a low, wet sound that dripped from her throat like poisoned honey, reverberating in the claustrophobic space. She lifted her chin with deliberate slowness, her black hair falling in sweaty strands over her shoulders, framing her pale face where her swollen lips—bruised from biting down to contain her moans as he dragged her here—gleamed a wet red. Her thin wrists twisted against the handcuffs, the cold metal creaking, but it wasn’t an attempt to escape—it was a spectacle. She wanted him to see, to feel the power that still emanated from her, even in chains. His eyes locked on the movement, and she felt the heat of his gaze slide down her skin like a dirty caress.

“Are you sure?” Irene let the words escape like smoke, slow and heavy, each syllable a thread of desire wrapped in threat. Her eyes met his, a glint of defiance dancing in them, while her tongue slid subtly over her lower lip, leaving a wet trail that caught the light.

Levi was brutal, yes—a wall of bone and muscle, the kind of man who crushed before he thought. But Irene knew creatures like him: brute-force machines with small brains and hungry dicks, with no imagination beyond what they could grasp. She, on the other hand, was made of more refined vices, of pleasures she shaped into weapons. Her fingers, still stained with traces of red lipstick from a past lover and dried blood beneath her short nails, slid up her thigh with torturous slowness. The latex cracked beneath her touch, the sound cutting through the silence like a whip as she spread her legs slightly, the black fabric stretching against her firm flesh, revealing the damp contour between her thighs—not from weakness, but from a game she was mastering.

“I can give you something better than information…” Her whisper was a razor’s edge between her teeth, sharp and seductive, laden with a promise that made the air between them grow thick. She leaned forward, enough so that the scent of her skin—a mix of expensive perfume and fresh sweat—hit him like a slap.

Levi spat on the floor, a clumsy attempt to maintain control, but his dark eyes already betrayed his facade. They lowered to her mouth, to those swollen lips that seemed to beg for something crueler than words, and Irene saw his pulse quicken in his exposed jugular, a vein pulsing beneath the rough skin of his neck. He was hooked, even if he didn’t know it yet. His chest rose and fell faster, the growing bulge in his pants betraying what she already knew: he might be her captor, but she was the poison that would kill him from the inside, one bite at a time.

Levi’s first move was brutal—a savage tug on the latex collar that made Irene gasp, the sound escaping hoarsely from her throat as the material stretched to its limit, giving way with an obscene snap that echoed in the basement like a muffled scream. The fabric tore in jagged strips, revealing Irene’s pale skin, now flushed with a mix of cold and adrenaline, her pores standing out as if begging for touch. Beads of sweat glistened on her exposed collarbone, trickling slowly down to the valley between her breasts. Levi paused for a second, his eyes glazed over the newly discovered flesh, his chest rising like that of a starving animal.

“You think you’re too smart, don’t you?” — He growled, his deep voice scratching the air, full of contempt and something dirtier.

Irene didn't respond with words. Her abdominal muscles contracted reflexively, defined under her smooth skin, when his rough hand grabbed the torn fabric and pulled harder, the sound of the latex breaking mingling with the jingling of the handcuffs. Her black lace bra appeared like an exposed secret—the last vestige of her real self, a delicate piece that contrasted with the brutality around her. Her nipples, betrayed by the biting cold of the basement, hardened under the thin lace, pointing like accusations against the almost transparent fabric. She hated that reaction, the heat that rose from her chest to her neck, but she couldn't help the tingling that snaked across her skin.

—You're enjoying it, are you? — Levi laughed, a hoarse and cruel laugh, while his calloused fingers, rough as stone, crushed her waist with enough force to leave purple marks. He lifted her off the ground in one rough motion, slamming her against the wall with a thud that reverberated in her bones. The cold concrete scraped against her bare back, and the handcuffs cut deeper into her wrists, the metal biting until she felt the wet heat of blood running down in thin rivulets.

Irene smiled, her swollen lips parted, the bright red shining like a fresh wound. “You only know how to use force… what a shame,” she said, her voice low and sharp, dripping with sarcasm. And then, with deliberate precision, she lifted her thigh, rubbing it against his groin. The rough denim brushed against her skin, and she felt the hard bulge pulsing beneath the fabric, hot and insistent. Levi held his breath, a growl caught in his throat, his eyes darkening even further.

She hated touching him—his scent, a mix of stale sweat and raw testosterone, invaded her nostrils like an affront. But her body, trained by years of missions and pleasures, reacted on instinct. It was a machine she had perfected on other bodies—feminine bodies, soft and moist, that yielded beneath her fingers with delicate moans. Now, he betrayed her with this brute. Levi thought he had control of everything, that he had her in the palm of his hand, until Irene leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot against his rough skin. “Do you want to see me beg?” Her voice was a sweet, lethal poison, while her hips moved in a slow, undulating rhythm, a ballet of seduction that she had always mastered.

Heat rose up her thighs, where his thick, muscular leg pressed her against the wall, his jeans scratching her exposed skin like a rough promise. The remaining latex clung to the sweat that trickled between her breasts, the shiny fabric catching the wavering light in wet reflections. Levi couldn’t resist – his hand came up, his calloused fingers gripping one of her breasts, squeezing the nipple through the lace with a force that was almost painful. Irene clenched her teeth, the air hissing between them, but the shock of pleasure and pain shot like electricity through her body, making her legs tremble against her will. Her clit throbbed, a hot, wet betrayal that she felt growing between her thighs, the fabric of her panties soaked through what was left of the latex.

"Looks like the little slut got wet…" Levi growled, his tone full of mockery and triumph, as he thrust two thick fingers into her mouth, forcing them against his tongue. She closed her lips reflexively, her sharp teeth brushing against his skin, the salty taste of dirt and power invading her. Irene wanted to spit, but her body was already arching on its own, her back curving forward, her hips seeking friction against his thigh as if they were a separate entity from the mind that screamed no. The heat between her legs was unbearable, a throbbing that made her clench her fists in the handcuffs until her nails dug into her palms. She knew how to play this game - even when every fiber of her lesbian soul rebelled against the desire he was tearing from her.

The sound of the latex tearing to the end echoed like a gunshot in the basement, a dry and final crack that reverberated off the damp walls, marking the end of the last barrier between Irene and Levi's brutality. He didn't uncuff her – he wanted her immobile, he wanted her at his mercy, her wrists tied above her head, the metal of the handcuffs digging into her flesh until blood dripped in dark drops onto the floor. But Irene wasn't at the mercy of anything. Even chained, her body was a weapon, and she knew how to use it.

Her breasts sprang free of the destroyed fabric, her swollen pink nipples throbbing from the friction against the latex, sore and sensitive in the cold air that licked them. Her pale skin shone with a thin layer of sweat, the muscles of her abdomen trembling subtly as she took a deep breath. Levi spat directly on her, the hot, viscous liquid hitting the space between her breasts, dripping slowly like a dirty caress down to her navel. He laughed, his husky voice cutting through the air. “The spy queen, now she’s just another grinning slut.”

Irene didn’t moan. She arched. Her body formed a perfect curve, a living sculpture of desire and defiance—her wrists bleeding from the handcuffs, her hips lifted like an offering, her soaked black lace panties clinging to her nether lips, the sheer fabric revealing every swollen, wet contour. Levi saw it, his dark eyes widening with hunger, and she knew he saw it. She felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, moving down her trembling thighs to the heat that betrayed her facade.

— Do you want to break me? — She repeated, her voice now blurred, hoarse with someone who wanted to be forced to like me, each word dripping with a desire she despised feeling. — Then break me.

Levi didn't need any more invitation. His hand descended like lightning, thrusting under her panties with brute force, his calloused fingers finding slick heat, resistance and a moan that Irene trapped between her teeth, her lips trembling as she fought the sound. He rubbed his fingers against her lips, parting them, his thumb brushing her swollen clit with a pressure that made her hips rise involuntarily. She hated every second of it – his smell, his weight, the invasion – but her body vibrated, her nerves on fire, betraying her with a pulse she couldn't control. HER SMILE, HOWEVER, NEVER FELL, a thread of defiance shining on her swollen lips as she stared at him.

He ripped off his shirt in one swift movement, throwing it to the floor, the fabric falling with a wet sound. Irene looked away for a moment – he was huge, a mountain of sculpted muscles, his broad, toned chest covered in a layer of dark hair, his shoulders broad as if they could crush her with their weight alone. She swallowed hard, her mind spinning: Would he kill her? But then he finished undressing her, tearing off the remains of the latex and panties with his hands, leaving her completely naked, exposed, her goosebumps contrasting with the heat emanating from her core.

Levi knelt, his lips brushing her navel, his thin beard scratching her sensitive skin as he left a hot, wet trail. Irene felt her knees give way, her body weakening against her will, a low moan escaping her as he moved higher, his mouth tracing a torturous path down her abdomen, between her breasts, until it grazed the base of her neck. He opened his mouth and licked, his rough, wide tongue sliding over her skin, the salty taste of sweat and arousal filling him. She moaned loudly, pleasure ripping through her body like a knife, her thoughts spinning: What was this feeling? Why was he making her feel this way?

Suddenly, he gripped her thighs tightly, his nails digging into the soft flesh as he spread her legs, exposing her dripping slit to the cool air. Liquid ran down her inner thighs, glistening in the dim light, and Levi groaned, a guttural, ecstatic sound, his hungry eyes fixed on her arousal. He descended upon her like a predator, his mouth crashing against her swollen, wet lips, his tongue invading her without hesitation. Irene pulled at the handcuffs, the metal cutting deeper, her body writhing as he licked with animalistic voracity, sucking on her lips, diving as deep as he could, his nose brushing her clit as he drowned in her taste and smell—a sweet, musky scent that drove him wild.

Her body was on fire, pulsing all over, the heat rising in waves that made her fingers curl in the handcuffs. She writhed, but fell weakly under his tongue, the muscles in her thighs trembling as he controlled her in every way. Irene closed her mouth, trying to stifle her screams of pleasure—he didn't deserve to hear her, didn't deserve this victory. But the sounds escaped muffled by her closed lips, the pleasure building like a storm she couldn't stop. He moved his tongue in and out, licking her clit in quick circles as he left, and she arched her back involuntarily, her entire body reacting to his whim. Why this? Why him? She didn’t know, didn’t understand – she could only feel it, the moans tearing from her throat: “Uhhnnnhhh… N-n-no!” she tried to say, but the words were lost in a hoarse scream.

Then, suddenly, her entire body exploded in an overwhelming orgasm. She screamed, the sound echoing in the basement as he licked and sucked her with a roughness that prolonged each spasm. Her thighs shook violently, the liquid dripping harder, staining the floor as she came undone. Levi stood up, his lips glistening with her, and looked down at her sweaty, heaving body – her breasts rising and falling rapidly, her skin marked with redness, her eyes half-closed. She stared at him, her chest heaving, and saw the corner of his mouth lift in a crooked, satisfied smile. Irene swallowed hard, the bitter taste of defeat mixing with the ecstasy that still pulsed through her veins. Exhausted, she slumped against the wall, her body limp.

