marvel and drama enthusiast™

ana | 27 | brazil | full-time fangirl | marvel trash | masterlist

[marvel-spidey]

are we going to get a part 3 to before you’re here 👀🩷

hi anon! yes, i’m already working on it ☝🏼 i hope to finish it until the end of this week 🥹

thanks for being here 🤍

[marvel-spidey]

Before You're Here (part 2)

Pairing: Kim Gun-woo x Pregnant! Reader Word count: 6.5k Summary: Gun-woo comes to save you. Instead, he’s forced to make a deal. Warnings: kidnapping, hostage situation, mentions of pregnancy, violence a/n: thank you for all the love on part 1, to every one of you that reblogged, liked and left such lovely comments 🤍 i wasn’t planning on continuing this, but your messages genuinely pushed me to come back to it! enjoy the pain!! heheh ☆ you can read part 1 here

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

A month passes in a way that feels almost deceptive, not because time moves quickly, but because nothing happens, and that absence slowly reshapes the way you breathe, the way you exist inside the space that once felt too exposed to relax in. The house begins to feel like yours again, where mornings come with soft light through the windows and evenings settle without that constant, suffocating anticipation of something going wrong. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, not for any of you, but it dulls, softens at the edges, instead of sitting heavy in your chest at all times.

Gun-woo still checks the locks before bed, but the sharpness in him has eased just enough that you notice when he relaxes beside you, when his shoulders drop slightly. Woo-jin adapts in his own way, less visibly, but no less carefully, his awareness still there, still constant, just no longer wound as tight as it had been before. And you, without fully realizing when it happens, start to believe that maybe the worst has already passed, that maybe whatever had been building has stalled, or shifted, or simply lost interest.

That belief settles in quietly, built on routine more than certainty.

That evening feels like proof of it.

The house is warm, the kind of comfortable warmth that comes from sunlight lingering just long enough through the windows, settling into the furniture, into the quiet hum of the space. You’re in the kitchen, rinsing a glass absentmindedly, your movements slow, your mind somewhere softer than it’s been in weeks. In the living room, the television plays low, more background noise than anything else, while Gun-woo sits on the couch, one arm draped along the back, his posture relaxed in a way that would have been impossible not long ago. Woo-jin leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing up, present without needing to be fully engaged.

It feels normal. Suspiciously, dangerously normal.

And then his phone rings.

The sound cuts through the room sharply, snapping something in the air that had just begun to settle. Gunwoo reaches for it immediately, the ease draining out of his body in an instant as his focus narrows.

“…Hello?” he answers, his voice already lower, more controlled.

You don’t think much of it at first. Calls happen. Life doesn’t stop entirely just because yours has been on edge.

“What?” The word comes out sharper than expected, his brows pulling together, his entire body tensing slightly. “What do you mean she’s in the hospital?”

Your hand stills in the sink.

Woo-jin looks up immediately.

Gun-woo stands, already pacing, running a hand through his hair as he listens, his breathing changing in a way that makes your chest tighten without fully understanding why yet. “When did this happen? Is she–”, he stops, listening again, his jaw tightening. “Which hospital?”

He grabs a pen from the table, writing quickly, his movements restless now, urgent in a way that shifts the entire mood of the room.

“…We’re coming,” he says, and ends the call.

“What happened?” you ask, turning fully toward him now, the glass forgotten in your hand.

“My mom,” he says, too quickly, like the words are trying to catch up to the situation. “They said she collapsed. She’s unconscious.”

Your stomach drops. “Do they know why?”

He shakes his head once. “No. They just said to get there.”

Woo-jin pushes off the counter, his expression sharpening slightly, though he keeps his tone even. “Who called?”

“Hospital,” Gun-woo replies without hesitation. “They had her name, her information. It sounded legit.”

Something flickers in Woo-jin’s gaze, something uncertain, something that doesn’t fully settle, but Gun-woo is already moving, grabbing his jacket, his keys, his focus locked somewhere else entirely now.

“We need to go,” he says.

You step forward instinctively. “I’m coming with you.”

Gun-woo shakes his head immediately. “No.”

The firmness of it surprises you.

“It’s faster if we just go,” he adds quickly, softer now, but no less certain. “We’ll check on her and come back.”

You hesitate, your chest tightening slightly. “Gun-woo—”

“I’ll call you,” he insists, stepping closer, his hands briefly finding your arms, grounding, reassuring. “Okay? Just stay here. Lock the door.”

Woo-jin watches the exchange, his jaw tightening slightly, but he doesn’t argue, not yet.

“Keep your phone on,” Gun-woo adds, his gaze searching yours like he needs you to agree, like he needs one thing to stay controlled in the middle of everything else.

You nod, even though something doesn’t sit right, something small and persistent pressing at the back of your mind.

“Okay.”

They leave quickly after that, the urgency carrying them out before the moment has time to settle properly, the door closing behind them with a finality that lingers longer than it should.

----

The silence that follows feels different.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the door after it shuts, your hand still resting lightly against your arm where Gun-woo had been holding you, the warmth of his touch fading too quickly. The house feels larger now, emptier in a way that doesn’t match how it felt just minutes ago, the quiet stretching further than it should, settling into the corners like something has shifted without permission.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. They’ll be back soon.

You move slowly back into the living room, trying to settle into something familiar, but the air feels off, heavier somehow, the background noise from the television no longer comforting but distracting. You lower yourself onto the couch, your phone resting in your hand now, your thumb hovering over the screen like you’re waiting for it to light up, for his name to appear, for something to confirm that everything is fine.

Minutes pass. You exhale, shifting slightly, trying to ignore the unease settling in your chest.

And then, you hear a sound. Subtle. But not part of the house.

Your head lifts immediately, your body going still as your ears strain to catch it again, your heart already beginning to pick up its pace. It’s not loud enough to identify, not clear enough to place, but it’s there, something out of rhythm with the rest of the space.

You stand slowly, your grip tightening around your phone.

“Gun-woo?” you call out, even though you know he isn’t there.

You take a step forward. Your breath quieter, your movements slower, more careful, your attention narrowing toward the hallway, toward the source of something you can’t yet see.

Your chest tightens, and before you can react the door behind you bursts open.

You don’t even have time to turn fully before someone is on you, a force hitting you from behind hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs, your body lurching forward as a hand clamps over your mouth, cutting off the scream that tries to tear its way out of your chest.

“Don’t,” a voice murmurs low against your ear, steady, controlled, like this is nothing more than a task.

You fight immediately.

Instinct takes over, your hands clawing at his arm, your body twisting sharply, your heel slamming back with as much force as you can manage, catching him just enough to make him shift, but is not enough.

Another presence moves in, faster this time, stronger, your arms pinned before you can react again, your body restrained completely as a wet cloth presses  against your nose.

“No-!” the word barely forms, muffled against his hand, your vision blurring as panic spikes too quickly, too hard.

Your phone slips from your hand, hitting the floor with a sharp crack that echoes louder than anything else.

“Easy,” the voice says again, firmer now. “It’ll be over faster if you stop.”

You keep fighting, even as your movements weaken, even as your lungs struggle for air, even as your vision starts to dim at the edges.

Gun-woo. The thought hits just as everything slips. You feel your senses drifting away. 

And then— Darkness.

---- 

Across the city, the fluorescent lights of the hospital feel too artificial, the kind that makes everything look colder than it is. Gun-woo barely registers it as he steps up to the front desk, his breath still uneven from the rush, the urgency that hasn’t left his body since the call. He gives his mother’s name quickly, his voice tight with restrained panic, waiting for the confirmation that will ground everything again.

But it doesn’t come.

The nurse frowns slightly as she checks the system, her fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced ease before she pauses, glancing back up at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, polite but certain. “We don’t have anyone admitted under that name.”

For a second, Gun-woo doesn’t react.

“What?” he asks, quieter this time, like if he says it differently it’ll make more sense.

She shakes her head. “There’s no record.”

Woo-jin steps forward immediately, his expression sharpening, his gaze flicking around the space like he’s looking for something that isn’t visible, something that’s already clicked into place in his mind before the rest of it has caught up.

“…Gun-woo,” he says slowly.

And that’s when it hits. The call, the urgency. the timing, all of this. It was probably just bait.

Gun-woo’s stomach drops so violently it almost makes him dizzy, his hand already moving, pulling his phone out with a sudden, desperate urgency as he dials your number. It rings.

Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

“Pick up,” he mutters under his breath, like you can hear him, like saying it will force the call through.

But it doesn’t. The line goes dead.

Something cold spreads through his chest, sharp and immediate, stealing the air from his lungs in a way that feels terrifyingly familiar.

Woo-jin is already moving. “We need to go. Now.”

Gun-woo doesn’t argue, because he already knows. By the time they reach the car, his hands are shaking. The engine starts, his heart is already racing ahead of them, back to the house, back to you, back to the moment he left you alone. For the first time in weeks, the fear isn’t distant. It’s real.

----

The house feels wrong the second they step inside.

Gun-woo notices it immediately, not in a way he can name at first, but in the way the air sits too still, too empty, like something has already been taken out of it. His eyes move fast, scanning, catching details out of order—the chair knocked over near the hallway, the faint scuff marks along the floor, the door frame splintered just enough to tell a story he doesn’t want to hear.

“—No,no,no” he breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop it, already moving, already searching like if he moves fast enough he might undo it.

“Gun-woo,” Woo-jin says, sharper now, stepping in behind him, his gaze locking onto the same details, processing them faster, colder. “She’s not here.”

Gun-woo doesn’t answer. He can’t.

He’s already in the living room, already seeing it—the phone on the floor, the cracked screen still faintly lit, the call log open to his name.

His chest tightens so violently it almost hurts.

“She tried…,” he says, his voice low, breaking at the edges. “She tried to call me.”

Woo-jin crouches beside it, picking the phone up carefully, his expression tightening as he scans it quickly, his mind already moving ahead.

A moment passes. And suddenly, Gun-woo’s phone vibrates.

The sound cuts through the room like a blade. Both of them freeze. Unknown number. Then Gun-woo answers.

“…What did you do?” he demands immediately, his voice low, controlled, but shaking underneath.

There’s a pause on the other end before a calm, almost amused voice responds.

“I was wondering how long it would take you, you motherfucker.”

“Where is she?”

Woo-jin steps closer, listening carefully, trying to catch anything.

“Hurt her and I swear to God–” Gun-woo starts.

“She’s alive,” Baek-jeon interrupts smoothly. “For now.”

Gun-woo’s breathing slows down, like everything in him has just locked into place.

“What do you want?” he asks.

A soft exhale comes through the line, almost satisfied.

“I want you to come get her.”

A trap that doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

Woo-jin’s jaw tightens. “Don’t— ” he starts under his breath.

But Gun-woo already knows.

“Where,” he says.

As the location settles into the space between them, something shifts in Gun-woo completely, because now there’s a place, a direction, to get to you. Nothing else mattered.

The line goes dead and neither of them speaks for a second.

Woo-jin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a setup.”

“I know.”

“You walk in like that, you’re playing his game. You know he wants you to join IKFC.”

Gun-woo grabs his keys.

“I don’t care. Let’s go.”

----

Consciousness returns in fragments, slow and disjointed, like your body is hesitant to fully wake up to whatever reality is waiting for you. At first, it’s just sensation, the cold beneath you, hard and unforgiving, seeping through your clothes and into your bones, followed by the dull, persistent ache in your head that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Then comes the awareness of your body, heavy, uncooperative, your limbs slower than they should be, your breathing uneven as it begins to pick up without your permission.

Your eyes open abruptly, your breath catching as panic rises too quickly, too sharply, your chest tightening as your gaze struggles to focus on the space around you. The room is unfamiliar, bare in a way that feels intentional. Concrete walls stretching out in dull, muted tones, the air thick and stale, carrying that faint metallic scent that makes your stomach turn the moment you notice it. The lighting is dim, uneven, flickering faintly above you, casting shadows that make everything feel more closed in than it actually is.

You try to move, but pain answers immediately.

Your wrists pull harshly against restraints you didn’t realize were there, bound behind you in a position that forces your shoulders back at an uncomfortable angle, the strain already settled deep into your muscles. Your ankles are secured too, limiting what little movement you have, grounding you in place in a way that makes your pulse spike all over again.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, your mind scrambling to catch up, to understand without spiraling, because spiraling means losing control, and losing control means–

“Awake.”

The voice cuts through everything. Your entire body goes still.

Slowly, carefully, you lift your head, forcing your vision to steady as you look toward him, your pulse hammering so hard it feels like it might give you away even if you don’t move at all.

Im Baek-jeon stands a few feet away, composed in a way that immediately sets him apart from the men who took you, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable, like this is exactly where he expected to be. There is no rush in him, no visible aggression, just quiet control, the kind that feels far more dangerous because of how little effort it seems to require.

You don’t speak right away, you don’t move. Because the first instinct that rises in you, to snap back, to push, to provoke, is the one you cannot follow.

Your jaw tightens instead, your breathing still uneven but quieter now, controlled, your gaze steadying on him even as your body remains tense.

“You’re awake sooner than I expected,” he continues, his tone serious, revealing his lack of patience. You swallow again before answering, your voice rough, but measured, quieter than it would have been before.

“…What do you want?”

“You already know the answer to that,” he replies.

His gaze drops then. Not to your face, but lower, and something in the room shifts immediately. You feel it before you fully understand it, the way his attention lingers, the way his expression changes enough that your entire body goes still.

“…Interesting,” he murmurs.

Your stomach clenches instinctively. Your posture shifts without permission, your body pulling inward again, subtle but enough. Enough for him to see it. Baek-jeon’s eyes lift back to yours slowly, something sharper now behind them, something more focused, more deliberate. “…I was wondering,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “If it was just a rumor.”

Your pulse spikes. You don’t answer. You don’t move.

“Two months?” he guesses, his tone too casual for the weight of the words. “Maybe less.” “Shut up,” you snap, the reaction immediate, unfiltered, your voice cracking with something you can’t fully contain this time.

“You shouldn’t have done that” he says quietly.

Your brow tightens slightly despite yourself. “…Done what?”

He takes his time answering, like he wants the words to settle properly before he gives them to you.

“Given him something else to lose.”

Your fingers curl hard against the restraints, your shoulders tightening as your entire posture shifts forward despite the way it pulls painfully at your arms.

“…Don’t.” you say, your voice low at first, strained, like you’re holding something back with effort.

“Don’t what?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, like he genuinely wants to hear you say it.

Your breath comes faster now, uneven, your control slipping at the edges despite everything you told yourself just minutes ago, despite the careful restraint you had been holding onto.

“Don’t talk about it like that,” you snap, louder now, your voice breaking through the space with something raw behind it, something protective, something that refuses to stay contained anymore. “Like what?” he presses, harder now, like he’s testing if you are really raising your voice to him in that moment. “Like it’s something you can use,” you fire back, the words coming faster now, sharper, your composure cracking open under the weight of it.

“I can,” he interrupts.

