with the winter olympics coming up, can we just take a moment to think about boyfriend!bucky supporting his figure skater!girlfriend at the games?!? i so strongly that this man would pull out ALLLL the stops for her and if she won gold?! game over!
I too feel strongly about this nonny
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You spot him before you spot the cameras.
Not because he’s subtle—he isn’t. Not because he’s tucked in with the coaches—he isn’t. No, you see him because of course your boyfriend is the only man in a 20,000-seat Olympic arena holding a six-foot banner that reads GO MY GIRL OR I RIOT in sparkly silver letters.
Oh, and because he’s wearing your national team jacket.
And a matching scarf.
And face paint.
And—god help you—a foam finger.
You step onto the ice and swear you feel it shift under your blades from how hard he’s yelling.
“THAT’S MY GIRL! THAT’S MY GOLD!” Bucky’s voice booms over a hundred thousand others like he’s powered by pure devotion instead of lungs. He’s standing, hands cupped around his mouth, not caring that he’s surrounded by other skaters’ families. They stare; he beams. His entire soul is shaped like a man who would bulldoze the Olympic committee if it meant he could get closer to the barrier.
You laugh under your breath as you take your opening pose.
God, you love him.
God, he’s ridiculous.
God, you need him to stop making you smile like this before a technical panel calls you out for being distracted.
The music begins—soft, lilting, slow. And suddenly everything narrows to the slice of cold beneath your blades and the warm, steady weight of Bucky’s love anchored somewhere in the stands.
Your first jump comes easy, your body remembering what your brain refuses to—you are good enough to be here. The crowd roars when you land it clean. You don’t look toward the boards, but you don’t have to. You feel the exact moment Bucky leaps out of his seat like gravity doesn’t apply to people in love.
Halfway through your step sequence, your eyes flick toward him.
He’s crying.
Of course he is.
The world’s deadliest hands, the bluest eyes, the softest heart—your heart—clutching that banner like a lifeline as tears streak two perfect lines through his patriotic face paint.
You bite back a grin. Focus. Spin. Breathe. Leap.
Your final combination is the risky one—you and your coach fought about it for months. And Bucky… he never once doubted you. Not once. Every late night, every ice bath, every frustrated sob in the car after practice, he was the one saying, You’re going to nail it on the night that matters. I know you, doll. You always do.
So you go for it.
One rotation.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Your blade cuts through the ice with a crack that sounds like destiny.
You land.
And the arena explodes.
But even the eruption of thousands can’t drown out the one voice you are somehow always attuned to.
“THAT’S MY OLYMPIAN! THAT’S MY CHAMPION! THAT’S MY—” his voice cracks, “—FUCKING SUPERHERO!”
You finish the program breathless, trembling, joy flooding every vein in your body. You take your final pose, chest heaving, eyes stinging. A wave of sound crashes over you as the crowd rises to their feet.
You can feel him standing somewhere behind it all—your anchor, your storm, your safe place.
When you skate off, the moment you cross the curtain, Bucky barrels into the backstage hallway like security has absolutely tried—and failed—to stop him.
He catches you mid-stride, lifting you off your skates like you weigh nothing. “Baby,” he gasps, voice thick, arms locked around you, “you flew out there. I swear you had wings. I swear I saw them.”
You laugh into his chest because he means it. He genuinely thinks you touched the heavens and brought something back with you.
“Buck—put me down, I’m gonna break my blades.”
He does not put you down.
He just reorients you so he can kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, your nose—every part of you he can reach without dropping you. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So proud I don’t even know what to do with myself. My heart’s doing somersaults. I might faint. Don’t let me faint on TV.”
You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he corrects seriously. “That’s different. That’s terminal.”
Before you can argue, an official calls your name to the kiss-and-cry. Bucky sets you down gently—finally—but then grabs your hands, eyes bright, voice trembling.
“No matter what the score is, you hear me? You already won. You won me months ago.”
You roll your eyes. “I don’t think that counts as an Olympic medal.”
“It should,” he mutters. “Gold level boyfriend right here.”
You squeeze his fingers and head with him toward the cameras. He’s vibrating beside you—nervous, excited, in awe.
The scores appear.
Your breath catches.
World record.
Olympic record.
Gold medal level.
The arena goes ballistic, but Bucky goes absolutely feral.
He grabs you, spins you off your feet, kissing you like there aren’t a dozen cameras pointed your way. “BABY! BABY, YOU DID IT! GOLD! GOLD! GOLD!” His voice breaks into a laugh so wet and wild you ache with love for him.
“Buck,” you wheeze, tears streaming, “I can’t breathe—”
“You don’t need air, you need—” he kisses you again “—a medal and—” another kiss “—me screaming for the rest of my life.”
Later, on the podium, he’s somehow found a second banner.
This one reads: MARRY ME OR SKATE HOME.
You don’t even know how he smuggled it in.
You catch his eyes in the crowd—blue, soaking wet, overflowing—and shake your head, smiling so hard your chest hurts.
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader
♡ cw: surprise pregnancy, emotional overload, soft domesticity, intense future-dad energy, crying (from both of you probably)
♡ a/n: it was just a quiet moment. a mirror, a whisper, a practice run.
you never thought he’d hear it. but he does. and suddenly the man who’s always had the answers… doesn’t. he stares at you like you just rewrote the stars—like you handed him a universe he never believed he could have. just something a bit shorter i thought of quickly on the plane.
Caleb
You’d been holding onto the test for days. Hidden behind the tea tins in the kitchen, tucked into the box of your old journals.
Not because you were scared.
But because you wanted it to be perfect.
Caleb had been stretched thin lately—Fleet rotations, drills, calls from the UNICORN command deck at ungodly hours. And still, he always smiled at you like you were the only person on the planet who mattered.
You didn’t want to overload him.
So instead, you practiced.
Standing in front of the hallway mirror in one of his oversized T-shirts, bare feet on the cold tile, you ran through your lines again.
“So, remember how you said we should wait until we’re more ‘settled’?”
“...We’re gonna need to clear a second drawer in the dresser.”
“Do you think our kid would have your eyes or mine?”
You pause. Breathe out slowly. Then—
“Hey, Caleb?” you say softly to your reflection. “You’re gonna be a dad.”
You smile shyly at yourself.
Then you hear it.
The sound of something dropping—soft, like a jacket hitting the ground.
You whip around.
He’s there. Standing in the hallway.
Still wearing his flight jacket, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Just... frozen.
“…What did you just say?” His voice is hoarse. Disbelieving.
You go stock-still. “Caleb—wait, I—”
He crosses the space between you in two long strides, cupping your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.
“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You’re really…? You’re actually—?”
You nod.
For one breathless second, he just stares at you—eyes brimming. Then:
“I’m gonna be a dad?” he blurts, like the concept is too big to fit in his chest. “Me? I—we—holy shit—I’m gonna be a dad—”
He laughs through a choked-off sob, pressing frantic kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.
