.✦ ݁˖ pregnant!fem!reader, established relationship, other than that just fluff;
zuko had picked you up a thousand times before.
over his shoulder. in his arms. into his lap during slow, lazy afternoons when you were both half-asleep, mumbling nonsense, but still refusing to let go of each other's warmth.
but this time was different.
this time, you were carrying his child.
your child.
"zuko, seriously," you laughed as he still held onto you anyway, stubborn as ever. "i can walk."
"i know you can walk," he muttered, his large hands adjusting carefully around your waist and back, brushing against your robes as if he was recalculating every possible way to hold you safely. "i just—"
he lifted you anyway.
—and immediately let out a strained little grunt.
then the room went completely silent.
the birds outside stopped chirping.
the wind didn't seem to blow anymore.
you blinked slowly.
zuko blinked right back.
for a moment, neither of you said anything.
then his expression dropped.
it was subtle at first — just a flicker of realization — but it quickly turned into full-blown horror, like he had just witnessed the collapse of his entire legacy before his eyes.
"...did you just grunt?" you ask finally, breaking the silence. your tone is calm, but your face gives nothing away.
"no...?" he replies immediately, too fast.
"you absolutely did," you say at once, not letting him escape it.
"i didn't," he snaps, a little sharper now, shifting his grip slightly like he's trying to prove a point. "i adjusted my stance."
you keep staring at him.
he refuses to meet your eyes.
your hands slowly rise, gently cradling his face so he has no choice but to look at you. his jaw is tense, his ears faintly red, his entire composure hanging by a thread.
despite his obvious distress, you smile softly.
"are you calling me heavy?"
his shoulders drop a little.
he exhales, trying to recover.
okay. maybe he was overreacting.
it was just a grunt, you smiled. maybe it wasn't that big of a deal. maybe you had nothing to be upset about.
yeah.
"no, love," he says, forcing a small smile.
then your fingers press into his cheeks, squishing them together as you study him very seriously.
"then put me down and pick me up again," you say, tone flat, deadpan. "without the grunt."
his eyes widen slightly.
he fakes a cough, trying to hide the sound of his fast heartbeating, as if you can hear it.
"yes, love," he answers, voice already wavering as he quickly clears his throat like that might fix everything.
wc: 2,525// tags: hurt comfort, hurt angst, domestic fluff, reader insert, pregnancy scare, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, use of y/n
summary: Following a serious car accident, a pregnant YN is rushed to the PTMC Emergency Department, where Jack and Samira frantically coordinate her care. After a terrifying elevator ride down from the surgical wing, Emery must shed her objective surgeon's armor to anchor her wife through the high-stakes scare until a steady fetal heartbeat brings relief to the room.
a/n: jack is yns bestfriend, and he’s dating samira and so yn and samira are also close friends
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The dinner had been fine. Better than fine, it was good. Your parents had mellowed with age, or maybe you had, or maybe it was just easier now that you weren't trying to navigate their expectations by yourself. It was a long, quiet evening at a spot off Penn Avenue, filled with normal, easy things. They had asked about your studio, about the house, and about how everything was coming along.
You were driving home alone afterward. Since Emery works the night shift, it was just a quiet drive back to Bloomfield under the city lights. The traffic was light. The green signals lined up perfectly. You were thinking about nothing in particular, the sourdough you forgot to score before leaving the house, the quiet texture of the evening, and the fact that you’d get to see Emery once her rotation cleared.
You don't remember the other car.
You don't remember the impact.
You just remember waking up in pieces. The sharp crack of glass. The metallic taste of blood. A frantic voice somewhere outside the crushed frame of the door yelling something you couldn't quite understand.
Then, nothing.
The double doors to the ambulance bay burst open at 9:47 PM.
Jack was standing at the central ED island, finishing up a chart note, when the incoming call came over the trauma line. "Female, twenty-eight, multi-vehicle collision on Penn. BP ninety over sixty, pulse one-twenty, guarded abdominal tenderness."
He didn't think anything of it. Not until the paramedic team wheeled the gurney into the bay and called out the patient's name.
"Patient is YN—"
Jack was already moving.
Samira found him inside Trauma Room 1 a second later, pulling on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, his jaw set completely tight.
"Who do we have?" she asked, stepping up to the counter.
"It's YN," Jack said, his voice dropping into a low gravel.
"Upstairs," Jack snapped, his focus entirely on the gurney. "Get on the wall phone. Now."
Samira didn't hesitate. She grabbed the black hospital phone mounted directly to the trauma room wall and punched the direct extension for the surgical floor.
Upstairs, Emery was reviewing a stack of post-op labs when the wall phone rang out at the station.
"Dr. Walsh, there's an emergency consult down in the ED. Trauma Room One."
Emery kept her tone even. "What's the mechanism?"
"High-velocity MVA. Female, twenty-eight. Possible internal deceleration trauma."
"I'm on my way."
She hung up the receiver and walked quickly toward the elevators. As a trauma surgeon, she had zero reason to be down in the Emergency Department unless she was explicitly called down for a consult. She didn't run, surgeons didn't run, but she pressed the button with white knuckles and paced the length of the metal car as it dropped down to the ER level.
The trauma bay was bright. Too bright. Jack was standing at the head of the bed, barking a series of rapid orders to the nurses, while Samira moved with a calculated speed to start a second IV line. A tech was already carefully cutting away the fabric of your shirt.
And you were on the table. Pale. Your eyes were closed, a nasty cut blooming just above your eyebrow with dark blood matted into your hair.
Emery’s legs went entirely cold.
She lunged forward, her body dropping as if she were about to fall completely to her knees on the hard floor, but she caught her footing at the last absolute second, gripping the cold metal bed rail with white knuckles to keep her balance.
"What do we have?" she asked, her voice tight as she forced her surgeon's armor into place.
Jack glanced up across the gurney. His face was uncharacteristically rigid, but his clinical delivery stayed steady. "MVA. Possible spleen laceration. Her BP is coming up, but she's pregnant, right around four months."
Pregnant.
Emery's grip tightened on the metal rail until her wedding band pinched against her skin. "Fetal heart tones?"
"We haven't checked yet," Jack said, prepping the machine. "I wanted you down here first."
Emery nodded, immediately leaning over the bed rail to close the distance between you. Her navy scrubs brassed against the sheets as she reached out, her long, steady fingers locking desperately into yours.
"YN. Can you hear me? Look at me."
Your eyelids fluttered, your head turning instinctively toward the sound of her voice. "Emery?"
"I'm here. I'm right here, sweetheart."
You tried to squeeze her hand back, but your fingers felt completely frozen. "The baby—"
"We're checking right now. Just stay perfectly still for me."
On the opposite side of the bed, Jack moved with quiet precision. He lifted the edge of your gown, coated the ultrasound probe in warm gel, and slid it smoothly across the lower curve of your stomach.
The entire room went dead silent. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Then, a sudden sound broke through the clinical hum of the ceiling vents, fast, rhythmic, and incredibly strong.
The fetal heartbeat.
Emery closed her eyes for a single, breathless beat, the rigid tension in her shoulders completely collapsing.
"Strong and stable at one-forty-five," Jack said. A rare crack clipped the last word of his sentence.
"Good." Emery opened her eyes, looking back down at you. "Did you hear that, YN?"
A few quiet tears finally slipped past your lashes, leaving tracks through the dust and blood on your face. "Yeah," you whispered, the crushing weight in your chest lifting. "I heard it."
Samira found your parents out in the waiting room a few minutes later.
Your mother was standing directly by the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her knuckles white. Your father was slumped in a plastic chair, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the floor.
"Mr. and Mrs.L/N?"
Your mother spun around instantly.
"I'm Dr. Mohan," Samira said, her voice carrying a gentle, grounding warmth as she stepped into their space. "I'm one of the physicians taking care of your daughter."
"Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay."
"She is stable, she is conscious, and the baby is completely fine," Samira reassured them, giving your mother's shoulder a supportive squeeze. "They're just finishing up some protocols, but I'll bring you both back to her private bay the second she's settled."
Your mother’s face crumpled with pure relief, and your father finally stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as they both let out a breath they’ve been holding since Penn Avenue.
Back in the bay, Jack was meticulously examining your left wrist. You had landed on it awkwardly during the impact, and it was already growing swollen and tender.
"You're going to need a portable X-ray for this," he noted, his sharp eyes checking the range of motion.
"I just got comfortable," you mumbled.
"You're strapped to a rigid backboard."
"Same thing."
Jack almost smiled, a tiny, familiar crinkle forming at the edge of his eyes as he pulled off his gloves. "You are completely impossible."
"You're just now figuring that out, Jackie?"
He shook his head, stepping back from the gurney. His face softened in a way he rarely let anyone inside the hospital grid see. "You scared the hell out of me, YN."
"I scared the hell out of myself."
"Don't do it again," he said quietly.
"I'll try."
Emery was standing at the foot of the bed, confirming the transfer orders with the floor nurse. Her voice was entirely calm and professional, but her hands were still trembling slightly against the clipboard.
You watched her until she felt the weight of your gaze and looked up. "What?"
"Come here," you said, reaching out with your uninjured hand.
She walked back to the side of the gurney, her long fingers sliding into yours.
"You're shaking," you noted softly.
"The air conditioning in this bay is freezing."
"You're not cold, Emery."
She didn't answer.
"Emery."
"I'm fine, YN."
"You're not fine."
She looked down at you, her dark eyes bright and wet, though she refused to let a single tear drop. "I'm going on leave. Emergency leave. The absolute second they move you upstairs."
"You don't have to do that—"
"I'm not asking your permission," she countered, her voice low and full of an unyielding, fierce protection.
You squeezed her hand. "Okay."
"Okay." She leaned down further, completely shutting out the rest of the trauma room as she pressed her forehead gently against yours. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I'll try."
Emery pulled back just enough to shoot you a quiet, familiar smirk. "That's not good enough."
"It's all I've got right now."
Jack appeared back at the side of the bed just as the transfer team arrived. He patted your shoulder firmly. "She's going to be absolutely insufferable for the next three weeks, you know."
"She's already insufferable," you joked weakly.
"I meant you," Jack countered dryly.
"I know what you meant." You caught his eye before they began rolling the gurney out. "Jack. Thank you."
He offered a short, silent nod, slipping his hands into his pockets as he watched the team move you toward the elevators.
They moved you upstairs to a private room just after 11:00 PM.
Emery stayed right at your side the entire time, handling the intake paperwork, coordinating with the floor nurses, and meticulously checking that the blankets were warm enough and the call button was within reach.
When the staff finally cleared out, leaving the two of you completely alone in the quiet room, she sat down on the edge of the mattress.
"You should go home," you said softly, looking at her tired eyes. "Check on the cats or go back upstairs to work."
"I'm not leaving this room."
"You need real sleep."
"I'll sleep right here."
"The hospital chairs are terrible."
"I don't care."
You didn't have the energy to argue with her logic.
Emery slid off her shoes, carefully lifting the edge of the heavy white blanket to lie down on the narrow mattress next to you. She moved with absolute caution, mindful of your swollen wrist and bruised ribs, before draping her arm securely across your waist. She rested her forehead tightly against your shoulder, anchoring herself to your breathing.
"The baby's okay," you whispered into the quiet space.
"I know."
"We're okay."
She didn't answer with words, she just tightened her grip around your waist, pulling you a fraction closer against her chest.
You closed your eyes as the steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor tracked the safety of the room. You were alive. The baby was safe. Emery was right here holding you.
That was enough.
--
The steady, rhythmic of the fetal monitor was the only sound anchoring the small hospital room to reality. Outside the fifth-floor window, the faint orange glow of the Pittsburgh streetlamps cut through the steady drizzle, casting long, fractured shadows across the linoleum floor.
Emery hadn't shifted her position in over an hour. Her arm was still draped securely across your waist, her fingers hooked loosely under the edge of your hospital gown, keeping you anchored against her chest. Her forehead rested tightly against your shoulder, her breathing finally deep and even, though you knew she wasn't entirely asleep. A surgeon’s sleep was always shallow, always waiting for a page, but tonight the only metric she was tracking was the movement of your chest.
You stared up at the ceiling, the dull ache in your bruised ribs throbbing every time you took a deep breath. Your left wrist was securely wrapped and propped up on a stiff pillow, throbbing to its own heavy rhythm. But beneath the physical ache, the lingering terror from Penn Avenue was finally beginning to ebb away, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of the quiet.
A soft, hesitant knock on the heavy wood door broke the silence.
Emery’s eyes opened instantly. She didn't jump or startle; she just lifted her head from your shoulder with a quiet, analytical focus, her dark hair tumbling over her face as she looked toward the entrance.
The door pushed inward a few inches, and Samira slipped inside. She had finally shed her stethoscope, her heavy chocolate brown leather jacket thrown casually over her dark scrubs, an oversized black umbrella hooked over her forearm. She looked tired, her dark ringlets a little frizzy from the rain outside, but her expressive face softened the second she saw you both tangled under the white hospital blankets.
"Hey," Samira whispered, keeping her voice low so it didn't echo off the sterile walls. "The floor nurse said it was okay to pop in before I headed out. How are you holding up?"
"Like I got hit by a crossover on Penn Avenue," you mumbled, offering a weak, exhausted smile. "But I'm here."
Samira walked to the side of the bed, her boots making a faint scuffing sound on the floor. She reached out, her hand warm and grounding as she lightly squeezed your uninjured ankle through the blanket. "You look a lot better than you did an hour ago, YN. Your lab panels came back completely clear from the main station. No delayed bleeding, no internal tracking. You're just going to be incredibly sore for a week."
Emery sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the narrow edge of the mattress but keeping one hand resting on your hip. She rubbed a hand over her face, running her long fingers through her hair to push it back. "Did you clear the discharge parameters with the OB team on call?"