“No,” you fire back, the word breaking out of you sharper than you intended, your composure slipping despite everything you had been holding onto, despite the careful restraint you knew you needed. “No, you don’t get to stand there and talk about it like that, like it’s something you can use, like it’s just another move for you—”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned forward until the chair scrapes harshly against the concrete beneath you, your body straining against the restraints, your shoulders pulling tight as the ropes bite into your wrists, the instinct to shut him down overriding the caution you had clung to moments before.

Baek-jeon doesn’t step back this time. He gets up and closes the distance between you two.

His hand tangles into your hair without warning, fingers curling tight at the base of your scalp before you can react, before you can pull away, and then he yanks hard, forcing your head back at an angle that sends a sharp, blinding pain shooting down your spine, a gasp tearing out of your chest before you can stop it. The movement is controlled but unforgiving, precise in the way it asserts dominance, in the way it leaves no space for resistance, your entire body going rigid under the sudden force.

“I don’t like that tone, you bitch” he says quietly, his voice closer now, lower, the calmness in it somehow worse than if he had raised it.

Your hands instinctively tense behind you, fingers curling uselessly against the restraints as your body tries to follow the pull, to relieve the pressure, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to shift, your breath coming faster now despite your effort to control it.“

You were doing well,” he continues, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to make your vision blur at the edges, enough to remind you exactly how little control you have here.

Your jaw clenches, your chest rising unevenly as you try to steady your breathing, try to force the panic back down where it won’t make things worse, where it won’t make him push further.

“And then you ruined it,” he adds.

“I’m not scared of you,” you manage, the words strained, pulled from you despite the position he has you in, despite the way your body is already reacting, already betraying you.

“But you should be.” 

His hand releases your hair only to strike across your face in the same motion, the impact sharp and immediate, snapping your head violently to the side as pain explodes across your cheek, the force of it sending your entire body jerking against the chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor as the restraints cut into your skin.

Sound disappears for a second and is replaced by ringing and the metallic taste flooding your mouth as your vision blurs and struggles to refocus.

Your head hangs slightly, your chest rising and falling too fast, your cheek throbbing where he struck you, heat blooming under your skin as your body struggles to recalibrate, to ground itself again.

“Ple-please, don’t hurt me”, you say, finally breaking, now imagining all the possible ways this kind of impact could have on your body and on the tiny, helpless life growing inside of you.

A faint, almost satisfied smile touches his lips.

“That will depend on your stupid boyfriend. For your sake, he better be very smart.”

Before you can recover, a sound cuts through the space. It’s distant at first, just enough to be wrong.

Baek-jeon pauses, his attention shifting for the first time, enough that the change is noticeable, and your entire body stills. Your breath catching as something sharp and electric runs through your chest, because you hear it too now, clearer this time, the unmistakable crash of something breaking somewhere deeper in the building, followed by voices that don’t belong to this place.

Baek-jeon’s head tilts slightly, listening, his expression tightening just a fraction as he processes it, and that’s when it hits you. He’s here.

The next sound is closer, louder, a door slamming open with enough force to echo through the walls, followed by the heavy impact of a body hitting the ground and the sharp, cut-off noise of someone losing the fight faster than they expected. Your pulse spikes violently, your breath coming faster now despite everything you’ve been trying to control, because hope is louder than fear in that moment, overwhelming and dangerous and impossible to contain.

“…So soon,” Baek-jeon murmurs, quieter now, though there’s something different in his tone, something more alert, more calculating. He finally steps back from you, his attention pulling away for the first time since you woke up in this place, and the distance should feel like relief, but it doesn’t, not when everything is escalating this quickly, not when you don’t know how this ends.

Another crash follows, closer still, and then, the door behind him explodes inward.

The force of it splinters the frame, the sound violent and abrupt as it fills the room, and for a fraction of a second everything freezes, the moment stretching thin before it snaps completely as he steps through it.

Gun-woo.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t take in the room the way anyone else would, because his focus locks onto you instantly, like nothing else exists, like the distance between you is the only thing that matters, and whatever he sees when he looks at you –the restraints, the blood, the way your body is held together just barely– it changes something in him immediately, something visible, something that strips away whatever control he had left.

“Get away from her,” he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels far more dangerous than if he had shouted, the words cutting through the space with a weight that settles instantly.

Instantly, Baek-jeon’s hand closes around you, sudden and deliberate, dragging you back against him with a force that knocks the air from your lungs, one arm locking tight across your upper chest while the other comes up far too close to your throat, far too close, the implication immediate and unmistakable, and Gun-woo stops.

“Careful, asshole” Baek-jeon says, his voice carrying easily in the tense quiet as his gaze fixes on Gun-woo with something cold and assessing. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”

“Let her go.”

Gun-woo’s voice comes out low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it, something sharp enough to cut through the room, through the guards, through everything standing between him and you, his eyes locked on the way Baek-jeon’s arm tightens when you instinctively struggle, on the way your breath hitches, on the way your entire body goes rigid.

“I said,” he repeats, slower now, more dangerous, “let her go.”

Baek-jeon hums softly, tilting his head just slightly as if considering it, though the faint curl of his lips says he already knows his answer.

You can feel his grip shift– subtle, but enough to send a spike of panic straight through your chest as his hand presses more firmly, more deliberately, and your breath stutters, your body instinctively tensing.

“Gun-woo–” your voice breaks, barely holding together, fear bleeding into every syllable as your eyes lock onto his. “Don’t– don’t come any closer, please– ”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Baek-jeon cuts in smoothly, almost amused, though the way his hold tightens again contradicts every word. “Not unless I have to.”

Gun-woo’s jaw clenches.

“You touch her,” he says, each word measured, restrained in a way that feels like it’s barely holding something far more violent back, “and I swear– ”

“You’ll what?”

The interruption is immediate, sharp, and Baek-jeon’s tone shifts just slightly, just enough to strip away the amusement and leave something colder behind.

“You’re in no position to make threats.”

Baek-jeon leans in just enough that you can feel his breath near your ear, his voice dropping, quieter now but no less deliberate, no less calculated.

“You see,” he continues, his gaze never leaving Gun-woo, “your problem isn’t that you’re weak...it’s that you care too much.”

Gun-woo doesn’t respond, but something in his eyes shifts, something darker, that flickers dangerously close to breaking.

Baek-jeon notices. His grip shifts, not to your throat this time, but lower, pressing against your abdomen, and your entire body goes rigid. A sharp inhale tearing out of you as instinct takes over, terror spiking at what he’s implying without saying a word.

“Stop–” you gasp, the word barely forming, your hands trembling against the restraints.

Gun-woo’s hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles pale, tendons straining, shoulders going rigid as every instinct in him screams to move, to rip you out of his grip, to end this now–  but he doesn’t. Something inside him caves in and hardens at the same time, like a fault line snapping under pressure, his breath catching sharply in his chest before it steadies again. The kind of control that only exists when everything underneath it is about to break loose.

It’s the exact moment he understands that this is no longer about winning, or pride, or even survival in the way he’s always known it. This is about making sure you walk out of this alive. Both of you.

“I’ll do it.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room changes.

“I’ll fight,” Gun-woo says, voice steady in a way that feels almost wrong for the situation, too calm, like he’s already decided this somewhere deep inside himself long before anyone else could argue. His eyes lock on Baek-jeon’s with a quiet intensity that doesn’t waver even when the man’s lips begin to curl into something satisfied, because of course this is exactly what he wanted.

A trade. A life for a fight. For you.

And for a split second his gaze drops to where your hand had been resting before everything spiraled, to the truth he carries with him now, something fragile and so powerful at the same time.

“On one condition,” Gun-woo adds, and now there’s something sharper beneath the calm, something that cuts through the air, as he steps forward just enough to make it clear he’s not negotiating from a place of weakness, even if everything about this situation says he should be, “you let her go. She walks out of here safe. No one touches her. Ever again.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating, before Baek-jeon lets out a low chuckle, glancing over toward you like you’re nothing more than an object being discussed, not a person whose heart is currently slamming violently against your ribs.

“Look at that,” he hums, almost amused. “All this… for her.”

Your stomach drops.

“No–” The word tears out of you before you can stop it, your voice shaking, as panic starts clawing its way up your throat, because you understand what this means. Suddenly the restraints around your wrists feel tighter, suffocating, unbearable. “Gun-woo, no, you can’t– don’t do this.”

He doesn’t look at you immediately. And that’s what makes it worse.

Because when he finally does, when his gaze shifts and lands on you, it’s soft in a way that doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in a place like this, and that contrast cracks something open inside your chest.

Baek-jeon exhales like he’s grown bored of holding you there, his grip loosening just enough to shift you forward. One sharp, deliberate shove that forces you a step away from him, not free, not safe, but no longer pinned against his chest, no longer silenced by the threat at your throat.

“Go on,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Say goodbye.”

“It’s okay,” Gun-woo says quietly.

It isn’t. It isn’t okay.

“You don’t know that,” you choke out, shaking your head as tears start to blur your vision, your entire body tensing as you struggle uselessly against the bindings, as if you could somehow close the distance between you just by trying hard enough. “You don’t know what they’ll do to you, you don’t know– Gun-woo, please, don’t make deals with him, don’t– ”

“I do,” he cuts in gently, and there’s no hesitation, no doubt, just that same terrifying certainty that makes your chest tighten even more. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t– ” your voice breaks, cracking under the weight of everything you’re trying to say, everything you’re trying to stop. “You’re walking into a trap, this is what he wants, you’re giving him exactly what he wants!”

“And I’m getting you out.”

Your breath stutters, your throat tightening painfully as you stare at him, because he’s serious, he’s completely serious, and the realization hits like a wave crashing over you, cold and overwhelming and impossible to fight against.

“I’m not leaving you here,” you whisper, the panic spilling over now, raw and unfiltered, your voice trembling as tears finally slip free. “I’m not going anywhere without you, do you hear me? I won’t– Gun-woo, I won’t.”

He exhales slowly, like he expected this, like he knew you’d fight him on it, and for a second something flickers across his face, something almost fragile, but it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that same quiet resolve.

“You will,” he says, softer now, but no less firm. “You’re getting out of here.”

“No– ”

“Listen to me,” he continues, his voice lowering, grounding, like he’s trying to anchor you even as everything around you feels like it’s falling apart, “you’ve been strong this whole time, you just need to hold on a little longer, okay? Once you’re out, you find Woo-jin, you tell him what’s happening, and then– ”

“I’m here.”

The voice cuts in from behind him. Rough, breath still uneven like he didn’t slow down once getting here, and Gun-woo’s shoulders stiffen just slightly before he turns his head. His eyes flick towards Woo-jin standing a few steps away, jaw tight, gaze already darting between you and the restraints holding you in place, taking in everything at once.

For a split second, something like relief flashes across Gun-woo’s face. Then it’s gone.

“Good,” he says, turning back to you, but now there’s urgency beneath the calm, something sharper, more immediate. “Then you go with him.”

“No– ” you shake your head harder, more frantic now, your pulse racing as the situation somehow becomes even more real, more final. “No, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not leaving you here!”

“You’re not staying,” Gun-woo says, and this time there’s no softness cushioning it, no room for argument, because now it isn’t just about convincing you, it’s about making sure this actually happens.

Woo-jin steps forward then, slower, cautious, like he’s trying not to set you off further, but his eyes flick to Gun-woo, something unspoken passing between them, something heavy.

“What the hell did you agree to?” Woo-jin mutters, low enough that it almost doesn’t carry, but you hear it anyway, and the question in it only makes your chest tighten more.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gun-woo replies, just as quietly. “She gets out. That’s what matters.”

“It matters if it gets you killed,” Woo-jin shoots back, sharper now, but Gun-woo doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t react beyond a slight tightening of his jaw.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always do.”

The confidence in it would almost be reassuring if it didn’t feel like the ground was crumbling beneath you.

“I’m not leaving you here,” you repeat, your voice breaking all over again, your entire body straining forward as if you could force your way past everything holding you back. “I’m not going anywhere without you, I’m not– ”

“You will.”

His voice cuts through yours again, steady, unwavering, but now there’s something deeper there, something that almost sounds like a plea beneath the firmness, like he needs you to understand this, needs you to accept it even if it’s tearing you apart.

“You have to.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

“I don’t want to be safe if it means you’re not,” you whisper, the words spilling out broken and raw, your vision completely blurred now as you try to look at him, really look at him, as if memorizing every detail might somehow stop this from happening. “That’s not a choice, Gun-woo, that’s not– ”

“Hey–” he adds, softer now, something almost breaking through the steadiness for just a second. “Remember what I told you.”

His hand finally touches your cheek.

“Before… before all of this,” he continues, voice low, like the words mean something different this time. “I said I’d finish it before our baby gets here.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes water, but he doesn’t look away.

“I meant it.”

Silence crashes down again, heavier this time, suffocating. Because he really meant it. Every word.

“I’m not losing you,” he says, quieter now, but somehow even more intense, his gaze locked onto yours like he’s trying to imprint the truth of it into you, make you believe it even if you don’t want to. “Not like this. Not when I can do something about it.”

Your breathing turns uneven, sharp, your hands trembling as you pull against the restraints again, useless, useless, everything feels useless.

“And what about me?” you manage, your voice barely holding together. “What happens to me if something happens to you?”

He goes still, just for a second. And in that second, something cracks. But he smooths it over quickly, swallowing it down, pushing it aside like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t matter.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he says, and it sounds like a promise he’s making more to you than to himself. “I’ll win. And then I’ll come find you.”

You let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh, tears falling freely now.

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can.”

“You can’t!”

“I will come back to you.”

Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, because the way he says it, so certain, so unwavering, it almost makes you want to believe him, and that’s what scares you the most.

“I don’t want you to come back to me,” you whisper, shaking your head, your voice breaking all over again. “ I want you with me. I want you safe.”

His expression softens, something achingly gentle settling into his features despite everything.

“I am safe,” he says quietly.

You stare at him, breath catching.

“How can you say that?”

“Because you will be.”

And that’s it. That’s the thing that matters to him. Not the fight, not the risk, not what he’s walking into. Just you.

Just you, and the life you’re carrying, the one he refuses to let be touched by any of this, even if it means stepping deeper into it himself.

Your chest tightens so painfully it almost feels like you can’t breathe, as you realize there’s nothing you can say that will change his mind, nothing you can do from where you are except watch him make this choice.

Watch him choose you. At the cost of himself.

“Time’s up,” Baek-jeons’ voice cuts in aggressively, as if this entire exchange has been nothing more than mild entertainment that he's lost interest in. “Untie her. Let’s see if our dear boxer keeps his word.”

The words hit like a final blow.

“No– wait– ” you start, panic surging all over again as footsteps approach, as hands reach for the ropes binding your wrists.

Gun-woo’s gaze never leaves yours.

“Hey,” he says softly, just before they pull you away, his voice steady, grounding, the only thing in the room that doesn’t feel like it’s slipping out of your grasp. “Look at me.”

“I’ll find you,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less certain. “No matter what.”

“Gun-woo–” his name breaks out of you like a plea, like something desperate and fragile and already mourning.

He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.

And then, without breaking eye contact with you, he speaks again, this time to Woo-jin, his voice low but unyielding.

“Woo-jin…please, get her out of here.”