Then he’s pulling you into his arms so tightly your feet lift off the floor, spinning you in the middle of the hallway as if he has nowhere else to go but here—this moment, this joy, this forever.
When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead to yours, completely breathless.
“I swear to you,” he says, voice breaking, “I’m gonna be the best dad in the whole goddamn galaxy.”
And then, softer:
“Thank you. For making me the luckiest man alive. Again.”
Xavier
It’s been a rare stretch of stillness.
No alarms. No missions. No glowing swords by the front door.
Just you, Xavier, and the quiet rhythm of living together.
Tonight, he’s fast asleep on the couch—curled up with a book still resting on his chest, one arm draped lazily where you’d been sitting. He looked too peaceful to wake.
So you tiptoe to the bathroom, holding the little folded note you’d written earlier that day.
You read it softly to your reflection in the mirror—voice barely above a whisper:
“Hey… I know this probably isn’t how you imagined hearing it, but—”
“—you’re going to be a father.”
You pause. Swallow. Try again.
“We made a new little light. It’s… real. He or she is already glowing inside me.”
You smile nervously at your own reflection.
“And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”
You freeze when you hear it
A soft knock. Followed by the sound of your name, tentative and low.
You turn slowly—he’s in the doorway, barefoot and wide-eyed, hair still sleep-mussed. He’s holding the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing grounding him.
“…Did I just hear you say…?”
His voice is hushed. Fragile.
Your breath catches. You nod.
He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you—like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.
Then finally, he crosses the room and sinks to his knees in front of you. Gently, reverently, he presses his forehead to your stomach. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your thighs.
“This is…” he murmurs, voice catching, “...the kind of miracle I never let myself hope for.”
You thread your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you, and he’s smiling—but his lashes are wet.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “But I want to. With you.”
And when he rises and kisses you—slow, soft, like you’re something sacred—you realize he’s still processing, still stunned.
But beneath that?
He’s glowing.
Rafayel
You had waited until he was out back painting on the cliff edge—headphones in, shirtless, covered in streaks of indigo and gold. His art trance could last hours.
So you snuck into his studio.
The sunlight hit the floor like water. The room smelled like sea salt and oil paints. And there you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a folded-up sketchbook page clutched in your hands.
“So…” you said to your reflection, smiling nervously.
“I know we said ‘not yet.’ But um… turns out ‘yet’ is now.”
You pause. Swallow.
“You’re going to be a dad.”
You whisper it. Just once. And for a second, it feels real in the best, scariest way.
Then...
“...I’m going to be a what?”
You freeze.
He’s behind you in the doorway—barefoot, still holding a paintbrush, lips parted like he isn’t sure he actually heard you right.
“Say that again,” he says, softly. “Please.”
You whip around. “Raf—wait—I didn’t mean for you to—”
He walks in slowly. The brush falls from his fingers, forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the paper in your hand like it’s made of glass.
“You’re not joking, are you?” he asks.
“You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t…”
He trails off. Breath caught.
You shake your head. “I’m not joking.”
Silence.
One second. Two.
Then he cracks.
The grin splits across his face like a sunrise, wild and stunned and full of something bigger than joy. His hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor—and he’s laughing. Gasping.
“I—! Holy shit—I MADE SOMETHING WITH YOU THAT WASN’T A MESS!”
He kisses you like you’re both a sunrise and a masterpiece—soft, shaky, endless. Then, quieter, pressing his forehead to yours:
“I can’t believe I’m going to get to teach someone how to make terrible jokes and beautiful chaos.”
Then he slides to his knees, presses his cheek to your stomach, and whispers in Lemurian:
“I love you already, little fish.”
Zayne
The house is quiet.
Zayne’s been in the study for hours—medical articles spread across the desk, old records murmuring from the speakers like white noise. You’d meant to go in and ask what he wanted for dinner.
Instead… you found yourself in the mirror. Holding a note you’d written for him days ago. You just needed to practice saying it out loud.
“I know we said not until things slow down,” you whisper. “But… maybe life had other plans.”
You pause. Then say it slowly:
“You’re going to be a father.”
The words feel strange and huge. Like trying to name a star.
You don’t notice the soft click of the door behind you.
Zayne’s voice cuts through the stillness.
Low. Careful.
“...What did you just say?”
You turn.
He’s standing in the doorway with his wire-frame glasses still on, fingers curled slightly at his sides. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—tension, awe, disbelief all braided together.
“I—” you start, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just—practicing.”
“So it’s… real?” he asks. Voice barely a whisper.
You shake your head. “It’s real.”
His eyes drop slightly—to your stomach. Then back up to your face.
He doesn’t move for a long, long moment. You see him run the calculations, review the mental charts, search for a breath.
But none of that matters now.
He crosses the room slowly, carefully, and takes both of your hands. His grip is warm, steady—but trembling at the edges.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve held thousands of hearts in my hands. But this…”
His throat tightens. He exhales hard. Then carefully lowers to his knees.
He presses his cheek gently against your belly.
“This is the most terrifying and miraculous thing I’ve ever been trusted with.”
And then, softer:
“You’re not alone in this. Ever.”
You run your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, holding your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of your future.
Sylus
You thought he was out late.
Protocore deal. Something classified and criminally vague. You’d texted him goodnight hours ago and assumed he’d stay gone until morning.
So you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, holding a tiny plushie you bought earlier that day on impulse—a blue stuffed crow, with little red eyes.
You glance toward the bedroom mirror and whisper softly, just testing the words
“You’re going to be a dad.”
You hug the crow closer to your chest. Try again.
“I know that probably sounds… impossible. But it’s happening. We’re happening.”
Your voice wavers. You smile to yourself, imagining his face. His reaction.
“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “But if anyone can protect this kid—it’s you.”
“...Wow.”
You jolt upright, spinning around.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—like he’s still buffering.
“Sylus—I didn’t—how long have you been—?”
“Long enough,” he murmurs. “Long enough to think you were rehearsing lines for a drama. But now…”
He steps into the room slowly, almost cautiously.
“You’re serious.”
“You’re actually…?”
“You and me and… a kid?”
You nod. Gulp. “I just—I wanted to tell you right, I didn’t want to drop it on you after work, and—”
He tosses the jacket aside and crosses the room in three fast strides, pulling you into his arms so hard your breath leaves you.
“You are never allowed to tell me something like that while wearing my hoodie and holding a crow plush again,” he mutters into your neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just tightens his arms around you.
“...I didn’t think I’d get this,” he whispers.
You blink.
“I knew how to lead, how to protect, how to hurt. But this? Family?”
“I didn’t think I was allowed to have something this good.”
Then he pulls back—just far enough to rest a hand over your stomach.
And you swear, even in the low light, he’s shaking.
“No one touches either of you without going through me,” he says, soft and deadly. “Got it?”