"Already did, Walsh," Samira said, a gentle, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. "They're keeping her until noon tomorrow just to run one final ultrasound check on the baby, but after that, she’s all yours. I already called the pharmacy down the street to have her prenatal vitamins and the high-dose iron refilled so you don't have to go hunting for them tomorrow."
"Thanks, Samira," you said softly. "Really. Thank you for making that call."
"Of course," Samira murmured, her eyes flicking to Emery, tracking the tight, protective line of her jaw. "Your parents are downstairs in the lobby, by the way. I walked them down to their car. Your mom wanted to stay, but your dad convinced her that you needed to sleep. They're coming back at nine tomorrow morning with fresh clothes."
She looked back at you, her voice dropping into a tender, supportive register. "Take care of that baby, YN. And let this one do all the heavy lifting in Bloomfield for once."
"I intend to," you whispered.
Samira gave your ankle one last reassuring pat, nodded quietly to Emery, and slipped back out into the dimly lit hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
The room settled back into its quiet rhythm. Emery remained sitting on the edge of the mattress, her back straight, her gaze fixed entirely on the floor as she listened to the fading sound of Samira's footsteps. The calm, professional composure she had maintained through the entire intake was starting to crack around the edges, leaving her looking raw in the dim amber light of the monitor.
"Emery," you said, reaching out with your good hand to find her fingers.
She didn't look up immediately, but her hand slid into yours, her thumb tracing the side of your palm with a heavy, deliberate pressure. "I should have been there," she said, her low alto voice flat and scratchy against the quiet. "I shouldn't have picked up the extra call shift tonight. If I was driving—"
"Emery, stop," you cut her off softly, tugging at her hand until she finally turned her head to look at you. "A distracted driver blew a red light. It wouldn't have mattered who was behind the wheel. You being on the clock didn't cause the accident."
"It doesn't matter," she muttered, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, stubborn frustration that she usually saved for difficult administrative boards. She looked down at your wrapped wrist, her fingers tightening slightly around yours. "When that black phone rang up at the surgical station... when Samira told me the mechanism... I couldn't breathe in the elevator, YN. I’ve spent eight years treating people who didn't make it off that exact stretch of road. I kept seeing the stats in my head the entire ride down."
She stopped, swallowing hard, her jaw tightening as she fought down the memory of stepping into Trauma Room 1.
"You didn't break," you reminded her gently, your thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You held onto the rail, you took my hand, and you kept me calm. You did exactly what you were supposed to do."
Emery looked at you for a long, heavy beat, her eyes tracing every line of your face, checking the cut above your eyebrow, ensuring you were entirely real, entirely whole. The sharp, cynical armor she wore like a shield at PTMC completely dissolved, leaving only the woman who had spent the last three years building a life with you in a renovated brick row house.
"I meant what I said downstream," she murmured, her voice softening completely as she leaned down, her breath warm against your cheek. "I’m calling the chief of surgery first thing in the morning. I’m taking the full three weeks."
"Jack said you'd be insufferable."
"Jack can manage the trauma hub by himself," she shot back, a tiny, familiar smirk finally pulling at the corner of her mouth. She leaned closer, pressing her forehead gently against yours, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. "I'm going to lock down the kitchen. You're not touching a single sourdough loaf or a camera lens until the OB clears you for light activity. I'll even feed the cats."
"They'll hate that. You always give them the wrong portions."
"They'll survive," she whispered against your skin. "Just like we did."
She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her expression completely steady, full of a quiet, unshakeable devotion that made the rest of the sterile hospital room disappear entirely. She slid her shoes back off, moving with deliberate care as she climbed back under the white blanket, settling her long frame flush against your uninjured side. Her arm slid securely back around your waist, her fingers resting directly over the slight, four-month curve of your stomach.
You let your eyes close, your head resting comfortably against her shoulder as the fetal monitor continued its steady, unbroken cadence in the dark. The streetlights outside kept tracking the Pittsburgh rain against the glass, but inside, under the heavy warmth of the blanket, the family you were building was entirely safe.
Summary: This should’ve been the happiest nine months of your life.
Warnings: Pregnancy. Difficult pregnancy. Medical inaccuracies. Allusion to sexy times. Health scares and concerns. Protective!Park. Language, probably. Crying, possibly. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Emotional hurt/comfort. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
I know Park won the poll, but I’m probably going to do a version for Robby (let me know what you guys think!).
Word Count: 8,691
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You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it wouldn’t go down. Your stomach twisted violently, throat raw and burning from throwing up only minutes earlier. You’d suspected for a while now—the nausea, the exhaustion, your period being late—but you’d kept putting it off, too afraid to know for sure.
Until now.
With trembling hands, you stared down at the pregnancy test in your hand.
Positive.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand through your hair, fingers snagging at the roots. Your mind spun so fast it made you dizzy.
Pregnant.
You were pregnant.
The word echoed loudly in your head, almost unreal, like if you thought it enough times it might suddenly stop being true.
Your eyes darted back to the plastic stick as panic clawed its way up your chest. What the hell was Brendon going to think?
The thought hit hard enough to make your stomach lurch again.
Would he be angry? Freaked out? Did he even want kids? You’d only been married a little over a year. A year wasn’t that long. People were often married for years before even talking about children, and meanwhile you were sitting on the cold tile floor of your shared bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test like it was a live grenade.
Bile surged into your throat.
You slapped a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut as your breathing turned shallow. Your entire body felt hot and cold all at once, anxiety mixing horribly with the nausea already wrecking your body.
“Fuck,” you whispered hoarsely.
The bathroom suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
Pushing yourself up on unsteady legs, you sniffled hard and tried to force your breathing to slow. Your emotions were spiraling too fast, panic and nausea tangling together until you could barely think straight.
You tossed the pregnancy test into the trash like getting rid of it might somehow undo the last ten minutes, then turned on the sink. Cold water rushed over your trembling hands as you scrubbed at them absently, almost desperately, as if it could wash away the reality settling heavily in your chest.
Pregnant.
The word still didn’t feel real.
You slowly looked up at your reflection and let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
You looked awful.
Your eyes were bloodshot and glossy, tears still clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Sweat dampened the hair near your temples and neck despite how cold the bathroom suddenly felt, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath your eyes like it had carved itself permanently into your face over the past few weeks.
No wonder Brendon had been watching you so closely lately.
You swallowed thickly before splashing cold water onto your face, rubbing your hands over your skin in slow motions. You needed to pull yourself together. Needed to look normal. Functional.
At the very least, less like someone in the middle of a complete breakdown.
Maybe you could blame the red eyes on being tired. Allergies. A headache. Something believable enough to keep Brendon from immediately slipping into doctor mode the second he walked through the door.
Because if he saw you looking like this, he’d know something was wrong instantly.
And Brendon, for all his gruffness and sharp edges, cared deeply when it came to you. Sometimes almost too deeply. Beneath the intimidating exterior and sarcastic comments was someone painfully attentive—the kind of person who noticed every little change in your expression, your posture, your voice.
The kind of person who’d start firing off questions before you even made it halfway through an excuse.
Normally, you loved that about him. Loved the rare softness he only really let himself show around you.
But right now?
Right now you couldn’t handle the questions.
Your stomach churned again, exhaustion dragging at your limbs as you stared at yourself in the mirror.
Maybe a shower would help. Or a bath.
Baths always helped when things got bad. Even if only for a little while.
After drying your face, you made your way into the bedroom on shaky legs. The familiar space should’ve comforted you, but your thoughts were still too loud, your chest still too tight.
You grabbed the first comfortable clothes you could find from the dresser—which, unsurprisingly, ended up being one of Brendon’s old t-shirts, a pair of sleep shorts, and underwear. The shirt was worn soft with age and faintly smelled like him, something warm and clean underneath the lingering scent of hospital sanitizer that always seemed permanently attached to him now.
It helped more than you wanted to admit.
Back in the bathroom, you turned on the faucet and watched steaming water pour into the tub. The sound filled the silence as you slowly undressed, movements sluggish with exhaustion. Every part of your body felt heavy lately, like even simple tasks drained more energy than they should.
You poured some of your favorite soap beneath the running water, watching bubbles gather along the surface before finally shutting the faucet off.
Carefully, you climbed in.
A quiet hum escaped you as the heat soaked into your aching muscles, easing some of the tension wound painfully tight through your body. The warmth wrapped around you like a second skin, grounding you enough to finally unclench your jaw.
For the first time since seeing the positive test, your breathing began to steady.
The scent of the soap helped too—soft, familiar, comforting. Your stomach still rolled unpleasantly, but not nearly as violently as before.
You leaned your head back against the tub and closed your eyes.
Deep down, part of you thought you’d known already.
The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks. Neither had the exhaustion. At first you’d blamed stress, long days, poor diet, bad sleep—anything but this. But eventually the excuses stopped making sense.
And honestly?
Whoever decided to call it morning sickness deserved jail time.
Because there was nothing “morning” about it.
The nausea followed you through the entire day, lingering from the moment you woke up until you finally managed to fall asleep at night. Some days it even woke you up. And the farther along the symptoms seemed to progress, the worse everything became.
Certain foods were impossible now.
Coffee had become unbearable—both the smell and the taste. Which felt almost cruel considering how much Brendon relied on the stuff during long shifts.
Cooking meat was even worse.
The smell alone turned your stomach so violently you couldn’t even stay in the kitchen while it cooked. More than once, Brendon had ended up opening windows and airing the entire apartment out before you could step foot near the kitchen again without gagging.
Eggs were manageable…sometimes. But only in small doses. If they cooked too long or the smell got too strong, you were done for.
You let out a slow, exhausted sigh, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The problem was, most of the foods making you sick were foods Brendon ate constantly.
He was a big guy—broad, muscular, always trying to stay active despite the ridiculous hours he worked. Protein-heavy meals were basically a staple in his diet.
And now even the smell of them made you miserable.
Guilt twisted painfully in your chest.
You already felt like your body had stopped belonging to you. The last thing you wanted was for this pregnancy to start affecting Brendon’s life too.
But if you could barely stomach the smell without throwing up, how were you supposed to make this work without it changing things between you?
Groaning softly, you slid further down into the tub until the warm water swallowed you whole. Your eyes squeezed shut as silence muffled everything for a few brief seconds—no racing thoughts, no panic clawing at your chest, no endless loop of what ifs.
Just warmth.
You stayed under for a moment longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into you, letting yourself pretend—if only briefly—that things weren’t suddenly so complicated.
When you finally resurfaced, you inhaled sharply and pushed your wet hair back from your face, wiping soap and water from your eyes with trembling hands.
A heavy breath left you.
You needed a plan.
The thought settled heavily in your chest as you stared blankly at the opposite wall. You couldn’t just blurt it out the second Brendon walked through the door. Could you? Maybe you should ease into it somehow. Make it gentle. Reassuring.
Your stomach twisted painfully again.
Because despite everything, despite how much Brendon loved you and how safe he usually made you feel, fear still lingered stubbornly beneath your ribs.
You’d never had to carefully rehearse conversations with him before.
Never had to tiptoe around his reactions.
Brendon was blunt, straightforward, sometimes painfully honest, but never cruel with you. He made things feel steady. Certain. Even during arguments, you’d never doubted where you stood with him.
But this?
This was different.
You’d never been pregnant before.
Hell, neither of you had ever even seriously talked about kids beyond the occasional passing comment or teasing joke. Life had always been too busy, too chaotic. Between his exhausting hospital shifts and the constant unpredictability of adulthood, it had always felt like something distant. A someday conversation.
Not a right now one.
Your hand drifted instinctively toward your stomach beneath the water, fingers resting there hesitantly.
Everything after this felt unknown.
Terrifyingly unknown.
And no matter how many times you tried to calm yourself down, one thought kept repeating over and over in the back of your mind:
Please let this be okay.
You let yourself sink beneath the water again, the heat closing over your head as you desperately tried to quiet your thoughts.
But they wouldn’t stop.
Every possible outcome kept crashing into you at once—Brendon being shocked, upset, overwhelmed. Maybe happy. Maybe terrified. Maybe all three.
You needed to think of something. Some kind of plan. Some way to make this easier.
And because your mind was spinning so violently, you never heard the front door unlock downstairs.
You didn’t hear Brendon come inside after his shift, keys hitting the counter or his heavy footsteps crossing the apartment. You missed his voice calling your name the first time. Then the second.
So when you finally resurfaced, pushing wet hair away from your face with a shaky breath, the sudden sound of the bathroom door opening made you jump.
Brendon stood in the doorway.
His brows were already furrowed, concern settling heavily into his features the second his eyes landed on you. He still wore his hospital scrubs beneath his jacket, exhaustion written across his face, but the moment he saw you sitting there—pale, distant, clearly upset—his entire focus shifted.
“Hey,” you blurted, blinking at him through damp lashes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was calling your name.”
His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it now. Worry.
You swallowed. “Sorry.”
The bathroom suddenly felt too warm.
Brendon stepped closer in a few easy strides before crouching beside the tub, his forearms resting against the edge as he looked at you carefully. Too carefully.
You hated how easily he could read you.
“Are you okay?”
The question was gentle, but it still made panic flare hot in your chest.
“I’m fine,” you answered quickly.
Brendon’s expression didn’t change.
“Baby,” he murmured quietly.
The nickname alone nearly cracked something open inside you.
He reached up, brushing damp hair away from your face before cupping your cheek in his hand. His palm was rough and warm against your skin, grounding in a way that made your eyes sting unexpectedly.
You were so scared.
Not because you thought he’d hurt you or yell or leave—Brendon had never once made you fear him like that—but because this mattered. Because you loved him so much that the thought of this changing things between you made your chest feel unbearably tight.
His thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye. “Talk to me.”
You hesitated.
Your stomach churned violently.