There’s no hesitation in it, no room to argue, just absolute trust placed in the only person he would leave you with. Even as Woo-jin’s jaw tightens, even as something conflicted flashes across his face, he steps in, hands steady as he reaches for you, grounding, firm.

“I’ve got you,” Woo-jin mutters, not unkindly, even as you fight him, even as you try to twist back toward Gun-woo, your panic spilling over, your voice breaking as you call his name again.

But Gun-woo doesn’t move.

He just stands there as Woo-jin pulls you away, like he’s already bracing himself for what’s coming next, like he’s already accepted the cost.

Like he’d choose it again.

Every single time.

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

i'm tagging the sweeties who commented on part 1 ❤️ @frxjm @nishimurarikisthings @bratsbri @satorustorm @jisoonnieslover @art03101 @butter-scout (🇧🇷🫶) @yoongishawtyyy @sunwayx @hsqvdk @hollxe1 @blkbaecrimsonx

pls leave a comment so i know if i emotionally destroyed you correctly 👍

[marvel-spidey]

Before You're Here

Pairing: Kim Gun-woo x Pregnant! Reader Word count: 4.3k Summary: you get kidnapped (almost). you get your hair pulled (rude). you accidentally reveal you’re pregnant (worse). Warnings: home invasion, mentions of pregnancy, physical violence a/n: i just finished season 2 of Bloodhounds and i’m sorry i just can’t stop picturing dad!gun-woo 😭 ALSO season 2 dropped and y’all are still not writing about the boys??? fine. i’ll do it myself. ☆ you can read part 2 here

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── The apartment was quiet that night, too quiet, in the way that made the absence of sound feel like something pressing against your ears instead of something peaceful. You had been sitting on the couch, one hand absentmindedly resting over your stomach, thumb tracing the same small, unconscious pattern over fabric, over skin, over something that still didn’t feel entirely real even a month later.

Pregnant.

Even now, the word didn’t land cleanly. It didn’t settle the way it should have, didn’t root itself into certainty. It hovered instead, fragile and suspended between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Across the room, Kim Gun-woo was watching you.

He had gotten quieter since you found out, more deliberate in everything he did, from the way he moved through the apartment to the way he looked at you. He was constantly recalibrating his understanding of the world to account for something new and impossibly important.

“You’re doing it again,” he said after a moment, his voice low but steady, pulling you gently out of your thoughts.

You blinked, looking up at him. “Doing what?”

He nodded toward your hand.

Only then did you realize you were still tracing that same pattern over your stomach, your touch absent but protective in a way that had become instinctive without you noticing.

You pulled your hand back slightly, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t even notice.”

Gun-woo didn’t smile. He rarely did lately, not fully.

Instead, he stood and crossed the room in a few quiet steps, sitting beside you. For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was waiting, for permission, maybe, or for the right way to exist in this new space between you.

Then, slowly, he reached out towards your belly.

His hand hovered first, the same way it had that first day, like he was still learning where it was safe to touch. You took his wrist and guided him down again.

He exhaled softly when his palm rested against you, his fingers spreading just slightly, careful, grounding. There was still nothing to feel. No movement. No sign that anything had changed beyond the knowledge itself.

And yet, everything had.

“We should leave,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, more controlled.

You frowned, looking up at him. “Leave?”

“For a while.” His gaze didn’t leave your face. “Until this is over.”

You already knew what he meant.

Im Baek Jeon.

The name didn’t need to be spoken anymore. It existed between all of you, heavy and unavoidable, shaping decisions before they were even fully formed.

“You don’t think he’ll find us anyway?” you asked.

Gun-woo’s jaw tightened slightly. “Not if we move first.”

From the kitchen, Woo-jin let out a quiet scoff, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. “You say that like we haven’t been trying to stay off his radar this whole time.”

Gun-woo didn’t look at him. “This is different.”

“Yeah,” Woo-jin said, his tone losing its edge as quickly as it had come. “I know.”

Silence settled over the three of you again, heavier than before. Because it was different.

A month ago, the threat had been personal, dangerous, yes, but contained within the boundaries of choices Gun-woo could make, risks he could take, consequences he could accept for himself.

Now, it wasn’t just him. And that changed everything.

“We can’t run forever,” you said quietly.

Gun-woo’s hand tightened just slightly where it rested over yours, his thumb brushing your skin lightly. “We don’t have to. Just long enough.” You could see in his pleading eyes that he was desperately just trying to keep all of you safe, in any way he could. “Can we talk about this in the morning?” you questioned, not having the mental energy to think about it right now. You just wanted to enjoy the feeling of Gun-woo’s hand against your belly and pretend you were just a normal, young and anxious couple like any other. “Sure”, he agreed, sensing the tiredness in your voice. You kissed him softly on the cheek as a silent thank you. ____

By the time night settled in, the tension hadn’t eased. It rarely did anymore.

You had gotten used to it in small ways. The way doors were always double-checked before bed, the way Woo-jin insisted on keeping his phone within arm’s reach at all times, the way Gun-woo would pause sometimes in the middle of a conversation, his head tilting ever so slightly as if he were listening to something no one else could hear. It had become routine.

You lay in bed beside him, the room dim, the soft hum of the city outside filtering faintly through the windows. His presence next to you was steady, solid, a constant in a world that felt like it was shifting too quickly beneath your feet.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Your hand rested between you, your fingers loosely intertwined with his, your thumb brushing lightly against his knuckles in a rhythm that was more for you than for him.

“Are you awake?” you murmured after a while.

There was a slight shift beside you.

“Yeah.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him even though you knew he didn’t need the light to see you.

“…Do you think they’ll try something soon?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than you intended.

Gun-woo didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was calm.

“Yes.”

Your chest tightened, but you nodded anyway, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay.”

His grip on your hand tightened slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said quietly.

You shifted closer, resting your forehead lightly against his shoulder. “I know.”

“Try to sleep”, he whispered, while softly kissing your hair. “Baby needs you to rest”. With his warm hands holding yours, you closed your eyes and tried to relax despite the anxiety that insisted to grow in your heart. ----

It happened at 2:17 a.m.

You didn’t know the exact time until later, when everything was already over and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking long enough for you to look away from the clock on the wall.

At the time, all you knew was that something felt wrong.

It wasn’t a sound, not at first. It was the absence of one, the subtle disruption of something that should have been there and wasn’t anymore. The faint hum of the security system, the almost imperceptible white noise you had gotten used to without realizing it.

Your eyes opened slowly, your body still heavy with sleep but your mind already sharpening, pulling you toward awareness before you could fully understand why.

Beside you, Gun-woo stilled.

You felt it immediately, the shift in his breathing, the way his body went from relaxed to coiled in an instant, every muscle tightening with sudden, controlled alertness.

“…Did you hear that?” you whispered.

“Yes.”

He was already moving before you could say anything else, carefully disentangling his hand from yours as he sat up, his movements silent, precise. The room felt colder without him next to you, the space he left behind too noticeable.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t answer right away because he was listening.

You could see it in the way his head tilted slightly, his focus narrowing on something beyond the walls of the room, beyond what you could perceive. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until-

You heard a faint sound. A floorboard. Not in your room, but outside.

Gun-woo stood.

“Stay here”, he said quietly.

Your chest tightened immediately. “Gun-woo—”

“Stay here”, he repeated, this time giving you a clear order. “I’m going to wake Woo-jin up.”

You swallowed, nodding even though he wasn’t looking at you anymore, already moving toward the door.

Seconds after, a crash echoed through the house. Something was knocked over, a chair, or maybe a table, followed by multiple footsteps.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, your feet hitting the floor as you stood, your heart slamming against your ribs hard enough to make it difficult to breathe.

You shouldn’t leave the room, you knew that, but every instinct in your body screamed at you not to be alone. You stepped toward the door just as it burst open.

You didn’t have time to process anything beyond that, just the shape of him, the movement, the hand reaching for you.

Your body twisted sharply as he lunged forward, your hand coming up to shove against his chest with more force than you thought you had. He stumbled back half a step, surprised, but it wasn’t enough.

A hand tangles in your hair, so tight it yanks your head back with a force that tears a scream straight from your throat before you can stop it.

Pain blooms sharp and immediate, blinding in its intensity, your hands flying up instinctively to grab at the wrist holding you, trying to pry it loose.

“Let go—! Let go of me!”

Your voice cracks, panic rising fast and uncontrollable as you’re dragged forward, your balance completely thrown off. Your feet scramble against the floor, slipping, catching, failing to ground you as he pulls harder, forcing you toward the door.

“Move,” he snaps, jerking your head back again.

Another scream rips out of you, raw and uncontrolled this time, your fingers clawing at his hand, your body twisting in desperate resistance.

“Please—!” The word breaks out of you before you can stop it, survival instinct overriding everything else. “Please don’t—don’t hurt me—!”

Your hands drop from his wrist, instinctively, curling inward over your stomach as your body folds slightly around it, your movements shifting without thought, driven by something deeper than panic.

“Please—” your voice cracks again, softer now, desperate in a different way. “Please, I—”

The man holding you pauses.

His grip doesn’t loosen, but his attention shifts, his gaze dropping, following the movement of your hands.

“…Wait.”

The word cuts through everything and the others hesitate.

“What?” one of them snaps.

“Look at her.”

Your breath stutters.

No. No, no, no—

“She’s protecting her stomach.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively where they rest, your entire body going still as the realization settles in the air between all of you.

“…You’re pregnant,” he says slowly.

It isn’t a question.

Your chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you shake your head instinctively, denial rising even though you know it’s useless.

“No—no, I—”

The lie dies before it can fully form.

A low laugh escapes him, quiet and almost disbelieving. “Well, Baek-jeon will love the news”.

Your heart drops.

“Please,” you try again, your voice trembling, desperation clawing its way through every word. “Please, don’t—”

“Shut up.”

His grip tightens in your hair, forcing your head back again, and pain explodes across your scalp, your vision blurring as another cry tears out of you.

“Gun-woo!” you scream, the name ripping from your chest before you can stop it, raw and desperate while the man in black tries to drag you down the stairs.

Suddenly, the man holding you is gone in an instant, his grip ripped away so violently it sends you stumbling forward, your knees nearly buckling as you catch yourself against the edge of the first step.

A sickening crack echoes through the room as Gun-woo’s fist connects with the man’s face, the force of it sending him crashing to the ground hard enough that the entire floor seems to shake with it.

“Get away from her,” Gun-woo says, his voice low and unrecognizable, each word punctuated by another hit.

Across the room, Woo-jin is already engaged with the others, his movements fast and aggressive, a curse spilling from his mouth as he blocks a strike and retaliates immediately.

“Bad move,” he snaps, slamming one of them back against the wall.

The room is chaos. But Gun-woo… Gun-woo is something else entirely.

The second man tries to move toward you again, maybe thinking Gun-woo is too focused on the one beneath him to react.

He’s wrong.

Gun-woo shifts instantly, abandoning the first without a second thought, intercepting the movement mid-step. His fist connects with the man’s jaw with brutal precision, snapping his head back before he even has time to react.

He follows through without pause, grabbing him by the collar and driving him into the wall hard enough to rattle everything hanging on it.

“She’s pregnant”, the man says quietly, flashing a sick bloody smile.

“Say it again,” Gun-woo demands, his voice deadly quiet now, his grip tightening.

“She’s pregnant, right?”

There’s no hesitation this time. No restraint. He slams him back again, harder, his fist connecting with a force that leaves no room for recovery, no chance to fight back.

The third man—still struggling against Woo-jin—lets out a breathless laugh despite the situation. “You think this helps?” he spits. “You think beating us changes anything?”

Woo-jin shoves him back hard, knocking the wind out of him. “Shut up.”

But the damage is already done, because the man keeps talking.

“You couldn’t even keep us out,” he continues, his voice strained but mocking. “What happens next time, huh? You gonna watch when we take her for real?”

“To keep her safe,” the man adds, pushing through the pain, “you know what you have to do.”

Gun-woo stills. But that’s all it takes for the words to sink in.

Without hesitation, Woo-jin strikes the man’s face with a punch so strong he passes out instantly.

“Shut up, asshole”.

But it’s too late. Because now, they know.

And worse—

They’ve given Gun-woo a choice. ----

For a moment after the last blow lands, there is no sound.

The kind of silence that follows violence isn’t empty. It’s thick, ringing, filled with the echo of what just happened. Your ears buzz, your breath comes too fast, too uneven, and the room feels like it’s tilting slightly under your feet.

One of the men groans.

Another coughs, dragging in a broken breath as he tries to push himself up from the floor. They don’t fight anymore. They can’t. Whatever confidence they had when they broke in is gone now.

“Get out,” Woo-jin snaps, his voice sharp, still edged with adrenaline. He doesn’t even wait for them to respond before stepping forward, grabbing one of them by the collar and hauling him roughly toward the door.

Gun-woo doesn’t help. He doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes is enough.

The men see it too. You can tell by the way they don’t argue, don’t try to say anything else clever or threatening as they drag themselves toward the exit. One of them glances back once and whatever he sees in Gun-woo’s expression makes him look away immediately.

They retreat the way wounded animals do, slow, uneven, desperate to put distance between themselves and the threat that nearly tore them apart.

The front door hangs open, broken at the frame, creaking faintly as it shifts on its hinges. Cold air spills into the apartment, brushing against your skin in a way that makes you shiver, though you don’t feel cold.

You don’t feel much of anything and your knees give out before you realize they’re going to. You don’t even remember moving from where you were standing, just the sudden absence of strength in your legs as you sink down, your hands catching you clumsily against the floor.

The world feels far away, muted and your hands are shaking. You notice that first. The tremor is small at the beginning, barely noticeable, but it grows quickly, spreading through your arms, into your chest, until your entire body feels like it’s vibrating under your skin.

A sob escapes you before you can stop it.

“Hey—hey—”

Woo-jin’s voice cuts through the haze first, closer than you expect. He crouches in front of you quickly, his movements urgent but careful, like he’s afraid of startling you further.

“You’re okay,” he says, though his own breathing is still uneven. “You’re okay, it’s over.”

Behind him, Gun-woo hasn’t moved.

His chest rising and falling too fast, his hands still clenched at his sides like he hasn’t fully come back yet. There’s blood on his knuckles, some of it his, most of it not, and his entire body is rigid, like the fight hasn’t actually ended for him.

Woo-jin glances back at him, just for a second.

“…Gun-woo.”

No response.

He tries again, sharper this time. “Hey.”

Gun-woo’s gaze shifts, slow and heavy, landing on you where you’re sitting on the floor, shaking, your hands still hovering uncertainly near your stomach like you don’t know where else to put them.

He moves slowly at first, like his body is resisting the transition from one state to another, from violence to something softer, something human again. Each step is deliberate, measured, like he’s forcing himself to calm down with every inch he closes between you.

He lowers himself in front of you, mirroring Woo-jin’s earlier position, but closer, closer than anyone else is allowed to be. His hands lift slowly, hesitating for only a second before settling carefully on both sides of your face.

“…Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

You shake your head, though the movement is small, unsteady. “N-no…”

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out before he can stop them.