He leaned down to kiss her jaw and neck, his warm, moist lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear, a cruel contrast that made Irene's hair stand on end in anticipation of the chaos she knew was coming. His breath, heavy with tobacco and raw desire, warmed the curve of her neck, and for a moment she almost gave in to his false tenderness. But then he pulled away, his dark eyes shining with something wild, and he began to remove his pants with quick, sloppy movements. Irene gasped, her breath catching in her throat—he was grotesquely large, a menace of swollen, pulsing flesh that hung between her legs like a living weapon. Thick veins snaked beneath the taut skin, their length and width defying any logic of resistance. For a brief moment, desperation shone in her eyes, a flash of vulnerability that she hated to have missed.

Levi gripped her thighs with hands that didn't ask for permission, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh like claws, opening her with a force that made her muscles protest. He held her like a book he wanted to rip open, the pages of her body exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze. His tip—hot, thick, already dripping with a translucent drop—pressed against her lower lips, brushing them with torturous slowness, teasing her as he watched her every reaction. His eyes fixed on her expression, on her furrowed brows, her parted lips, on the way her chest rose too quickly.

"Stop…" Irene moaned, the word escaping weakly, almost a whisper, but her body already betrayed the lie. The heat between her thighs pulsed with raw need, her swollen, slick lips opening slightly for him, begging against every fiber of her mind.

And then— He entered her in a single brutal movement, a blow that tore through the air and her body at the same time. Irene screamed, the sound tearing through her throat as the handcuffs clanked violently, the chains slamming against the metal table he had thrown her on. He was too big, too deep—every inch of him stretched her to the limit of pain, her inner muscles giving way under his relentless invasion. She felt him throb inside her, hot and solid, filling her in a way that seemed impossible, the pressure against her inner walls eliciting ragged gasps from her lips. Moisture dripped down her thighs, her body surrendering even as her mind fought.

“You’re tearing me apart…” She gasped, her voice shaking, her eyes half-closed as she tried to process the mixture of agony and pleasure coursing through her. She no longer knew whether to beg for him to stop or for more, her words dissolving into moans as her hips reflexively lifted to meet him. Levi gave her no choice. He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust calculated to slide deep, making her feel every bulging vein, every hard curve of him brush against her. The friction was unbearable, a fire that burned and ignited at the same time. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted as hoarse moans escaped her, echoing in the basement, the sound mixing with the creaking of the table beneath their weight. He watched her, his teeth bared in a sadistic smile, as he controlled the pace, savoring the way she writhed beneath him.

And then the pace changed. Fast. Brutal. Uncontrollable. Levi gripped her thighs tighter, his nails digging into the skin until he left purple crescent-shaped marks, lifting her with each thrust as if he wanted to break her in half. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the basement—a wet, rhythmic slap that mingled with his guttural groans, low as thunder, and her short, sharp squeals, escaping against her will. The table creaked beneath the violence, the cold metal biting into her back as he fucked her with a ferocity that knocked the air from her lungs.

“You’re so fucking tight…” He groaned, his voice broken, his eyes fixed on the place where they connected. He watched, mesmerized, as she swallowed him whole, her lips stretched around him, liquid dripping in shiny strands that stained the table and her thighs. The wet heat enveloped him, squeezing him with every movement, and he growled like an animal, lost in the sensation.

Irene wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her orgasm hit her like a runaway train, a burst of white light that burned behind her eyes and tore her body to shreds. She screamed wordlessly, without control, a primal sound that reverberated off the walls as her thighs shook violently, her inner muscles squeezing him hard enough to draw a grunt from him. Pleasure tore through her, brutal waves that made her writhe, but Levi didn't stop—he kept fucking her through the climax, each thrust prolonging the waves until she was gasping for air between ragged moans, her wrists bleeding more beneath the handcuffs.

Only then, when she was limp and trembling, her exhausted body hanging from the chains like a broken puppet, did Levi allow himself to fall into the abyss. He buried himself all the way in, his hips pressed against hers, a guttural growl escaping his throat as he poured himself inside her. The thick, hot heat gushed out in strong pulses, filling her to overflowing, the excess running in sticky strands down her thighs, dripping onto the floor in a wet, obscene sound. Irene felt every spurt, every spasm of him inside her, and she moaned softly, her body still pulsing around him, gripping him even as she tried to recover.

He remained there for what seemed like an eternity, his chest heaving, his cock slowly softening inside her, the viscous liquid continuing to leak in a slow, warm stream. When Levi finally pulled away, the wet sound of separation echoed in the silence, and he stared at her with a satisfied, heavy gaze, his lips curved in a smile of victory. Her body was marked—redness on her thighs, blood on her wrists, sweat and semen staining her skin—but Irene’s eyes, when they met his, were already clear again. Cold. Calculating. The pleasure had passed, but the game was only just beginning.

Levi was wet with sweat, his chest still rising and falling rapidly as he collapsed beside her on the table, his muscles relaxed. The flash drive slipped from his pocket, falling to the floor with a metallic click.

Irene watched.

And then, she laughed.

A cold, sharp sound, like broken glass.

“Is that what you called fucking?” — Her voice was hoarse with moans, but filled with a contempt that made Levi rise up on one elbow.

He opened his mouth to respond, but there was no time.

The handcuffs he thought held her were already in her hands—a piece of chain broken during sex, sharp as a blade.

— I'll teach you now. She moved like lightning—his legs still limp, his reflexes slowed by orgasm. The metal loop tightened around his neck before he could scream.

Levi grabbed her wrists, but Irene was already on top, her knees crushing his shoulders, her body still hot and marked by him now her instrument of death.

— This is how you fuck properly, — she whispered, coiling the chain until his knuckles were purple.

He struggled, his eyes wide, his tongue like a dog's. She watched. Every last tremor.

Every last breath.

The basement air still smelled of sex and mold, Levi’s viscous liquid running down her thighs in warm rivulets that dripped onto the floor as she stood, her legs weak but determined. She found the keys to the handcuffs in his shirt pocket, tossed in a corner, and freed herself with a click that sounded like a promise. Before she fled, Irene pulled on Levi’s coat—his scent still clinging to her skin—and grabbed his phone from the floor. She grabbed his phone, her fingers sliding across the bloodstained screen—not hesitantly, but filled with a fury that made her veins throb.

Then the last video opened.

Seulgi.

The cat-like eyes that Irene had once traced with her lips, the mouth that had whispered “I love you” against her bare skin. But there, on the screen, she wore a crooked smile, her eyes glazed and dilated with addiction, as she grabbed an envelope of cash from the dirty hands of one of Levi’s henchmen.

“Did you know she paid me with the profits from the sale?” said the note stuck to the video. “She bought that new shit that’s eating away at her. Pathetic, huh?”

The scene continued, cruel. Seulgi handed over the flash drive – the most secret parts of Irene, the moans that only she knew – and laughed, the hoarse voice of someone who no longer cared.

Irene felt something shatter inside her. It wasn’t the handcuffs – already broken. It wasn’t the flesh – already desecrated. It was something Seulgi had stolen and sold, something she would now pay to have back.

With firm fingers, she put away her cell phone. The basement was crackling with flames behind her when she left, but the inferno in her chest burned brighter. She imagined Seulgi on her knees, begging, her body exposed and vulnerable – and Irene would take her, not with love, but with the same brutality that betrayal deserved.

Two debts to collect.

And Irene always collected… with pleasure and punishment.

#kpop smut #irene smut #red velvet smut #girl group smut #resquestdusk

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d-dantes · 12 days ago

Text

⋆｡°·☁︎ ─── • 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲

Pairing: Vergil x F!reader

Warnings: Reader is a demon but there are no specific traits listed, established relationship / childhood friends -> strangers -> lovers, clawing, missionary, slight nipple play, creampie. Takes place before the events of DMC3 / coincides with the mangas code 1 and 2.

Wordcount: 5k

Notes: Of course I wrote him before Dante lmao. For my beloved @katsukikitten

It had been years since you two had last seen Vergil, life proving to be inherently cruel to have you pine for a soul whose progenitor separated the mortal realm and hell from one another. Erecting a barrier that sealed the worst type of creatures together with a tyrant, issuing peace to fragile humans while leaving them ignorant to the suffering their savior wrought for his own kind.

Power struggles worsening already unloving homes much like the one you hailed from, conditioned to fight and fend for yourself at a young age. Beaten and battered, starved and poisoned with the reasoning to build you stronger to topple the rankings of those still loyal to the temporarily vanquished king Mundus.

Only freed of your torment by a stroke of pure luck, slipping through a tear in the barrier between your world and his. Landing at his feet in a heap, weakened yet feral and ferocious in your defensive caution as you lunged at the young boy with a knife nearly too big for your hand at that age. You blame his overpowering of you on your lack of sleep and malnutrition, you pin your surrender on a lapse in judgment from the poison in your veins.

If only your tyrannical father could see you in the weeks to months that followed, essentially in the lap of luxury of Makai’s traitorous lineage as you tentatively shared a space with that family, willingly and (your best kept secret) happily after some time. Nurtured, housed and fed thanks to the benevolence of Vergil’s dearly departed mother Eva despite her son bringing home the most unconventional of strays.

Even in adolescence you figured she always wanted a daughter that Sparda obviously hadn’t provided her with, but you were never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And like all children, you assume you’re indestructible (the twins only proved to exacerbate this notion), that you’ve all the time in the world. Puppy love cultivating in your time together only to bicker and fight like cats and dogs whenever Vergil’s younger brother playfully gagged and mockingly sang a childish song in regard to the overt affinity between one another.

You were both young and ignorant to the atrocities that would cleave you two from one another’s arms; but, much like flesh and bone, what is meant to be one will return as such.

You won’t gift fate all the glory to the reunion either, not with how tirelessly you searched for Vergil that fateful night. You could smell blood on the wind amidst the flames and ash, both demon and his own. You never lost hope because you never found his body, only the skeletal remains of the same creatures that attacked Eva and set the home ablaze.

Spending your teenage years hunting down any creature that even mumbled a ghosting mention of the twin sons of Sparda. Most of the leads only ending short with nothing to show for it besides guiding you to the next pathetic sod that sullied the legacy of Sparda in the form of his two sons.

Only gleaning some good news from some of the lower level swill that Dante was alive and relatively well. You looked into his business and, despite the dilapidated building and the lack of clientele, he was doing as fine as he could be.

At least he found the girl he’d lost that same night, his own soft spot to fight for instead of solely for the disdain he held for half of his genetic makeup.

But with Dante’s very existence breeds an unrest that he’s founded a business model upon. A stirring in the underworld mercenaries doubling as devil hunters whisper trade secrets your keen ears pick up on. Often nothing notable, typical happenings of demons kicking up a fuss for hired hands to fight over silencing.