“You can’t freak out,” you whispered finally, leaning instinctively into his touch.
Brendon’s brows pulled together deeper at that. Concern flickered across his face fast enough to make your anxiety spike again, but he gave a small nod anyway.
“Okay.”
You dropped your gaze to the water, fingers twisting together beneath the bubbles as your pulse hammered painfully in your ears.
Then, so quietly it almost didn’t sound real even to you, you said:
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence stretched between you.
It lasted only a few seconds, maybe less, but with the way your heart pounded violently against your ribs, it felt endless.
Your eyes searched Brendon’s face desperately, trying to make sense of the expression staring back at you. For one horrible moment, he was unreadable—completely still, his gaze flicking across your features like he was trying to process what you’d just said.
And in that silence, your anxiety spiraled.
Had you just ruined everything?
Your marriage. The life you’d built together. His career. Your future.
Every worst-case scenario crashed through your mind at once.
“Bren?” Your voice wavered embarrassingly. “I-I’m sorry—”
Brendon kissed you before you could finish.
The suddenness of it made your breath hitch.
One large hand slid up to cradle the side of your face while his lips moved against yours—soft at first, then firmer, grounding. His nose nudged against yours as he kissed you again and again, like he physically couldn’t help himself.
“You’re pregnant?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and low.
The sound of it sent heat rushing unexpectedly through your chest.
You nodded wordlessly.
Brendon let out something dangerously close to a laugh—breathless and disbelieving all at once—before pressing another kiss to your lips. His forehead rested briefly against yours, and you felt the deep rumble vibrate through his chest.
“Fuck yeah,” he rasped.
Your eyes widened slightly.
The sheer relief that flooded you hit so hard it almost hurt. Your body sagged instinctively toward him, tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding finally beginning to loosen.
“You’re not mad?” you asked quietly, still sounding unconvinced even to yourself.
Brendon pulled back just enough to look at you fully.
His cheeks were faintly flushed now, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip for an entirely different reason. There was still surprise there, sure, but beneath it was something warmer. Softer.
Something almost awed.
“You’re having my baby,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “Why the fuck would I be mad?”
Emotion clogged painfully in your throat.
“I thought…” You swallowed hard, gaze dropping briefly. “I thought maybe it was too soon. Or you wouldn’t want—”
“Hey.” His hand tightened gently against your cheek until you looked at him again. “Never.”
The certainty in his voice nearly broke you.
Brendon’s eyes flickered over your face slowly before drifting lower, toward where you sat beneath the water. Something shifted in his expression then—warmth mixing with something darker, more possessive, enough that heat crawled up your neck immediately.
A quiet exhale left him, almost disbelieving.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “My wife’s pregnant.”
The way he said it—low, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe he got to claim that—made your chest ache.
His thumb brushed along your jaw as he looked at you again, softer this time.
“You have any idea how fucking happy that makes me?”
“I think I have an idea,” you said with a breathy little giggle, the sound shaky with leftover emotion.
Brendon’s eyes darkened immediately.
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest as he leaned closer to you, forehead nearly touching yours. “Get out of the tub,” he muttered roughly, voice dipping lower, “and you’ll have a much better idea.”
Heat rushed straight to your face.
Even now—after the panic, the tears, the nausea—he still looked at you like that. Like you were something precious. Like finding out you were carrying his child had flipped some switch inside him entirely.
You smirked despite yourself, trying to hide how badly your heart was pounding. “Can I at least dry off first?” you teased softly. “I’m soaked.”
Brendon huffed out a quiet laugh, though it sounded strained around the edges.
His gaze dragged slowly over you where you sat in the water before he stood to his full height. Without wasting another second, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one rough motion.
Your breath caught slightly.
There was something almost unfair about how attractive he was—broad shoulders, thick arms, the lingering tension in his muscles from long hospital shifts and years of taking care of himself despite his chaotic schedule. Exhaustion still clung to him from work, but now it mixed with something restless and energized.
Something very, very focused on you.
His clothes hit the floor carelessly one after another until he stood there in only his briefs, the outline of his arousal impossible to miss.
Brendon caught you staring and gave you a look that was equal parts smug and affectionate.
“You’re really surprised?” he asked hoarsely. “You just told me you’re pregnant.” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward your stomach before meeting yours again. “Kinda hard not to lose my mind over that.”
“God, you’re hot,” you murmured weakly, still a little dazed by how quickly your panic had melted into something warm and overwhelming.
Brendon’s mouth twitched upward.
“Yeah?” he asked roughly, climbing carefully into the tub with you despite the cramped space. Water sloshed against the sides as he settled in behind you, large hands immediately finding your waist.
You let out a surprised laugh as he effortlessly maneuvered you onto his lap, his chest warm and solid against your back.
The intimacy of it hit harder than usual now.
Everything felt heightened somehow—the heat of the water, the rough scrape of his hands against your skin, the way he held you like something precious. Like he couldn’t get close enough.
Brendon pressed his face briefly into your neck, inhaling deeply before kissing just beneath your ear.
“My wife’s pregnant,” he muttered, sounding almost dazed by it still.
Your stomach fluttered.
His arousal rested heavily against you beneath the water, impossible to ignore as one hand slid firmly to your hip, anchoring you against him. The look in his eyes when you turned toward him made heat coil low in your stomach—dark and hungry, sure, but softer underneath it. Emotional in a way Brendon rarely let himself be.
“No teasing tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with restraint. “Not after dropping that on me.”
You laughed breathlessly, fingers curling against his shoulders as he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every overwhelming emotion he couldn’t quite put into words into the touch instead.
Relief.
Excitement.
Love.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as your forehead rested against his.
“You really that happy?” you whispered.
Brendon let out a low sound against your lips, almost offended by the question. One hand spread protectively across your stomach beneath the water, thumb brushing lightly there.
“You have no idea,” he admitted quietly.
And suddenly the teasing expression faded just enough for you to see it clearly—the genuine emotion underneath. The awe. The almost disbelieving happiness shining through his exhaustion.
It softened something deep inside your chest.
You kissed him again before he could see how emotional that look alone almost made you.
Brendon’s hands tightened around your hips, holding you firmly against him as the water rocked around the tub. A rough groan left him as he buried his face against your neck, his breathing uneven and hot against your skin.
You whimpered softly, clinging to him instinctively.
“You’re mine,” he rasped, voice rough with emotion more than anything else. His forehead pressed against your shoulder as he held you close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between you right now. “Say you’re mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice should’ve embarrassed you, but instead it sent warmth flooding through your chest.
“I’m yours,” you breathed immediately, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
Brendon let out a low, wrecked sound at that, his grip flexing against your waist.
“My wife,” he muttered again, almost disbelieving. “My pregnant wife.”
The words sounded reverent coming from him.
You could feel how overwhelmed he was beneath all the roughness—the excitement, the pride, the almost primal need to hold you close and keep you there. Brendon had never been particularly good at verbal vulnerability, but moments like this made it obvious anyway.
Especially now.
Especially with the way one of his large hands kept drifting back toward your stomach, protective without him even seeming to realize it.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he admitted hoarsely against your skin.
Your heart squeezed painfully.
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, kissing him deeply, slowly, trying to pour every bit of relief and love and lingering fear into it all at once. Brendon answered immediately, almost desperate in the way he held you.
Like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours as both of you tried to catch your breath.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your side.
The question softened you instantly.
Even now—overwhelmed, emotional, clearly losing his mind a little over the idea of you carrying his child—he was still checking on you first.
You nodded, smiling shakily. “Yeah.”
Brendon studied your face for another second before kissing you again, gentler this time.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against your lips.
You laughed softly. “Pretty sure I already was.”
His mouth curved faintly against yours.
“I’m gonna take care of you now,” Brendon said, voice low and rough as his hands slid slowly along your waist. The look in his eyes made heat curl low in your stomach all over again—darkened with want, yes, but softened by something deeper too. Something protective.
“You always do,” you hummed.
He nipped along your jaw. “You know what I mean.”
You nodded shakily.
Brendon’s gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer, like he was making sure you really meant it, before his mouth curved slightly.
“Good.”
The word rumbled through him.
He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring all that pent-up emotion into it. One hand cradled the back of your head carefully while the other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you against him as warm water lapped around your bodies.
You melted into him immediately.
The anxiety that had consumed you earlier still lingered faintly beneath the surface, but Brendon’s touch made it easier to breathe through it. Easier to believe things were going to be okay.
His kisses drifted from your mouth to your jaw, then lower to your throat, lingering there as he held you close against his chest.
“You scared the shit outta me earlier,” he admitted quietly between kisses.
Your fingers tightened against his shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” His brows furrowed slightly as he pulled back enough to look at you. “I just hate knowing you were sitting up here alone freaking out.”
Emotion tightened your chest again.
Brendon brushed his thumb beneath your eye gently, catching lingering dampness there before pressing a softer kiss to your forehead.
“You don’t gotta carry this stuff by yourself anymore,” he murmured. “Not ever.”
Your breath caught.
It wasn’t just about the pregnancy. You could hear that much in his voice.
It was a promise. One he meant with everything in him.
You leaned forward and kissed him before the sudden swell of emotion could completely overwhelm you again, and Brendon answered immediately, arms wrapping tighter around you like he never planned on letting go.
The heat in his touch had shifted into something deeper now—still intense, still edged with that possessive excitement that had flared the second you told him you were pregnant, but grounded by overwhelming affection underneath it all.
You could feel it in the way he touched you.
Like he suddenly needed constant reassurance that you were really here. Really his. Really carrying a future the two of you had created together.
“My girl,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your chest tightened painfully.
The water had long since started cooling around you, but neither of you seemed willing to move apart. Brendon’s hands stayed anchored to your body—your waist, your thighs, your stomach—always touching somewhere.
You kissed him again before he could see how emotional the look in his eyes was making you.
That seemed to snap whatever restraint he had left.
Brendon stood carefully from the tub with you still wrapped around him, strong arms securing around your thighs as he carried you out of the bathroom despite your surprised laugh. Water dripped onto the floor behind you while he kissed you breathlessly toward your bedroom.
“Bren—” you giggled weakly.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered against your lips. “Been trying not to lose my mind since you told me.”
The confession made warmth bloom through you instantly.
He laid you down gently against the mattress like you were something precious despite the obvious urgency thrumming through him. The softness only made the possessive edge in his expression stand out more.
Brendon climbed over you, broad frame caging you in comfortably as his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You okay?” he asked again quietly.
You nodded immediately, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “Yeah.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed at that.
Then he kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to feel every reaction you gave him. Every soft sound. Every shift beneath him.
The intensity of it made your stomach flip.
Brendon had always been affectionate in private, but tonight there was something almost overwhelming about the way he held you. Every touch lingered. Every kiss carried emotion behind it. His hands kept drifting protectively over your stomach like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“You have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?” he murmured against your skin.
You laughed softly, flushed from head to toe. “You’re biased.”
“Damn right I am.”
The rough honesty in his voice made you smile into the next kiss.
And despite the heat steadily building between you, Brendon never stopped paying attention to you first. Checking your reactions. Slowing when you needed him to. Kissing your forehead when your emotions threatened to overwhelm you again.
By the time the two of you finally settled afterward, the earlier panic in your chest had softened into something gentler.
Safer.
You lay curled against Brendon’s chest beneath the blankets, his arm wrapped securely around you while his fingers lazily traced circles against your side. The room smelled faintly of soap and steam, exhaustion finally beginning to settle into your bones.
Brendon pressed a lingering kiss into your damp hair.
“How you feeling?” he asked quietly.
“Tired,” you admitted.
He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
But his hand drifted instinctively toward your stomach again.
The movement was absentminded. Protective.
You looked up at him just in time to catch the expression crossing his face—soft awe mixing with lingering disbelief.
It made your throat tighten.
“You’re really happy?” you whispered.
Brendon looked almost offended by the question.
“Baby,” he murmured, pulling you closer against him. “I’ve never been happier about anything in my life.”
* * *
By the time your first appointment finally rolled around, you were a nervous wreck.
You’d spent most of the morning curled miserably over the toilet again, stomach rebelling against practically everything. Even after getting sick, the nausea never fully faded, lingering heavily enough to leave you shaky and exhausted while you tried to get ready.
Brendon hovered the entire time.
Not obnoxiously—though you were pretty sure he was trying very hard not to be—but close enough that you always knew he was there. He handed you water after you brushed your teeth, packed crackers and ginger chews into his bag “just in case,” and kept watching you with that same quiet concern that hadn’t left his face in days.
By the time the two of you left the apartment, you were already tired again.
The drive to the hospital was calm and quiet, Brendon keeping one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested firmly on your thigh. His thumb stroked absentmindedly against your skin every few seconds, grounding you whenever your thoughts started spiraling too hard.
“Are you excited?” you asked softly after a while, glancing over at him.
Brendon looked over briefly before pulling into the parking garage. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.
“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Are you?”
You smiled faintly, though nerves still twisted painfully in your stomach. “I’m kinda nervous.”
His expression softened immediately.
“It’ll be okay,” he assured you quietly. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“As my husband, right?” you teased lightly, raising a brow at him.
Because you knew Brendon.
And you knew the second anything involving your health came up, some deeply ingrained doctor instinct took over whether he wanted it to or not.
A small huff of amusement left him as he parked the car.
“Yeah,” he muttered, though there was obvious reluctance in it. “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart.”
You snorted softly. “That reassuring, huh?”
Brendon leaned over the center console just enough to press a quick kiss against your forehead before unbuckling.
“I’ll behave.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
You gave him a skeptical look that only made him smirk faintly.
Still, when he reached for your hand as the two of you walked into the hospital together, your nerves eased just a little.
The appointment itself was surprisingly calm.