Your head snaps up slightly, your eyes finally focusing on him. “What?”

“I should’ve-” His jaw tightens, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. “I should’ve stopped them before they got to you.”

You shake your head quickly, the movement more desperate this time. “You did, Gun-woo, you did-”

“They were inside,” he cuts in, his voice sharper now, edged with something that hasn’t fully settled. “They had you-” Woo-jin exhales heavily from beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, we’re not doing this right now.”

He shifts closer, one hand coming down gently on your shoulder, grounding, steady, while his other reaches out to shove lightly at Gun-woo’s arm, just enough to get his attention.

“Hey,” he says, more firmly now. “Look at me.”

Gun-woo doesn’t want to, but after a second, he does.

“This isn’t on you,” Woo-jin continues, his tone steady despite the adrenaline still lingering beneath it. “They broke in. That’s on them.”

“They came because of me.”

“Yeah,” Woo-jin says bluntly. “And they left because of you too.”

That lands. Not fully, but enough to make Gun-woo exhale and drop some of the guilt he has holding all on his own.

Woo-jin squeezes your shoulder lightly, his voice softening as he looks back at you. “And you—breathe, okay? You’re safe. We’re here.”

You nod weakly, and squeeze his hand, your way of saying a silent thank you for saying the words you and Gun-woo needed so bad to hear right now.

Gun-woo’s hand shifts slightly where it rests on your arm, his thumb brushing once, grounding both of you.

“…They know,” he says quietly.

The words settle heavily in the room. Woo-jin exhales again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

You swallow, your throat still tight, your voice small when you finally speak. “…What does that mean?”

Gun-woo doesn’t answer right away and that’s worse than anything he could say. The silence is filled with everything he’s thinking, considering and Woo-jin notices it too.

“Hey,” he says quickly, sharper now, his tone shifting in warning. “Don’t go there.”

Gun-woo’s gaze flicks to him.

“I’m serious,” Woo-jin adds, holding it. “We figure this out. Together.”

For a while, no one moves.

The apartment feels wrong now, too open, too exposed, like the walls themselves can’t protect you anymore. The broken door lets in a slow draft of cold air that brushes against your skin, but you still barely register it. Everything still feels distant, like your body hasn’t fully caught up to what just happened.

Gun-woo is the first to pull away.

The movement is abrupt compared to how careful he had been with you moments ago, like something inside him has shifted again—snapped back into urgency, into action.

“We can’t stay here.”

Woo-jin exhales sharply through his nose, nodding immediately. “Yeah, we need to go.” ---- The place Woo-jin finds isn’t home.

You can tell the second you step inside. It’s clean, functional, temporary in a way that makes everything echo just a little too much. The furniture is sparse, the walls bare, the air carrying that faint, unfamiliar stillness of somewhere that hasn’t been lived in long enough to feel safe.

But the door locks. Twice. And the windows are intact so for now, that was enough.

Woo-jin checks everything first. Every room, every window latch, every blind, every possible entry point. He moves with purpose, still riding the edge of adrenaline, but more controlled now, more focused.

“Clear,” he finally says, exhaling as he steps back into the main room.

Gun-woo doesn’t respond right away. He hasn’t let go of you since you arrived.

His hand is still wrapped around yours, firm and grounding, like if he loosens his grip even slightly, something might take you again. His other hand rests at your back, guiding you gently further inside, his body positioning itself instinctively between you and the door even after it’s locked.

“Sit,” he murmurs.

Your body still feels like it’s catching up to everything that happened, your limbs heavy, your thoughts slower than they should be.

The couch is firmer than the one back home. You notice that.

Gun-woo kneels in front of you almost immediately, his gaze moving over you again, searching in that same careful, quiet way. It’s less frantic now, but no less intense, like he still expects to find something wrong if he looks hard enough.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, before he can ask.

He nods, but he doesn’t stop looking.

Woo-jin disappears into another room for a moment, the sound of drawers opening and closing faint in the background, giving you space without saying it out loud.

Silence settles between you and Gun-woo.

Your hand shifts in his, your fingers tightening slightly as you watch him, taking in the tension that hasn’t left his shoulders, the way his jaw is still set like he hasn’t fully come down from the edge yet and the fact that his knuckles still have dried blood on them.

“You need to rest,” you murmur.

His eyes flick up to yours. “I’m fine. I’ll rest later,” he says.

You know better than to argue right now.

Woo-jin comes back eventually, setting a glass of water on the table in front of you, his movements calmer now, more grounded.

“Drink,” he says gently.

You nod, taking it, your hands steadier now than they were before.

He lingers for a second, watching both of you, then exhales and drops into the chair across from you.

“We’ll stay here a couple days,” he says, more to Gun-woo than to you. “Figure out next steps after.”

Gun-woo nods once.

It’s enough. For now, that’s all any of you can manage.

---- After forcing the boys to take a shower, you and Gun-woo climb into bed. The sun will rise in a couple hours.

You lie in a bed that isn’t yours, staring up at a ceiling you don’t recognize, the faint hum of the building replacing the familiar sounds you used to rely on. Your body is exhausted, your mind heavier than it should be, but sleep doesn’t come right away.

Beside you, Gun-woo hasn’t moved.

He’s been like this for a while now, awake, even in the dark, even when he pretends otherwise.

“Are you going to sleep?” you whisper.

“In a bit.”

You turn slightly toward him, studying the outline of his face in the dim light, the tension still there, quieter now but not gone.

“You said that an hour ago.”

You shift closer instead, closing the space between you, your hand finding his under the blanket. His fingers curl around yours immediately, like he’s been waiting for it without realizing.

You guide his hand again slowly down to rest it over your stomach.

You feel him shift closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours as his head dips forward, resting lightly against you. His hand stays where it is, warm, steady, careful.

“…I’m going to fix this,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it barely disturbs the silence, but close enough that you feel it more than hear it, the vibration of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.

“I will,” he continues, softer now, but steadier in a way that feels less like certainty and more like something he’s forcing himself to believe, something he needs to hold onto so he doesn’t break under the weight of everything else. “Before–”

Then his fingers spread just a little, his palm settling more intentionally against you, and when he speaks again, his voice shifts closer, like it isn’t meant for you anymore.

“…before you’re here.”

“I know you can’t hear me yet,” he continues, his voice dropping even further, softer than you’ve ever heard it, stripped of everything sharp or guarded, “but I’m your dad.”

Your eyes sting suddenly, the feeling creeping in without warning as you listen.

“And I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice rougher now. “For tonight. For everything you don’t understand yet.”

Your chest tightens, your hand instinctively covering his where it rests, grounding him without interrupting.

“I’m supposed to make sure nothing touches you,” he continues, quieter still, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. “That nothing gets close enough to hurt you. Or your mom.”

Your vision blurs further, your eyes fully glassy now, tears gathering without falling, held back only by the fragile stillness of the moment. You bite down softly on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your breathing even, trying not to let it break.

“I’m still figuring out how to do that.”

“But I will,” he murmurs, more firmly now, even if his voice stays soft, the resolve settling into something quieter but stronger. “I’ll figure it out.”

And in the quiet that follows, with your eyes still damp and your chest still tight, something shifts again into something softer, something that feels like the beginning of hope.

And when sleep finally comes, slow and gentle and long overdue–it finds you like that.

Together.

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

pls leave a comment or scream with me about dad!gun-woo i need it ❤️

[marvel-spidey]

Hi, I gotta ask, do you take fic requests?

Yes, my requests are open! feel free to send one if you want 🥰

[thelhc]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[marvel-spidey]

Safe With Me

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word count: 6.6k (my biggest one yet, woohoo) Genre: Angst/hurt/comfort Summary: After you are kidnapped by the Russians, Matt is forced to face the cost of his double life and the fear of losing the one person who means everything to him. (Based on ep 1x04 where Claire is kidnapped because that scene always has me in my feelsss) Warnings: violence, blood. A/n: Yes, here I am again. I'm rewatching the show and I couldn't help it, ok?? Soundtrack on loop while writing: Be Still by The Fray. If you feel emotionally compromised, that’s intentional. Enjoy!

- - The hallway smelled faintly like old varnish and someone’s dinner down the hall, but you didn’t mind; it was familiar, comforting in its own New York way. You balanced the grocery bag against your hip as you fished for your keys, humming the same tune Matt always smiled at when he caught you doing it.

Today had been good. For once.

A peaceful shift, a warm cup of coffee on the walk home, and the light, fizzy feeling in your chest at the thought of Matt waiting for you upstairs. You’d even stopped by the little bakery he liked to pick up those stupidly overpriced chocolate pastries he pretended not to crave.

Your key slid into the lock, and you heard the familiar soft click.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder, smiling already.

“Matt?” you called out, kicking the door shut behind you. “You won’t believe the miracle I witnessed — the subway was actually on time and—”

You barely had time to turn toward the kitchen when the crash came, the shattering of glass behind you.

Two men burst through the window.

You gasped and stumbled backward, adrenaline surging a second too late. A pair of hands grabbed your arms, pinning them behind your back. Another thick hand slapped over your mouth before you could scream.

The man holding you was huge, nearly blocking out the streetlights coming through the now broken window.

“Hello, princess,” he hissed in a thick Russian accent against your ear. “Just come quiet”.

You thrashed, but the grip tightened.

“Let her scream,” another voice said from across the room. “It’ll bring him faster.”

It was then you realized. They weren’t here to rob you. They weren’t here by accident.

They knew Matt. They knew you.

You involuntarily started to sob, thinking that this was a trap and Matt was about to walk right into it. The man restraining you chuckled darkly as he heard your muffled cry.

“Good,” he murmured. “Let him hear how scared you are.”

Pain exploded in the back of your head as everything went black.

- - -

The moment Matt stepped into the hallway, he knew something was wrong.

He felt it before he reached the door: the absence of your familiar heartbeat, the faint metallic bitterness of fresh blood, the horrible sensation pressing against his spine.

He didn’t even close the door behind him when he rushed inside.

“(Y/N)?”

Nothing.

But the scent hit him immediately, glass, dust, cold air from outside, and beneath it all…

You. Your shampoo. Your perfume. Your blood.

His heart lurched so violently that it made him stumble.

“(Y/N)!”

The apartment rang with the urgency in his voice. His cane hit the floor with a thud as he followed the trail of shattered glass. His hands skimmed over the floor until his fingers brushed something cold and sharp.

A fragment of your phone.

His breath punched out of him.

Your phone had cracked during the impact, and he could feel the fractures and smell the faint electric burn of the battery shorting. And then something else, something that made his stomach drop.

Blood. Many drops of it, trailing toward the window. Your blood.

His throat tightened. A low, involuntary sound escaped him, something between a growl and a gasp. He pressed his fingers against the tiny smear on the floor, shaking.

“God, please… no… no, no…”

He was losing control. He felt everything at once: the rapid thundering of his pulse, a rushing in his ears that crowded out the world, the scent of your fear imprinted into the room. He swallowed hard, forcing himself upright, but his hands were trembling violently.

He tried listening for whatever he could, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t concentrate. You weren’t here, and you weren’t anywhere close.

His mind spiraled, trying to think of anything that could give him a clue about who might have taken you and, most importantly, where.

Searching the room for any sign, any trace, anything that could anchor him before he lost himself completely, he tried to identify the smells in your living room. Cheap cologne, alcohol, cigarettes, and leather. His fingers then brushed the couch, the wall, the broken glass.

Then it dawned on him. The Russians. It had to be the Russians.

They’d been sniffing around his footsteps for months, trying to capture him, figure out who he is. He’d pushed them too hard, hit too many of their operations. And he had been sloppy lately, going too many times after them, making it easier for them to find out where he lived.

Suddenly, he felt bile rise in his throat. They took you because of him. Because he loved you. Because you were the one thing they could use against him.

His jaw clenched so tightly he felt his teeth ache.

He rapidly went back to the window in order to get fresh air, regulate his breathing. He couldn’t believe this was happening. It was then that he felt the metallic smell of blood getting stronger. He tilted his head towards the floor until he recognized the trail of little red droplets.

Your blood was all over the floor of his living room. He felt something break inside of him.

He slammed a fist into the wall so hard the plaster cracked beneath his knuckles. Pain flared, dull and irrelevant. He dragged in a breath so sharp it stung his lungs.

“Where are you…?” he whispered, voice raw. “Please, God, protect her, please...”

He knelt and forced himself to listen, really listen. And finally, beneath the noise of traffic and distant sirens, something flickered at the very edge of his senses:

A muffled cry. Barely a second long, filled with dread, and miles away, but he heard it. It was your voice.

His entire body went rigid.

Panic and rage collided inside him so violently that he nearly choked on it. He grabbed his black suit from under the floorboard, barely feeling his fingers move as he changed into it. His hands were still shaking, and he hated it. Hated the weakness, hated the fear clawing at his ribs.

He’d promised he’d keep you safe. He’d promised. And the Russians had taken you because he failed.

He pulled the mask over his face and vaulted out the window, landing in a crouch on the fire escape, breath harsh and ragged.

He locked onto the direction of your strained voice, and then he ran, faster than he’d ever run in his life. Wind tore past him as he sprinted across rooftops, lungs burning, muscles screaming, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Every second counted.

Every second was another second they had you.

And he could hear the fear in your cries.

“Hold on,” Matt whispered, voice breaking. “Hold on, sweetheart. I’m coming.”

He would reach you. Or he would die trying.

- - -

You came back to yourself slowly, as if waking from underwater, awareness creeping in through the ache pulsing at the base of your skull. The world steadied in fragments: a concrete ceiling, a flickering fluorescent bulb, the distant hum of some generator, and then, with a sickening rush, the feeling of rough rope burning against the skin of your wrists.

Your breath stuttered. You tried to shift, and the chair scraped loudly beneath you, sending a jolt of pain through your side. The air tasted of rust and oil and something damp, like a warehouse no one had cared about in years.

And then you heard them.

“Look who wakes up,” a voice drawled behind you, thick accent, amused, cruel.

Russians.

Your stomach dropped so fast you felt dizzy. The second man stepped into view, stocky, a cheap jacket stained with something you didn’t want to identify. His partner followed, taller, with eyes sharp, as if he took pleasure in cataloging fear.

You struggled to regulate your breathing, willing your pulse to settle, because panic was the last thing you could afford right now, even as a thousand questions tore through you: Why? How? What did they want? But one answer surfaced quickly, cold and unforgiving.

Matt.

The tall one inhaled dramatically and walked a slow circle around you, like a man inspecting a new toy. “Scared,” he said with a satisfied grunt. “Good. Means you understand.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

The shorter one crouched in front of you. He tapped your chin with two fingers, not hard, not painful, just enough to make your teeth clench at the humiliation. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know why you are here.”

“I don’t—” you started, but he cut you off with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You are here because the man in the black mask cares about you.”

Your heart leapt painfully against your ribs, and though you didn’t want to give them anything, that flicker of terror betrayed you. The tall one saw it instantly and let out a pleased laugh.

“I don’t know anything,” you said, trying to keep your voice level, trying not to show how the ropes were cutting into your wrists every time you breathed too deeply. “There’s nothing I can tell you.”