Dante didn’t chase boring cases and as you linger on the fringes of his awareness to ascertain definitively that he was doing fine on his own, you realize the infamy of his name brings jobs to his doorstep in the form of a portly man. Something of a shifty sort for certain but you’d be hard pressed to find a soul that didn’t fit that bill in society's underbelly.

You expend little effort to tail the man, keen ears perked to eavesdrop on the conversation you can tell the young mercenary isn’t entirely interested in hearing but you glean plenty from the exchange.

Dante denies at first, scoffs at the details of the job but something about it engenders a familiar foreboding feeling in the pit of your stomach, an instinctual reaction that foments your involvement.

You don’t understand how Dante could choose to turn down a job with a promise of hefty payment simply because he deemed it boring but you don’t entirely share the same sentiment. He only agrees himself because of the soft voice that makes mention of looming payments with empty pockets but you’re already kicking away from the dingy brick wall for a jumpstart on the case.

You know in your heart the scent of a setup but you find Vergil in the midst of it by chance alone, fate will never earn your thanks when it’s what tore you asunder. Only pouncing on him in the first place because you didn’t recognize him and the details of Dante’s job said nothing about a man’s presence. You’ve plenty of rage to spare and expend as you topple the figure from the momentum with your engraved dagger he’d gifted you as a child held closely to his adams apple. He only blinks, the ghost of a smirk quirking one side of his lip towards before he exhales a breathless chuckle.

“I see the way you make your presence known hasn’t changed even after all these years,” but there’s a tenderness to his gaze, a sense of relief as he drinks in the sight of you as you lower the dagger that fits well in your hand now, no longer oversized and awkward.

The voice is more mature now, still soft but smooth in only a way his could ever be and he still styles the starlit locks gifted from his father the same way he did as a child; hell bent on distancing his similarities to his younger twin in any way he can.

Your heart pounds in your chest, hastening its pace as you lean up slightly to really take him in. Same icy hues and serious expression but he still bore a boyish look about him, especially as he wears that ghost of a smirk on full lips.

“V?” gasped as you sit up completely now, back arched as you hold your position but you lessen the pressure on the blade at his throat though you don’t completely remove it. Not yet, shapeshifters have tried to fool you with your beloved's face once before and though you saw through the farcical figure you’ve never been one to let your guard down so easily.

His lids flutter slightly at the affectionate nickname you’d assigned to him, having haven’t heard it for a decade, it sounds like music to his ears. Vergil hums a response before snatching your wrist in his broad palm to disarm you but he makes no threatening move following the action.

If you weren’t certain before of the man beneath you being your lost beloved, you were now. There were only two beings in existence that have been fast enough to disarm or react to your attacks and both of them were related to one another.

Dante and Vergil.

Whether you meant to or not, tension bleeds from your body as you subtly lean into him as Vergil sit’s upright. Neither of you detangle from one another and you familiarize yourself with his scent as you tilt your face towards his coyly, “don’t tell me you’re playing an elaborate game of hide and seek with Dante.”

“Unlikely,” Vergil scoffs but says little more, his mother was no longer living in order to chastise him about his relationship with his younger brother. He has plans that include his brother but his involvement was not yet required.

He pivots the conversation away from the subject of his brother as easily as he always has, silently and through physical redirection. Vergil skillfully spins your dagger in his hand and holds the hilt to you with his fingers pinching the blade. As you snatch it from him in a huff and your signature bratty pout, Vergil’s arms position behind the backs of your knees and around your up back to hoist you into a princess carry as he stands.

Your nails dig into his chest, just above his diaphragm from the sudden movement but he does little more than grunt in annoyance more than pain, “this isn’t my first time carrying you.”

“And this isn’t my first time clawing you for it,” you nearly hissed but relax in his hold nonetheless, resting your temple on his collarbone, “warn a girl first and maybe I wouldn’t have.”

“Lies still favor that tongue of yours? You’d fight me regardless, there’s less fuss this way.”

It’s comforting how familiar and easy interacting with him feels already, choosing to respond to him with a simple yet playfully petulant, ‘hmph.’

Vergil carries you from the streets and the steadiness of his gait, the rhythmic thump of his heart in his chest and the even draw of his breath threatens to lull you into an impromptu catnap. Familiarity fighting at the fringes of your reality as you recall him carrying you just like this whenever you first met. The memory of it paints your features in serenity as your fist the lapel of the vibrant velour blue coat, curiously glancing around at your surroundings as Vergil shoulders through a pair of intricately designed despite deteriorating with age double doors.

You ascertain quickly this building is something of an archaic hotel, the vacant space obviously a lobby but you don’t ever realize how truly vast the spaces are until it’s devoid of decoration.

There’s a crescent shaped desk towards the rearmost point of the room where dual staircases adorn either edge and lead to the second floor. You trail it with your eyes first as Vergil nears the mouth of the left set, glancing about to see rows seating and tables draped in sheets dingy from decades old dust.

Running your fingertip along the banister as Vergil ascends the steps that lead to two sets of stainless steel doors in dire need of polishing. The only lighting in the space comes from the moon hanging high in the sky bleeding through the clerestory and aisle windows alike, casting elongated shadows from the mutins that divide the panes.

“Auxiliary power,” Vergil answers the question you’ve yet to pose, glancing at you while he presses the button to his desired floor as the doors slip shut and the cabin shifts subtly as it rises.

“Then why are none of the other lights on? Don’t tell me it’s for the haunted ambiance,” Vergil having always been an enjoyer of different types of literature, poetry being his main preference but he did indulge in gothic horror from what you could remember. He chuckles at your tease, earning a smile of your own because the sound has always been music to your ears though it was much more boyish and carefree the last you’d heard it.

“Auxiliary power prioritizes basic functions, though I’ve tampered with it enough to suit my needs,” plus, even though the building is abandoned doesn’t mean ambient lighting wouldn’t raise a few eyebrows. The last thing Vergil cared to deal with was human interference, the man he works with currently is less than tolerable as is.

The elevator opens soon after and Vergil traverses the hall until he stops short at the second to last door before the hallways end. You take the liberty yourself of grabbing the crystal cut knob to push the door open yourself, tittering cutely as you sweep your arm in a motion for him to continue as if he weren’t the one carrying you.

The room is sparsely decorated with a window covered by thick drapes to conceal the illumination of the bedside lamp from the outside world. Only the essentials remain in the room, a queen sized mattress with the bed neatly made but it doesn’t appear untouched by time.

“You’ve been staying here?” You muse as you’re situated at the edge of the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles your body causes.

“For an interim,” he responds as he shrugs off his coat, footfalls muted by the carpet as he approaches the only other door in the room to place it on the hook that decorates it. You beam a wide grin, leaping to your feet as you coo about how divine a shower sounds after you’ve swung the door open to reveal a gorgeous porcelain clawfoot tub with a shower attachment overhead, “necessity dictated proper accommodation. I venture to assume you’re inclined to agree?”

“Hmm,” you hum coyly, tapping your chin as your other arm folds under your breasts, displaying them more prominently as you spin on your heel. You bend slightly at the waist to tilt closer to him, gently jabbing your finger into Vergil’s sternum but miss how his gaze wander’s lower then back up to meet your gaze, “I suppose. As long as that water is warm, perhaps I may.”

“Ascertain at your leisure,” Vergil’s voice bears a playful lilt so subtle only you could ever pick up on it.

You shimmy your shoulder alluringly, practically purring a coquettish, “care to verify my findings?”

He clears his throat at that, faint simper on his lips but his expression appears overly relaxed in your presence; though only for a moment. There’s a notable shift in his demeanor, his gaze flirting to his peripheral as a minute amount of rigidity steals the moment as his fingers tighten around the hilt of yamato.

“Another time,” he says and you try not to deflate, pouting slightly before he continues, “excuse me for a moment, there’s an irritant for me to handle.”

You want to follow, to keep him within your sight to subjugate the fear of losing him again that gnaws at the floor of your heart. He stops you short, however, tilting his head slightly and the intention imbued in his words puts you at ease, “I will return, you’ll have to enlighten me of your findings when I do.”

A heat floods your system, smile painting pretty features as your fingers wrap around the curtain of the fixture, “prepare for a dissertation if it isn’t to my standards, V.”

He hums as he gives you his back, dull thuds of his boots singling his departures as he leaves you with no further parting words.

You’re sure to have plenty to say upon his return but you won’t make mention of how alike the siblings truly were and how in sync they acted without intention. You can hardly stifle your giggle though as you turn the ornate knobs on the shower and test the temperature before shedding your clothes to enjoy a well earned, scalding hot shower.

What were the odds that both siblings would find lodging in buildings forgotten even by the city?

You don’t dwell on the thought long after stepping into the shower, near moaning at the divine heat that delightfully stings the surface of your skin. Standing under the spray just to bask in the warmth before passing your palms over your body as if to store the warmth in your muscles.

Thoroughly relishing the moment before reaching for the gently used, eggshell white brick of soap. You lather it between your hands first, turning it over a number of times for a generous amount to coat your palms before starting at the slopes of your shoulders and working your way down. Losing yourself in the comfortable embrace of the steam and Vergil’s fragrance.

You almost wish to have taken a bath instead but you weren’t sure how long Vergil would be gone. The tub seemed big enough for two, it would be such a waste not to test the hypothesis another time. You weren’t sure how long the two of you would linger in this building but you knew one thing definitively; you weren’t leaving alone. Not again.

Nipping the train of thought in the bud before it could even hope to sour your mood, closing the faucet with a bereft sigh. You would live under the stream if you could but the temperature would run tepid before long.

You rip open the curtain to snatch quickly for the towel on the wall adjacent to fight a possible chill. Wrapping the still plush fabric around you securely as you exit the room, steam rolling out as you survey your surroundings.

Vergil’s yet to return but it hasn’t been long enough to worry you. Padding towards the single bed at the center of the space and scooping up his abandoned coat. Holding it to your face to breathe him in as a salacious thought crosses your mind. Cheshire grin contorting your features mischievously as you let your towel drop and pool at your feet.

Donning his signature coat next and nothing else, toying with the lapels and situating it to your form for an artfully scantily clad look before positioning yourself onto the mattress. You crawl to the center and posture yourself into a seductive yet leisurely lounge for him to stumble upon. Glancing at the nightstand to find a book you recognize well, inscribed with an ornate initial ‘V’ full of fanciful swirls.

The pages are still well loved, the spine yet unbroken and you can still pick out his favorite poems by the wrinkling of the edges.

You don’t have to wait long for his return, however, only getting a few pages deep in the composition of poems before the door opens quietly. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, an exasperated sigh still in the midst of leaving his lips as the door clicks closed. Vergil rolls his shoulders and you swear your mouth could water at the way his back flexes without his coat to hide the scene away.