“This kid is going to grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.”
And then—he kisses you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.
Today is a very special day in the calendar of Night Raven College! It is December 2nd, which marks the birthday of our resident Hunter of Love, the Vice-Dorm Leader of Pomefiore, Monsieur Rook Hunt!
For a man who spends his entire life chasing beauty in others, it is only fitting that we turn the lens upon him for one day. He is usually the observer, the one writing the poems and singing the praises. Today, he must learn to sit still and be the celebrated one.
The kitchen has prepared a Manager's Specialty Pasta in his honor. This is a dish of romance, poetic justice, and the beauty of being seen.
Happy Birthday, Rook Hunt!
Serving: The Hunter Becomes the Muse
The Pomefiore ballroom was quiet, the after-party cleanup already handled by the lowerclassmen under Vil’s strict supervision. The celebration had been elegant, of course—Vil would allow nothing less—but throughout the toasts and the gifts, Rook Hunt had remained exactly who he always was: the observer.
He had praised the cake’s symmetry. He had composed an impromptu sonnet about Epel’s frantic wrapping paper tearing. He had complimented Vil’s choice of decor. He had deflected every compliment aimed at himself, turning it back outward like a mirror.
Now, he was gone.
You found him exactly where you expected: on the highest balcony of the dorm, braving the December chill. He was leaning against the stone railing, his signature hat tipped back, gazing up at the waxing moon.
"Rook?"
He turned immediately, his movement fluid and silent. A wide, bright smile broke across his face the moment he saw you.
"Ah! Mon amour!" he greeted, extending a hand to beckon you closer. "You have found me! Come, look at the moon tonight. Is she not magnificent? A pearl in a sea of velvet ink! C'est magnifique!"
You took his hand, letting him pull you into his side. He was warm despite the cold air, his energy buzzing as it always did.
"The moon is nice, Rook," you said, squeezing his hand. "But I didn't come out here to look at the moon. I came to look at the birthday boy."
Rook laughed, a light, airy sound. "Moi? Oh, non, my Trickster. I am merely the audience. The world is the stage. To focus on the observer is to miss the play!"
"See," you sighed, shaking your head fondly. "That is exactly why I got you this."
You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a small, flat package wrapped in simple brown paper. It wasn't the flashy, expensive gifts he had received earlier.
Rook blinked, his green eyes widening with genuine curiosity. "Another treasure? You spoil me, truly. What marvel have you found?"
"Open it."
He undid the string with careful fingers. He pulled away the paper.
It was a sketchbook. But not a blank one.
You had spent months filling it. It wasn't filled with drawings of landscapes, or Vil, or the "beautiful" things Rook usually chased.
It was filled with him.
There was a sketch of him laughing at lunch, messy and unposed. A drawing of him focused intently on a target at the archery range, the fierce intensity in his eyes. A quick doodle of him sleeping in the lounge, his hat askew.
Rook flipped through the pages. He went silent. The constant stream of poetry and praise died in his throat. He stopped on a page near the end—a detailed portrait of him looking at you, his expression soft, unguarded, and full of love.
"You always look at everyone else, Rook," you said softly, watching his face. "You're always hunting for beauty in the world. I wanted to show you what I see. I wanted to show you that you're not just the camera. You're the art."
Rook stared at the drawing. His gloved thumb traced the line of his own jaw on the paper.
"This is..." his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, stripped of its theatrical projection. "This is how you see me?"
"That's the real Rook," you confirmed. "The one who isn't performing. The one who loves deeply. That's the most beautiful thing I know."
He slowly closed the book, holding it against his chest as if to shield it from the wind. He raised his head, and you saw that his eyes were shimmering.
"I have spent a lifetime hunting," he whispered, stepping closer to you. He placed a hand on your cheek, his touch feather-light. "I search for the spark. The fleur of truth. I did not realize..."
He let out a shaky breath, a smile touching his lips—not his bright, hunter's grin, but a small, vulnerable curve.
"...I did not realize how it felt to be the one caught."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.
"You have captured me, mon âme. Completely. This... this is the finest gift I have ever received. Not because it is an image of me, but because it is a reflection of your love."
He kissed you then, under the pearl-moon he admired so much. It was a slow, reverent kiss, a promise from the Hunter that, for once, he was content to stop running and simply be held.
"Happy Birthday, Rook," you whispered against his lips.
" Merci," he breathed. "My beautiful, beautiful artist."
A "dish" served with reflection, art, and a captured heart! The kitchen hopes this birthday tribute was to your satisfaction.
Could you write something for P1H with a pregnant reader like hearing the heartbeat for the first time or going for the first scan, the sweet stuff you know🥹
pairing: P1Harmony x pregnant!reader
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of unplanned pregnancy, soft angst, nervousness, anxiety, but loooots of Fluff
disclaimer: not my pic!
Happy new Year!!!!!!!!
Keeho
The drive to the doctor’s office was filled with Keeho’s chatter — mostly jokes that didn’t quite land. He had been cracking them since breakfast, as if laughter could drown out the nerves pulsing beneath his skin.
“So, uh,” he said as you parked, “what if the baby’s already more fashionable than me? I’m not sure I can handle that kind of competition.”
You gave him a look, and he only grinned wider, drumming his fingers on his knee. His leg bounced the whole way to the waiting room, the rhythm quick and uneven.
When your name was called, Keeho sprang up as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Showtime,” he whispered dramatically, squeezing your hand.
Inside, the doctor greeted you both with a warm smile and began asking routine questions — how you were feeling, any morning sickness, diet, etc.
Before you could even answer, Keeho jumped in.
“She’s been craving pickles like it’s a full-time job,” he said, voice light and teasing. “I think we might need to start investing in a pickle company.”
You sighed, shooting him a glare. “Keeho.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was a nervous quiver in his grin. “What? I’m contributing.”
The doctor chuckled softly, typing notes into the computer. “First-time parents?”
Keeho nodded. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little,” she said, amused. “Let’s take a look at your baby, shall we?”
Keeho’s face instantly went serious — for about two seconds. Then he turned to you, eyes wide with mock concern.
“Wait, do you have to, like… strip down for this?”
You groaned. “Oh my god.”
The doctor smiled patiently. “Just the belly. Nothing more.”
“Oh, good,” Keeho said, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. “I wasn’t prepared for a full cinematic experience.”
You smacked his arm lightly, but he only grinned again — a nervous tic dressed up as confidence.
When the gel touched your skin, the coolness made you flinch, and Keeho immediately tensed beside you. His hand hovered awkwardly before resting gently on your arm. The doctor pressed the probe against your belly, eyes focused on the monitor.
A grainy image flickered to life — black, white, and gray shadows swirling until they shaped into something small, precious, and alive.
“See right there,” the doctor said softly, pointing to a tiny pulsing spot on the screen, “that’s your baby’s heartbeat.”