The slap came without warning, cracking across your cheek hard enough to make your vision haze. Your head snapped to the side, and you tasted blood where your teeth nicked your lip.

The shorter man clicked his tongue as if disappointed in a child. “Try again,” he murmured, grabbing the arm of the chair to pull you upright. “What is his name?”

You shut your eyes for half a second, partly to steady yourself and partly to keep the tears forming at the corners from spilling over. “I don’t know,” you said, and you hated how hoarse it came out. “I don’t know who he is.”

Another hit. This one sharper, angled, splitting your lip cleanly. Pain flared white behind your eyes.  You had the feeling you would lose your senses for a moment and their smiles widened.

“Lying,” the tall one growled, circling your chair like some starved predator.

“I’m not,” you whispered, though the words wavered.

The stocky one leaned in and smoothed a hand over your hair as if mocking comfort before gripping the back of your skull and forcing your face up to meet his. “You make this very difficult. We only want him. You give name, he dies clean. You keep lying…?” He shrugged. “We try other ways.”

A cold blade grazed your cheek before you even realized he’d drawn it. The metal traced the line of your jaw, featherlight, terrifying in its gentleness.

Your breath hitched. You tried not to recoil, but your body betrayed you again, a tremor climbing your spine.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s the truth. You are very afraid.”

The shorter one leaned down so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your face. “Good. Fear makes people honest.”

Your heart hammered so hard it physically hurt.

“I don’t know what you think—”

The pipe hit your ribs before the sentence finished.

A scream tore out of you instinctively. The force of the blow knocked the chair sideways, but the tall one caught it before you fell, shoving you upright again.

Your vision blurred at the edges. Tears stung your eyes, hot and overwhelming.

“Tell us his name,” the shorter one said calmly, almost bored.

“I don’t know his name!”

Your voice cracked so badly the words barely came out.

Another hit, harder, this time lower, catching your hip and sending a bolt of pain through your entire body. You cried out again, voice breaking into a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your body shook uncontrollably.

The tall one crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with the cold metal of a knife. “You know who he is,” he murmured. “You sleep in same bed. Don’t insult us.”

Tears spilled over, and you hated yourself for it, hated the way your breath came in ragged little gasps, hated that you couldn’t stop trembling. “Please—please, I’m begging you, I don’t know his name, I swear, I don’t—I don’t know—”

The knife slipped from your cheek to your collarbone, pressing just enough to make your skin prickle. “Begging already?” he taunted, amused.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice shaking so badly the word barely formed. “Please, stop—don’t—”

The shorter one grabbed your hair and yanked your head back abruptly. You screamed, your scalp burning, tears spilling freely now. You struggled, instinctively trying to pull away, but the rope bit deeper, and your movement only made things worse.

They weren’t done.

You didn’t even see the next hit coming.

One moment, the shorter man was pacing, muttering something in quick Russian under his breath, and the next he turned abruptly and drove his fist straight into your face — knuckles cracking against the bridge of your nose with a sickening sound.

A white-hot pain exploded behind your eyes, and your whole body jerked forward as you heard a loud ringing in your ears.  Warmth spilled over your lips immediately, thick and metallic, dripping down your chin before you even realized it was blood.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his fist connected with your eyebrow, sharp and merciless. The impact sent your head whipping sideways, and your vision briefly inverted. White, then black, then a burst of stars that sparkled painfully across your sight.

A thin, hot trickle slid down into your eye. Your eyebrow was bleeding. The cut stung as the blood pooled and dripped, slipping down your temple, into your lashes.

“Stop— please— please,” you sobbed, breath hiccupping hard enough to hurt. “I’m not— I’m not lying— I’m not— I swear— just please—!”

The shorter one grabbed your jaw again and forced your head up so you had to look at him through the haze of blood and tears. Your vision doubled, his face swimming in and out of clarity.

“You lie for him,” he said, smiling faintly as your chin trembled beneath his grip. “You break for him.

A raw, involuntary sob ripped out of you, one that wasn’t entirely from the pain. The idea of Matt hearing you like this, hearing you shatter and beg and choke on your own blood, made your chest hollow out in a different kind of agony.

“I told you— I don’t know who he is— please—”

You could feel the blood dripping down your mouth now, warm and steady, the metallic taste thick on your tongue. One drop fell onto your shirt, then another, then another, until you didn’t know which warmth was blood and which was tears.

Your entire face throbbed and every breath hurt.

“Last chance,” he said softly. “Tell. Us. His—”

But then he froze. The tall one did too.

The lights died, popping in a shower of sparks, and darkness slammed down so completely you couldn’t even see the outlines of the men in front of you.

A low, disbelieving laugh slipped out of you because suddenly, in the middle of all that pain and terror and blood, you understood exactly what that shift in the air meant.

He was here. He had come for you.

And despite everything, relief crashed through you so hard your eyes blurred all over again.

“You… you want his name?” you rasped, letting your voice curl into something dark and shaking, your lips splitting wider as you tried to smile. The Russians froze, startled by the sudden change in you.

You lifted your head, blood dripping down your face, trembling violently but meeting their eyes anyway.

“Ask him yourself.”

Matt moved so fast he seemed to cut through the shadows themselves. A black blur, a whisper of motion, a violent snap of impact. The man dropped instantly, no dramatic struggle, no drawn-out fight. Just a single, decisive blow that told you Matt had been listening long enough to know this guy didn’t deserve a second chance to negotiate.

You rapidly got up from the metal chair, breath shaky, adrenaline cooling into a trembling relief. Matt stood over the unconscious body, chest rising and falling in controlled, deliberate breaths. His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking beneath the stubble.

Matt’s head snapped to the side before you even processed it, his whole body tensing like a wire pulled tight.

You barely had time to whisper his name before things got bad again.

Three men surged from the shadows, two of them rushing him at once.

Matt moved like water meeting stone, fluid, unstoppable. His fists struck the first man’s wrist, sending a knife skittering across the ground. A twist, a kick, the crunch of bone. The second man swung a pipe, but Matt ducked under it like he’d known the trajectory before the guy even lifted it.

You watched, breath locked in your throat, as Matt spun low, swept the man’s legs out, and threw one final punch across his jaw.

One down. Two down.

You didn’t see the third one until his arm looped around your throat and yanked you back.

A sharp cry broke from you. Your feet scraped against the pavement as you struggled, nails digging into the forearm pinning you in place. The Russian’s grip tightened, not enough to choke you, enough to show he could.

Matt froze. Everything in him went terrifyingly still.

“No move,” the man snarled, breath hot against your ear. “ Or pretty girl gets hurt.”

Your heartbeat thundered. Matt heard every frantic beat; you saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his hands trembled into tightened fists.

“Let her go,” Matt said quietly. It wasn’t a plea, it was a warning.

The Russian laughed, pressing a knife against your cheek just hard enough to sting. “Take off your mask, and maybe she lives”.

“You shouldn’t have touched her”,  Matt said, voice low enough to vibrate through your ribs.

The knife pressed harder and your breath broke into a sob.

That was the moment Matt snapped.

He moved before the man finished his sentence, dropping low, surging forward in one fluid motion, driving his shoulder into the Russian’s legs with bone-crushing force. The grip around your throat loosened just enough.

You gasped, stumbling forward as Matt surged up, his fist slamming into the man’s wrist. There was a sharp crack. The knife flew from his hand and skidded across the floor.

Matt didn’t stop. He threw a brutal punch to the ribs that knocked the air from the man’s lungs. Another to the jaw that sent blood spraying. Then a final, merciless strike to the side of his head that dropped him to the ground, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Silence crashed down around you.

Matt stood over the man for a second longer than necessary, chest heaving, fists trembling, knuckles already swelling. Then he turned, and all that rage collapsed into something raw and terrified.

He crossed the distance to you in three long steps.

Matt didn’t rush you. Not this time.

The fight was over, bodies unconscious, the warehouse eerily quiet, but you were still frozen where you stood, hands curled uselessly near your chest, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls like your lungs had forgotten how to work properly.

Blood dripped from your nose and from your eyebrow onto the concrete.

Your knees buckled.

Matt caught you before you hit the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” he murmured instantly, arms locking around you, solid and real and there. “It’s me, it’s Matt”, he reassured you, while lifting his mask, so you could see his face. “You’re safe. You’re safe, sweetheart”.

You didn’t believe him, not yet.

Your body shook violently in his hold, tremors wracking through you like you were still bracing for the next hit, the next threat, the next knife at your throat. Your hands fisted into his shirt without permission, fingers clutching him like he might vanish if you didn’t hold tight enough.

“I—I thought—” Your voice cracked, words dissolving into a broken sob. “I thought they were going to kill me.”

Matt’s breath stuttered. He pulled you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head with aching care, pressing your face gently into the space beneath his jaw where his heartbeat was strongest.

“I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know you did.”

Your knees finally gave out completely, shock catching up to you all at once, and Matt sank down with you, settling onto the cold floor so you wouldn’t have to hold yourself upright anymore.

He guided you gently to the ground, one arm firm around your back as he lowered you together onto the cold concrete. You ended up half in his lap, half against his chest, turned toward him instinctively like your body knew where safety lived now.

You collapsed into him.

Your face buried itself in his chest, cheek pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt, breath hitching as his scent wrapped around you: rain, sweat, faint traces of blood and city air, all unmistakably Matt. You inhaled deeply, desperately, like you needed proof that he was real, that this wasn’t your mind trying to save you.

His arms came around you immediately, strong and enclosing, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair as if anchoring you there.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

Your hands fisted into his shirt again, knuckles pressing into his ribs, your body still shaking now that it finally had permission to fall apart. His heartbeat thundered beneath your cheek — fast, solid, alive —, and you clung to it like a lifeline.

Matt’s breath caught audibly above you. He bent his head, pressing his forehead against your hair, holding you tighter, not crushing, never hurting, just firm enough to promise he wasn’t going anywhere.

“They hurt me,” you whimpered, the admission spilling out small and broken, like saying it out loud might finally make it real. “They kept asking about you. I—I kept thinking if I said the wrong thing—”

“You didn’t,” Matt cut in immediately, firmer now, as he needed you to hear this. “You did everything right.”

“Oh God,” he breathed, thumb hovering just above your eyebrow, terrified of hurting you more. “Your face—”

“I’m okay,” you said automatically, even though you very clearly weren’t.

Matt swallowed hard. “You’re bleeding.”

“So are you,” you mumbled faintly, because you could smell him: sweat, rain, copper, and because part of you still needed to take care of him too.

He let out a soft, broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and pressed a kiss to your temple, careful and reverent, like he was afraid you might break beneath his lips.

“You’re alive,” he whispered against your skin. “That’s all that matters right now.”

Your hands finally loosened their death grip on his shirt, but only enough to slide up and clutch his wrists instead, needing the reassurance that he was still there, that he wasn’t letting go.

“I was so scared,” you admitted quietly. “I couldn’t stop thinking that this was it. That I wasn’t going to see you again.”

Matt closed his eyes, forehead resting briefly against your head as the weight of that sank in.

“I won’t let that happen,” he said, voice thick and rough. “I swear to you. I don’t care who comes after me; no one gets to take you from me.”

You leaned back into him fully then, exhaustion finally dragging you down, trusting him to hold you up. His arms tightened instinctively, anchoring you, grounding you, keeping the world out.

“I’m here,” he murmured again and again, like a mantra. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Matt stayed exactly where he was, sat on the cold concrete, one arm solid around your back while the other remained cradled at the base of your skull, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles through your hair. He let you breathe him in, let you shake, let the silence stretch until it stopped feeling dangerous.

Your face was still buried in his neck when he spoke again, softer now.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, close enough that you felt the words more than heard them. “You’re here with me. No one’s going to touch you.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, your hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, as if you needed to be sure he was really there. Your fingers brushed along his jaw, feeling the familiar scrape of stubble beneath your touch, the warmth of his skin, the tension still lingering there. He leaned into it instinctively, exhaling softly, as the contact grounded him as much as it grounded you.

Matt bent his head then, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, careful, reverent, lingering just long enough to make your chest ache. His lips were warm against your skin, solid and real, and the simple tenderness of it almost undid you more than the fear had.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to speak, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

“Let’s go home,” he said softly. “I’ll take you home.”

And this time, you believed him.

- - -

The walk back was quiet.

Not empty, but wrapped in a kind of hush that only existed when Matt kept you tucked close to his side, one arm firm around your waist as if the city itself might reach out and pull you away again. Every step sent a dull ache through your body, pain blooming where adrenaline had finally worn off, but Matt adjusted without you having to say a word, slowing when you faltered, steadying you when your knees threatened to give in.

You leaned into him shamelessly, and he let you.

By the time you reached the apartment, your hands were trembling again, not from fear this time, but from exhaustion, the delayed shock finally catching up to you. Matt opened the door quickly, ushering you inside and closing it behind you with a decisive click that felt like a seal being placed on the night.

Safe. You were safe.

He guided you to the couch, helping you sit before kneeling in front of you without hesitation. The overhead light was too bright; you flinched instinctively, and Matt immediately dimmed it, leaving the room bathed in softer shadows.

“Stay with me,” he said gently, one hand resting over your knee, grounding. “I’m right here.”

You nodded, swallowing thickly.

Matt disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with a small first-aid kit, hands already shaking a little despite how carefully he moved. He sat beside you, closer this time, his knees brushing yours.

“Can I?” he asked softly, lifting a clean cloth.

You nodded again.

The moment the cloth touched your skin, you hissed quietly. Matt froze.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, even as your eyes burned.

He adjusted, gentler still, dabbing at the blood beneath your nose with delicate care, as every touch mattered. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together as if holding something back.

“I should’ve known,” he said quietly, the words finally slipping out before he could stop them. His jaw tightened, breath shallow. “I should’ve heard it coming sooner. I should’ve been there before they ever laid a hand on you.”

You felt the shift in him immediately, the way his body went rigid, like he was bracing for a blow that never came.

“I keep telling myself I can do this,” Matt went on, voice low and rough around the edges. “That I can balance it. The mask, the city, you.” A bitter huff of breath left him. “And tonight just proved I’m lying to myself.”

His thumb pressed into your shoulder, not hurting, just grounding, like he needed the contact to stay tethered.

“They didn’t take you because you were careless,” he said. “They took you because of me. Because loving me puts a target on your back.”

He swallowed hard, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“Matt—”, you tried interrupting him, but with no success.

“I hate that,” he admitted. “I hate that every time you look at me, all I can think about is how close I came to losing you. How close I always am.”

He finally averted his lost gaze in your direction, voice dropping into something raw and unguarded.

“If anything had happened to you,” he whispered, “I don’t know how I’d live with that.”

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, protective, trembling just slightly.

“I should’ve protected you better,” he finished softly.

He stayed there after that, forehead pressed to yours, like pulling away might shatter what little control he had left. His breathing was measured, careful, but you could feel the tension in it, the way every inhale seemed like work.

“I heard you scream,” he said quietly, almost like a confession. “Not with my ears. With everything else.” His mouth twisted, self-disgust bleeding through. “And I still wasn’t fast enough.”