Most of it consisted of routine questions — how far along you might be, how you’d been feeling, whether you’d had any pain or concerning symptoms. Brendon stayed quiet for the most part, though his grip tightened noticeably when you admitted how often you’d been getting sick.
“How often is ‘often’?”
“Pretty much all day.”
Brendon’s jaw tightened while the provider explained that severe nausea early on could happen, especially in the first trimester, and that they’d keep an eye on it to make sure you stayed hydrated and healthy.
Brendon listened intensely to every word.
You could practically see him shifting into work mode despite his earlier promise.
“You’re doing okay otherwise,” the provider reassured after finishing the exam. “Baby looks good so far.”
The tension in Brendon’s shoulders visibly loosened at that.
And when you glanced over at him, you caught the expression on his face before he could hide it—pure relief mixed with overwhelming emotion.
It hit you harder than expected.
Because this was real now.
Not just a positive test hidden in a bathroom trashcan. Not just fear and nausea and uncertainty.
There was really a baby.
Your baby.
Brendon’s hand found yours again immediately, fingers lacing tightly with yours as he looked over at you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
You nodded quickly, laughing a little through the sudden emotion. “Yeah.”
Brendon studied your face for another second before bringing your knuckles to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss there.
The gesture was small.
But it made your chest ache all over again.
* * *
The morning sickness never went away.
If anything, it got worse.
By the time you entered your second trimester, both you and Brendon had hoped things would finally ease up a little. Everyone said the second trimester was supposed to be better—less nausea, more energy, easier overall.
Instead, your body seemed determined to do the exact opposite.
Most days, the nausea clung to you from the moment you opened your eyes until you finally fell asleep again. Some mornings you couldn’t even make it out of bed before getting sick. Other days, just sitting upright for too long made your stomach churn violently enough that you had to lie back down again.
It was exhausting.
And terrifying.
Especially for Brendon.
He tried not to let you see just how worried he was getting, but you knew him too well by now. You saw it in the way he watched you constantly, like he was mentally tracking every time you got sick. In how quickly he appeared beside you anytime you disappeared into the bathroom for too long. In the way his jaw tightened whenever you admitted you still felt awful.
He hated feeling helpless.
Dana had tried reassuring him during one particularly rough shift after he’d apparently spent most of the day distracted.
“Morning sickness can last longer for some people,” she’d told him casually while charting. “When I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was sick for six months.”
Apparently, that information had done absolutely nothing to calm him down.
Though you knew he appreciated hearing it anyway, even if he’d rather die than openly admit that.
Because from Brendon’s perspective, things looked bad.
Too bad.
He came home every day to find you either curled up in bed or kneeling over the toilet, pale and exhausted in a way that made his chest ache. The spark in you seemed dimmed lately, buried beneath constant nausea and fatigue.
And it scared the shit out of him.
One evening after you’d gotten sick again for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Brendon finally snapped.
Not at you.
At the situation.
You’d barely finished rinsing your mouth before he was already standing in the hallway with his phone pressed to his ear, brows drawn together so tightly they almost touched.
“Yes, but she can barely keep anything down,” he argued quietly, pacing the bedroom while trying not to let you hear the panic creeping into his voice. “She’s throwing up constantly. She’s exhausted all the time.”
You leaned weakly against the bathroom counter, guilt twisting in your stomach.
Brendon had already contacted your doctor twice before this.
Now he was doing it again.
You watched him drag a tired hand down his face while listening to the response on the other end.
“Okay,” he muttered finally, though he sounded unconvinced. “Yeah. Thank you.”
The second he hung up, his eyes were back on you immediately.
Concern flooded his features so openly it made your chest hurt.
“Bren,” you said softly, “I’m okay.”
His expression tightened.
“No, you’re not.”
The honesty of it knocked the breath from your lungs.
Brendon crossed the room quickly before gently guiding you back toward the bed like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go of you for too long.
“You shouldn’t have to feel this sick all the time,” he muttered, helping you sit down carefully.
You leaned back against the pillows with a tired sigh. “Apparently some people just do.”
“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Brendon sat beside you immediately, one hand settling against your thigh while the other brushed loose hair away from your damp forehead.
“You scared me earlier,” he admitted quietly after a moment.
Your chest tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” His voice softened instantly at the guilty look on your face. “This isn’t your fault.”
You looked down at your hands. “I know. I just…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I feel useless lately.”
Brendon’s expression shifted immediately.
“Hey.” He hooked a finger beneath your chin until you looked at him again. “Don’t do that.”
Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes.
“You’re growing our baby,” he said firmly, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “You’re sick because your body’s working overtime right now. That doesn’t make you useless.”
The conviction in his voice nearly undid you.
Brendon leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.
“I just need you okay,” he murmured quietly. “That’s all I care about.”
* * *
As the months passed, pregnancy settled into something that almost felt manageable.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But manageable.
Your nausea had finally started easing up sometime after the halfway point, much to both yours and Brendon’s relief. You still got sick occasionally, especially in the mornings, but it was nothing compared to the constant misery of the first several months.
And because you could finally keep food down more consistently, some of the exhaustion faded too.
Brendon relaxed a little after that.
Not much—he was still painfully attentive, still hovering anytime you looked even remotely uncomfortable—but enough that the permanent tension in his shoulders eased.
Of course, new symptoms quickly replaced the old ones.
Your feet swelled if you stood too long. You got dizzy frighteningly easily. Sometimes simply getting out of bed too fast made your vision blur at the edges long enough that Brendon would immediately appear beside you with that worried crease between his brows.
But overall?
Things seemed okay.
Until six and a half months.
Brendon was at work when it started.
You’d just finished a small load of laundry and settled onto the couch afterward, one hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach while trying to relax. The baby had been unusually active all day—constant kicking and rolling that was equal parts reassuring and uncomfortable.
You’d been smiling about it only minutes earlier.
Then the cramp hit.
Sharp.
Violent.
A sudden bolt of pain tore through your abdomen hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
You gasped, immediately curling forward with a grimace, one hand gripping the couch cushion while the other flew protectively to your belly.
“Fuck,” you whimpered.
The pain eased slightly after a few seconds, but it never fully disappeared. Instead it lingered deep inside you, throbbing uncomfortably before another sharper wave rolled through your body again.
Panic prickled immediately along the back of your neck.
No.
No, no, no.
Your breathing quickened as another cramp hit harder this time, sending a sickening jolt through your entire body.
Something felt wrong.
Terribly wrong.
You shifted shakily against the couch cushions, trying to steady your breathing—and that’s when you felt it.
Warmth.
Wetness.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
Slowly, almost afraid to look, your trembling hand moved downward.
When you pulled it back, your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Blood.
“Oh my God.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Suddenly your thoughts were moving too fast to keep up with.
The cramps.
The bleeding.
The baby.
Tears sprang instantly to your eyes as panic crashed through you hard enough to make your hands shake violently.
“No, no, no—”
Your phone.
You needed your phone.
You nearly stumbled trying to stand, another sharp pain making you cry out as you reached shakily for the coffee table. Your fingers fumbled badly against the screen before you finally managed to dial 911.
The dispatcher’s voice barely registered through the roaring panic in your ears.
“I-I’m pregnant,” you choked out, tears spilling freely now. “I’m bleeding—there’s blood and cramps and—I’m six months—”
Your voice broke completely.
The dispatcher immediately shifted into calm reassurance, asking questions you answered through uneven breaths and mounting terror while trying not to completely fall apart.
An ambulance was already on the way.
But all you could think was:
Please let my baby be okay.
* * *
Brendon was halfway through a consult when the call came through the Pitt.
At first, he barely paid attention.
Then he heard your name.
“Pregnant female, approximately six and a half months,” she called. “Heavy cramping and vaginal bleeding. EMS is bringing her in now.”
Everything inside him went cold.
His head snapped up instantly, looking up so fast he nearly stumbled backward.
Brendon felt the blood drain completely from his face.
For one horrible second, he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Then panic hit him all at once.
“Fuck.”
The word came out ragged as he was already moving, heartbeat slamming violently against his ribs while dread clawed up his throat hard enough to choke him.
You.
Something was wrong with you.
And suddenly all the worst fears he’d spent months trying to bury came rushing violently to the surface.
* * *
The ride to the hospital blurred together in fragments of pain and panic.
Every cramp that tore through your abdomen made your breathing hitch harder, your trembling hands clutching helplessly around your stomach while the EMT beside you tried to keep you calm.
“You’re doing great,” she reassured gently. “Just keep breathing for me, okay?”
But it was hard to focus on anything except the blood.
And the fear.
By the time the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, tears were streaming steadily down your face.
The EMTs moved quickly, wheeling you through the emergency department while calling out information you could barely process through the ringing panic in your ears.
“Twenty-six weeks pregnant—”
“Cramping and vaginal bleeding—”
“Vitals stable—”
“My husband,” you choked out suddenly, voice cracking badly. “H-He’s a doctor here. Brendon Park—”
Someone nodded while helping transfer you onto a hospital bed. The sudden movement jolted another sharp cramp through your body hard enough that you cried out.
“—orthopedics,” you continued shakily, desperation making your words tumble over each other. “Please—I need my husband—”
You were cut off by the sound of Brendon’s voice.
Sharp.
Terrified.
“Where is she?”
The room shifted instantly the second he stormed in.
You’d never heard him sound like that before—not truly. Not with that jagged edge of panic barely restrained beneath the surface. His eyes found you immediately, and whatever composure he’d been trying to hold onto visibly cracked.
“Bren—”
You broke down sobbing the second he reached the bedside.
Brendon grabbed your hand immediately, dropping beside the bed without caring who was watching. His fingers tightened around yours hard enough to ground you while his other hand moved instinctively toward your stomach.
“I-I don’t know what happened,” you cried. “I was fine and then—”
“You’re okay,” he said quickly, voice softer now despite the panic flooding his expression. “Hey. Look at me.”
Your tear-filled eyes locked onto his.
“You’re okay,” he repeated firmly, though his own eyes looked dangerously glassy now. “You hear me? We’re gonna figure this out. You’ll both be okay.”
You nodded shakily because you wanted to believe him.
God, you wanted to.
But the fear in his face terrified you almost as much as the pain did.
Within minutes, OB was downstairs.
The room became a blur of movement around you—nurses adjusting monitors, questions being asked, someone checking the bleeding while another prepared the ultrasound machine.
Brendon never let go of your hand once.
Not once.
Even when he looked seconds away from falling apart himself.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured quietly near your ear while the OB spread cool gel across your stomach. “Just breathe for me.”
Your chest rose unevenly as you stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently into your hairline while the doctor moved the probe carefully across your abdomen.
The room fell quiet.
Too quiet.
The OB’s brows furrowed slightly.
Brendon noticed immediately.
“What is it?” he asked, too quickly. Too sharply.
The doctor didn’t answer right away.
Your heart stopped.
The silence stretched another horrible second as the probe shifted again.
Then another.
Brendon’s grip on your hand became almost painful.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath.
You could hear the panic creeping into his voice now.
And then—
A heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Strong.
Alive.
You sobbed outright at the sound.
Brendon sucked in a sharp breath beside you, his head dropping immediately as relief slammed through him so hard his shoulders physically sagged. One shaky hand came up to cover his mouth briefly before he leaned forward against the bed, eyes squeezed shut.
“Okay,” the OB said gently, visibly relaxing too. “Baby’s heartbeat looks good.”
You cried harder.
Brendon let out a broken exhale that sounded dangerously close to a laugh before pressing his forehead against your hand.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered hoarsely.
The OB continued the exam carefully, explaining that the bleeding appeared controlled for now and that they’d need to monitor you closely for the next several hours—possibly longer depending on whether the cramping settled.
“You’ll be admitted for observation,” she explained calmly. “We want to make sure both you and baby stay stable.”
You nodded weakly, exhaustion beginning to crash into you now that the initial terror was fading slightly.
Beside you, Brendon finally looked up.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
Terrified.
But softer now that he’d heard the heartbeat.
When your gaze met his, he immediately leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss against your forehead.
“You scared the fucking life outta me,” he whispered.
Fresh tears burned behind your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered back automatically.
Brendon’s expression crumpled for half a second.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Don’t apologize for this.”
Brendon pressed a trembling kiss against your lips, lingering there for a moment like he needed the contact as much as you did.
“We’ll get through this,” he murmured softly, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was rough around the edges now, worn thin by fear and adrenaline and the effort it was taking to keep himself together for you. “You, me, and baby. We’ll get through it.”
Your breath shook on the exhale.
The monitors around you beeped steadily now, the earlier chaos finally settling into something quieter, but your body still wouldn’t stop trembling. Every cramp, every lingering ache sent another spike of fear through you.
“I don’t know what happened,” you whispered hoarsely. “I was fine, and then it just…” Your voice cracked badly. “It happened out of nowhere.”
Brendon’s expression tightened immediately.
One of his hands remained wrapped securely around yours while the other rested protectively against the swell of your stomach, his thumb moving in slow strokes over the fabric of the hospital blanket.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said firmly.
Fresh tears burned behind your eyes.
“But what if—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended.
You flinched slightly, and Brendon’s entire face softened instantly with guilt.
“Hey,” he murmured quickly, brushing damp hair away from your forehead. “Baby, look at me.”
Your watery eyes met his.
“This is not your fault,” he said again, slower this time. Softer. “You hear me?”
Your chest ached.
Because despite how calm he was trying to sound, you could still see it—the fear lingering beneath the surface. The panic he was forcing down every second he sat beside you.
Brendon looked exhausted already.
His scrubs were wrinkled from the shift he’d abandoned midway through, his hair messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it, dark circles beneath his eyes more pronounced than usual. But none of that compared to the expression in his eyes.
You’d never seen him look so scared before.
Not even close.
“I thought…” Your voice wavered. “I thought we lost the baby.”