“Feeling tense?” You coo to call his attention, letting your palm splay over the space beside you and pat enticingly. Vergil rolls his neck next, slowly turning to glance over his shoulder at you before pivoting in his heel. His brow raises subtly at your state of undress before he lets his shoulders sag, chin tilted upwards as if to mask his subtle ogling.

But you’ve seen a hungry man’s gaze time and again, though none have ever felt as exhilarating as his own.

“Want me to help you unwind?” You beckon him closer as you wag your finger in a come hither motion, slowly turning to lay in your back and with the new position more skin is exposed for Vergil to drink in. Your legs still crossed to cover your slit but even then you tease him, shifting until only your ankles cross and he can see your bare mound.

He joins you with ease, naturally, weight dipping the mattress and pressing into you as he settles down. Arms thick with corded muscle slip beneath your body in a half embrace as you cup his cheek affectionately.

Vergil turns slightly, brushing his lips over the heel of your palm, once, twice before cupping over the back of your hand to lay another chaste peck to the pulse point on your wrist. Trailing lower with another placed to your forearm before he leans to kiss your shoulder only to be stopped short in his journey before he can dip to your throat.

Watching glacial hues flick towards your lips, dip lower to tease himself with the gratuitous cleavage on display that you apparently don’t want him to appreciate quite yet as the pads of your fingers press into the hollows of his cheeks. You hold fast when he pulls back the slightest bit, no real pressure to truly hold him in place and the moment reminds Vergil of how you both used to train and dance as children. In tune with one another then and now, nearly making his lids flutter at the feeling.

“Temptress,” Vergil husks as he gently pries himself from your grasp, leaning to close the gap and seal his lips over yours. A fleeting yet firm contact and his lips are soft, plush and perfect against your own before it’s over as quickly as it began.

“You’ll learn to love it,” a sultry purr as you tip his chin with the claw of your index finger while the other rests on his chest, points of your freshly manicured nails pressing minuscule divots into the taut flesh of his bare chest.

He’s tired of being denied already, obviously so with the roll of his eyes before he takes both of your hands with only one of his own. Vergil’s fingers lock firms around both of your wrists, crossing them as he lifts them above your head. The new position exposes you, placing your bosom on full display, nipples pebbling from the brush of the fabric and the cool air of the room.

Vergil basks in the sight of you, crystalline hues committing the rise and fall of your chest and the thinly veiled, flustered expression on your pretty face to memory. Stealing another kiss before crawling lower, adorning you in the affections. Your throat, as previously desired, your clavicle, your sternum, then to the tops of each of your breasts as he soughs against your skin, “I’m not that patient boy you once knew.”

You’re writhing beneath him, thighs clenching together as arousal warms your blood at every action. Still, as you always had, you work for an upper hand, arching into him with a sensual sigh, “you were patient before?”

It’s a gentle tease, one that births a lighthearted scoff as he sets to do as he pleases. First pressing a kiss to the bottom of your sternum as he inhales slowly, breathing in the aroma of fresh soap and what still lingers of your own body wash. It’s an intoxicating mix, the respective scents of one another and it makes his blood thrum in his veins. Placing another kiss along the valley of your breasts as he palms a greedy handful of the pliant flesh and settle more comfortably between your thighs.

You can feel the rigidity of his cock through the thin material of his trousers as he gently kneads you as his thumb brushes over a pebbling nipple, making you arch into his touch with a sigh. Dampening his crotch with each upwards jerk of your hips at the stimulation, the friction to your clit maddening, leaving you near ravenous.

Singing in soft suspires the moment Vergil releases his hold on you to give equal attention to your chest. His lips wrap around the bud he toyed with cruelly while the other mimics his earlier ministrations.

“V, V, more V baby, please,” as your nails comb through the soft spikes of his hair and rake gently at his scalp. Tugging more insistently when he ignores your plea, growling slightly as he releases your nipple with a lewd pop.

Vergil's lips hungrily seal over yours, brushing your tongue along the seam of his lips and you moan appreciatively when he grants you entry. Wet muscle sliding over his as Vergil reaches between your bodies to undo his pants. Unclasping the button with ease as you hastily yank at the material of his shirt, buttons snapping free and landing with deft thuds against the thick comforter.

“Who’s the one lacking in patience now,” he mutters into your mouth, shrugging the sleeves from his arms as your hands slide along his skin beneath his shirt to rid him of it faster.

“You tease too much,” you all but whine as you toss away his shirt with a sneer like the garment offended you. Chasing his lips as Vergil shoves his pants and boxers down his thighs, allowing them to slip lower with his movements.

“Forgive me then,” Vergil sighs between chasing kisses. He fits the web of his palm around the base of his erection, jumping in his hold as he head glides through your folds, coating himself in your wetness. Cockhead kissing your clit, leaving you keening salaciously with his name on your lips before his tip catches on your entrance.

His hips roll into you slowly, giving you a taste of every inch that sinks into you as Vergil placidly groans with every convulsion of your cunt that envelops him until he’s buried to the hilt. You both feel like you’re engulfed in an inferno but you’ve no desire to separate.

Indulging in one another as you adjust to the size of Vergil, canting your hips beneath him and the action has his tip nudge into a patch that rips a moan from your lips too sinful to selfishly swallow.

He wants the sound of your pleasure to haunt the halls for the years to come like they’ll plague his every waking and dreaming hour henceforth. Vergil’s hips jerk into yours to earn another and a gasp to follow it as he drags his hips slowly backwards, sinking into you at nearly the same pace as the first.

You writhe and you whine beneath him, nails digging into Vergil’s back before raking angry red lines into alabaster flesh. His pace is rhythmic and steady, slowly dragging his hips back until only his tip is still sheathed before sinking into you with a shuddered groan. The grind of his pelvis into your clit leaves you twitching, gradually working you closer to release but hardly fast enough.

You lift your legs, bringing your knees close to the bottom of his ribcage as you lock your ankles at the small of his back. Your thighs clench as he continues as he has, digging your heel gently yet insistently into the base of his spine.

“Greedy,” Vergil growls but he responds with a hastened pace, his own demise steadily approaching. Teeth tugging delicately at your bottom lip as he pulls away, decorating you with a smattering of kisses beginning at the corner of your lip, over your cheek and ending with a press to the hinge of your jaw. He smirks at how you crane your throat to grant him any access he covets, rewarding you with a hastened pace and his lips gracing the skin over your thrumming pulse. Your nails bite into his skin, a delightful sword of pain added to the plethora of pleasure he continues to cultivate, laying another kiss before nipping at your earlobe, “don't whine, craving more?”

You whimper at the tease, squirming as you sigh out breathy exhales in affirmation. He couldn’t deny you if he wanted to now, knees digging into the mattress as he slams into you with a bit more force. Jostling your body and knocking the headboard against the drywall it rests against.

The steady crawl hastens to a hurdle into euphoria then, arching into Vergil but you can do little else but take him at this pace. Mewling the syllables of his name with broken gasps as your head presses back into the superfluous amount of pillows beneath you. Claws biting into the flesh of his back and your heels dig into his lower lumbar with a bruising force.

Then the coil in your lower belly snaps, moaning prettily as euphoria washes over you in waves and Vergil works you through the high. Keeping his pace as he sits up and grips at the fat of your hips, pulling you into his ruts, satisfied smirk gracing his features as you babble his name.

Prolonging your high for a few moments longer when the vice grip of your velvet walls sends him careening from the precipice of pleasure he’d been teetering on for so long. Filling you full, continuing to rock his hips into yours in slower ruts that the rhythmic slap of wood against plaster is replaced by pitiful whines and the lewd squelch of your cunt.

He takes a moment to revel in the afterglow of your coupling, drinking in the sight of your heaving chest as he leans down to press another kiss to your sternum. Thumbs massaging soothing circles into the space where your hips and pelvis meet before unsheathing his spent cock. You twitch and whine at the loss but little else, Vergil shushing you softly as he sinks to lay beside you in the mattress.

Arranging your bodies to lay on your side and curl slightly around you, unbothered by the tacky feeling from the sheen of sweat painting both of your skin. You settle comfortably against him, wiggling your ass against Vergil playfully as you glance over your shoulder at him.

His eyes are closed, a serene expression on his features that makes your heart swell. How many years had it been since you last saw him look so peaceful? Carefree instead of burdened by a history you’ve yet to learn but now long to in this small sanctuary.

You reach back to cradle his jaw in your loving hands once again and he cracks a lid open curiously at you.

“Falling asleep?” You murmur as you bring your lips to his, casually and unhurried before you part long enough to finally ask, “V, baby, where have you been?”

He’s silent for a long moment after that, exhaling slowly as he contemplates how to truly answer that question. Posed innocently but the answer bears a substantial weight. He knows you mean more, to be enlightened of a history already laden with grief and strife alike you weren’t there to bear witness to and weather alongside him.

Where would he even begin? Vergil couldn’t be sure, but there was one thing he knew without a shadow of a doubt.

“Certainly too far from where I’ve longed to be.”

#vixen writes #vergil x reader #vergil x you #vergil sparda x reader #vergil sparda x you

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wedgiesfromhell · 2 months ago

Text

TOP-CLASSIFIED WEDGIE FILE

CASE #: WD-X993-ALPHA

TITLE: “Total Breakdown: The Ultimate Wedgie Denial Event”

Location: Hotel Room (Standard Double, Evidence of Post-Gym Conditions)

Filed by: Senior Humiliation Forensics Analyst – Hayden Jacob’s

⸻

INCIDENT CLASSIFICATION:

Code Red Atomic Wedgie w/ Multi-Sensory Denial Collapse, Sweat Saturation, and Fecal Transfer Contamination

Severity Rating: 10/10 – Catastrophic Dignity Destruction

⸻

SUBJECT DETAILS:

Victim: Unnamed male, presumed dork status based on posture, resistance level, and wardrobe (loose gym shorts, cotton briefs)

Assailant: Male with blond-tipped dreadlocks, visible smirk, grip strength estimated in upper athlete percentile

Time of Day: Midday (based on ambient light); coincides with peak body sweat production

⸻

CHRONOLOGICAL WEDGIE ANALYSIS:

[00:00–00:04]: Initial Contact

• The victim is seated defenseless on the carpeted floor, possibly post-shower or gym.

• Assailant seizes the rear waistband with both fists.

• Fabric type: Thin, moist cotton briefs – visibly discolored from wear.

[00:05–00:10]: Wedgie Lift Phase

• With a violent upward thrust, the assailant begins lifting the briefs.

• Fabric ascends rapidly into the gluteal canal with a moist slap, fully devouring the cheeks.

• Wedgie Bite Threshold surpassed: Deep wedgie burn sets in as briefs wedge into the taint, compressing the perineum and testicles against bone.

• Victim lets out the first gasp – described as a “high-pitched hiss through clenched teeth.”

⸻

PHYSICAL MARKERS OF EXTREME DENIAL ONSET:

1. Head Motion – “Side-to-Side Syndrome”

• Victim’s head starts shaking violently left and right in disbelief, a known denial reaction.