You felt his hand tighten briefly at the back of your head, not painful, just… desperate.

“I keep telling myself this is the price,” Matt continued. “That this is what I owe the city. Bruises, blood, nights like this.” His voice dropped lower. “But you didn’t sign up for that. You didn’t choose my war.”

His thumb brushed your hair back gently, softly, like he was afraid even that small touch might hurt you.

“And yet you’re the one who paid for it tonight.”

The words sat heavily between you.

“I hate myself for that,” he admitted. “For walking out the door every night knowing someone could use you to get to me. Knowing I still do it anyway.”

You shifted closer, instinctively, your arms slipping around his neck. He froze for half a second, like he didn’t think he deserved it, before his arms wrapped around you in return, firm and protective, pulling you flush against him.

“I don’t know how to be both things,” he murmured into your hair. “The man who loves you… and the one who keeps dragging danger to your doorstep.”

His hand slid up and down your back slowly, grounding, as if he reminded himself you were breathing, you were warm, you were here.

“But God,” he whispered, voice breaking just slightly now, “when I thought you might be gone,  when I thought they had taken you from me forever—” He shook his head, pressing his face into your temple. You could feel his warm tears against your face.

He pulled back just enough for his blind eyes to search your face as if they could memorize it, like he needed proof you were real.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I put you in that position. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe as I promised you I would.”

His lips barely had time to brush your temple before you moved, just enough to pull back and press your hands gently on both sides of his face.

“No,” you replied quietly “You don’t get to decide this alone.”

Matt stilled.

“You don’t get to stand there and turn this into another reason to hate yourself,” you continued, voice soft but unwavering. “I was scared. I was hurt. But I’m still here, Matt. And that wasn’t because you failed.”

His breath hitched, barely perceptible.

“I knew what loving you meant,” you said, your fingers caressing his cheek, grounding him. “I knew the risks the same way you know them every time you go out there, and I stayed anyway.” “You came for me,” you continued. “You always do. And tonight, that mattered more than anything else.”

His jaw tightened abruptly, the softness draining from his expression as something hotter pushed its way through. He pulled back just enough to take you in properly, blind eyes narrowing like he could feel the damage written all over you.

“Did it?” he snapped, the words cutting sharper than his tone had before. “Do you think this is fair to you?”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“Look at you,” Matt continued, frustration spilling over now, barely contained. His hands hovered near your arms, your ribs, your face, afraid to touch too much, furious that there was so much to touch at all. “Do you have any idea how hurt you are?”

His breath came faster.

“You’re going to be covered in bruises,” he said, voice rising despite himself. “For weeks. A month, at least. Your face—” He swallowed hard, anger cracking into something dangerously close to panic. “—My God.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, suddenly standing up from the couch and walking away, but turning back to you like he couldn’t physically move away.

“And you’re standing here telling me this is fine?” he demanded. “That this is just part of it?”

“This isn’t some abstract risk (Y/n)”, Matt said, voice rough now. “This is you. Bleeding. And it happened because of me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, fighting the tremor in his hands.

“I don’t get to decide that this is acceptable,” he went on. “I don’t get to look at you like this and tell myself it’s worth it.”

He reached out his arm and his thumb brushed near the cut on your eyebrow, stopping just short of touching it, like the restraint hurt him.

“Tell me how this is fair to you,” he said quietly, anger burning low and dangerous beneath the words. “Tell me how I’m supposed to live with this knowing it could happen again?”

He stayed there, rigid and breathing hard, fury and fear tangled together, not at you, never at you, but at himself, at the world, at anyone who had ever thought hurting you was a way to reach him.

“I know what you’re going to say, Murdock,” you said weakly, the name slipping out the way it always did when things felt too big, too close to breaking. “You can stop right there.”

You took a breath, shaky but determined because you knew where this is going.

“You’re about to tell me this can’t happen anymore,” you said quietly. “That you’re too dangerous. That loving you puts me in the line of fire. That I’d be safer without you.”

His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Your voice wavered then, just a little, emotion finally catching up to you. “But after tonight, after thinking I was going to die—” You swallowed hard. “The idea of losing you, too, is… It’s too much, Matt.”

You shamelessly admitted, covering your face with your hands in hopes of hiding your sobs. Matt’s heart broke.

“I was terrified,” you admitted softly. “Not just because they hurt me. But because I thought I might never see you again. Because I thought that whatever happened, you wouldn’t be there.”

Matt then slowly walked back to you and sat down, feeling the urge to comfort you.

“So please don’t stand there and decide for me,” you murmured, tears falling freely now. “Don’t push me away just because you’re scared, okay?”, you whispered. “I know it was horrible for both of us. But losing you, choosing that, would hurt worse than anything they did to me.”

Matt didn’t answer right away.

You felt it in the way his chest rose under his black shirt, too fast at first, then deliberately slowing, like he was forcing himself not to break apart in front of you. His hands came up slowly, carefully, cupping your sides as if he needed the reassurance that you were still solid, still real.

“I wasn’t going to say it like that,” he said finally, voice low, strained. “But yes. That’s exactly where my mind went.”

His thumb brushed against your lips.

“Because when I look at you,” he continued, quieter now, “all I can think about is how close I came to losing you. And how every night I put the suit on, I’m rolling the dice with your life, not just mine, and I don’t know how to reconcile that”, Matt admitted. “How to love you and not feel like I’m sentencing you to this over and over again.”

His hand went to your shoulder and down your arm, gentle but firm, like he was bracing himself.

“But then you say things like that,” he went on, voice cracking just slightly, “and I realize I don’t get to pretend you’re a bystander in my life. You’re not something I can just lock away and keep untouched.”

He pulled back just enough to tilt his head, as if trying to meet your eyes through instinct alone.

“You’re choosing me,” he said. “Even now. Even after everything.”

A shaky breath left him.

“And that scares me more than anything else.”

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, careful of the injuries there, his touch delicate.

“Because if I let myself believe that,” he murmured, “then I have to accept that walking away from you wouldn’t be protection. It would be a punishment. For both of us.”

He rested his forehead against yours again, lingering there.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Matt said simply. “I don’t want to live in a world where I survive this, and you’re not in it.”

“You won’t have to”, you reassured him, slowly closing the space between you and his warm body, wincing at every movement.

“Okay, so if we do this,” he said again, more quietly now, “we do it honestly. No pretending it’s safe. No pretending tonight didn’t change things.”

You nodded against his chest.

“Okay,” you said.

The word surprised him. You felt it in the way his body went still for half a second.

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” You shifted slightly, careful of the bruises, but you didn’t pull away. “Okay.”

You tilted your head just enough to speak without moving too much.

“I’m not going to tell you it was fine,” you continued. “It wasn’t. I’m going to feel this for a while”, you admitted, playing with his fingers. “But I’m also not going to pretend walking away would make it better,” you said. “It would just make both of us miserable.”

Matt exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something he’d been bracing himself against.

“I don’t need you to promise me anything,” you added. “I don’t need you to stop being who you are. I just need you to stop deciding things for me when you’re scared.”

“I was scared,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said. “I was, too.”

The apartment was quiet around you, the kind of quiet that only came after something had nearly gone very wrong. He took your right hand and gently guided it to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss on your bruised skin.

“I’ll tell you when it’s too much,” you said. “And if that day comes, we’ll deal with it then. Together.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know how to make this fair,” Matt said finally.

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “Just don’t leave.”

His breath left him in a slow, unsteady exhale.

“Okay, sweetheart”, he agreed, almost in a whisper. “ Then I won’t. I will never let something like this happen again. I'll keep you safe, I promise."

“I know, Matt. I trust you”. You looked up at him, searching for his wandering hazel eyes. “You’ll always be safe with me, too.”

“I love you”, he said quietly, almost like a promise, sealing it with a kiss on the top of your head.

Outside, New York City kept moving. Tomorrow would come whether either of you were ready or not. But at least you both knew you could always be safe in each other’s arms. Always.

Comments, feedback and requests are always welcome! x ♥️

[marvel-spidey]

Don't Let Me Go

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 1.8k Genre: Angst/Comfort Summary: When a bloody and furious Matt Murdock stumbles home after the Bulletin massacre, you're the one who can remind him of the man beneath the real mask. (Inspired by Matt’s conversation with Sister Maggie in episode 3x07 and by the song Never Say Never by The Fray.) a/n: I rewatched one (1) scene from season 3 and immediately spiraled into “must comfort Matt” mode like I usually do. Anyway, here’s the fic :) - - -

You were awake long before you heard the door.

Something inside you had paced all night, worry stretching your nerves thin, anxiety cold under your ribs. Matt was an hour late. You had called him several times, hoping for his reassuring voice, but only silence answered.

So when the lock finally clicked, your heart lurched.

You sat up, blanket falling from your shoulders.

“Matt?”

The door closed harder than necessary. Not slammed, but sharp and final, as if he pushed it with the last of his temper. You immediately stood, bare feet hitting the hardwood as he stepped inside.

And your breath stopped.

His white shirt was soaked with blood that also streaked down his front, smeared across his face in uneven lines. Cuts marked his cheek, above his eyebrow, and the dried red on his throat made your stomach twist. His fists were completely covered in blood. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, and he moved with the tension of someone holding himself together by inches.

“Jesus– Matt!” you gasped, rushing toward him.

Your hands hovered, afraid to make anything worse. “What happened? What-”

He held a piece of cloth in his right hand, in a weak attempt to stop the blood oozing from the gash on his shoulder. His breathing was uneven, ragged from anger more than pain. He took fast steps into the apartment and stopped, pacing in the living room in an effort to keep himself upright and contained.

You softened your voice instantly because you knew something bad had happened.

“Hey. Look at me.”

He didn’t, not at first. His head was tilted downward, hands half-curled like he still felt phantom weapons between them.

It had been a long time since you had seen Matt in this state, covered in blood that you couldn’t know if it was from him or from the other guy. You reached for his forearm, terrified, but trying to make it seem like you weren’t.

“Matt…”

He flinched. Not away, but like the contact broke the last piece of restraint he had left.

“It was at the Bulletin,” he said, voice low and vibrating with fury barely leashed.

Your stomach dropped. “The Bulletin? What do you mean?”

He laughed, displaying a sarcastic tone that you knew was just a disguise for the anger he was trying so hard to process. “What do I mean? I mean, someone walked into the newsroom pretending to be me.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense,” you replied, a frown etched onto your face, trying to make sense of what he was talking about.

Matt’s head snapped toward you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, anger radiating off him in waves.

“Someone pretending to be Daredevil,” he bit out.

“Like… dressed like you?” you asked again, genuinely confused by the situation.

“You’re missing the point, (Y/n). It wasn’t someone just wearing my suit. He found someone as fast and skilled as I’ve ever seen, and I couldn’t take him. He found someone to kill me.”

“Fisk?” you nervously guessed, already knowing the answer. You tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but all you could focus on was how hurt he was.

He kept pacing from one side to the other, hand to his forehead, signaling his frustration.

“I was stupid enough to think that I had him cornered. He knew I’d find a witness, and I just brought the sheep to slaughter-”

“Matt,” you interrupted, in a foolish attempt to make him calm down. His white shirt just kept getting more and more bloody.

“People died, (Y/n). Innocent people died, and that’s on me,” he exclaimed, pointing his index finger at himself, making sure to remember you and himself that he had failed.

Oh, the weight he was carrying right now. It broke your heart to see him with the world on his shoulders once again. Your eyes started to water, but Matt didn’t need you crying right now; he needed something to pull him out of the pit of anger and guilt he was drowning in.

“Matt, honey, you’re losing blood. Please-”

“I was so sure I was finally out in front of that bastard. And Fisk knew that, he was waiting for me”, he continued, still holding the piece of cloth to his shoulder that was now completely soaked in his blood. His face had a sort of defeated smile, a sad expression that reminded you of how tired he was.

“Matt,” you uttered again, trying to gain his attention.

“Foggy and Karen, both of them could have been killed. Both of them and I-”

“Matthew! Enough! Look at you,” you exclaimed harshly, not being able to listen to him beat himself up anymore, especially when he was that injured. You decided it was not fair to you to watch the person you loved most in the world in that state.

“You need stitches! And what the hell even happened to your fricking arm?”

Matt had frozen in place when he heard you scream his name. He widened his eyes and, for a moment, seemed to remember he was home; he was not at the Bulletin anymore.

He stared at you for a moment and listened. He listened to how fast your heart was beating, how your hands were shaking, and how you were holding in the tears. He suddenly realized how stressful all of this was for you and decided it was time to take a step back.

He slowly walked to the couch and sat down, wincing at the movement.

“Scissors,” he tiredly admitted, remembering the pain he felt when it happened.

“God! I’m gonna kill the bastard that did this to you”, you stated angrily, and for the first time tonight, Matt felt a weak smile form on his mouth. He thought you were cute, getting all protective of him.

You immediately went to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. You sat on the couch beside him and tried to take a deep breath. You didn’t even know where to begin.

Matt sensed how shaky your hands were as you searched for the needle.

“Hey”, he uttered, reaching for your hand. “Breathe.”

“Breathe?” you asked with an acid tone to your voice. “You come back home soaked in blood and tell me to breathe, Murdock?”

Not even you could understand why you were so angry. Maybe it was because you realized how close you were to losing him. Again. And how much you hated this double life he had. It was so cruel to him sometimes. It hurt him too much; therefore, it hurt you.

He had nothing to say in response, and you thought maybe you had been a little rude. He was also hurting right now; it wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry, Matt”, you said regretfully, taking a deep breath and reaching your hand to his bruised cheek. “I’m just… scared. You have no idea what it felt like when you walked in like this. There is so much blood”, you confessed, scanning his body and choking on your own tears.

“I know,” he interrupted, holding his hand on yours. He gently kissed your palm. “I’m sorry. I was so angry I didn’t even think about how all of this could affect you, too.”

“Please, don’t apologize. You’ve been through so much tonight. It’s not your fault.”

You combed your fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead, careful not to touch any injuries.

“Now, can I please get you cleaned up?” you pleaded, caressing the stubble on his face. He was so beautiful, even covered in blood.

“Yes”, he agreed, giving you a faint smile. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, wincing with pain every time he tried to move. Despite being able to focus on you for a moment, he still hadn’t forgotten the gravity of everything that had happened tonight. He couldn’t believe that Fisk had won again. Couldn’t believe that people had died on his watch.

You noticed his hazel eyes wandering and how quiet he got. You could probably guess the kind of thoughts he was having. You worried.

“What’s on your mind, honey? Talk to me.”

He looked so defeated. He tiredly closed his eyes and opened them again, trying to find the words.

“The problem is, Fisk is always five steps ahead of me. I don’t know if I can beat him. And I don’t know if I can beat the man he sent to kill me.”

Hearing Matt say that gave you chills. You feared for his safety now more than ever. How could you be okay knowing there was a crazy psychopath hired to kill him?

You panicked inside but tried to stay calm. He needed you right now, not the other way around.

“Hey”, you called him, slowly trying to make him focus on you. His wandering eyes focused somewhat near your chin, and you took his hand in yours. “Listen to me. If there’s anyone who can beat that son of a bitch, it’s you, Matt. Not only because of your skills, but because of your heart. Your good heart.”  You said firmly, touching his chest and feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Besides, you got something Fisk doesn’t have.”