Brendon visibly broke at that.
His eyes squeezed shut briefly before he leaned forward, pressing another kiss against your forehead while tightening his grip on your hand.
“We didn’t,” he whispered.
The emotion in his voice nearly undid you completely.
“We didn’t,” he repeated, like maybe he was reassuring himself too.
A sob caught painfully in your throat.
Brendon immediately shifted closer, one arm carefully wrapping around your shoulders despite the hospital bed and monitors crowding the space between you. He pulled you against his chest gently, like you were something fragile.
“I got both of you,” he murmured into your hair. “I got both of you.”
You cried quietly against him, exhausted beyond words now that the adrenaline was finally fading.
For a long time, Brendon just held you.
His hand never left your stomach once. Even absentmindedly, his fingers kept stroking over the curve protectively, like he needed the constant reminder that both of you were still here.
Still okay.
Eventually, you felt his lips brush against the top of your head again.
“You know what the worst part was?” he admitted quietly.
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him.
Brendon swallowed hard before answering.
“Hearing your name.” His jaw tightened painfully. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
Your eyes immediately filled again.
“Bren…”
“I thought I was gonna lose both of you,” he whispered.
The raw honesty of it shattered something inside your chest.
You reached up shakily, cupping the side of his face. Brendon leaned into your touch instantly, eyes closing briefly.
“I’m still here,” you whispered. “We’re still here.”
His eyes opened again, glassy with emotion.
“Yeah,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly. “You are.”
[𝝑𝑒] :: true form!sukuna finds out his favorite pregnant concubine is injured :: tags. fluff, angst, reader gets called ‘woman’ :: ac. @/greybookman on x
you want that damn scroll.
one of the old texts on yokai lore sukuna left half-unrolled on a high shelf days ago. boredom and the restless energy of pregnancy drives you to it. standing on the tips of your toes, with one hand braced against the lacquered cabinet, you stretch up.
your belly, round and full at nearly eight months, shifts heavily. the baby kicks hard as if protesting.
“just... a little more—“
the wood creaks. your foot slips on the woven tatami mat and then the world tilts.
you hit the floor with a sharp cry, pain lancing through your side and wrist. the scroll clatters beside you. for a moment you lie there, breathlessly. your hand instinctively cradles your belly. the baby moves again. it’s still strong and alive.
relief floods you, but it’s followed quickly by fear.
because your hear them. those heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. too fast and way too purposeful.
the sliding doors slam open with enough force to rattle the entirre frame. sukuna stands there, all four beefy arms tense, crimson eyes blazing with immediate and lethal irritation. the mouth on his abdomen twists into a snarl before the one on his face even opens.
he takes one look at you on the floor, at the displaced cabinet, the way you clutch your wrist and the temperature in the room seems to drop.
“what,” he growls, “is the meaning of this, woman?”
you try to push yourself up. trying to make yourself seem presentable, “it’s nothing, my lord. i only—“
“do not.”
two of his arms move before you can finish. one massive hand catches your shoulder while the other slides beneath your knees. he lifts you as if you weigh nothing before carrying you to the thick futon piled with silks. the third hand hovers over your belly, not quite touching, while the fourth grips your injured wrist with surprising gentleness. though his expression promises murder.
you wince as he probes the swelling. a bruise is seemingly already blooming.
sukuna’s eyes narrow at the bruise on your wrist. something inside him twists, “you fell.”
“well, i reached for a scroll,” you admit quietly as you hold your head down in shame, “didn’t think—“
“yeah. you obviously didn’t think,” his voice is deceptively calm now. the kind of calm that precedes slaughter.
he sets your wrist down and rises to his full imposing height. the black tattoos shift across his skin as his muscles flex, “tsk. y’re crawling about like some reckless servant chasing trinkets, and look where that got ya.”
the air grows thick with that ominous cursed energy you’ve grown used to. outside in the gardens, you hear a distant scream. you swallow thickly. that was an unfortunate soul who was probably been lingering too close at the wrong moment.
sukuna doesn’t even glance toward the sound. his focus remains locked on you.
he kneels again, red eyes boring into yours. one hand cups your chin to tilt your face up, “do you have any idea what i would do to this entire fuckin’ country if you lost that child?”
your heart stutters.
you know he isn’t exaggerating. sukuna’s affection is a double edged blade. it’s obsessive, violent and all-consuming. you have seen villages erased for lesser offenses than inconveniencing his property.
“y-yes, but i’m alright,” you whisper, “the baby kicked just now. it’s still strong and kicking."
as if to prove it, another solid thump presses against your belly. sukuna’s big hand moves immediately, his warm palm spreading over the curve.
for a long moment there’s silence. then he exhales through his nose, a sound closer to a growl.
“you will not leave this chamber without my presence until the birth.” it isn’t a suggestion. “servants will bring you everything. if you desire a scroll, they will fetch it. if you desire the moon itself, they will bleed trying.”
you reach up with your good hand to brush fingers along one of his wrists. you tilt your head as you look up at him, “you’re angry.”
“furious.”
the word drips with venom. yet he lowers himself beside you on the futon, two arms pulling you carefully against his chest while the other two adjust pillows behind your back. the contrast is dizzying. his body radiates power and heat, capable of tearing mountains, but he handles you like a fragile thing.
“i should chain you to this bed,” sukuna mutters, lips brushing your temple, “perhaps then you’d stop testin’ me.”
a small smile tugs at your lips despite the dull ache in your wrist. “you’d miss my stubbornness too much,” you chuckle softly.
the king of curses huffs. the mouth on his stomach licks its lips, tasting the air—probably the lingering trace of your blood from a scraped elbow.
you lean into him and lett the solid bulk of his true form surround you. four arms are useful for this, at least. one idly strokes your hair, another rests over your belly, the third keeps your injured wrist elevated and the fourth simply holds you close.
minutes pass in comfortable silence. his cursed energy fluctuates wildly. you can feel the rage still simmering, but it’s more contained. you can feel it coiling around the room like invisible smoke, ready to lash out at the first person who enters.
a hesitant knock sounds at the door.
“enter,” sukuna barks.
a trembling servant girl slides the door open, carrying a tray of bandages and herbal salve. her eyes widen at the sight of sukuna holding you so intimately. she nearly drops everything.
“give it here,” he snaps while extending one arm without releasing you. the girl approaches on her knees, head bowed low, and places the tray within reach before scrambling back.
sukuna tends to your wrist himself.
his touch is precise, almost clinical, wrapping the linen with surprising care. every so often his gaze flicks to your face to check for discomfort. the fury hasn’t left his eyes, but it has shifted. it’s now directed outward. toward the world that has dared let you fall.
when he finishes, sukuna pulls you closer again. “if this swells worse by morning, i’ll flay the physician who attends you. slowly.”
you chuckle softly as exhaustion creeps in. too much happened in a small amount of time for your heavily pregnant self, “‘kay, noted.”
he stays like that long after your breathing evens out. sukuna rarely sleeps much, but tonight he remains vigilant and his hand never leaves your belly.
. . .
by the next morning, word has spread through the estate like wildfire. no one is to allow you out of the inner chambers without the king of curses’ permission.
extra guards patrol the halls. when a maid brings breakfast, she keeps her eyes on the floor and moves with exaggerated slowness, terrified of triggering his wrath.
you watch sukuna from the futon as he paces, big arms crossed in various combinations. he has already executed one overzealous attendant who suggested you might have ‘overexerted’ yourself earlier in the week. the body has been removed before you woke.
“ryo.. come here,” you call softly, trying carefully to calm that rage by using that nickname you made up for him. instead of the usual politeness.
sukuna pauses. then, with a reluctant grunt, he returns to your side. you take one of his large hands and place it back on your belly.
"feel it. he’s fine. we’re fine.”
sukuna’s expression remains stormy, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally, “if anythin’ changes...”
“‘you’ll destroy the world’. . . i know.”
a rare, sharp-toothed smirk tugs at his lips, “good. you’re learning.”
Summary: Joel sees your baby bump for the first time.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Breeding/Impreg Kink. Hurt/Comfort (mostly comfort). Mention of insecurities related to changes in Reader’s body from pregnancy (!!) Praise kink. Creampie. Girthy but unspecified age gap. Nothing bad happens to Joel Miller. He lives to 103 :)
Word count: 4.9k
Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
It had been a long week.
The one before that had seemed even longer. Joel Miller spent every night of it curled up on too-cold hardwood floors in remote cabins or in guard towers, on duty. He would’ve given anything to be someplace else, but as it stood, Jackson was on high alert for hordes of Infected. That meant he had had to contribute his fair share and go on extended patrol, no matter how loudly every last ligament, muscle, and bone in his old body protested.
Evidently, there was a dearth of strong and gun-savvy folks in town. No exceptions could be carved out for anyone among them—not even expecting fathers.
Today, Joel stood in a greenhouse, running off two hours of sleep. He’d made it back home that morning, but before he’d even slid off his boots you’d told him you were headed to the farmer’s market and you wouldn’t be gone more than twenty minutes at most, just stay here and get some sleep while I’m out, OK? Joel had refused.
“Already spent too much damn time away from you two,” he’d said grumpily, pressing a kiss to your temple before ushering you out the door. He caught you smile at that.
By ‘you two,’ Joel hadn’t needed to gesture to your belly and the life growing within it to explain what he meant. You both knew it—had been aware of this little world-altering development for weeks now—but no matter how much time had passed, neither one of you seemed quite capable of saying the words without a glance or a grin.
“Me and baby did just fine on our own these last nights,” you’d assured him teasingly as you walked along then. “In fact, I think he was glad not to hear all your snoring.”
Joel had almost chuckled through his latest yawn.
“Yeah? She tell you that herself while I was gone?”
He was convinced the baby was a girl.
You swore you were having a boy.
As Joel leaned against a display of sun-dried tomatoes and yawned extra big again, he decided it didn’t matter one bit what the gender was going to be. He just wanted to meet the kid. He hated that he would have to wait another six months to see their face and pinch their pudgy cheeks between his fingers, but that was a minuscule price to pay for what was to come in time.
Tiny feet. Bright eyes. Beaming, toothless smiles. Greedy hands that would no doubt be yanking at his silver hairs all hours of the day. He just hoped they’d take after y—
“Joel?”
Your eyes flickered to him in question. He hadn’t heard it.
“What’s’at, sweetheart?”
You furrowed your brows.
“I’m blanking on what Maria asked us to buy. Zucchini?”
Joel had no fucking idea.
A sea of fruits and vegetables lay out before him like a technicolor dream; he was so sleep-deprived it almost seemed surreal to see so much vibrancy at once, and he had to blink a couple of times to get his vision to adjust.
Then he was looking back at you. You were frowning.
“Baby, we can go home. You’re about to pass out.”
And Joel knew you meant it—despite only being at the market in town a grand total of five minutes, he knew you’d be willing to leave in a heartbeat if it meant giving him a moment’s worth of rest. It had been his own doing in bringing his drained, deadened, stubborn body here.
“I’m fine. Really, I’m good. You said, uh…cucumbers?”
“Zucchini.” You fended off his taut forced smile with a warning look of you own, as if to say: ‘You suck at lying.’
That look remained on him for a while and was only marginally diminished by a kiss he dropped on your forehead, followed by a promise to sleep the rest of the day. He didn’t like seeing you put off in the slightest, but if it meant getting to spend an extra half hour with you and Junior, Joel decided he was willing to bend the rules.
Fortunately, your scowl was even more short-lived than expected. The next second had you turning and, seeing something in a small wooden crate across the way, glowing with a bright, eager look. You walked over.
“Look—our baby!” you cried, peering into the box.
Joel was puzzled, but then you turned again and were suddenly holding a lemon up to your stomach, grinning.
“At thirteen weeks, the baby’s about the size of this.”
You balanced the thing proudly in your palm, just over your navel, and flashed him an irresistibly sweet smile. Joel smiled back, and was right about to squeeze the little fruit and tell you he couldn’t believe this kid was growing so fast, when a new voice cut in. It was some neighbor of yours. You turned to greet her, scarcely had a second to get through ‘hello’ before talks of an upcoming potluck were entered into, and before Joel knew it, he’d lost the opportunity to marvel your fruit fetus. He felt unusually dismayed at that but blamed it on burnout.
Why did he feel like he’d missed so much already?
It wasn’t like he could change the fact that this world you inhabited was overrun with the living undead, and he had to help defend this community against them, but still.
Joel was just about to yawn again and rub his bleary eyes when his gaze meandered somewhere else.
His yawn caught in his throat as soon as he saw it, and like before, he had to blink several times to clear the sight in front of him. This time, though, it wasn’t total exhaustion which clouded his vision—it was something more, snagged in his periphery at first, only to gain his full attention an instant later. Joel’s chest tightened.
Surely it wasn’t fatigue alone making him see this.
You’d tilted your body from him a little more while talking to your friend, and in your profile, Joel could make out an unfamiliar shape in your ensemble that he hadn’t noticed when you were holding the lemon: just under the swell of your breasts, beneath the apricot-colored material of your dress, he could see the faintest outline of a bump.
Joel stared harder, half-expecting that picture to fade like a mirage. He couldn’t believe the sight before him.
He’d seen you in fits and bursts over the last two weeks—he worked double shifts on patrol, so you were often asleep when he was home, and there were all the times he was forced to sleep at one of the far outposts, but no.
No.
Joel wouldn’t have missed something like that.
He couldn’t have missed the first glimpse of your growing belly when he’d gotten so…fixated on you, this baby, the thoughts of your future together as a family.
No, he shouldn’t have missed that. A good dad wouldn’t.
Hell, even a halfway decent father-to-be wouldn’t have not noticed the growth of his own child inside you. That seemed so rudimentary—how the fuck had he missed it?