• Neck muscles spasm in rejection of the waistband nearing the upper spine.

2. Ocular Collapse

• Victim’s eyes cross and begin to water.

• This visual reaction is not only pain-induced, but triggered by the scent of:

• Sweat-soaked fabric (pungent and acidic from hours of butt crack fermentation)

• Visible brown skid streaks smearing across the stretched fabric now inches from his face

3. Facial Warping

• Lips curl up and tremble.

• Nose wrinkles, nostrils flare as the odor hits.

• Chin begins to quiver uncontrollably — classic symptom of the “Brief Breakdown.”

⸻

FABRIC TRAJECTORY REPORT:

• By [00:13], waistband clears shoulder blade level.

• By [00:16], elastic breaches the neckline.

• At [00:18], fabric snaps over the crown of the head, one leg hole now dangling near the temple.

• Underwear is now functioning as both torture device and sweat-drenched hood.

⸻

MULTI-SENSORY OVERLOAD:

Olfactory Impact:

• Smell: Steam-released butt sweat, concentrated in groin fibers and fused with dried fecal particles

• Victim chokes on his own odor—“It smells like my soul’s rotting,” he reportedly moaned

Auditory Response:

• Squealing, gurgled sobs echo in the hotel room

• Wedgie squeaks audible as damp cotton rubs against inflamed skin

Tactile Misery:

• Fabric now acts like sandpaper across the taint

• Leg holes dig into the hips, warping body posture

• Briefs become a suspension device as victim begins to lift slightly off the floor from tension alone

⸻

WEDGIE DENIAL – TOTAL PSYCHOLOGICAL COLLAPSE:

Stage 1: “This isn’t happening” — Internal rejection, whimpers, no eye contact

Stage 2: “I can still fix this” — Futile squirming, fingers gripping air

Stage 3: “This is who I am now” — Tears flow, snot drips, victim surrenders entirely to his new identity: “The guy whose own butt-crusted briefs now function as a headband”

⸻

FINAL HUMILIATION MARKER:

At [00:22], the assailant snaps the waistband under the chin, locking the fabric taut against the jawline. This converts the wedgie into a full compression hood, pressing the sweaty, stained gusset of the underwear against the victim’s mouth. The victim dry-heaves and mutters, “It’s in my teeth…”

⸻

FORENSIC CONCLUSION:

This incident is one of the most complete and devastating wedgie denial breakdowns ever documented. It combined:

• Full atomic lift

• Skid mark-to-nostril exposure

• Sweat marinade saturation

• Olfactory-induced nausea

• Identity fracture and ego annihilation

#@wedgiesandwhities #tighty whitie wedgie #wedgie kink #wedgiemen #atomicwedgie #wedgie time #wedgie boy #atomic wedgie #deep wedgie #frontal wedgie

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anon-188 · 10 days ago

Note

Could you write something like really angst with aj where like he went on a heist and she thought he was dead and like he apologises on his knees and then some like soft slow smut where he just keeps kissing her and apologises???? Thx

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: angst ❤️‍🩹 | wc: 2.3k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), strong language, emotional hurt/comfort, implied (but false) character death, panic attack symptoms, bruised!AJ (light), heavy angst, crying, soft!AJ, unprotected sex, heist/robbery mention, gun violence (briefly mentioned).

a/n: if you were trying to emotionally ruin me, congrats—you succeeded. but seriously, thank you so much for requesting this!! i hope you like it <3

also… wrote this while listening to code blue by the-dream. yes, i cried 😭

It was a typical Tuesday morning.

You had your shift at the diner—the one just a few blocks from the apartment you shared with AJ. Same regulars, same buzz of the overhead lights, same smell of burnt coffee and old grease that clung to your clothes no matter how many times you washed them.

And AJ, well… he had a heist planned. Bank job. No details. There never were. That was part of the deal.

He just kissed you—a little longer than usual. Told you he’d be careful and that he’d see you later. No real goodbye. He didn’t believe in those.

And of course, you didn’t love what he did—hated that it was unpredictable, that it came with too many unknowns and too many risks. But AJ had never given you a reason to doubt him.

He always promised to come home—and he did. Every time.

By now, it was midday. The diner was packed, lunch rush in full swing. Plates clattered in the kitchen, silverware scraped across plates, and someone at the counter was complaining about their toast being cold. You were in the middle of pouring a fresh round of coffee when the flicker of movement on the mounted TV caught your eye.

You glanced up—just for a second.

Breaking News flashed across the screen in bold red. You almost looked away, used to the noise of it by now. But then you saw it.

Outside of a bank. Police cars. Barricades.

A robbery.

Your stomach dropped.

You grabbed a rag and started clearing a nearby table, trying to play it cool as you leaned toward one of your coworkers. “Can you turn that up?” you asked, your voice low, like you were just curious.

She didn’t question it. Just grabbed the remote and nudged the volume up.

The anchor’s voice filled the room, crisp and too calm.

“We’re following a developing situation in downtown LA, where a five-man crew has attempted to rob First National Bank. Law enforcement has confirmed that the suspects are still inside, currently refusing to surrender. There are reports of multiple hostages. No demands have been made.”

Five.

Your heart gave a painful thud. AJ. Gordon. John. Jesse. Jake.

No. No. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be.

There were a lot of five-man crews. A lot of banks. You clung to that logic like it could hold back the panic rising in your throat.

You stacked dishes with shaking hands.

“Coming in now… it appears shots have been fired. Officers are returning fire. We’ve just received confirmation—open exchange between the suspects and police.”

The footage shifted. Camera zoomed on gunfire erupting from the bank entrance, officers ducking behind vehicles, smoke and shouts and flashing lights in the distance.

Your movements slowed, heart hammering, as the anchor continued.

“We’re hearing now that the crew has been taken down. All five suspects have been neutralized. We repeat—all five suspects are down. No hostages harmed.”

The stack of dishes slipped from your hands and hit the floor hard, porcelain shattering into jagged pieces that rang throughout the diner. The sound turned heads, but you hardly noticed. You stood there for a second, frozen, until your coworker rushed over to help.

“I’ve got it,” they said gently, crouching down with a towel, but their voice felt far away.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, though the word hardly formed on your tongue.

Your body was already moving before you registered the decision. You pushed through the swinging door to the back, grabbed your phone with fumbling hands, and bolted through the alley exit. The warm air hit you in a suffocating way, but you didn’t stop. You dialed his number with shaking fingers.

Once. No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

By the third call, the tears came—hot, blinding, unstoppable. You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, willing it to connect, trying to hold yourself together in the space between each ring. But the signs weren’t looking good. Not this time.

A few hours had gone by, and with each passing minute, your heart broke a little more. You sat on the couch, eyes flicking between your phone and the TV, trying to focus on the news, hoping for something—anything—but nothing new had come in. Just recycled footage. The same looping clips of the scene. The same headlines.

He would’ve called by now.

You knew that like you knew your own name. He always did, even when he couldn’t say much. Even when he knew he shouldn’t. He always found a way to let you know he was okay.

But this time… nothing.

It felt like your body had finally caved under the weight of it all. You doubled over where you sat, arms wrapping around your middle like you could hold yourself together. But the sobs still came, raw and heaving, until your whole frame shook. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, but it barely helped. You didn’t want to fall apart, but it didn’t feel like a choice anymore.

And it was like that for hours. One minute, your tears came soft and silent, slipping down your cheeks in slow surrender. The next, you were gripping a pillow and gasping through it, the ache rising too fast, too sharp. Sometimes you’d pace the apartment, aimless and angry. Other times you’d just stare at the door, wishing it would open.

The sun eventually dipped below the skyline, the light shifting. Outside, the world kept going, headlights flashing past, voices trailing down the street, but inside—your world had stopped.

Just like that.

Hours later, somewhere, somehow, you’d found the strength to take a shower—an attempt at a distraction, at pretending things were okay for just a few minutes. But nothing could quiet the ache lodged in your chest. Nothing could stop your mind from spinning.

And then—

A noise. Loud. Something clattering.

You stilled, water streaming down your back, breath caught.

Another sound followed. Something heavier.

Without thinking, you twisted the knob off and stepped out, water dripping from your skin as you grabbed the nearest towel. You barely dried off, too focused on the pounding in your ears. Your hands trembled as you pulled your clothes on, movements fast and uneven.

You opened the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The space was quiet. Eerily so. You crossed the room, heart thudding in your chest as you reached for the bedroom door.

Just as you opened it, you were met with a figure on the other side.

AJ.

You let out a soft yelp, startled by how suddenly he appeared.

His hands came up instantly, breathless. “It’s me—hey, it’s me,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He was drenched in sweat and dirt. Clothes disheveled, shirt clinging to him. His jaw was bruised. There was blood on his knuckles.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Then the tears hit.

Your shoulders shook before you could stop them, and your knees almost buckled as the relief finally broke through. You didn’t even realize how hard you were crying until AJ’s hands reached for you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, murmuring apologies over and over between shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You clung to him for a beat, the shock keeping your limbs stiff before your hands pushed at his chest, not to shove him away—just to breathe, to see him.

“Where were you? What happened?” you asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.

AJ pulled back slightly, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. “The job went south. Another crew showed up. Same bank.”

You blinked, confusion crashing into you. “But the news… they said five. I thought—”

“It wasn’t us,” he cut in, shaking his head hard. “It wasn’t us.”

Tears kept falling, faster now, sharp and wet across your cheeks. You hit his chest once—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“Why didn’t you call?” Your voice cracked. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I lost my phone, baby.” His voice dropped, rough and hoarse. “It was a fucking mess. I’ve been running for hours. The cops were everywhere—I just—I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, another wave of tears slipping free before you could stop them. “I… I thought you were dead,” you whispered, voice wavering as the words finally spilled out.

AJ’s brows furrowed, the pain in your voice hitting him like a punch. You saw it flash through his expression—tight, sharp, like he’d give anything to take the last few hours from you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Again. Like the words weren’t enough but they were all he had.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The tears kept coming, harder now, burning your cheeks as your body started to fold in on itself.

That’s when AJ dropped to his knees in front of you.

His hands found your hips gently, thumbs skimming over the hem of your shirt. He looked up at you, eyes dark with remorse.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said again, more desperate now. “I swear—I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t crying. But it was written all over him—in the way his hands pressed into your sides as if he were anchoring himself to you.

The moment he saw another tear slide down your cheek, AJ reached for your wrist, pulling you gently toward him.

He drew you in until your body tilted forward, leaning into him, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t let go.

"Don't ever do that again," you said, the words catching in your throat as the tears finally began to slow.

“I mean it.” Your voice trembling with the leftover fear that hadn’t yet left your body. “I don’t want to—I can’t—I thought I lost you.”

AJ stood, cupping your face in his hands. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He pressed his forehead to yours as he murmured, “I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

You nodded, lightly.

“I’m here,” he said again, quieter this time. Like it had to be said twice to make it real.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss that said everything you couldn’t.