“And what’s that?” he asked softly, slightly curious.

“This”,  you replied, and kissed him. He closed his eyes and let himself surrender to the warm feeling of your lips on his.

“Do you think he has this? Do you think he has someone waiting for him every night, praying to God to keep him safe?”

“He has Vaness-”

“Oh, please. Do you think that’s love? She is in love with the power he has. With what he represents. Fisk will never know what love actually feels like. He will never know friendship. To have friends who would die for you, as you have with Foggy. And Karen.”

“You are never alone, Matt,” you continued. “You will never be alone in this fight. He can send a dozen fake Daredevils. They would never be a fraction of the man you are.”

“My,” you kissed him on the left cheek, “Matthew,” and kissed him on the right cheek.

He slowly pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, and you noticed his eyes were glistening with tears. He needed to hear those words so much right now.

“Thank you”, was all he managed to whisper to you, while bringing your head to rest on his chest. He safely held you in his arms like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I could never do this without you, sweetheart.” He said quietly, the vibration of his warm voice rumbling on his chest and against your ear. “Don’t ever let me go.”

“I won’t, Matt. I promise.” Comments, feedback and requests are always very welcome! x ❤️

[rockthepurplelife]

me laying down in bed ready to read some ”x reader” fics

[zanerose]

I love deeply traumatized men with haunted eyes. Like hell yeah babe look at me as if I'm the only good thing you've ever known.

[snoopysupe]

tower fics are so back baby

[marvel-spidey]

oh my god yessssss😭😭😭😭

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, from A Room of One's Own

[marvel-spidey]

We’ve Still Got Time

Summary: After receiving some life-altering news, you try to make Bucky understand that it's time to let the past go. Inspired by the song “Falling Slowly” (in my mind it was written just for Bucky ok 🥺) Pairing: Bucky x reader Word count: 3.1k Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, lots of tears, extreme fluff. A/n: English is not my first language, so sorry in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Enjoy! also, happy 2025 for us bucky girlies!!! our man is coming back soon! ✨

Bucky woke up to the sound of running water and a toothbrush being used. The white light from the bathroom spilled into the bedroom you both shared. The clock on his nightstand read 4:07 a.m. He slowly opened his eyes and turned to the side, realizing your side of the bed was empty. Furrowing his eyebrows, he wondered why you were up at this hour brushing your teeth. Unable to think of a reason fast enough, he decided to get up and check on you.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in a confused tone, his hoarse voice carrying the weight of sleep. His hair was a little messy, and his metal arm reflected the soft light from the bathroom. He was shirtless, and his gray sweatpants hung just above his hips.

“I’m sorry I woke you, Buck,” you replied, drying your face with a small towel. “I don’t know. I think I must have eaten something that didn’t sit well with my stomach. I just woke up feeling really nauseous. I threw up, but at least I feel a little better now.”

Bucky closed the distance between you, moving toward you slowly and giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. His expression was serious, his lips almost forming a pout.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I feel bad knowing you were sick all by yourself.”

He held your face softly, and you looked up at him, scanning his features and silently admiring how concerned he always was for you. You couldn’t understand how someone so caring could think such terrible things about himself and carry so much guilt when this was the man he really was: calm, reliable, attentive. You prayed he could see it someday, too.

“I wouldn’t wake you,” you replied, caressing his cheek gently. “I know those nightmares have been coming back these past few weeks, haven’t they?”

He looked down, ashamed he hadn’t been able to hide them from you. You always knew.

He sighed and nodded, reluctantly admitting the unpleasant truth. His nightmares came in phases. Sometimes, they haunted him almost every night with terrible flashes from his past – people he had killed, accidents he had caused, futures he had destroyed. Or worse, scenarios in which you would get hurt. Sometimes, by him. Those were the worst ones. Other times they would come less frequently, almost letting him believe that he was making progress in his “healing journey”, as you liked to call it. But they eventually came back. To him, they were proof he would never truly be at peace, never able to leave the past behind.

“Yes, as usual,” he admitted. “But it’s okay. You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied, already recognizing his habit of downplaying things and subtly pushing you away, retreating into his world of self-loathing. “I’ll always worry. I just wish you would have talked to me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said while engulfing you in a warm hug. He had a defeated expression in his features that made you even more worried. God knows what kind of thoughts he was having about himself. You wish you could take them away.

“Let’s just go back to sleep, so you’re rested and feeling better in the morning. Deal?” You smiled weakly and decided to let the matter go, for now. “Deal,” you agreed, letting him take your hand and guide you back to bed. For the next few weeks, you continued to have moments where you felt unwell.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but your body started to feel different. Your stomach was more sensitive than usual, leaving you with the now-familiar waves of nausea. You felt sleepier at random moments during the day, and your stamina during training sessions at the compound suddenly diminished. You felt more out of breath during workouts and sparring. And food began to smell and taste different. One morning, the pancakes Bucky made you almost daily for breakfast smelled “eggier” than usual—you could smell the eggs in the batter from what felt like miles away.

After weeks of feeling like this, you thought it was probably due to low vitamin levels and decided you should schedule a routine doctor’s appointment soon.

But in one of your weekly sparring sessions with Natasha, you started to feel a slight dizziness, so you asked her for a time-out.

“Are you okay?” she asked, raising one of her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I just—I don’t know. I’ve been feeling kind of weak for a while now,” you admitted, closing your eyes and resting a hand on your forehead in an attempt to steady yourself. “I think I just need to get some blood work done. It’s been a while since my last check-up.” “Weak how, exactly?”

“I feel like I’m always tired lately. More worn out. And my appetite is all over the place.”

Natasha looked at you with a suspicious expression before asking an unexpected question.

“Hmm, feeling weak, huh? Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

Your eyes shot open, and you stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. “What?”

“Yes, have you?” Nat repeated, crossing her arms and leaning into one hip with a slight smirk as if she knew something you didn’t.

“I- No, I- I didn’t… My period is only two days late, which is sort of normal for me. Do you think I should?” you questioned her, not knowing if you were talking more to yourself or to her.

“(Y/n) yes, you should! Have you talked to Barnes about it?”

“Not really. I didn’t pay much attention to this. I didn’t have time to.”

The truth was, you and the whole team had been preparing for an important mission in a few months, one that had been weighing heavily on Bucky’s mind especially, since it involved Hydra. The team was set to infiltrate a secret Hydra base in Hungary in order to retrieve intel on potential undercover Hydra agents within S.H.I.E.L.D.

You were almost sure this was the reason Bucky’s nightmares had gotten worse. He tensed up every time you or someone else mentioned the mission, or during training, probably dreading the feeling of going back to a place so connected to everything that he wanted to forget. He tried so hard to hide it but for you, it was so easy to sense his anxiety. The way his blue eyes grew distant, drifting to the floor as if trying to escape his own thoughts. Or how his fists clenched, fingers pressing into his palms almost to the point of pain, while he tried to take deep breaths every time Steve went over the mission details with the group.

“Then take the test,” Natasha urged, stepping closer and putting a reassuring hand on yours when she noticed the frightened look on your face. “If you’re pregnant, you need to know before the mission. And you need to tell Barnes. You both need to decide if going on this mission is still an option.”

“But Nat” you began, squeezing her hand, feeling so scared and unprepared for the scenario she just mentioned.  “I- I don’t know if Bucky is in a good headspace for this now. He’s been so off lately. The Hydra stuff has been really getting to him.”

Natasha offered you a comforting smile, her confidence and support unwavering.

“You’ll both be fine. I’m here if you need me. And Steve is, too.” Later that same day, you found yourself in a situation you never imagined you’d be in right now.

Trembling hands, tears streaming down your face, and your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. A white and blue pregnancy test sat on the marble counter of your bathroom. You stared at the word that appeared on the small screen.

+ Pregnant

You froze. You looked at yourself in the mirror and blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t dreaming. You weren’t. A wave of happiness washed over you. So much happiness. It was unexpected, yes, but you had always told Bucky he would be a wonderful dad. Yet every time you brought up the subject, he’d say he would like to be a father someday, but that it probably wasn’t a good idea. According to him, he could never be a good role model for a child.

Your first thought was running to Nat or Steve. You wanted to tell one of them and hear that everything would be alright, that Bucky would be alright with all of this. But it was already kind of late. They’re probably asleep by now, you thought to yourself. At the same time, you knew the person who really needed to know about this was in the living room, watching a random reality TV show with Sam.

You couldn’t bear to be alone another minute. The anxiety was overwhelming.

You decided to text Bucky and ask him to come to your room. If you went to the living room, there was no way Sam wouldn’t notice something was up, and you didn’t need another situation right now.

“Can you please come to our room, it’s urgent.” You texted and hoped he would check his phone as soon as possible.

Not even five minutes later you heard the door of your room open, followed by anxious footsteps entering the room.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? I just got your text.” Bucky asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Hi, love” you said, stepping out of the bathroom and faking a half smile, searching for his hand and guiding him to the bed. You were terrified but at the same time you didn’t wanna scare him. “Come with me, I need to talk to you.”

“What happened?” Bucky questioned, his eyes quickly searching your face for any clues of what might have happened. You could see the worry creeping into his expression.

You sat next to him on the bed and held his hands tightly. The cold touch of his metal hand on yours offered a brief distraction from what you were about to tell him. You took a deep breath, still unsure how to begin. You decided that starting with some context might be easier.

“So, basically, for the past few weeks, I’ve started to feel a little… off. Do you remember the night you woke up because I felt sick in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I do” Bucky answered calmly, trying to figure out where you were going with this.

“Well, besides that, I’ve been feeling different. My stomach has been constantly upset, my appetite has been strange, I’ve been feeling more tired than usual, and I–”

“(Y/n), are you sick?” Bucky interrupted, already imagining all the worst scenarios in his head.

“Buck, no” you replied quickly, closing your eyes and trying to breathe to calm yourself down. “Listen. As I was saying, I talked about these symptoms with Nat today and she… she asked... if I had already taken a pregnancy test.”

You paused, watching his face closely for a reaction. He seemed to freeze, taking a few seconds to process your words. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath – a breath that felt heavy with sadness. It broke your heart.

He opened his eyes again and they were glistening with tears. His eyes looked even more blue than they already were.

For a moment, you considered not saying anything more, but you knew he needed to hear it – all of it.

“So, I… I took a test just now,” you continued, your voice trembling as tears began to run down your face. “And it’s… it’s positive.” You wiped your nose with the sleeve of your sweater, struggling to keep your composure.

“I’m sorry” you said crying, heartbroken because this was the reaction you had been dreading. You felt like you had ruined his life.

Now, he was the one silently crying. He still held your hands, his thumb softly tracing circles over your palm, his gaze fixed on your intertwined fingers.

“Please, say something, Bucky,” you pleaded, the silence only giving your mind space to imagine horrible possibilities.

“No, I’m the one who should be saying sorry, (Y/n),” he finally said, his voice breaking as tears slowly streamed down his face. “This baby deserves someone better. You deserve someone better.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, reaching out to hold his cheek, your heart breaking at the words that he had just spoken. “What do you mean, ‘we deserve someone better’?”

“Yes! Yes, you do!” he exclaimed, his voice rising as he finally let the storm inside him surface. “How is this baby going to grow up knowing all the awful things I’ve done?”

He got up from the bed, putting some distance between the two of you. He was still crying quietly, and it felt like he had been keeping this inside for so long. His body was facing the window. He couldn’t even look at you.

“You didn’t do those things, Buck. The Winter Soldier did,” you spoke clearly, hoping that he would somehow believe it.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I still did it.”

“Of course it matters! You didn’t have a choice!” you raised your voice, frustrated at how he could still blame himself so much.

“Everyone tells me that, but it doesn’t help, you know?” he replied, turning his body back toward you. His voice was low. “When I lie down to sleep, I keep seeing their faces. I can still hear their cries, begging for help, for mercy.”

“Buck, I—I’m so sorry,” you told him, holding your tears back again. You’d give anything to take his sadness away.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be free from what they did to me,” he stated, his face showing a defeated expression. “I know Ayo got the Hydra programming out of my mind in Wakanda, but still… it’s all here,” he said, pressing his index finger to his temple. “I remember all of them, and I always will.”

You got up and decided to close the distance between you. You raised both of your hands to his cheeks and held his face gently, making him look at you. You needed him to hear every word you were about to say.

“Honey, look at me,” you began, your voice serious but soft. “I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel. And I want you to know I’d do anything – anything – if I could to make this suffering go away. It breaks my heart to see you in so much pain and not be able to do anything-”

“No, sweetheart, but you do,” he interrupted you, wiping the tears from your face. “You have no idea how many ways you’ve saved me.”

He closed his eyes and kissed your forehead. Both of you were crying again, and you could feel all his gratitude in that one kiss.

“You save me every day. It would be impossible for me to survive those nightmares if I didn’t have your face to look at every time I wake from one of them.” He gave you a sad smile while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand resting on your cheek afterward.

You leaned into his metal hand and kissed his palm. Your eyes were once again glistening with tears.

“Do you see this, James?” you asked, hoping that he would understand what you were trying to show him.

“This is you,” you continued, placing one hand on his heart. “This is Bucky Barnes. The man who has a metal arm and touches me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. The man who makes pancakes for me every morning. The man who’s afraid of punching me too hard in our sparring sessions, even though he knows I’m a kick-ass agent.”

“That you are,” he agreed, both of you crying and laughing at the same time. You quickly wiped his tears away.

“The man who watches trashy reality TV shows with his friend on a Thursday night. This is you. And this is the man who is going to be the father of my child,” you finished, placing his flesh hand on your belly.

He continued to cry. You just prayed that your words would finally make their way into his heart.

“So tell me, how could you say I deserve better? That this baby deserves better?”

He was still looking at his hand on your belly, trying to understand how he could still be worthy of having a family after he had destroyed so many others.

“Look at me, Buck,” you called, guiding his gaze back to you. “You suffered enough. More than enough. You’ve warred with yourself for so long. It’s time that you won.”

He closed his eyes and tried to absorb the words he had just heard. It was so hard for him to accept that he deserved happiness, but he was so grateful that you have never stopped trying.

“You made it. We’re here, and you made it. Now we’ve still got time. We’ve still got all the time in the world for you to finally live. Your life, how you want it,” you continued, kissing the palm of his metal hand again. It was your way of showing him that you loved all of him, even the part that brought him the most pain.

“This baby is so lucky to have you as a dad. And to be honest, this kid is going to brag so much to the other children about how his dad’s got a metal arm.” For the first time, you heard an honest laugh escape from his lips. The sound was wonderful.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but it must have been something really good,” he replied, finally pulling you close and giving you a warm kiss.

“I love you- we love you.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to… be a role model for someone.” You could see the worry in his eyes. He was genuinely scared.

“Bucky, yes, you do. You just have to be you. I don’t need you to be perfect,  I just need you to be here. Can you do that for us, Sergeant?”