Suddenly, a coil was forming in his stomach. Unlike the one in yours, it wasn’t a child but a pit of guilt growing there. He felt his legs weaken underneath him, and he swallowed dryly. He cleared his throat. He tried to cast a sideways look at you, maybe try and urge you to get on with this neighborly conversation and be done with it, but who was he to say anything now? Joel slumped against a table full of leafy greens and tried not to sulk.
He blinked and five minutes had passed, at least. His head was swimming with thoughts of shame and remorse, wanting to kick himself for agreeing to pick up shifts for his brother last week, and feeling like he’d failed you and your baby already—and they weren’t even born.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder again. Two bloodshot eyes darted to the left.
“Joel,” you said, softly. Your voice was full of sympathy.
The man couldn’t bear to hear it. He didn’t deserve it.
In fact, he felt so down on himself and dead tired now that he couldn’t muster up the strength to speak when you nudged him back onto his feet. You walked beside him with a basket that now contained three zucchini, two bulbs of garlic, a lemon, and a dozen other food items that he couldn’t place at the moment. Joel had no idea what you’d be cooking tonight, but he couldn’t help but wince at the sight of that tiny yellow fruit in front of him.
You knew this would be a long day.
Joel never slept well after those week-long stints going back and forth between patrol and home, and ever since taking Tommy’s as well while he was out sick, the man before you was drained of all his energy. Dead, almost.
Okay, maybe ‘dead’ was an overstatement.
Joel was very much alive; his body just sagged, his head lolled forward where he stood, and he refused to sleep.
It made no sense to you. It was like the longer he’d been awake, away from you, the more adamant he became that he couldn’t spare a minute while he was home dozing off. When you’d dragged his hulking body up the stairs to your bedroom, he shook his head in protest.
“I— I missed seeing her,” he mumbled dejectedly. Resisting your efforts to push him onto the bed.
“I know. You can talk as much as you’d like after you get some rest, OK? We’ll be right downstairs in the kitchen.”
That didn’t seem to appease Joel at all. If anything, he made an effort to shake his head harder and seemed ready to follow you back downstairs to help you cook.
You weren’t having any of that, so you nudged him back.
“Joel—”
“No, I missed it, honey. I missed it.”
He was talking nonsense now, surely.
“What do you mean? Missed what, Joel?”
With a deflated sort of sound, he collapsed on the bed behind him. Joel steadied himself wearily, blinking more.
Seeming as if he wanted to meet your gaze but couldn’t.
Then, to your surprise, he slid off of the bed and sank to the floor, on his knees. He shuffled closer to where you stood, and then slowly, sheepishly, peered up at you.
“I missed seeing this,” he clarified quietly.
And two hard, muscly arms wrapped around your lower half from where he kneeled. Joel’s face was mere inches from the fabric of your dress—where it flared the slightest bit out front and almost prodded at his nose.
Your little bump was protruding under your clothes now. It couldn’t be helped, no matter how loose of winter attire you wore, and you felt guilty that, at first, you hadn’t liked how it looked. Wasn’t motherhood supposed to be some exquisite, transcendent experience wherein every waking moment had you cherishing what your body did for you, like sustaining a brand new life? You’d felt awful.
So terrible, in fact, that you hadn’t even thought to mention the development to Joel, which somehow made things even worse. You just wanted to wrap up and hide, for no other reason than that you felt so self-conscious.
Now here Joel was, pressing his face to the little bulge in your frame and peering up at you with the widest, most glass-like pair of eyes you’d seen in a long time. He was watching you like he was riddled with guilt himself, oddly
You couldn’t imagine what the shame might be for.
“What are you talking about? You didn’t miss anything,” you said softly, lowering your voice to just a murmur.
Joel winced as if you’d just reared back and struck him.
“I did,” he whispered back, tone hoarse. Then, somehow, his next words came out even more broken. “I was gone so long I— I didn’t even notice you had a bump already.”
He sounded so despondent as he said it—like he’d missed some great milestone in your pregnancy and not an event that you’d actually wanted to keep out of sight.
Your heart ached in your chest. You hated seeing this.
You wanted to join him on the floor and hold him tight, tell him he hadn’t missed one single thing, but Joel’s grip around your hips was far too much to move an inch. So you remained standing instead and stroked his hair.
“What, this?” you said, gesturing toward the swell of your belly against his face. Forcing a smile when you felt guilt flood your insides. “It’s…it’s just a little bump, Joel, it’s—”
Joel drew back momentarily to meet you, eyes serious.
“It’s our baby,” he resumed, tone all soft solemnity.
That made the shame balloon in your chest.
You should’ve told him. Shown him.
But no, you’d been too afraid of what he might think of your changing body. You’d kept the news to yourself and let things go on as if nothing had happened at all. At the time, you told yourself you were doing it in Joel’s best interest—letting him rest and not spend too much time off-duty worrying about you. You’d played tougher than you really were and ended up causing the man pain over missing a moment like this. Your bottom lip trembled as you pulled him in closer to you. You hugged him to you.
“I— I’m sorry,” you croaked. You touched his head gently.
You’d just threaded your fingers through the soft, grey hair at the back of Joel’s head when he tilted his whole face back up to you. His chin hovered above your bump, and his eyes were shining up at you. Shortly, he frowned.
“Sorry for what, sweetheart? You didn’t—”
“I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to see.”
You blurted it out before you could think.
Joel was watching you so intently—tenderly—with his face so close to that spot you’d been trying to hide away. His look was open and sincere, and you felt like shit, so you just kept rambling on to clear your conscience of it.
“Ever since I saw the bump myself, I…I just…” you trailed off, feeling dumb as soon as the words started tumbling. “I didn’t like the way I looked. I wanted to keep it from you, because I was…scared of what you might think.”
And here he was, on his knees from how bad he felt.
His grip loosened, like he was processing things.
You found yourself lowering to the floor, too. You couldn’t help it. Your eyes began filling with hot, wet, hormone-induced tears like you’d been experiencing a lot of these last few weeks, and you hugged Joel again. You winced.
“I didn’t think it would mean so much to you, Joel. If I had known…If I knew it would hurt you not to know…”
Your wince became a full grimace—an ugly kind of cry that you’d long chastised yourself for doing—and you pulled back. You placed your palms over your eyes to hide your shame, but a couple stray tears leaked out.
Before you knew it, there were arms around you again. Big and muscly and warm, not hugging, but lifting you.
“Joel,” you sobbed into his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
You expected the father of your child to respond in words, but instead, at first, he just sat down on the bed with you in his hold. He let you rest your head on his chest, and for several long moments, he rocked you.
He held you, and you cried, and one of your hands came to fist the warm flannel of his shirt for sometime before you realized that Joel’s own palm was stroking your hair. Caressing it. Then, slowly, moving so he could thumb at the tears sliding down your cheeks, and holding you as close to his body as possible. Because of this, your ear was pressed flush against his chest, and you heard him.
Joel’s heart was hammering, and his breaths were quick.
You lifted your head, and as soon as you did, you were greeted with the sight of Joel peering down, face no more than a few inches away. Eyes soft and glossy.
“Joel, I’m so sorr—”
“You don’t,” Joel cut in, words still impossibly tender. “Don’t gotta apologize for nothin’, baby. Not one thing.”
You searched his face and saw exhaustion in every feature—there was no hiding that. Not just in the weeks but in the years he’d spent living in this world, fighting to survive and having all the scars and striations and thick, shining grays to prove it. You took stock of every sunspot and wrinkle, seeing a softness there that no pain had stolen, and found yourself all the more in love with this man. Your old man, the one who’d put this baby in you.
Without thinking, you reached for the hem of your dress.
You couldn’t get to it, as the skirt was long, and the material was splayed out all over Joel and the bed, but you were still able to bunch the fabric in your hands.
Tug it gently, but resolutely, up your legs. Near your hips.
Then over them. Suddenly sitting at your ribs, while your eyes stayed locked on Joel’s. The air felt a bit cooler now.
The house that you shared was always warm in winter. Now, with your stomach bared and your hand sliding at a snail’s pace up your front with Joel’s fingers clasped in it, you’d never felt a chill so biting in your life. Or frightening
Joel’s touch brushed the little bump above your pantyline, and instantly, you wanted to squirm. You hated how you felt that way, but it also couldn’t be helped. Your belly never protruded like this before, and you were still getting used to it—it would take time.
Joel hadn’t seen it even once before today.
Although he touched your body nonstop, with his focus centering a lot more on your tummy these days, he’d never actually gotten to feel the proof of his child growing inside you until now. You were showing.
Your belly was swollen beneath his hand and heaving lightly with every breath you took. You looked up at Joel.
And for once, he wasn’t looking back. He was looking at you, but his gaze this time was plastered to your lower half, where his palm was gradually moving to rest atop that tiny bump. He splayed his fingers. Yours sat timidly above his, and you wondered if you might not move back
Then you felt wetness on your hand. It was an odd, foreign feeling at first; you had no idea where those little droplets came from, but in a second, it dawned on you.
Joel’s head was bowed, and he was blinking hard.
The moisture was from his tears dripping down.
Your body almost caved with the realization. Your fingers tightened around the back of Joel’s hand, and presently, your voice was as hoarse as it had ever been as you shifted to sit up. Trying not to cry anymore yourself.
“Joel, don’t—don’t, no. This is my fault.”
“It’s my fault. I haven’t been here.”
And just hearing those words leave Joel’s mouth seemed ludicrous to you. He’d been there every step of the way to date, rubbing your back through the worst bouts of your morning sickness, spoon-feeding you on days you found it difficult to move a muscle, stroking your cheek and speaking soft words of consolation—he was there.
And here he was, meeting your gaze with bleary, bloodshot eyes as he blinked through his tears.
You couldn’t bear to see it.
You scrambled up from Joel’s lap and hugged him—no, attacked him with an embrace that knocked him flat on his back on the bed. Your arms wound around his neck, and your stomach brushed against his softer one. If it weren’t several weeks premature, you might’ve thought you felt some movement inside you. You squeezed your old man even tighter then and started shaking your head
“Oh, Joel…”
You pressed your body to his, hoping he’d feel your sincerity, if not the heat and the swell of your belly, thanks to what he’d done inside you. Now, more than anything else, you wanted to show him what he’d made happen—what you were so happy to feel every day, despite your insecurities and fears about some parts.
You wanted him to know how much you loved him.
“You’ve been here,” you assured him softly. Lifting slightly so you could lie on top with your front to his. “You always have and you always will. You hear me?”
Joel swallowed as soon as your lips attached to his neck and started peppering kisses to tufts of black and silver.
Gently, he reached around your back to hold you to him. His arms had just constricted in a protective grip around the base of your spine when you wriggled out. You sat up
You unzipped your dress and shifted on your knees to pull it off you completely. You tossed it and took a breath.
Now you were naked, save for your pale cotton panties, and sitting there. Straddling him. Soft rays of morning light filtered in through the window, and for a beat, you hoped the shadows it cast on your body didn’t make you look…odd, or undesirable to the man lying beneath you.
Fortunately, that fear was dispelled as soon as it arrived.
Joel’s gaze melted at the sight, and he swallowed again.
Wiping his eyes with one hand and beckoning with the other, he said, soft as anything: “Sweet pea, I love you.”
“I love you more.” You were fumbling to get your panties off—not even with sex in mind, but just so that Joel could see more of you. All of you. You wanted him to be able to drink in every inch now, like he couldn’t before.
You wanted to be naked with him, like you’d been when you made this baby together. It didn’t have to be anything more than pure and simple appreciation.
Though when you fumbled with the bottom buttons of Joel’s flannel and murmured, ‘Take yours off, too, please,’ you couldn’t deny that it had an edge of something else, as well. That was only natural.
Within seconds, Joel was stripped of his clothes, and his body was on display, the same as yours. You could stare at him, he could stare at you, and together, you could cherish the knowledge that these bodies made a third. There was a new one growing inside of you, day by day, and now you could see the proof as well as you’d felt it.
For once, Joel hardened, and it didn’t feel like just lust or love or arousal at the sight of your nude body, but a primal urge. When your folds dripped and glistened in turn, it wasn’t merely a product of wanting but of acknowledging what had already been done here.
This big man, this stiff and graying man, this kind man had put his seed inside you more times than you could count, and one of those moments had made him stick.
Stuck as he was, claimed as you felt, you were happy.
At last, one of your hands came to rest over your belly in a sweet, appreciative, and loving way, and you rubbed it.
It might’ve been the first time you’d done it.
That was definitely a first for Joel.
His hand immediately joined.
“You put a baby in me.” You said it gently.
“I put a baby in you,” Joel repeated.
In a breath, it was affectionate. In the next, it was protective. In the one after that, you felt his cock pushing inside you, but it hardly felt that way at all sitting on him.
It was sex, though. You rolled your hips and took him to the base. Joel’s hand stayed on your belly, trailing each movement with a look of awe. And strain. His smooth, bulbous tip grazed somewhere deep within your body, and your walls contracted around him. Sucked him in.
“Right there.” His fingers flexed over where his cock was currently stretching you out from the inside, and you whimpered softly. “Ain’t that where I stuffed you full?”
“Yes,” you breathed, free hand anchoring on his chest.
Joel fucked up into you gently, and damn, this was even better in the second trimester than the first. Your body was more responsive. Your slick warmth drew him in.
Every nerve-ending in your system seemed attuned to the one man who’d made himself a part of you, like he was made to be exactly where he was, and no place else.
“My sweet girl let daddy make her a mama, huh?”
It didn’t feel like fucking and still, you were a minute from coming. Joel’s words, paired with a hand on your swollen belly and the soft, pleasuring cadence of his thrusts made you helpless to the sensation. You looked down.
And for once, you relished the sight below. You loved it—Joel’s hand over your belly, his cock splitting you in two.