Keeho froze.
The room, so full of his jokes and nervous laughter a moment ago, fell utterly silent. His fingers tightened around yours. The joking smile slipped away, replaced by something raw — awe, disbelief, maybe even a touch of fear.
The doctor nodded. “That’s your baby. Everything looks healthy and perfect for this stage.”
Keeho swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. “Wow,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “That’s—wow.”
You turned your head to look at him, and your heart softened. The man who’d been joking his way through every ounce of tension was suddenly undone by a tiny heartbeat on a glowing screen.
He didn’t speak again for the rest of the scan. He just stared, silent and still, his thumb tracing circles over your hand.
When the doctor printed out the photo, Keeho took it like it was made of glass. He stared down at it, expression unreadable, then finally exhaled a shaky laugh.
“She’s really in there,” he said quietly, eyes misty. “Or he. Or… they.” He looked up at you, a small, disbelieving smile curving his lips. “We made that. We actually made that.”
For once, there was no joke — just pure, trembling wonder.
Theo
Theo had spent the entire morning reading articles, blogs, and medical studies — half of which you suspected were written for doctors, not expectant fathers. He’d muttered things like “week twelve fetal development” under his breath as if he were cramming for an exam. By the time you reached the clinic, he looked calm on the surface, but the tension in his jaw told a different story.
When the doctor finally entered the room, Theo’s whole body straightened. His eyes locked onto the man like a detective observing a suspect. Every movement, every word — analyzed.
The doctor smiled politely. “You must be Theo and—”
“Yes,” Theo said quickly, his tone polite but firm. “You’re Dr. Kim, right? Residency at Seoul Hospital? You’ve been practicing for, what, twelve years?”
You blinked. “Theo stop it”
He didn’t look away from the doctor. “Just… confirming.”
The doctor laughed softly. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
Theo gave a tight-lipped smile, as if that were a compliment and a warning at the same time. You leaned toward him and whispered, “You seriously need to calm down.”
“I am calm,” he muttered back, though the way his foot tapped against the floor said otherwise.
The doctor began preparing the ultrasound machine, humming quietly as he applied gel to your belly. Theo’s gaze followed every move like he was watching a delicate operation.
“Is that… normal gel?” he asked suddenly.
The doctor nodded, amused. “Completely normal.”
Theo nodded back, slow and cautious, as if he were granting permission.
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re going to interrogate him the whole appointment, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer — just reached over and grabbed your hand, thumb rubbing the back of it like he was trying to ground himself.
Then the monitor flickered to life. The grainy swirl of light and shadow shifted until a small shape appeared in the middle of the screen. The doctor moved the probe slightly, and the sound filled the room — a soft, rhythmic thump.
Your breath caught. Theo’s grip on your hand tightened instantly. His eyes widened, his usual composed expression dissolving into awe.
“That…” he whispered, voice cracking. “That’s—”
“Your baby,” the doctor said with a smile.
Theo leaned in closer, his other hand instinctively finding your shoulder as if to steady both of you. The sight had silenced his skepticism for the first time all day. He blinked, hard, his lips parting in a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
Then the questions began.
“Is that heartbeat rate okay? It sounds fast. Is fast good? The size — is it within range for this week? And that shadow there, is that—?”
The doctor chuckled, calm as ever. “All good signs. The heartbeat is perfect, the measurements are right on track, and that shadow is just part of the placenta developing. Completely normal.”
Theo nodded slowly, trying to absorb every word. You could almost see him mentally cross-referencing it with every article he’d read.
After a moment, he exhaled — a shaky, relieved breath. “Okay. Okay… that’s good.”
He looked at you then, his expression softening completely. “They’re really there,” he murmured. “Our baby.”
You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “Told you the doctor knew what he was doing.”
Theo let out a quiet laugh, still staring at the screen. “Guess I can trust him,” he admitted. “But only because he’s taking care of both of you.”
The doctor printed the image, handed it to you, and stepped out to give you a moment. Theo stayed where he was, eyes tracing the little outline on the photo like it was sacred.
He finally looked up, voice barely above a whisper. “I read so many things… but nothing said it would feel like this.”
You squeezed his hand. “Feels real now, doesn’t it?”
He smiled softly, the worry finally ebbing away. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the picture again. “Real — and perfect.”
Jiung
You should have known something was up when Jiung started poking the plastic uterus model in the waiting room like it was a puzzle cube he was trying to solve.
“So… wait,” he murmured, furrowing his brows. “That’s… the baby room? But then where does—”
“Jiung,” you hissed under your breath, glancing around.
He ignored you, pointing to the detachable model parts with the fascination of someone lost in a science exhibit. “Is this the—no, that can’t be right. Is that—?”
“Jiung!” you whisper-yelled, grabbing his wrist. “Leave the model alone and sit your ass down."
He blinked, startled, then laughed nervously and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I just… wanted to understand. This whole thing still feels unreal, you know?”
You sighed, though your lips twitched with amusement. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t try to reassemble female anatomy in a doctor’s office.”
Before he could reply, the door opened, and the doctor stepped in, smiling warmly. “Ah, Jiung and…” —he glanced at the clipboard— “Y/N. First check-up, right?”
Jiung nodded quickly, then nodded again for good measure. “Yes. First time. Very first. Definitely first.”
The doctor chuckled softly, already sensing the nervous energy radiating off him. “First-time parents?”
You nodded, sharing a small smile. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s fully hit us yet.”
The doctor gestured toward the bed. “Don’t worry, that’s completely normal. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
Jiung’s face went pale the moment you lay back. He hovered awkwardly beside you, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, watching every move like it might be a test he wasn’t ready for.
The gel touched your belly, and Jiung winced on instinct. “Is that cold? That looks cold. Are you okay? Do you—”
“I’m fine,” you said, laughing softly. “Chill, Jiung.”
He tried, inhaling sharply and exhaling slower, but his hands still twitched at his sides. Then the monitor came to life, and suddenly, everything stopped.
The faint outline of your baby appeared — tiny, flickering, almost abstract — but there. So very there.
“Here it is,” the doctor said gently, moving the probe slightly. “Right there. See that small movement? That’s the heartbeat.”
A soft, rhythmic pulse filled the room, steady and alive.
Jiung froze. His mouth parted, but no sound came out. His hand, which had been restless just moments ago, reached for yours slowly, almost hesitantly — like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch something sacred.
He stared at the screen, eyes wide and unblinking, the flicker of the heartbeat reflected in his gaze.
“That’s…” he whispered, voice trembling. “That’s them.”
You turned your head to look at him, and your chest tightened. He wasn’t confused anymore. The panic, the nervous questions, the uncertainty — all of it melted away, leaving only wonder.
He leaned closer, eyes glistening as he whispered, “I’m… I’m really going to be a dad.”
You smiled softly. “You are.”