His lips moved slowly against yours, warm and weighted, thumb brushing along your jaw as the kiss deepened.

You pulled him closer, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Your body pressed into his like you were trying to make up for all the time you thought you’d lost.

He moved with you, guiding you back into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss for more than a breath.

There, in the soft light, you tugged at his shirt while his hands slipped beneath yours, fingertips gliding over your skin. Clothes came off between kisses, slow and tender. Each movement was careful, but full of urgency. Not rushed, just needed.

His shirt hit the floor. Yours followed. His fingers grazed your hips as he helped ease your pants down, and you reached for his belt, working it loose while he pressed his lips to your shoulder.

As you moved to the bed, he laid you down gently, your back sinking into the sheets like they had been waiting for you both. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as AJ climbed in after you, settling between your legs.

He kissed you again, lips lingering before he trailed them down, warm and reverent. He dropped a line of kisses to your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest. You felt his breath against your skin, felt the way he paused at your stomach, his hands smoothing over your sides with a touch that was apologetic.

When he moved lower, intent clear in the way he kissed just above your thigh, you stopped him, fingers threading into his hair.

He looked up at you, eyes soft, searching your face.

“I just want you,” you said, your voice quiet but sure.

He nodded, then began to crawl back up your body, never breaking eye contact.

His lips met yours again, deep and full, as he reached down between you, lining himself up.

He entered you slowly, letting your body take him inch by inch. Your hands slid over his ink-covered back, nails slightly digging in. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he sank into you, a shaky breath tumbling out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words barely brushing your skin as he hovered over you, voice rough with guilt.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing your chest to his, your mouth to his neck. You didn’t need to speak. Your body said it for you.

Your back arched to meet him as he rolled into you with rhythm, dragging against every tender place inside you.

He filled you completely with each pass, pulling out just enough to make you feel the loss before sliding back in, deeper, smoother, with a groan he buried into the side of your neck.

His hands never left you. One stayed on your waist, holding you. The other slid along your ribs, your breast, your neck—touches that soothed as much as they worshipped.

“I’m sorry,” he said again between thrusts, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was—I was just trying to come back to you. I’m sorry.”

His hand slid up, cradling your jaw as he kissed you between movements—sweet, aching kisses that landed on your lips, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You felt the apology in every push of his body against yours. He was deep, slow, focused only on you. On making it up to you. On being here. Fully.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as his pace stayed steady, his breath catching every time you tightened around him.

Every thrust was a quiet plea. Every kiss, a promise.

He was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

tag list: @alealuvshayden @haydenchristensenisbae @sythethecarrot @apocalyptichero @ggyuslovie @anak1ns-wife @5secondsofmoxley @f1wh0recom @purplerose291 @i5hyv @endairachristensen26 @mvst4far

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links: masterlist

#rain replies <3 #aj takers #aj takers x reader #hayden christensen x reader #aj takers smut #hayden christensen smut #hayden christensen #aj x reader #takers movie #takers 2010 #aj takers fanfiction

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aismoker · 8 months ago

Note

I really love your stories! I was wondering though, as related to your stories, do you think two people can be in love and assimilated (e.g. can two people be in love before being assimilated, force the other to be assimilated and remain in love; or fall in love after assimilation) or those two concepts mutually exclusive (e.g. the power of Marlboro is too great or more powerful, or the very act of assimilation removes individuality so that love cannot exist except to serve)?

Thank you so much! I am really glad you like my stories. To answer your question, I will tell you what happened to a couple of friends of a friend of mine.

They were called Mark and Tristan, both in their early thirties. They became a couple about 8 years ago and they were still very much in love. Their love was a special one, that increased over time. Everything was perfect.

One day, Mark came back home from a business trip. When he arrived home, he noticed something amiss. He had thought his boyfriend would be at work, but it seemed that he was at home. Was he sick? Or had he taken a day off to surprise him?

"Tristan? Are you home?"

No reply. Mark put his suitcase down and walked through the house. When he reached the bedroom, he smelled something. Was it cigarette smoke? Tristan smoked sometimes at parties, but never inside their home. Mark opened the door. Smoke streamed out of the room, engulfing him. Mark coughed a bit. He was okay with Tristan smoking occasionally, but he didn't fancy it. He looked inside the room, but the smoke was too thick. "Tristan?" No answer, but Mark heard a rhytmical, squeaking sound. He was anxious. What was going on? He stepped into the bedroom. The smoke seemed to close in behind him.

Through the smoke, he saw a red glow. He walked, no, waded, through the smoke. As he came closer. He saw it was the computer screen. Behind it sat a man. "Tr... Tristan?" No reaction. As he came closer, he noticed, that the figure was smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a shiny suit of some sort and his shaved head was equally shiny. He was sitting behind the conputer, staring at a screen filled with red binary code. Mark saw where the squeaking sound came from. The man was working his cock. Mark was so confused, but at the same time mesmerized by the sight of it. He then suddenly noticed, that he was looking at his boyfriend.

"Tristan! What happened to you?" he screamed. Tristan didn't react. He kept smoking and staring at the screen, as if he was in a trance. Marc walked toward his boyfriend. Worries were racing through his mind. He put his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders and shook, but Tristan didn't move a muscles. He stood there for a moment, thinking what he could do. He then suddenly noticed his hands tingling. He took them from Tristan's shoulders and looked at them. They were covered in a black shiny goo, looking not unlike the uniform his boyfriend was wearing.

Tar.

He didn't know where that thought came from, but he didn't question it, nor was he alarmed by it. He looked at in fascination and played with it in his hands, until they were completely covered. The tingling feeling was actually quite pleasant.

All the while he was staring at his hand, he saw the binary code on the screen, constantly changing. He shifted his attention to it. He couldn't make any sense of the zeros and ones moving on the screen, yet he kept looking, mesmerized. He knew he had to.

As he stood there, Marc lost all sense of time. He just just stood there and watched the screen. The zeros and ones had completely captivated him. He somehow started to understand what it was saying.

"... You want to embrace. You want to surrender. You want to serve. You are a Marlboro drone. Marlboro is pleasure. Marlboro is bliss. Marlboro is perfection. You are a Marlboro drone. Embrace Marlboro. Surrender to Marlboro. Become one with Marlboro. You are a Marlboro drone. You love Marlboro. You desire Marlboro. You want to be Marlboro. You are a Marlboro drone. There is nothing but Marlboro. Fill yourself with Marlboro. Be Marlboro..."

The words started to fill Marc's head. It was as if the words were slowly being downloaded into his mind, pressing his own thoughts away. It was a strange sensation, but Marc wasn't scared. He somehow knew it had to be this way.

Suddenly he felt a tingling feeling around his crotch. He looked down. He should have gasped, but he didn't. He just smiled as he saw what it was. Without realizing it, he had opened his pants and had started to caress his cock. The tar on his hands had attached itself on his cock. He looked at it in admiration. It was so beautiful, so shiny black and at least twice as large as his cock used to be. A thought took hold in his head. This isn't a cock. Marlboro drones don't have cocks. This is a tar-dispenser. He smiled. Yes, Marlboro drones have tar-dispensers. He looked back at the screen, still caresing his tar-dispenser. He felt hownthebtingling feeling started to spread over his legs. The dronification was in progress. He smiled.

He suddenly felt two hands on his shoulders, taking him a moment out of his trance. "Tristan...", Marc's voice lingered in the smoke-filled air.

As he felt back into his trance, a part og him was wondering why he had uttered that word. Tristan? He didn't seem to know that word. Then a small voice in his head told him that it was the name of his boyfriend, the man standing behind him. No, this wasn't Tristan. This was a Marlboro drone. Nameless. It was here to accelerate the dronification.

With that thought, he felt how the drone's tar dispenser started to enter him. At first it was hard, but as the drone's tar dispenser started to coat his inside, it was as if his hole started to adapt to the it, like it was becoming a perfect fit. Marc leaned into the drone's arm, feeling the cold tar of its suit slowly covering his own and smelling that wonderful Marlboro smoke.

The drone started to move its hips rhytmically, mechanically. There was no love or tenderness. Marc knew that the drone was doing its job, accelerating the dronification process. As the drone continued, Marc kept staring at the screen. There was nothing else it could do. There was nothing else it wanted to do. It wanted to be a Marlboro drone and soon it would be one. It felt the tingling feeling spread all through its body. It knew the tar was changing it. Upgrading it. Purifying it.

After an hour, it felt the dronification was almost completed. The other drone felt it too. He brought a Marlboro to the lips of the new drone. The drone opened its mouth and accepted the cigarette. It lit the cigarette mechanically and took a deep inhale. As the smoke entered its body, the tingling feeling throughout its body changed. It was as if every cell in its body was cheering in joy, emitting bliss. It was incomprehensible. It was overwhelming, like a wave washing over the beach, sweeping the last remnants of thoughts and individuality away. It took a second drag. It felt its tar dispenser activate. At first, white goo came out in shots, but with each shot the goo turned darker, until pure tar was coming out of it. It had been purified.

The other drone pulled its tar-dispenser out. Its job was done. It lit up a fresh cigarette and it felt the bliss wash over it. It then turned around and left the apartmwnt. The new drone followed it. Without saying a word they went both in a different direction. They didn't know if they would ever see each other again. They didn't think about that and didn't care. They were Marlboro drones. They were like fingers of the same hand. They were one. They were Marlboro.

#smoking men #ai smoke #cigarette #marlboro #story

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mrsvante · 9 hours ago

Text

Terms of Surrender

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: idol au, established relationship, pfp (kinda)

summary: he always left a piece of himself behind when he went away. now he’s trying to remember where he put it. a slow burning love letter to quiet homes, messy reunions, half eaten cake, and the way someone’s touch can make a tired soul feel whole again.

warnings: military discharge, emotional vulnerability, fingering, oral f!receiving, light edging, praise kink, yoongi calls you a good girl 🫠, swearing, teeth rottingly tender intimacy, clingy yoongi, post service identity crisis, minor angst with comfort, domestic fluff, one deeply judgmental dog named holly

word count: 4,907

a word from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: i know these drabbles have been pretty much pfp but i got a little emotional with yoongi because we made it!! they’re all finally home & whole. how could i not get emotional?! ughhhh it feels so surreal to know ot7 is back 🥹 anyway, enough of me blabbering..hope you enjoy!

Yoongi slouched deeper into the backseat of the cab, his head tipped against the cool glass of the window as the late June sun painted long shadows over the city. Seoul hadn’t changed much. Same humming traffic. Same old buildings with half lit signs.

But somehow it all felt a little different today, like the world had edged forward a few paces without him and now he was just catching up.

The driver didn’t say much, which he appreciated. He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

His shoulder ached, an old reminder stitched into the muscle. He rolled it slowly, grateful it hadn’t flared up during the last few months. He’d been careful, pacing himself. Desk work had its own kind of strain, though. Different from physical labor. More like being filed down from the inside out, every second smoothed into the next until time itself lost its sharpness.