“Y’like how it looks? Me in you?” Joel chuckled. Behind it, you could sense that he was getting close too, though.
His thrusts sped up, and you bounced to meet them, a smile spreading across your lips once you found his gaze.
“Yes, daddy.”
“Know how goddamn pretty ya look swole up with me?”
“Yes, daddy.”
Your voice was sweet. Supplicating. Sincere.
It wasn’t as if your fears and insecurities all vanished the moment Joel told you you were pretty, or when he said that you had no need to be sorry. That would have to come with time—but the praise certainly helped. His words spoken so tenderly to you then had an effect.
You wanted to believe all these things, and the closer you got to climax, the more readily you shed your inhibitions. Your hips started gyrating with more force, and you no longer gave a shit whether your body looked so different.
For now, at least, you’d just have to accept that growing Joel Miller’s child inside you meant many things would change. There was no escaping it. What mattered now was your health, being together with Joel, and knowing how much he loved you, no matter what might happen.
And that much was clear from the way he eyed you suddenly—needily—and how the fingers splayed across your front migrated down your stomach, over your bump, and between where your body and his were joined. He always made sure you were taken care of, and of course, that concern extended virtually everywhere.
A series of quick, deliberate circles on your clit and his cock hitting you repeatedly in your most sensitive spot made you see stars. Your eyes were tempted to roll back in pure bliss, preparing for your orgasm to hit, when Joel snagged your attention back. He pulled you in until your chest was practically parallel with his, and then he drilled you from below. His mouth moved dangerously close to your ear, and from there, it was apparent he had plans.
Pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust, he spoke gently. He made sure you heard, though
“Y’like the way this feels now, don’t ya, sweet pea?”
In response, your words were more like a babble.
Still, you somehow managed to whine a ‘yes.’
And that was all Joel needed, apparently.
He leaned in even nearer, murmuring:
“Good.”
Good?
You were seconds from release. One hand was fisting the sheets now, your body moving in frantic tandem with Joel’s, and all at once, he was lifting your head. Tilting it sideways to meet his own while he fucked you relentlessly from below. He was beaming.
“Better get used to how it feels, ‘cause I’m keepin’ this belly full as long as you’ll let me keep on givin’ it babies.”
Fucking hell.
Your stomach clenched as if to say yes again, your brain went blank, and all you could think while you came on his cock was how much you loved him back—no matter how wary you were about these changes, how unwise making a man change diapers all throughout his sixties might seem, you’d give him as many babies as he wanted.
You might change your mind.
You might not.
But by the look on Joel’s face as he finished and flooded your insides with all his hot, sticky seed, you wanted to believe you would. One baby or a hundred, you’d give just about any number a shot with your old man, Joel Miller. You let him fuck you and fill you to the brim, and when it felt like he couldn’t go any deeper, or give you any more of this release, Joel pulled you in for a kiss.
Against his lips, muted between soft, sloppy movements, you managed to get out quietly:
“Whatever daddy wants.”
And when you’d finally pulled apart and were eye-to-eye again—after everything you’d been through today and these last couple weeks, these past few months—you couldn’t help it. A grin broke out on Joel’s face at the same moment it did yours. You both breathed heavily and felt your belly pressed against his. You were reminded, once more, of what brought you here and all you had to look forward to in the next months and years.
It would be hard, but well worth it with Joel by your side.
Gently, you nudged his nose with yours.
“I love you so much, Joel,” you whispered.
“I love you more, sweet pea,” he whispered back. Smiling
THE OVULATION DEMONS SCREECHING AND HOWLING!!! this tender and insatiable peepaw baby daddy joel rewired my brain!! if I had my way old man would be changing diapers of his very own bunch of miller brats well into his sixties!! 🫠😮💨❤️🔥
You watch the clock as it ticks to the next minute. One minute down and 120 more to go.
Two hours wouldn't be a problem but at nearly nine months pregnant? It’s becoming an obstacle.
You can't hate it too much though since you were the one who begged your boyfriends, Robby and Jack, to let you keep working until your daughter was born.
It took an unceremonious amount of begging and pleading until they finally caved, but on one condition.
You weren't to touch any patients. They couldn't risk you getting hurt by anyone or being too close to sick patients.
So, your only options were to sit with Dana at the hub, stock supply closets and carts, or pick a resident or nurse to shadow. You love Dana and as much as it was your best option to sit, you wanted to be up and about.
So you chose your loophole option, tagging along with Frank Langdon.
—
Frank was your best friend. You both had been in the same classes in medical school and then ended up in the same new rotation of interns at ptmc. You guys have been stuck like glue ever since then.
Robby called you both two peas in a pod, which is where Frank got the idea to call you ‘Pea’. He was also the first person you told, after your boyfriends, that you were pregnant.
It was moments like that and more that he was there for. He had been your go to person and you his.
Which made it all the more difficult when it was found several months ago that he was stealing drugs from the hospital and using. Your heart broke that your friend had been hiding this and suffering alone.
It also broke your heart that it caused an enormous rift between him and Robby. He immediately wanted Frank gone from the hospital and away from you. You understood his reasoning but Frank was alone in this.
You refused to not be there for him, especially when he went to rehab for the last eight months. There was never a shortage of letters you sent him or phone calls when he was allowed. Losing touch wasn’t an option in your book.
This obviously didn't go over well with Robby. Jack did what he could to mediate and bring a little understanding to Robby’s mind. It only worked so much until you announced you were making Frank the godfather of your daughter. Jack once again had to step in to calm Robby with that one.
But as the one housing and growing the baby, you got the final say.
When Frank returned, Jack took you to pick him up from the airport. You welcomed him back with open arms and an open heart.
He came back to work with no issues since he filed for a leave of absence. Robby and Jack were the only ones besides you that knew the real reason.
Due to this, Robby arranged it to where he could come back but on probation. Since Frank couldn’t do a lot without an attending’s approval, he didn't get involved in the crazy traumas.
Therefore, you shadowed him and kept him company.
—
Currently you’re sitting in the imaging room waiting on Frank to finish a patient's X-rays when you feel a sharp pain in your stomach.
You grimace at it but then it subsides.
Okay, good. Now only if Frank would hurt u-
“Holy shit.” You wheeze out as you clutch your stomach.
“Okay, imaging is d-“ Frank freezes as he sees your face scrunched in pain and your hand clutching the chair arm.
“Whoa pea, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
He kneels at your side, worry in his eyes.
“I don’t know.” you manage to say.
The pain subsides again and you feel your body relax.
“Okay, I think it’s gone.”
You sit up a bit.
“I think I just need to stand up. Help me please?”
Frank grabs your hand and pulls you up.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You take a step as you nod.
“Yeah, it’s probably just th-“ your words stop as you feel a liquid run down your leg and start puddling on the floor from your pant leg.
Your eyes go wide and you look up, meeting matching wide eyes from Frank.
“I guess it’s baby time” you whisper as your heart races.
“Definitely baby time” he whispers back, half a smile making its way onto his face “You’re gonna be a mom soon.”
Your eyes well up with tears.
“I’m gonna be a mom” you say with a matching smile.
“Alright let me call Jack and Robby” Frank goes to pull out his phone.
“No, it’s okay Frank. They’re just upstairs in the pitt. Just walk me to the elevator and we’ll be up there pretty quick.
He nods as you grab onto his bicep for support.
Once in the elevator he quickly hits the third floor button.
You groan as another contraction hits.
“Fuuuuck, this shit hurts.”
Frank huff out a laugh
“Yeah I can imagine but in no time she’ll b-“
His words are cut off by the elevator jostling as it comes to a complete stop.
Your eyes widen but this time in fear.
“Frank, what’s happening?”
He hits the third floor button again.
Then again and again.
“I-I uh I don’t know.”
You both look up at the floor indicator and in bright red it reads
‘Error’
No, no this can’t be happening.
Not here.
You lean forward a bit and hit the emergency button.
“Someone will come soon,” Frank says, sending a text to your guys.
Now all you can do is wait.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Jack and Robby are at the nurses station going over a patient’s file.
They’re both getting to leave soon but are mostly waiting for you to make an appearance so they can take you home.
You're so close to your due date and they want you resting and comfortable until your daughter arrives.
They laugh at the comment the patient left when suddenly there’s a commotion of voices.
Gloria passes with some maintenance workers in a slightly heated discussion.
“Hey Gloria,” Robby stops her “What's going on?”
She shakes her head in annoyance.
“One of the elevators broke down between floors and we have people inside. The system's jammed and the guys can't figure out a solution” she sighs.
“Oh and the kicker is one of the people inside is a woman that went into labor not too long ago.”
The sentence causes both men to freeze.
She has to be talking about some other pregnant woman.
Not their girlfriend.
Not you.
“Which one?” Jack manages to get out.
Gloria pulls her phone away from her ear.
“The second set on the south end of the pitt.”
As soon as she says that, Jack and Robby make a mad dash down the hall.
—
Once they reach the elevators, they see some people already gathered around a small opening where it seems they attempted to pry the doors open.
Robby is the first to get on the ground to look into the opening and the sight grips his heart.
He looks down and sees you sitting on the ground with your back against the wall, head leaned back and clearly in pain.
Across from you is the main topic of pain for him, Frank.
He shakes his head as he looks back at you.
“Baby, hey, baby I’m here.”
Your eyes open tiredly but that doesn't stop a smile from forming.
“Robby, you're here.”
His eyes start to water as he smiles back.
“Yeah pretty girl, ‘course I am. Jack too.”
Jack pops his head beside him.
“Hey sweetheart, how are my girls?” he asks with concern.
They watch you take deep breaths and wince a bit.
“I’m–I’m okay” your hand touches your stomach “She’s good too, I think. Ready to meet her daddies.” a tired laugh escapes you.
“You’re doing amazing, baby. We're gonna get some supplies for you both.”
You nod as Frank continues to hold your hand in support.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You keep breathing through the contractions, wishing you could have an epidural.
Wishing this wasn't how you were gonna bring your baby girl into the world.
“Okay, Frank take this” Jack passes down some supplies through the opening.
The bag holds PPE, drapes, warming blankets for once she’s born, and other items for an emergency birth.
“Alright now we need to see how dilated you are sweetheart.”
Your eyes widen and you look at Frank.
He lifts both hands up “Hey, I’m all you’ve got and I’m qualified.”
You roll your eyes.
“Frank, you might be my best friend but nowhere in the timeline of our friendship did I ever envision you seeing my vagina, let alone sticking your fingers in there.”
“Yeah not my favorite thing either” Robby interjects from above you.
You turn your head to him with a look of annoyance.
“Whatever,” Frank mumbles and then looks at you “Look, I'll be quick but this is for the benefit of you and my goddaughter. That’s all.”
You clench your eyes close and nod as another contraction hits.
He hands you a small blanket to hold over your lap as he pulls your scrub pants and underwear down. He puts a pair of gloves on and looks you in the eyes briefly.
“Okay, just breathe.”
He checks and you look at the ceiling of the elevator to distract yourself.
“So, you're around 7 centimeters dilated. She’ll be coming soon.”
Your heart races a little.
Shit, things are about to get real really soon.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Another hour of contractions rolls around and everything is situated for you. Frank helps settle you on a sterile blanket, another draped over your exposed waist, and he takes your vitals to make sure you're okay.
Jack and Robby both stay at the opening to have eyes on you and make sure everything is going as best as it can.
Just as another contraction passes you feel pressure down in your pelvic area.
“U-Uh Frank, something doesn't feel right.”
The words alert your guys.
“Honey what do you mean? Frank check her now.” Robby directs.
He pulls on another pair of gloves and checks you again.
“Okay, nobody panic,” he takes a breath “but I can feel her head.”
Your heart starts racing as it all starts sinking in.
I’m having a baby.
In an elevator.
This isn't part of the plan.
No, no, no I cant do this.
Tears start falling.
“I cant do this, I cant do it.”
“Hey, don’t say that baby. You’re ready. You always have been. We’ve waited for this day and it's here. Our daughter is about to be here.” Robby tries to reassure you.
“I know this isn't what you planned but we’re all here.”
He looks to Frank, “We’re all here.”
Frank looks back and nods.
—
Robby hadn’t been handling Frank’s return well. He couldn’t forgive him quite yet and it caused strain in all capacities.
Frank had done everything he could after coming back from rehab to make things right with Jack and Robby. Jack was quick to forgive but Robby held out.
Until now.
Frank hadn’t been around your whole pregnancy, something that you wouldn’t admit hurt. He was your best friend and you missed him while he was gone. When he returned, you deemed him godfather of your baby, to the dismay of Robby.
But he was here now and Robby could acknowledge that. He was here when Robby and Jack couldn't be to the full extent.
He was here when it would matter the most.
—
Robby looks directly at him.
“Frank,” he blinks back some tears “Keep them safe…Please keep my girls safe. I trust you.”
Robby didn't have to say it clearly but that sentence alone let Frank know that Robby was giving him another chance.
Forgiving him.
That he was putting a new foot forward.
And he wouldn’t let you guys down.
Not again.
“I promise.”
Then he turns to you.
“Hey, hey Pea, look at me. You’ve got this. Your guys got you from there” he points at Jack and Robby “And I’ve got you here. Right here, right now.”
You nod shakily.
He chuckles a little "You're about to be a mom.”
A smile breaks out on your face through the tears “I’m gonna be a mom.
“Alright mom, let's get your girl here.”
You take a deep breath as you lean back a little to situate yourself.
He pulls on fresh gloves and readies the baby blanket.
“Okay, next contraction I need you to bear down and push.”
You take steadying breaths as you brace yourself.
When the contraction hits you bring your chin to your chest and push.
“You’re doing great sweetheart!” Jack speaks up from the opening.
Robby watches with rapt attention “C’mon baby, you’ve got this!”
You take the encouraging words through each push during every contraction.