Jiung blinked rapidly, then looked at you — really looked at you. His lips curved into a shaky smile before he bent down and kissed you, gentle and full of awe, his thumb brushing your cheek.
The doctor gave you both a discreet moment, stepping back and smiling quietly to himself.
When Jiung finally pulled away, he looked at the screen again, that same small heartbeat still dancing. “I didn’t think I’d know what to feel,” he admitted quietly. “But I think… I get it now.”
You squeezed his hand. “Yeah?”
He nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek, though he didn’t bother wiping it away. “Yeah,” he said, eyes still fixed on the monitor. “I love them already.”
Intak
The air in the doctor’s office felt too still — like even the walls were holding their breath. You sat on the edge of the examination bed, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Intak sat beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it could offer answers. Neither of you had said much since arriving.
It hadn’t been planned — any of this. The pregnancy had hit like a lightning bolt, stunning and electrifying all at once. You’d both been together for only a short while, still learning each other’s rhythms, still figuring out what “us” even meant. And now, here you were — hearts racing faster than reason could keep up.
When the doctor entered, the sound of the door closing made you both flinch. He greeted you warmly, his voice kind, practiced in the art of soothing nervous parents.
“So,” he said, settling onto his stool, “how have you been feeling?”
You forced a smile that felt too tight. “Oh, amazing,” you lied quickly. “Really good. Couldn’t be better.”
Intak glanced at you, one brow raised, but said nothing. The doctor tilted his head, studying you gently. “You sure about that?”
The silence that followed was short but heavy. Your shoulders slumped. “Okay,” you admitted softly. “No. Not really. We’re both… terrified. And nervous. We haven’t been together long, and this just… well it just happened.”
The doctor nodded, his expression full of understanding. “That’s completely normal. This is a big change — but you’re here, and that’s what matters. Let’s take a look and see how your baby’s doing, alright?”
You nodded, swallowing hard. Intak exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for days.
The doctor prepped the ultrasound, and you lay back, staring at the ceiling. The cold gel hit your skin, and you flinched slightly. Intak’s hand twitched beside you, then hovered uncertainly before he decided to rest it on your arm.
When the monitor flickered on, it took a moment for the image to appear — a blur of gray and light shifting like fog. Then, there it was — a small, rounded shape in the middle of the screen.
Intak squinted, leaning forward. “Uh… sorry, but what exactly are we looking at?”
The doctor chuckled softly. “Well that,” he said, moving the probe slightly, “is your baby.”
Intak froze, his eyes going wide. He blinked at the screen, then at you, then back again, as if the doctor had just told him the universe was folding in half.
“That’s— that’s really…?” he stammered.
The doctor smiled, pointing. “Right there. And that flicker you see? That’s the heartbeat.”
The sound filled the room — a soft, quick rhythm that seemed impossibly alive. The noise seemed to reach right through the tension in your chest, steadying something deep inside you.
Intak didn’t move for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. His grip was firm, grounding, as if he’d finally found something solid in all the chaos.
He leaned closer to the monitor, eyes shining. “That’s…we...we did that” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s our baby.”
You looked at him then, really looked — and saw every flicker of fear shift into wonder. His expression softened, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled. Not a nervous, unsure smile — a real one.
You squeezed his hand. “Guess we’re doing this,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “We’re doing this.”
The doctor printed the image and handed it to you both. Intak stared down at it, thumb brushing gently over the tiny shadow of your child. “I didn’t think I’d be ready,” he admitted quietly. “But now… I think I want to be.”
You smiled, tears blurring your vision. “Me too.”
And in that small, dimly lit room, fear and love finally found balance — beating together in time with that tiny, perfect heart.
Soul
Soul hadn’t said much since you’d walked into the clinic. His hands were shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor tiles, and his jaw tight enough to draw a line. You’d tried to make small talk in the waiting room, but every answer came out clipped, polite, and distant — the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
“You okay?” you asked softly, turning toward him.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
You tilted your head. “You sure?”
“Mm.” He didn’t meet your eyes.
You could tell he wasn’t fine. His leg bounced restlessly, and his fingers twitched against the fabric of his jeans. But you didn’t press — you knew Soul well enough to understand that he needed space to untangle his own thoughts before letting anyone in.
When the nurse called your name, he stood immediately, his movements sharp but hesitant, as if he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him. The doctor greeted you both warmly and gestured for you to sit.
“So,” the doctor began, turning toward you, “how have you been feeling lately? Any nausea, dizziness, or unusual fatigue?”
You answered carefully, describing your symptoms, and Soul listened intently — almost too intently. His eyes followed every word from the doctor’s mouth, as though he were memorizing a script he might be tested on later.
After jotting down a few notes, the doctor glanced at him. “And you? How are you holding up?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”
You couldn’t help but jump in before he found an answer. “He’s a nervous wreck,” you said, smiling softly.
Soul turned to glare at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not—”
The doctor chuckled before he could finish. “That’s perfectly normal. Believe me, I’ve seen far worse reactions. You’re doing great.”
Soul’s shoulders dropped slightly, a reluctant breath leaving his chest. “Okay,” he muttered.
“Let’s take a look at your baby,” the doctor said, moving to set up the ultrasound.
You lay back on the bed, and Soul moved closer, his nervous energy still radiating off him. The room filled with the low hum of machinery. The cold gel touched your skin, and Soul flinched almost as much as you did. His hand hovered awkwardly before settling on the edge of the bed, fingers twitching with restraint.
The monitor came to life — black and white shapes swirling into something more distinct. The doctor smiled. “There’s your baby.”
Soul leaned forward, his eyes wide, all his tension momentarily forgotten. “That’s them…?”
“Of course,” the doctor said warmly. “Everything looks perfectly healthy — nice development for this stage.”
Soul stared, his expression softening into pure fascination. “That’s… so small,” he murmured. His voice had changed — quiet still, but gentler, awed. He reached out and found your hand, holding it tight, as if anchoring himself to the moment.
He asked a few careful questions — about the shapes on the screen, about what the flicker meant, about how the baby grew. The doctor answered each one patiently, smiling as Soul absorbed every word like it was gold.
Finally, the doctor looked at him. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”
The doctor nodded, pressing a few buttons. A second later, the room filled with a rhythmic sound — fast, steady, alive.
Soul froze, eyes widening, his lips parting in disbelief. The sound seemed to fill every corner of the room, every inch of him. His face lit up slowly, a bright, unguarded smile spreading across it — the kind that broke right through his quiet exterior.
He turned to you, his eyes shining. “Do you see this,” he whispered, a hint of laughter in his voice. “That’s...our baby.”
You squeezed his hand, feeling your own heart race to match the tiny one echoing through the speakers. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Our baby."
Soul didn’t look away from the screen for the rest of the appointment. He just stood there, smiling — quiet still, but no longer nervous. Only proud.