He gave you a warm smile, filled with gratitude and hope - the hope you had just given him. He looked at your lips and kissed you once more, holding your belly delicately.

“Yes, I can, ma’am. Yes, I can.” he agreed easily “but.. speaking of sergeant, now there’s no way you’re going on that mission.”

“Excuse me? I’m still in the first few weeks of this pregnancy. And how about you? This baby will need both parents.”

“Okay okay, so we’ll let Uncle Steve decide who's going and who’s not. Deal?”

“Okay, sir. Deal.”

Well, you have suffered enough And warred with yourself It's time that you won Take this sinking boat and point it home We've still got time Raise your hopeful voice, you had a choice You've made it now ~~ Falling Slowly (from the musical Once)

Feedback is always welcome, feel free to comment, like and reblog! Hope you enjoyed 🤍

[cherryst4rg1rl]

I love you superman

[tootiredtobekind]

[raysome]

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[marvel-spidey]

We’ve Still Got Time

Summary: After receiving some life-altering news, you try to make Bucky understand that it's time to let the past go. Inspired by the song “Falling Slowly” (in my mind it was written just for Bucky ok 🥺) Pairing: Bucky x reader Word count: 3.1k Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, lots of tears, extreme fluff. A/n: English is not my first language, so sorry in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Enjoy! also, happy 2025 for us bucky girlies!!! our man is coming back soon! ✨

Bucky woke up to the sound of running water and a toothbrush being used. The white light from the bathroom spilled into the bedroom you both shared. The clock on his nightstand read 4:07 a.m. He slowly opened his eyes and turned to the side, realizing your side of the bed was empty. Furrowing his eyebrows, he wondered why you were up at this hour brushing your teeth. Unable to think of a reason fast enough, he decided to get up and check on you.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in a confused tone, his hoarse voice carrying the weight of sleep. His hair was a little messy, and his metal arm reflected the soft light from the bathroom. He was shirtless, and his gray sweatpants hung just above his hips.

“I’m sorry I woke you, Buck,” you replied, drying your face with a small towel. “I don’t know. I think I must have eaten something that didn’t sit well with my stomach. I just woke up feeling really nauseous. I threw up, but at least I feel a little better now.”

Bucky closed the distance between you, moving toward you slowly and giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. His expression was serious, his lips almost forming a pout.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I feel bad knowing you were sick all by yourself.”

He held your face softly, and you looked up at him, scanning his features and silently admiring how concerned he always was for you. You couldn’t understand how someone so caring could think such terrible things about himself and carry so much guilt when this was the man he really was: calm, reliable, attentive. You prayed he could see it someday, too.

“I wouldn’t wake you,” you replied, caressing his cheek gently. “I know those nightmares have been coming back these past few weeks, haven’t they?”

He looked down, ashamed he hadn’t been able to hide them from you. You always knew.

He sighed and nodded, reluctantly admitting the unpleasant truth. His nightmares came in phases. Sometimes, they haunted him almost every night with terrible flashes from his past – people he had killed, accidents he had caused, futures he had destroyed. Or worse, scenarios in which you would get hurt. Sometimes, by him. Those were the worst ones. Other times they would come less frequently, almost letting him believe that he was making progress in his “healing journey”, as you liked to call it. But they eventually came back. To him, they were proof he would never truly be at peace, never able to leave the past behind.

“Yes, as usual,” he admitted. “But it’s okay. You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied, already recognizing his habit of downplaying things and subtly pushing you away, retreating into his world of self-loathing. “I’ll always worry. I just wish you would have talked to me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said while engulfing you in a warm hug. He had a defeated expression in his features that made you even more worried. God knows what kind of thoughts he was having about himself. You wish you could take them away.

“Let’s just go back to sleep, so you’re rested and feeling better in the morning. Deal?” You smiled weakly and decided to let the matter go, for now. “Deal,” you agreed, letting him take your hand and guide you back to bed. For the next few weeks, you continued to have moments where you felt unwell.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but your body started to feel different. Your stomach was more sensitive than usual, leaving you with the now-familiar waves of nausea. You felt sleepier at random moments during the day, and your stamina during training sessions at the compound suddenly diminished. You felt more out of breath during workouts and sparring. And food began to smell and taste different. One morning, the pancakes Bucky made you almost daily for breakfast smelled “eggier” than usual—you could smell the eggs in the batter from what felt like miles away.

After weeks of feeling like this, you thought it was probably due to low vitamin levels and decided you should schedule a routine doctor’s appointment soon.

But in one of your weekly sparring sessions with Natasha, you started to feel a slight dizziness, so you asked her for a time-out.

“Are you okay?” she asked, raising one of her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I just—I don’t know. I’ve been feeling kind of weak for a while now,” you admitted, closing your eyes and resting a hand on your forehead in an attempt to steady yourself. “I think I just need to get some blood work done. It’s been a while since my last check-up.” “Weak how, exactly?”

“I feel like I’m always tired lately. More worn out. And my appetite is all over the place.”

Natasha looked at you with a suspicious expression before asking an unexpected question.

“Hmm, feeling weak, huh? Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

Your eyes shot open, and you stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. “What?”

“Yes, have you?” Nat repeated, crossing her arms and leaning into one hip with a slight smirk as if she knew something you didn’t.

“I- No, I- I didn’t… My period is only two days late, which is sort of normal for me. Do you think I should?” you questioned her, not knowing if you were talking more to yourself or to her.

“(Y/n) yes, you should! Have you talked to Barnes about it?”

“Not really. I didn’t pay much attention to this. I didn’t have time to.”

The truth was, you and the whole team had been preparing for an important mission in a few months, one that had been weighing heavily on Bucky’s mind especially, since it involved Hydra. The team was set to infiltrate a secret Hydra base in Hungary in order to retrieve intel on potential undercover Hydra agents within S.H.I.E.L.D.

You were almost sure this was the reason Bucky’s nightmares had gotten worse. He tensed up every time you or someone else mentioned the mission, or during training, probably dreading the feeling of going back to a place so connected to everything that he wanted to forget. He tried so hard to hide it but for you, it was so easy to sense his anxiety. The way his blue eyes grew distant, drifting to the floor as if trying to escape his own thoughts. Or how his fists clenched, fingers pressing into his palms almost to the point of pain, while he tried to take deep breaths every time Steve went over the mission details with the group.

“Then take the test,” Natasha urged, stepping closer and putting a reassuring hand on yours when she noticed the frightened look on your face. “If you’re pregnant, you need to know before the mission. And you need to tell Barnes. You both need to decide if going on this mission is still an option.”

“But Nat” you began, squeezing her hand, feeling so scared and unprepared for the scenario she just mentioned.  “I- I don’t know if Bucky is in a good headspace for this now. He’s been so off lately. The Hydra stuff has been really getting to him.”

Natasha offered you a comforting smile, her confidence and support unwavering.

“You’ll both be fine. I’m here if you need me. And Steve is, too.” Later that same day, you found yourself in a situation you never imagined you’d be in right now.

Trembling hands, tears streaming down your face, and your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. A white and blue pregnancy test sat on the marble counter of your bathroom. You stared at the word that appeared on the small screen.

+ Pregnant

You froze. You looked at yourself in the mirror and blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t dreaming. You weren’t. A wave of happiness washed over you. So much happiness. It was unexpected, yes, but you had always told Bucky he would be a wonderful dad. Yet every time you brought up the subject, he’d say he would like to be a father someday, but that it probably wasn’t a good idea. According to him, he could never be a good role model for a child.

Your first thought was running to Nat or Steve. You wanted to tell one of them and hear that everything would be alright, that Bucky would be alright with all of this. But it was already kind of late. They’re probably asleep by now, you thought to yourself. At the same time, you knew the person who really needed to know about this was in the living room, watching a random reality TV show with Sam.

You couldn’t bear to be alone another minute. The anxiety was overwhelming.

You decided to text Bucky and ask him to come to your room. If you went to the living room, there was no way Sam wouldn’t notice something was up, and you didn’t need another situation right now.

“Can you please come to our room, it’s urgent.” You texted and hoped he would check his phone as soon as possible.

Not even five minutes later you heard the door of your room open, followed by anxious footsteps entering the room.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? I just got your text.” Bucky asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Hi, love” you said, stepping out of the bathroom and faking a half smile, searching for his hand and guiding him to the bed. You were terrified but at the same time you didn’t wanna scare him. “Come with me, I need to talk to you.”

“What happened?” Bucky questioned, his eyes quickly searching your face for any clues of what might have happened. You could see the worry creeping into his expression.

You sat next to him on the bed and held his hands tightly. The cold touch of his metal hand on yours offered a brief distraction from what you were about to tell him. You took a deep breath, still unsure how to begin. You decided that starting with some context might be easier.

“So, basically, for the past few weeks, I’ve started to feel a little… off. Do you remember the night you woke up because I felt sick in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I do” Bucky answered calmly, trying to figure out where you were going with this.

“Well, besides that, I’ve been feeling different. My stomach has been constantly upset, my appetite has been strange, I’ve been feeling more tired than usual, and I–”

“(Y/n), are you sick?” Bucky interrupted, already imagining all the worst scenarios in his head.

“Buck, no” you replied quickly, closing your eyes and trying to breathe to calm yourself down. “Listen. As I was saying, I talked about these symptoms with Nat today and she… she asked... if I had already taken a pregnancy test.”

You paused, watching his face closely for a reaction. He seemed to freeze, taking a few seconds to process your words. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath – a breath that felt heavy with sadness. It broke your heart.

He opened his eyes again and they were glistening with tears. His eyes looked even more blue than they already were.

For a moment, you considered not saying anything more, but you knew he needed to hear it – all of it.

“So, I… I took a test just now,” you continued, your voice trembling as tears began to run down your face. “And it’s… it’s positive.” You wiped your nose with the sleeve of your sweater, struggling to keep your composure.

“I’m sorry” you said crying, heartbroken because this was the reaction you had been dreading. You felt like you had ruined his life.

Now, he was the one silently crying. He still held your hands, his thumb softly tracing circles over your palm, his gaze fixed on your intertwined fingers.

“Please, say something, Bucky,” you pleaded, the silence only giving your mind space to imagine horrible possibilities.

“No, I’m the one who should be saying sorry, (Y/n),” he finally said, his voice breaking as tears slowly streamed down his face. “This baby deserves someone better. You deserve someone better.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, reaching out to hold his cheek, your heart breaking at the words that he had just spoken. “What do you mean, ‘we deserve someone better’?”

“Yes! Yes, you do!” he exclaimed, his voice rising as he finally let the storm inside him surface. “How is this baby going to grow up knowing all the awful things I’ve done?”

He got up from the bed, putting some distance between the two of you. He was still crying quietly, and it felt like he had been keeping this inside for so long. His body was facing the window. He couldn’t even look at you.

“You didn’t do those things, Buck. The Winter Soldier did,” you spoke clearly, hoping that he would somehow believe it.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I still did it.”

“Of course it matters! You didn’t have a choice!” you raised your voice, frustrated at how he could still blame himself so much.

“Everyone tells me that, but it doesn’t help, you know?” he replied, turning his body back toward you. His voice was low. “When I lie down to sleep, I keep seeing their faces. I can still hear their cries, begging for help, for mercy.”

“Buck, I—I’m so sorry,” you told him, holding your tears back again. You’d give anything to take his sadness away.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be free from what they did to me,” he stated, his face showing a defeated expression. “I know Ayo got the Hydra programming out of my mind in Wakanda, but still… it’s all here,” he said, pressing his index finger to his temple. “I remember all of them, and I always will.”

You got up and decided to close the distance between you. You raised both of your hands to his cheeks and held his face gently, making him look at you. You needed him to hear every word you were about to say.

“Honey, look at me,” you began, your voice serious but soft. “I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel. And I want you to know I’d do anything – anything – if I could to make this suffering go away. It breaks my heart to see you in so much pain and not be able to do anything-”

“No, sweetheart, but you do,” he interrupted you, wiping the tears from your face. “You have no idea how many ways you’ve saved me.”

He closed his eyes and kissed your forehead. Both of you were crying again, and you could feel all his gratitude in that one kiss.

“You save me every day. It would be impossible for me to survive those nightmares if I didn’t have your face to look at every time I wake from one of them.” He gave you a sad smile while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand resting on your cheek afterward.

You leaned into his metal hand and kissed his palm. Your eyes were once again glistening with tears.

“Do you see this, James?” you asked, hoping that he would understand what you were trying to show him.

“This is you,” you continued, placing one hand on his heart. “This is Bucky Barnes. The man who has a metal arm and touches me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. The man who makes pancakes for me every morning. The man who’s afraid of punching me too hard in our sparring sessions, even though he knows I’m a kick-ass agent.”

“That you are,” he agreed, both of you crying and laughing at the same time. You quickly wiped his tears away.

“The man who watches trashy reality TV shows with his friend on a Thursday night. This is you. And this is the man who is going to be the father of my child,” you finished, placing his flesh hand on your belly.

He continued to cry. You just prayed that your words would finally make their way into his heart.

“So tell me, how could you say I deserve better? That this baby deserves better?”

He was still looking at his hand on your belly, trying to understand how he could still be worthy of having a family after he had destroyed so many others.

“Look at me, Buck,” you called, guiding his gaze back to you. “You suffered enough. More than enough. You’ve warred with yourself for so long. It’s time that you won.”

He closed his eyes and tried to absorb the words he had just heard. It was so hard for him to accept that he deserved happiness, but he was so grateful that you have never stopped trying.

“You made it. We’re here, and you made it. Now we’ve still got time. We’ve still got all the time in the world for you to finally live. Your life, how you want it,” you continued, kissing the palm of his metal hand again. It was your way of showing him that you loved all of him, even the part that brought him the most pain.

“This baby is so lucky to have you as a dad. And to be honest, this kid is going to brag so much to the other children about how his dad’s got a metal arm.” For the first time, you heard an honest laugh escape from his lips. The sound was wonderful.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but it must have been something really good,” he replied, finally pulling you close and giving you a warm kiss.

“I love you- we love you.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to… be a role model for someone.” You could see the worry in his eyes. He was genuinely scared.

“Bucky, yes, you do. You just have to be you. I don’t need you to be perfect,  I just need you to be here. Can you do that for us, Sergeant?”

He gave you a warm smile, filled with gratitude and hope - the hope you had just given him. He looked at your lips and kissed you once more, holding your belly delicately.

“Yes, I can, ma’am. Yes, I can.” he agreed easily “but.. speaking of sergeant, now there’s no way you’re going on that mission.”

“Excuse me? I’m still in the first few weeks of this pregnancy. And how about you? This baby will need both parents.”

“Okay okay, so we’ll let Uncle Steve decide who's going and who’s not. Deal?”

“Okay, sir. Deal.”

Well, you have suffered enough And warred with yourself It's time that you won Take this sinking boat and point it home We've still got time Raise your hopeful voice, you had a choice You've made it now ~~ Falling Slowly (from the musical Once)

Feedback is always welcome, feel free to comment, like and reblog! Hope you enjoyed 🤍

[lizziehernandez]

What’s your favorite time of day?

Oh you know the time where I get to read about fictional characters being in love with me