After an hour, your body is exhausted but you continue through it.
The next push feels like your body is on fire and being torn open. You yell out as you push.
“Alright her head’s out. Just one more push and she’ll be right out.”
“One more baby, I can see that head of hair!” Robby chuckles as his eyes fill with happy tears.
“Bring our daughter here, honey. She’s right there!” Jack’s voice mixes with Robby’s.
You focus all your attention and strength on this last push and you bear down, hard.
It only lasts a minute and then you feel relief.
The silence is deafening,
Until a cry pierces through the air.
You open your eyes to see Frank lift a small body so you can see.
Your daughter.
She’s here.
“Congrats mama!” he smiles at you.
You start to cry tears of happiness at the sight of her.
Frank then cuts the cord, cleans her off and checks her basic vitals.
He helps you take your scrub top and bra off and lays her on your chest, pulling your cardigan back around you.
“Hey sweet girl” you whisper as you run a gentle finger against her cheek.
You sniffle and look up at your boyfriends with a wobbly smile, both visibly in tears as they look at you.
Their girls.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Within the next hour, maintenance finally resolves the technical issues and has the elevator working again.
You and baby girl are whisked away to a room where you both are thoroughly checked and monitored.
—
After all the chaos and excitement, you're settled in a bed with Robby sitting at your feet and Jack sitting beside you.
No one can take their eyes off the newest member of the family.
She’s wrapped in a blanket you had packed in the go bag and fast asleep in Jack’s hold.
He gently runs a finger across her cheek, arm securely around her small body.
“Hey tiny girl,” he whispers “Mama, Pops and Papa love you so much. You're the best thing that’s ever happened to us. We’ll always have your back, I promise.”
You lean your head on his shoulder while your heart melts at his words.
“We’re the luckiest girls” you murmur.
Robby huffs out a laugh
“No baby, we’re the luckiest guys. You gave us your love,” he looks at Jack holding their daughter “and then you gave us the world. Couldn’t thank you enough for that.”
You watch as a tear falls down his face.
The moment is then interrupted by a knock on the open door of the room.
Frank stands waiting with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey guys, just wanted to check and make sure everyone was good.”
You nod and hold a hand out to him, motioning him to you.
He comes to your unoccupied side.
You pull him into a tight side hug.
“Thank you for everything you did today Frank. I couldn't have done it without you.”
A slight blush covers his face while he shakes his head.
“You didn’t need me, you did all the hard work.”
Robby lays a hand on his shoulder and grips firmly.
“No bud, you did what me and Jack couldn't do today. You stayed calm and you kept our girls safe. I know shit’s been rough these last several months but I mean it when I say I couldn’t ask for a better person and friend to have done what you did today.”
He lets out a shaky breath “I’ve been awful and unfair to you since you’ve been back. And I'm sorry. Please.… forgive me.”
Frank smiles and nods.
“Of course, Robby."
He claps his hands together gently and then turns towards you.
“Alright, so what’s my goddaughter’s name?” breaking the emotional atmosphere with the long awaited question.
You look at Jack and Robby and they both nod at you. Jack hands the sleeping baby to you and you motion for Frank to take her.
He holds her carefully like she’s glass and looks back to you.
“Frank, meet your goddaughter, Amara Francine Abbot-Robinavitch.”
He freezes at the mention of her middle name.
“W-What?” he says, eyes watering.
He looks at the ceiling while swaying Amara gently, willing the tears to not fall.
“An ode to my greatest friend. Love you Frank.” you smile at him, leaning against Jack.
He nods still looking at the ceiling.
In that moment he’s grateful that you’re his friend.
Summary: Over your pregnancy sex has decreased in frequency, and it leads you to believe that maybe Jack's attraction to you has waned.
Contents: Jack Abbot x afab!reader, lactation kink (if you don't like DNI), pregnancy, smut, piv, a lil hurt with lots of comfort, body insecurities.
Note: this was a request that was supposed to just be a blurb, but it ended up being a little longer, so i figured i'd call it a oneshot and do the aesthetics as well. a little nervous posting this one, but what the hell. Embrace the freak or whateva! Credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider.
Word Count: 1.4k
Ao3 Link: read here!
It’s not that you expected the frequency of sex to remain the same throughout your pregnancy. Hell, there are times where intimacy has been scarce before. Life gets busy. Sometimes those sorts of things fall to the wayside. It feels different lately, though. And maybe that’s just you getting into your own head. You tend to do that.
Trouble is, your body is changing—every day it’s changing, and in ways you don’t always find easy to reconcile with. Sometimes it’s hard to look in the mirror and appreciate any of what you see. So is it really that farfetched to assume that Jack might feel the same way—that his attraction has waned over the past several months?
After weeks of him constantly side stepping intimacy, you decide, one evening, to give it one last try. You doll yourself up, shave as best you can given the constraints your pregnancy puts on you, and wrap yourself in a silk robe.
You feel a bit ridiculous, posing in what you hope is an alluring manner on the bed. Jack hardly looks up as he enters the room and sits at the edge of the mattress. Your confidence, as fickle as ever, shrinks a few sizes. He grunts as he doffs his prosthetic, leaning down to massage his leg.
You swallow hard and shuffle closer, sidling up to him so you can press a kiss to his jaw. One hand lands on his thigh, fingers trekking upwards. He shrugs you off, rolling his shoulders.
“You should get some rest, sweetheart.”
The rejection feels sharper than usual. You think because this time you’re trying—really trying and he barely looks at you. Maybe it’s worse than you thought. Is he so repulsed that he can’t even bring himself to look at you for more than a few seconds? You feel like an idiot for attempting to make something happen.
“Jack,” you begin, failing to keep your voice as prim and even as you want to. “It’s okay if you’re not attracted to me anymore, but please tell me so I can stop making a fool of myself.”
A silence presides over the room, so potent you could hear a pin drop. His movements still completely. Then he whips his head around so fast that you swear, if you were none the wiser, you would be convinced that you’ve just shot him straight through the chest.
The utter shock on his face makes you feel crazy. You have half the mind to start back pedaling, but you’ve already hit the gas on this conversation. There’s no turning back now. The damage is done.
He opens his mouth then closes it. You have rendered your husband, who can rarely ever shut his mouth, speechless. Absent-mindedly, you fiddle with the hem of your robe, waiting for him to muster up his next words.
His eyes elevator down then back up your figure. Jack has been your comfort person for so long you forgot how it is to feel as though you’re under his scrutiny. You hate feeling the innate need to shield your body from a gaze that has never looked at you with anything but admiration before.
“What are you talking about?”
“This—whatever is going on.” You gesture vaguely between you. “You barely look at me, let alone touch me.”
Shock resurfaces on his face. Then his brows pinch together, and you watch the gears turn as he retraces every moment over the past couple weeks. Dragging one leg up onto the bed, he scoots closer and cups your face.
The fragility with which he speaks brings you back down to earth, urging you out of the storm that has been silently brewing for weeks.
“I’ve been withholding because I worry about losing myself in the heat of the moment,” he says, holding your gaze firm. “I am incredibly attracted to you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass, Jack,” you huff. All this worry and insecurity because Jack didn’t think himself capable of being gentle enough with you. It would be endearing if you weren’t terribly sexually frustrated. It feels like a lot of time has been wasted—opportunities let slip away.
“I know. I know…” he says, eyes deliberately raking over you again. “Very pregnant, and so fuckin’ sexy for it.”
“You’re laying it on pretty thick there.” You want to give him a hard time—make him really grovel for it, but you are so pent up that you’re not sure how long you can deny him. He frowns, and his eyes look so sad that you nearly give in at the mere sight.
“I’m sorry I made you feel anything less than beautiful,” he says. “I shouldn’t have made any decisions for you.”
You turn your head to the side in an attempt to avoid falling back under his spell.
“I’d like to make it up to you, baby,” he continues, and you’re sure that if you let him, he would talk your ear off for an eternity. “I’ve been pent up myself here…”
“And whose fault is that?” The look you give him is scalding. He offers you a sheepish smile in return.
“Your idiot husband’s.”
“Yeah, my idiot husband’s,” you echo as the space between you narrows. His lips meet yours in a heated kiss. He licks into your mouth. Your axis tilts, and you land flat on the bed. He moves to occupy the space above you. A soft sound wells up your throat when he pulls away.
“Oh fuck…” he hisses. You follow his gaze to your chest where two damp patches have formed in the silky fabric over your nipples. His eyes flick up to you, pupils dilated. “When did this start?”
His fingers are already tucking themselves into the waist tie of your robe before you can reply.
“A couple days ago,” you say. He makes quick work of the knot and your robe falls open. “Didn’t want to give you another reason to find me unattractive.”
He fits your swollen breasts into the broad cradle of his palms, attention locked onto where pearlescent liquid trickles in continuous droplets.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he says. His thumb swipes up a droplet and he brings it to his mouth. You watch as his eyes flutter shut and a groan swells from his chest at the taste of you. He immediately brings his hand back down, massaging your breasts and watching in fascination as thin rivulets pour down your skin. “I’m crazy about you.”
It’s difficult to deny such a statement when his erection is pressing incessantly against your thigh. One of his hands coasts down your body, stopping only once he’s cupped it over your glistening cunt. He slides three fingers over the seam, dipping down to prod at your entrance.
“I need you—now!” You whine, bucking your hips. It’s been too long, and your patience has worn extremely thin.
“Mhm? Okay,” he murmurs, withdrawing to ruck his pants and underwear down. He gives his cock a few firm strokes before lining himself up with your entrance and slowly pushing in. You mewl at the stretch.
Slowly, he begins to rut into you. His attention fixates on your breasts that bounce with every thrust, your nipples still dribbling milk. He moans lowly, unable to resist for much longer.
“Can I?” His head dips down. You feel his hot breath fan over damp skin and shudder.
“You mean—You want to…?”
“There’s nothing I want more right now.” He hovers a second longer before latching onto one nipple, and giving a gentle suck. His hips stutter as a strangled noise escapes him. You cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in sandy grey curls. He reaches between you to toy with your clit.
“Jack…!” you keen, consumed by a multitude of sensations. He hums, pulling off of you with a wet pop. Next, he’s leaning down and dragging your other nipple into his mouth. It’s so much all at once. Your body shakes apart, tensing up and then going listless. He bottoms out one last time, pouring himself into you while he smothers himself in your tits.
It takes him another couple moments to withdraw, lifting his head to meet your gaze. He looks a mess, but satisfied—that smirk of his twitching at the corner of his lips.
꒰impatient꒱ husband!nanami almost missed his son's birth
꩜ angst to fluff; comfort. art by @/mamitasoa7x0312
Nanami's heart beat louder than it ever had as he drove to you.
Ignoring every traffic light and speed limit. This wasn't like him, but he could feel bad about it later. Right now, there was only thing he had to do – get to you.
As fast as he fucking could.
Were you scared? Were you in pain?
Of course you were in pain.
And he wasn't there.
His foot slammed the accelerator again, the hospital building finally coming into view up ahead.
It wasn't meant to happen this early, he was caught off guard at work – but as soon as your anxious voice reached him from the phone and tried to explain that your water had broke, he left the office without a word. Later he'd notice the missed calls from his boss, but again – he didn't care.
Everything was out the window the minute you needed him.
You were in pain. You were having his baby.
What was supposed to be a joyous moment shared by the two of you, now meant nothing but fear from both sides.
Another traffic light ignored, but it was finally the last one.
The nurse must have thought he was losing his mind when he reached the front desk, giving her your name through ragged breaths. "Mr. Nanami?" she tried to confirm, and he only managed an exhausted nod.
His hair was a mess, tie undone, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. But when the nurse finally showed him the way, Nanami followed close, almost overtaking her as if this was a race.
And finally, the sterile hospital corridor led to a door, and the door led to you.
Looking as sweaty as he was, holding your swollen belly with two hands, face twisting in pain.
But when you saw him, something visibly changed – your breathing hitched, your shoulders dropped, and the pain gave way to a smile. One the two of you desperately needed.
"Ken?" you whispered, tears already slipping through your beautiful cheeks.
"I'm here" he rushed to your side, sitting next to your bed and placing both hands on top of yours. On your stomach, near your son. "I am so sorry, my love" he took one to kiss your knuckles, the other gently rubbing your skin, small circles he hoped might settle the two of you.
"I'm so happy you're here" you cried, interlocking your fingers with his, the golden wedding band glistening in the cold overhead light.
"What did the doctors say? Do you need anything? Water? How bad is the pain? Is he ok?" Nanami wasn't even sure what he was saying, just going through the practicals first. As if you knew it was the only way to help him relax, you let out a soft giggle.
"Everything is fine" you reassured, looking down at your stomach and the person you had been waiting months to meet.
Nanami followed your gaze, taking his eyes from you for the first time. He brought his body forwards a little, leaning over to press a kiss just above your belly button. "Already impatient, just like your mother" he shook his head, finally allowing himself to relax.
"I'm not sure about that" you smiled. "Looks like he was ready and didn't want to do overtime, like someone I know"
Nanami looked up at you then, letting out a small chuckle himself. He pushed up, cupping your cheek gently. "He's perfect" he said, with a kiss to your forehead. "So I'm sure he takes after you"
In your husband's embrace, you finally began to breathe a little easier. The pain was coming and going, getting more intense with every contraction, but Nanami was right there holding your hand, rubbing your back, instructing you through breathing exercises.
His brows furrowed when you groaned, wishing he could take all the pain from you and give to himself. But he didn't let you see him so worried – Nanami was completely focused on you.
"You're doing so well" he kissed your shoulder when it hurt too much. "I love you" he whispered, as you almost broke his hand with how hard you squeezed it.
Nanami didn't care about anything else in the world right now, just his two favourite people. The one in his arms, and the one he was about to meet.
areudirty
titsay
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