Jongseob
Jongseob had been quiet on the drive over, but the restless tapping of his leg gave him away. The car’s rhythm had been nothing but the steady tap-tap-tap of nerves. Even now, sitting in the doctor’s office, he couldn’t stop. His knee bounced like it had a mind of its own, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.
You watched him with a small, amused smile. “You’re going to drill a hole in the floor at this rate.”
He looked up, startled. “What? Oh—sorry. I just… I don’t know. What if something’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you said softly. “You’ll see.”
He nodded, but his lips pressed together, betraying the storm still brewing in his head.
When the doctor entered, Jongseob immediately straightened in his chair, shoulders pulled back, face carefully composed. He even tried for a smile — though it came out more like a grimace.
“Good morning,” the doctor greeted, cheerful and calm. “You must be our first-timers.”
“Yeah,” Jongseob said quickly, his voice a little too loud. “We’re… uh, yeah. First-timers.”
The doctor chuckled as he set up his notes. “Well, congratulations. How have you been feeling?” he asked, glancing toward you.
Before you could even open your mouth, Jongseob jumped in. “She’s been fine! I mean, a little tired, and she had a bit of nausea last week, but it wasn’t too bad, right? Oh, and she’s been eating a lot more fruit, which I think is a good sign—”
You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Are you giving my medical report now?”
His ears flushed pink. “I just—wanted to make sure you didn’t forget anything important.”
The doctor laughed softly, clearly entertained. “You’re very attentive, Jongseob.”
Jongseob scratched the back of his neck, muttering, “Just… trying to be prepared.”
The doctor nodded with understanding. “How about I show you how your baby’s doing? That might calm you down a little.”
Jongseob blinked. “I—I’m calm.”
Both you and the doctor gave him the same knowing look, and he sighed. “Okay. Maybe not entirely.”
The doctor smiled and started preparing the ultrasound. You lay back, your breath catching when the cool gel touched your skin. Jongseob’s hand twitched beside you before he finally held onto yours, his grip a little too tight but full of silent reassurance — for both of you.
The screen flickered to life. Shapes appeared, fuzzy at first, then clearer. The doctor pointed. “There it is.”
Jongseob leaned forward instantly, his eyes wide. “Wait, really?"
The doctor nodded, moving the probe slightly. “Right there. Everything looks healthy — size, placement, development. Perfect for this stage.”
Jongseob stared, mouth slightly open. “Oh my god,” he whispered, a shaky laugh slipping out. “That’s...holy- is this real?”
Then came the sound — a soft, rhythmic heartbeat that filled the quiet room.
Jongseob froze. The tension drained from his face, replaced by awe. The corners of his lips lifted into a disbelieving smile, and suddenly he laughed — a breathy, emotional sound that cracked halfway through.
“That’s really…” he murmured, eyes glistening. “That tiny thing is our baby.”
You squeezed his hand, smiling through your own tears. “Yeah."
When the doctor printed out the ultrasound photo and handed it over, Jongseob took it gingerly, like it was something fragile. He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes tracing the little shape that would soon change everything.
Finally, he looked at you — his grin wide, a little teary, completely real. “I don’t even know how, but I’m already so proud,” he said softly. “They’re so small… but they’re ours.”
You felt your chest tighten with warmth. “You’re going to be amazing, you know.”
He laughed again, shaking his head, still staring at the photo. “Guess I just have to keep up with them now.”
And for the first time all day, his leg stopped bouncing. The fear was gone — replaced by something steadier, deeper, and impossibly bright.
rated g | 900 words | project hail mary | Ryland Grace x Reader
It was a late “night” on the spaceship when they passed through a binary star system. Y/N thinks it’s beautiful. Grace, on the other hand, gets excited and proceeds to scientifically explain everything in great detail.
note: HIII!! I would like to thank everyone who liked my first-ever fanfic posted here. It only motivated me to post more fanfics hehe. So here's another fluff oneshot. Enjoy!! <3
Best listened with:
The ship was quiet, with the lights dim and Rocky sleeping. Despite being awake for twenty-four hours already, Y/N can't seem to fall asleep.
There were 'days' like this on the ship—when space felt more like home than Earth ever did. Not that Earth had really felt like home for either of them to begin with.
Y/N gets up from her mattress and sees Rocky and Grace, asleep, next to each other.
Grace had promised Rocky that he would watch him sleep, but twenty-four hours of nonstop testing in the lab had clearly knocked the scientist out.
She chuckles softly and heads out of the dormitory to the washroom. Just as she was about to step inside, she catches sight of something outside the cupola window in the lab.
Something beautiful.
She changes direction immediately, drifting instead toward the glass. Y/N sits down on the floor and just stares.
"A star system.." Y/N whispered to herself, resting her head lightly against the window.
She thinks about the time she, Grace, and Rocky have spent together on the ship—three years of waking life, though it sometimes feels like much longer in all the ways that actually matter.
Lab experiments, EVA missions, games, teasing, stories told by Rocky, and slowly learning each other’s worlds had become her entire reality without her even noticing.
Grace and Y/N had chosen to save Rocky instead of going back to Earth two years ago. At the time, it felt like something they both would regret in the future.
Now, neither of them could imagine choosing differently.
The distance to Erid wasn’t measured in light-years anymore. Just time. A few months. Maybe less.
After everything, the stars didn’t feel far anymore.
Just… quiet.
-
Grace wasn’t supposed to be awake. That was the first problem.
The second problem was that he had already left his dormitory, walked through two corridors, and ended up in the lab without any clear reason other than the fact that his brain had decided sleep was a suggestion and not a requirement.
The lab lights were dimmed.
Quiet.
Grace pauses when he notices her.
Y/N.
Sitting under the cupola window.
Not working. Not fixing. Not talking.
Just… there.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He should—He knows he should. Instead, he leans slightly against the doorway of the lab and just watches her.
There's a star system outside the window.
Distant. Calm. Indifferent in the way only space can be.
Grace realizes, vaguely, that he has stopped thinking about whatever excuse brought him here. That is mildly concerning. Even more concerning is the fact that he doesn’t really want to fix it.
He shifts slightly, making the floor creak under his Converse.
Y/N turns her head a little, just enough to acknowledge him.
"You're staring." She says.
"I am observing." Grace corrects automatically.
"That's the same thing."
"No, it isn't."
She hums softly, like she's not interested in arguing tonight. And that was unusual for Grace. Most of the time, she argues back. That should make him relieved—instead, it makes him feel... uncertain.
Grace steps into the lab properly now, slowly. He looks up at the cupola window, sitting down a short distance away from her without fully deciding to.
The stars are doing what stars always do.
Nothing.
Everything.
"...Couldn't sleep?" He asks.
Y/N doesn't look away from the glass. "Couldn't stop thinking."
“That is statistically inefficient,” he says.
A faint pause. Then she lets out a soft breath that might be a laugh if you squint at it.