Twenty one months. It was a long time to be out of the rhythm of everything.

But he was going home now.

The cab pulled into the underground lot beneath his apartment complex. Yoongi paid, murmured a soft thank you, and stepped out, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. His fingers tapped over the security pad and the door buzzed open, welcoming him into silence.

The elevator ride was short.

He input the house code into the door, and the smell hit him first.

Takeout. Sweet and salty. Something you knew he liked.

Then your voice.

“~Congratulations, our beloved Yoongi~”

You sang in an absurdly high pitched voice, standing in the middle of the dining room in fuzzy socks, his old sweatshirt, and some too tiny shorts that clung to your ass like a second skin. A small cake sat on the table beside a bottle of Glenfiddich and a cluster of takeout boxes.

Yoongi blinked.

You ran over to him, grabbing his hand before he could even take off his shoes, dragging him into the middle of the room.

“Dance with me,” you demanded, swaying your hips in exaggerated circles, clearly trying to make him laugh.

“I literally just got discharged—”

“Exactly. So you don’t have any excuses.”

He rolled his eyes but let you spin him around once. Then twice. You clapped like it was the best performance of his career and leaned in to kiss his cheek with a loud, theatrical mwah.

Yoongi’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile.

You cut the cake and plated a slice. Soft, homemade lilac frosting smudged along the edge. You were beaming as you scooped up a bite for him with your fork.

“Open.”

“I’m not a dog, aegi.”

You tilted your head and arched a brow. “Wanna bet?”

Still, he opened his mouth and let you feed him. The cake was good. Moist and sweet, but not too sweet.

He was tired. Fucking exhausted, actually.

But his heart, his heart had never felt this full.

You nudged his side gently. “You look more dead now than you did on your last day of basic.”

Yoongi groaned, head tipping back. “Because basic was body hell. This was soul death. There’s a difference.”

You giggled. “So… filing paperwork was harder than running ten kilometers with a loaded pack?”

“Absolutely. You ever been stuck with a malfunctioning printer and an angry office ajumma on your ass for six straight hours?”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his chest. “Guess I’ll just have to nurse you back to health.”

“You’re already doing a pretty good job,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair.

Later that night, the cake was half eaten, the whiskey two fingers lower, and the takeout boxes stacked haphazardly on the counter. The lights were dimmed, the room washed in the soft glow of the TV as the drama played on the screen.

You sat curled against Yoongi on the couch, legs tangled with his, one of your hands absently tracing the inside seam of his sweatpants. Holly was nestled comfortably by Yoongi’s feet, occasionally twitching in his sleep as if chasing something.

Yoongi’s arm rested around your shoulders, fingers playing with the end of your sleeve.

The silence had long settled into something easy. He hadn’t said much since dinner, but you didn’t mind. That was just him. He was always more of a slow pour—thoughts aged like wine, shared only when ready.

The main couple on screen kissed under a lamppost. The music swelled dramatically and you snorted.

“They’ve known each other for like four episodes.”

Yoongi gave a soft, amused breath through his nose. “That’s two more than some people get.”

A comfortable beat passed. Then he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I missed this.”

You turned your head slightly against his chest, your ear catching the soft thump of his heart beneath his shirt.

“Missed what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers stilled against your sleeve.

“This,” he repeated, gaze fixed somewhere past the TV. “Normal things. You. Even Holly’s stubborn little attitude.”

You smiled, glancing down at the tiny dog in question. “He’s been moodier than usual with you being so regimented lately.”

“Yeah, well,” Yoongi exhaled slowly, “I’ve been moodier than usual without you.”

You lifted your head to look at him fully, but his eyes were still on the screen, though it was obvious he wasn’t really seeing it. There was a distant kind of sheen in his expression. Like he was still partially somewhere else.

He finally glanced at you, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly. “I think I forgot how to sit still for a while. Everything about that place… the rhythm, the silence, it’s different. Not bad, just…” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Sterile. Like life paused and I was watching it through a window. The days bled together. Same halls. Same faces. Same tired conversations.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He leaned into it a little.

“But now it’s over,” you said gently.

“Almost,” he replied. “Still doesn’t feel real. I’ve been fantasizing about laying on this couch for months without forcing myself to stick to a bedtime. About your cheesy dramas. About Holly hogging all the foot space.” He nudged the dog lightly with his toe. “But the moment I stepped through the door, it felt like no time had passed and also like a lifetime had gone by.”

He paused. His voice dropped just slightly.

“I’m nervous.”

That surprised you a little. You sat up straighter.

“About?”

“Coming back.” He didn’t mean the apartment. “About being with the guys again. Being BTS again. It’s stupid—I’ve done this my whole adult life. But it’s like… what if the music feels different? What if I feel different?”

You softened, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You are different. That doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing.”

“I know.” His eyes flicked down. “I just—there’s pressure. Expectations. We’re all gonna be different now. Older. We’ve lived outside of that world for so long, it’s not going to be the same. And I’m scared I won’t love it the way I used to. Or that I’ll want it too much and burn out again.”

Your thumb softly traced beneath his eye.

“You don’t have to have all the answers yet,” you murmured. “Just take the next step. One at a time.”

Yoongi let out a breath. Not quite relief, but close.

“You always know what to say.”

“No,” you said with a small smile. “I just know you.”

He looked at you again, really looked this time, and that quiet, aching fondness was back in full force. The kind that never demanded attention but still managed to take up all the space in the room.

“I want you there,” he said, voice soft and sure. “When it all starts again. Not hidden. Not on the sidelines. Just… with me.”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his before whispering, “Always.”

Yoongi didn’t kiss you right away.

He held your face like it was the last fragile thing in a world made of sharp edges, and then, he kissed you.

You didn’t know who started it, but the kiss deepened before either of you thought to stop it. A soft press of lips became something hungrier, something hot and slow and aching with everything unsaid.

Yoongi’s hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing just behind your ear. The other slid to your hip, pulling you closer until you were practically on top of him. You shifted, straddling his lap fully, thighs settling on either side of his, and the sound he made sent a sharp pulse straight through the apex of your thighs.

His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, and you opened for him. The taste of whiskey lingered faintly on his breath, but more than that, it was him.

Warm and addicting.

You rocked forward just slightly, enough to feel the stiff press of him beneath you.

Yoongi tensed, groaning into your mouth as your hips moved again. The pressure, the friction, had you squirming before you could stop yourself. His hands gripped your hips harder, guiding the movement just a little, just enough.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice ragged against your lips. “You trying to kill me?”

You smiled against his mouth, breath catching. “Maybe.”

Another roll of your hips and he swore again, this time dragging his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, where he pressed a kiss just below your ear.

And then, a wet snort.

You both froze.

Then came a soft shuffle and another sneeze like exhale. Yoongi turned his head just enough to see Holly sprawled on his side by the couch, staring up at you both like he had just woken up to a live drama finale he definitely shouldn’t be watching.

You burst out laughing.

Yoongi let his head fall back against the couch with a dramatic groan. “This fucking dog…”

“I think he’s judging us.”

“I know he’s judging us.”

Still laughing, you moved to slide off his lap, but Yoongi caught you before you could. In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting you with him. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders automatically, heart thudding.

“Yoongi—”

“We’re taking this somewhere Holly can’t emotionally imprint on the trauma.”

You laughed even harder, your nose bumping against his cheek as he carried you toward the bedroom, his grip firm and certain.

“And what exactly do you plan to do to me in there?”

Yoongi glanced down at you, eyes dark and glittering with intent, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “things you definitely shouldn’t do in front of your children.”

You shrieked and hit his chest, breathless from laughter, head tipping back as he kicked open the bedroom door with his foot.

Behind you, Holly let out one last disgruntled little puff of air and curled back into a loaf.

Yoongi didn’t rush.

He was finally done with his service. There was no need to. And true to himself, Yoongi planned to take his time with you.

Even with weeks of want pressed into the heat between you, even with the taste of your mouth still lingering on his tongue and the shape of your thighs burned into his palms, he didn’t rush.

He laid you down gently, your back sinking into the mattress, the light from the hallway casting warm shadows across your skin. His eyes took you in like he was starving, like he’d been starving for months.

He peeled you out of his sweatshirt with a few gentle tugs. No shirt underneath, no bra.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “You are trying to kill me.”

You smiled, breathless and hazy, but it faltered when he leaned down and dragged his mouth over your breasts. His tongue was slow, tracing lazy circles around a nipple until it hardened beneath the drag of his lips. Then he sucked, just enough to make your fingers curl in his hair.

Your breath hitched. Yoongi hummed, tongue flicking once more before trailing lower, over your side, your stomach, your hips.

He whispered things as he went, words too quiet to make out. You only caught pieces. So good… missed this… fuck, you’re soft… Like a prayer, or a lullaby meant only for his own ears. There was admiration in every press of his lips. Admiration and hunger and something even more dangerous.

By the time he slipped your shorts down your legs, your thighs were already trembling.

His palm dragged up the inside of your knee, thumb brushing softly over sensitive skin. “Open for me, sweetheart,” he said, low and hoarse, like it cost him to keep still.

You did, thighs falling apart with no hesitation.

The air kissed the wet heat of you, and Yoongi’s gaze sharpened, but still, he didn’t dive in. No frantic desperation. No rush.

Just his lips brushing along the crease of your thigh.

Then again.

Then the other side.

Over and over.

Getting closer.

And then pulling away.

You squirmed. Your hips lifted instinctively toward him, only for his hand to pin you down gently, thumb stroking circles just beneath your hip bone.

“Yoongi…” you whimpered, voice threadbare with need.

He looked up at you, chin tucked between your thighs, hair messy, lips slightly parted—but his eyes glittered all dark and mischievous.

“I’ve been waiting twenty one months to take my time with you,” he said, all soft spoken sin. “Don’t think I’m gonna rush it now.”

Then finally, he licked one long deliberate stripe up your folds.

You gasped, back arching clean off the mattress, but Yoongi only hummed like he was tasting something divine. He didn’t stop there. His tongue moved with devastating precision, every flick calculated, every slow swirl around your clit designed to bring you just close enough.

And then retreat.

And then build again.

He latched his mouth around you, sucking just enough to make your breath stutter, hips rising for more. His grip tightened.

But then, he stopped.

You let out a strangled sound, hips jerking in confusion, in desperate disbelief.

He looked up again, mouth slick, eyes too wide and too innocent to be sincere. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Your chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. “You—you stopped.”

He tilted his head, mock concern twisting his features into a mask of gentle confusion. “I did?”

“Yoongi—”

“Shh,” he whispered, as two fingers slid deep into you before you could protest.

Your body seized, a cry breaking from your lips as he curled them just right, his thumb pressing lightly to your clit.

“You sound so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

He found that spot inside you again, massaging it with slow, steady strokes until you felt it build. All hot, overwhelming, and dizzying.

And then, he pulled away.