“Yeah,” she replies. “I’ve noticed.”
Silence settles between them again.
Grace finds himself looking at her instead of the stars.
Her eyes.
The soft glow of the star system reflected on her skin.
'God you look so beautiful right now.' Grace thinks to himself, making the corner of his mouth curve up a little.
He shouldn’t be thinking that.
But he is.
Outside the cupola, the star system drifts slowly across the glass. Beautiful in a way that makes him feel slightly irrelevant.
"It looks like it's breathing." She says quietly.
Grace follows her gaze. "It is not." He replies.
"I know."
Another pause. Then, softer:
"But it feels like it is."
Grace opens his mouth to correct her again, but stops. Closes it—he doesn't have a better answer.
He leans back slightly, resting his hands on the floor behind him.
The lab feels too big suddenly, or maybe he just feels too small.
Y/N is still watching the stars.
Still calm.
Still completely unaware of what she was doing to the internal stability of Ryland Grace's entire thought process.
He should leave—that would be the logical choice. He does not move. Instead, he says the first thing his brain offers him.
"It's a binary system."
Y/N sighs immediately. "I knew you were going to ruin it."
"I am not ruining it."
"That's different."
"It really isn't."
Grace looks back at the window, and the stars continue their slow orbit. Beautiful. Predictable. Completely indifferent to the fact that two humans are sitting here pretending they are not affected by them.
"...It does look like dancing." He admits, quieter now.
Y/N turns her head slightly towards him. "Yeah." This time, she doesn't argue.
And Grace realizes, with an almost inconvenient clarity—he didn’t come here to observe the stars.
He came because she was already looking at them alone.
you were just cleaning— or pretending to, really, because you were bored and aran was in the other room fixing a loose cabinet hinge he swore had been mocking him all week. you were rummaging through an old drawer, pulling out mismatched batteries, expired coupons, chargers that belonged to phones you didn’t even remember owning—
and then you hit play.
by accident.
one tap.
one innocent click.
and suddenly the room fills with a voice you haven’t heard in years.
his voice.
but younger.
sweeter.
nervous.
“hey— uh… it’s me. aran. um. you know that already.”
a soft laugh from the past. breathy. hopeful.
“i just wanted to say goodnight. hope you— uh— hope you’re resting. talk to you tomorrow.”
your heart drops straight into your stomach.
not painfully.
just… intensely.
because it’s been so long since you heard him sound like that— unsure, shy, like he was afraid of saying too much. that early-days tenderness hits you like a memory through a cracked doorway, warm and a little sad all at once.
you don’t even notice aran walking in.
you only blink when his shadow fills the doorway.
he takes one look at your face— the way your eyes have gone soft and glossy, the phone still glowing faintly in your hand— and he knows something happened.
“hey,” he says quietly, wiping dust from his palms as he approaches. “you okay?”
you swallow thickly. “i… found something.”
and you hit replay.
he hears it.
his brows lift, surprise flickering across his expression— not embarrassment, just something gentler, warmer, like he’s remembering the exact night he left that message. like he can picture the younger version of himself pacing around with his phone, trying to find the right words.
the voicemail ends.
silence settles.
soft. heavy. meaningful.
aran steps closer until he’s in front of you, one hand lifting to touch your chin, thumb brushing the faint tear you didn’t realize slipped out.
“that takes me back,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “i was so damn nervous all the time back then.”
you laugh a little. “you sounded… really soft. and sweet. and unsure. i forgot you ever sounded like that.”
he tilts his head, studying you like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.
“you miss it?” he asks— not defensive, not hurt, just honest.
you blink, breath hitching. “i miss… us back then. sometimes. the beginning. the feeling of everything being new.”
he hums, thumb still stroking your cheek, grounding you in a way that makes your chest ache.
“baby,” he says, voice warm enough to sink into, “we’re still us. just a better version now.”
you look up at him, eyes soft, unsure. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he whispers, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “that boy loved you… but not half as much as i do now.”
your breath catches.
he cups your face with both hands now, pulling you gently into his chest. you melt instantly, arms sliding around his waist, the solidity of him an anchor you didn’t realize you needed.
the nostalgia doesn’t hurt anymore— not with him holding you like this, present and real and warm.
he presses a slow kiss to the top of your head. “this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “this is the part i like best. growing with you.”
you smile against his shirt.
and for the first time all evening, the echo of his old voice stops sounding like a ghost.
okay so about your Sanji and Sora fics… I love them so much!!! 🥺 So I thought that maybe you could write something where Sora tries surprising Sanji with breakfast but she messes up while making it and ends up giving him a cute food abomination. I think that Sanji would find this really cute and see Sora as himself when he was a child. 🥹 Oh and since Sanji always wakes up early she would just kick him out of the kitchen before he even gets there! And Sanji would be super worried that she might cut or hurt herself while she’s alone in the kitchen 😭 (I’m sorry if you have already written something like that and I didn’t notice >n<)
I loved writing this so much because Sanji would do exactly what his mother did for him because Sanji is his mother’s son. Not Judge’s. He inherited her gentleness, her empathy, and her appreciation for kindness so he would absolutely eat it with a smile on his face. Thank you for requesting this I hope you enjoy it! <3
🥞 A Recipe for Papa
Sanji & Daughter Sora (OC) | 5 Years Old | Emotional Fluff | Callback to Sanjis Backstory
The morning sun was barely rising when Sanji stirred.
He always woke early. Always.
But today, something felt… off.
There wasn’t the usual clatter of him starting the coffee. No scent of warm bread. No gentle hum of breakfast prep. Just silence.
Then—
CRASH.
Followed by:
“I’m okay!!” in a high-pitched, suspiciously cheerful voice.
Sanji’s eyes snapped open. “Sora—?!”
He scrambled out of bed, one pant leg on, hair still wild, already halfway to the kitchen only to be met with a small foot against his leg.
“Stop right there, Papa!”
She stood at the kitchen doorway, arms stretched out like a gate, golden ponytail bouncing, her oversized apron dragging across the floor.
Sanji blinked. “Sora, what are you—?”
“No peeking!” she huffed. “I’m making you a surprise!”
“But—chérie, you could hurt yourself in there—knives, fire, grease—”
“I pinky-promised Chopper I wouldn’t use the fire or sharp things,” she said proudly. “I’m just mixing! You always make me breakfast. So now I’m making you breakfast! Because you’re my favorite person. Forever.”
Sanji’s heart immediately exploded in seventeen directions.
“But—” he tried again.
“OUT.” she said with a sugar-sweet smile that did not match her threatening ballerina pose.
Sanji took one slow, defeated step back. “Fine, fine. But call me if anything goes wrong, okay?”
“Promise!” She beamed, dimples deep, one eye peeking through her bangs. “You’re gonna love it!”
~
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
Sanji sat on the couch staring at the ceiling, fighting every urge to go in the kitchen.