Again.

You choked on a sob, hands flying up to clutch at his arms. Your eyes were glossy now, cheeks damp, your whole body trembling from the tension he’d so artfully crafted.

“Yoongi—please,” you whispered, voice broken, barely holding together. “Please, I can’t—”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, lips soft against your skin.

“Yes, you can. You can for me, right?”

His voice was sweet, gentle. But it wasn’t kindness. It was torture.

Another round. Another climb. This time he used everything—his tongue, his fingers, his mouth—driving you to the edge until your body couldn’t tell if it wanted to cum or cry. You were gasping, breath breaking with every stroke, every flick of his tongue, thighs clamped tight around his head in desperation.

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, your body pulsing on the edge of release, so close it hurt.

And Yoongi, he looked up at you with that same soft smile, that same faux innocence, like he wasn’t the one breaking you down piece by piece with every touch.

Like this wasn’t exactly what he wanted.

And just when you thought you’d reached your limit, thought you were about to break, he gave in.

Yoongi sat back on his heels for a moment, the soft light casting shadows across his jawline. His lips were still slick from you and swollen, a flush faintly blooming on his cheeks.

Then, without a word, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Exposing the lean muscle and sharp lines of his body inch by inch. He tossed it to the side, not breaking eye contact. His hands moved to the waistband of his sweats next, dragging them down with a roll of his hips.

You propped yourself up slightly, breath catching as he stood to push them all the way off.

“Are you putting on a show for me, Min?” you teased, your voice soft but playful, cheeks still flushed from the cruel bliss of everything he’d just done to you.

He smirked, his cock heavy and flushed, bobbing slightly as he stepped back between your legs. “Don’t act like you’re not the one begging for an encore.”

You laughed, but it slipped into a gasp when he leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other lined himself up. The blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance, hot, hard and achingly thick.

His eyes met yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the words barely audible over your pounding heart.

Then he slid inside.

Your cry was half sob, half surrender as he pushed inside slowly in a long, unhurried thrust. Inch by inch, filling you until his hips were flush against yours and you felt impossibly full, stretched wide and warm around him.

Yoongi dropped his head to your shoulder, breath shuddering against your skin. “Fuck,” he groaned, voice cracking on your name like he’d been starving for this moment. Like this was his first breath of air in months.

He didn’t move.

Just stayed there, pressed so deep it felt like he could feel the beat of your heart from the inside. You clung to him, dazed and overwhelmed, trying to process the way he filled you so completely it almost hurt.

And then, he moved.

Slowly.

So slow.

Each roll of his hips deep and devastating. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world, like he was making up for every lost second. His lips trailed kisses across your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth. His hands gripped your thighs and then your hips, grounding you as your body molded to his.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper, your nails scraping down his back as the pressure built again.

“Yoongi,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He kissed you softly. “I know.”

Your moans grew louder, breathier, every thrust coaxing more from you, unraveling you thread by thread. The steady rhythm turned hungrier, hips snapping a little harder, a little sharper, but never losing that deliberate care, that tether of control wrapped tightly around both of you.

You broke with a sob, your body clenching tight around him, your back arching as the pleasure finally tore through you. It rolled in waves, raw and overwhelming, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as if you could anchor yourself to him.

He didn’t stop.

“Good girl,” Yoongi rasped, the words gritted out through clenched teeth. “That’s it. Let me feel you.”

He thrust through it, riding the high, until your body began to tremble under his and your cries gave way to quiet, broken whimpers. He kissed your throat, your chest, lips suckling and biting your nipples as he fucked you. His hands soothed over your hips as if to apologize for the ruin he was leaving in his wake.

Then he finally let go.

He thrust deep one last time, a full bodied groan tearing from his lips as he came. His whole body shuddered against yours, mouth finding the hollow of your throat as he moaned your name into your skin, like it was the only thing he wanted to say.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away.

Yoongi cradled you against his chest, his heartbeat still pounding as your legs slowly slid down from around his waist. He kissed your temple, the corner of your eye where a tear still clung, then ran his fingers gently through your hair.

Your body still twitched in the aftermath. His touch was slow, soothing, grounding you as if he couldn’t bear to let you drift even an inch.

“I’m home,” he whispered.

And this time, it wasn’t a metaphor.

It was a vow.

No drills. No deadlines. No long hours and coming home too mentally exhausted to do anything.

Just this—his skin on yours, your name on his lips, and the silence finally filled by the sound of peace.

You lay tangled together in the low, amber warmth of the bedroom, skin to skin, legs lazily woven through his. The room had gone quiet again, save for the hum of the city beyond the window and the low, steady sound of your breath returning to normal.

Your skin was cooling but still slick with sweat in places. Every inhale brought the scent of sex and warmth and him. Something earthy, grounding, and entirely Yoongi.

Your head rested on his chest, ear pressed to the steady drum of his heart. The beat was slower now, steady again, but the weight of it beneath your cheek made you feel safe in a way that nothing else ever had.

Yoongi’s fingers drifted along your spine, light and slow and without direction, like his body needed the constant contact to believe you were still there. Every now and then his thumb would pause at your lower back, or brush along your side.

He wasn’t ready to sleep.

Not yet.

Neither were you.

You lifted your head after a while, your cheek creasing against his chest as you shifted just enough to look at him. His eyes were open, soft and dark in the low light, already watching you.

There was something in his expression that made your chest ache.

Something unspoken passed between you. That quiet pulse that always beat strongest when there was nothing left to perform, no ego, no masks. Just you. Just him. Just the knowing.

Then you shifted and climbed over him.

Yoongi’s hands found your hips instinctively, his breath catching slightly as you reached down and guided his still hardening cock inside you again. He was still sensitive, and so were you, but the stretch felt like being wrapped in silk.

You sank down slowly, breath trembling as your body molded to his. No urgency now, or easing. Just the soft, burning ache of connection that ran deeper than anything physical.

He stared up at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Hair tousled. Skin flushed. Lips parted as he exhaled a shaky breath that ghosted over your throat.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and low.

You smiled, leaning down to kiss him.

And then you moved.

You rolled your hips in gentle circles, every glide and shift dragging him deeper, tighter, making both of you gasp. Your hands framed his face, thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones. His eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the intimacy, by the heat, by the way your body gripped him like it knew him.

His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in just slightly, anchoring himself.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered. “Every time, but—fuck—like this…”

You could feel him trembling beneath you, trying to hold still, trying not to lose himself too fast.

“You’re perfect.”

You kissed him again. Softer now. Like a promise.

“I love you,” he said, the words so quiet they nearly disappeared into your skin.

You paused, not from doubt, but from the weight of it. From how much it meant to hear it like that. Bare. Honest. Unprovoked.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing over your temple.

“I do. I love you. And I’m so fucking happy you gave me a chance.”

“Yoongi—”

“I was scared,” he confessed, voice breaking a little. “Not of you—never of you. Just… of being seen. Of being known like this. You looked at me and didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You stayed.”

You rolled your hips down again and his breath caught hard in his throat. His head tipped back, jaw slack with pleasure.

“You stayed.”

You kissed him again, this time slow and deep, like you were pouring every ounce of yourself into the space between you. Your hips moved with aching tenderness, each motion drawing you closer to the edge again.

“I think about the sounds you make,” he murmured against your throat. “When you cum. When you break. They’re so fucking beautiful, baby.”

Your breath hitched. The tension building again, coiling low and tight as his hands guided you in that same slow rhythm.

“I’m gonna record them one day,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your ear. “Sneak them into a track. Hide them in the layers so only I know they’re there.”

Your heart thudded hard.

“The breath you take right before you fall apart. That little gasp. The way you cry out my name. I’ll keep it buried in the beat like a secret.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, the pleasure building so high, so fast, your whole body quaked. Your hands gripped his shoulders, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Let go,” he whispered. “Let me hear it, sweetheart.”

And you did.

You came with a soft sob, your entire body locking down around him, thighs shaking, chest pressed to his. You shook with it, clung to him like you’d fall apart if you let go.

Yoongi followed soon after, holding you tightly as he spilled inside you, voice catching in your ear as he whispered your name like it was the only word that still mattered.

The practice room was just how you remembered it.

Long wall of mirrors. Scuffed floors. The faint scent of sweat and long hours spent rehearsing lingering in the corners. And yet today, it didn’t feel like a space for work. Not really. It felt like something awakened. A quiet celebration carved out between return and rebirth.

You stood near the back wall, tucked between two Hybe staffers holding sparklers that wouldn’t light, watching as Yoongi was gently bullied into the center of the room.

He stood awkwardly, barefoot on the polished floor, sweatpants slung low on his hips, a bouquet of white peonies and hydrangeas cradled in one arm and a cake in the other. His ears were red, and he was already muttering protests.

And then they started to sing.

Namjoon sang the loudest. Jin the most off key. Hoseok was filming the whole thing on his phone while simultaneously trying to shove a party hat onto Yoongi’s head. Jungkook laughed so hard he dropped his sparkler, and Taehyung had thrown confetti prematurely and was now trying to brush it out of Yoongi’s hair with no real success.

Yoongi stood in the eye of the storm with Jimin’s arms wrapped tightly around him, expression caught somewhere between exasperated and shy amusement. His fingers curled tighter around the cake as he tried to will down the smile pulling at his lips.

He wasn’t successful in the slightest.

After the last line of the song was shouted more than sung, the room burst into laughter and clapping. Staff members cheered. One of the managers brought out a cooler of drinks. Jin wrapped his arm around Yoongi’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake.

“Welcome back, hyung. You’re officially free.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but the look he gave Jin was full of something warm and deep. “Don’t remind me.”

The others gathered around him, pulling him into a loose huddle. There were back pats, too tight hugs, soft words exchanged that only they could hear.

They had all made it back.

Every last one.

For the first time in over two years, BTS stood whole again. Not just in title, but in body and soul. Hair a little shorter. Faces a little sharper. But hearts still tethered together by something that hadn’t faded with time.

“We did it,” Namjoon said, voice thick, gaze sweeping over them all. “All of us.”

Yoongi smiled faintly. “Now we make music.”

They stood there for a long moment. Just the seven of them, the silence stretching wide and comfortable. Like standing at the edge of something new, but not uncertain, familiar.

Yoongi’s eyes drifted across the room.

They found you instantly.

You weren’t even trying to hide, just leaning against the mirror with arms crossed lightly over your chest, watching him like you always did. With that quiet kind of pride that didn’t shout. The kind that just saw him.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

He smiled, just for you. Just a flicker. A promise.

Then Jungkook shouted his name and Yoongi was pulled back into the huddle, laughter erupting again as someone tried to smear frosting on his face.

You stayed where you were.

Watching as he laughed. Watching as he stood surrounded by his brothers. Whole and healed and home.

And when he looked back at you one last time over someone’s shoulder, you nodded.

Go on.

This was always where he was meant to be.

masterlist

dividers courtesy of @uzmacchiato

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