When she finally reappeared, her cheeks were flushed, flour on her nose, holding a very suspicious-looking plate behind her back.
She walked up like she was presenting treasure.
“Ta-da!!” she chirped, placing it in his lap.
Sanji looked down.
It was… breakfast? Technically?
There was a pancake, but it was shaped like a fish and kind of… green. There were strawberries on top, but one still had the leaves. A generous squirt of chocolate syrup had made everything underneath a soggy mess.
He blinked.
“Well?” Sora said, bouncing on her toes. “Try it!”
Sanji took a slow breath.
And then—he smiled.
Not forced. Not fake. Soft. Deep. Honest.
Because in that moment, he saw a little boy again, standing in the Germa kitchen. Clumsy hands, mixing whatever ingredients he could find, making something awful all because he just wanted his mama to smile.
And he remembered her — Sora, the woman who ate every bite of that terrible meal without flinching. Who told him it was the most delicious thing in the world, just because he made it.
Now here he was — a father. Holding a chaotic plate made with floury fingers and unconditional love.
“My, my, Sora, you’re spoiling me!" He looked at the pancakes and gasped dramatically. He picked up a fork. “Looks magnifique, sweetheart.”
Sora’s eyes lit up like stars. “Really?!”
He took a bite. And to absolutely no one’s surprise, it was terrible.
Too sweet, too soggy, weirdly warm and cold at the same time.
It might’ve had… pickles?
But he chewed slowly, smiled wide, and said, “Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”
Sora giggled and clapped, practically vibrating with pride.
She climbed into his lap, snuggling against his chest, her pink heart-shaped locket bouncing gently as she moved.
“I wanted to say thank you,” she whispered. “For always cooking for me. For being the best papa.”
Sanji wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
“You have no idea how happy you make me,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, eyes sky blue and bright. “Does it taste like love?”
A/N: Ahhhhh! We are almost done with this journey of a fic, thank yall so much for enjoy my work! More to come of course, I still plan on writing for Stack and possible doing more one or two shots for Smoke/Annie. Yall maybe getting a lil fic of Annie's fashion show too🙂↔️😉 LONG ASS CHAPTER ALERT!
SMUT ALERT!😈
As the final stretch of her pregnancy progress, Annie and Smoke utter relax into one another becoming one before their home expands into four.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Final
Month 7- December
Annie felt it coming. As her belly swelled, so did her own insecurities on being able to depend on herself.
Despite Smoke's constant care for her, their moonlight conversations, and their ongoing healing from the distance and grief in their past. Annie still wants to do something, she likes being busy and helpful. However, there was still this seed planted in her being that she had to be ready to do it all alone again.
She’d actually let go quite a lot, springing back to her normal habits and letting go of the baggage she placed on her back. Annie wasn’t doing any taxing roots and only ran the shop from nine until one. Stack’s words of acceptance followed by his and Mary’s departure had been the final push for her to give up on making a cure for vampirism.
Annie stays home more often or hangs out with Grace and Cordelia instead of following Smoke everywhere, she was completely assured that he wasn’t going to blow away in the breeze and stay gone. She felt secure in moving on.
Annie knew she ain’t have to prove herself to nobody, especially to Smoke.
But to herself….
Annie chopped up her inability to stand up from flat off the ground last month on the emotions and stress of the night with Mary’s near attack. Even Smoke was frazzled enough to stumble when Stack attacked him on that hellish night so a pregnant woman not being able to wobble up right away after being lunged from a door frame is a reasonable thing.
However, as the first week of December came upon them all, another incident started the flutter of her insecurity again. Annie busies herself making tea packets to sell at the market tomorrow. She tries to lift up on her tiptoes to reach onto her shelf of dried flowers, to add to a final batch of detox teas. Her fingertips brushed the glass instead of grasping and promptly sending the jar full of dried dandelion shattering to the floor.
The tiny feather-like petals flutter around, the smell perfumes the air and glass shards scatter far and wide across the wood floor. “Shit.” Annie curses softly, she goes to bend down but ends up having to stomp her foot forward to catch herself before she overbalanced.
The vibrations of the stomp sends Suzette racing from the backroom to check on Annie, the teenager stands her ground in fussing over Annie. Forcing the root-woman to sit on a stool before grabbing a broom and quickly taking care of the mess.
“Dontcha worry Mrs. Annie! I gotcha, You shoulda told me you needed that jar, I woulda grab it off the shelf for you. Those little ones already gettin’ under ya foot?” Suzette jokes. Annie gives a weak chuckle, her fingers running over the brown paper packets on the table.
“I guess so.”
Friday evening was what truly caught her off guard. As usual, Annie works the other women in the kitchen to prepare for the night opening in an hour. Annie was at the point of ignoring how the other women were taking over all the more taxing jobs of cooking (a secret command from a very protective Smoke). Grace on frying chicken, Cordelia on gumbo, Lori on greens.
Leaving Annie…. On biscuit duty.
“Shit, I added a little too much buttermilk, I'm gonna run to get more flour real quick” Annie calls out as she waddles off her stool.
“Sure you don’t want me to grab it?” Lori offers, Annie waves her off and continues on her mission to the dry storage around the corner. Annie makes it just inside when the solid soldier steps of Smoke come behind her and his hands instantly find her hips. Annie can’t help but giggle as his fingers tap on the sides of her belly, a quiet hello to their babies. Smoke shuffles them further in, letting the door close before resting his chin on her shoulder and squinting at the shelves.
“What we lookin’ for?” he asks. Annie rolls her eyes as she reaches back and rubs the side of his head, thumb skimming the shell of Smoke’s ear to make him twitch with a shiver.
“I’m lookin’ for some flour. I got the dough bit too wet.”
“Wish you’d let me eat a lil sumthin’ wet.” Smoke flirts and Annie gasps.
“Smoke! I’m not making myself a widow suffocating you. Behave!”
“You ain’t even gotta get on my face, you could just lay back an-” Smoke cut himself off as Annie starts to bend down to grab a small sack of four from the bottom shelf. Annie blinks in surprise when Smoke brings her back upright and turns her around towards him, her back leans against the shelves. Annie’s belly pressing against Smoke’s front when he leans in close to her, a look of bewilderment on handsome his face. “Woman, I know damn well you wouldn’t bout to grab that big ass sack wit me right here!” Smoke scolds her.
Annie pouts and crosses her arms, a kick from whoever was staying on the left side of her belly pushes out at his tone. Smoke lifts an eyebrow up in question as his hand soothes whoever was rowdy with a few rubs, making Annie sigh.
“Man, I can grab a flour sack that 's only three pounds!”
“Yeah, but I’m right here. You’d have to kneel down to get that, I don’t wantcha gettin’ stuck on the ground again.” Smoke tells her and Annie gasps.
“Stack better be lucky he in Biloxi! Damn snitch.” Annie says with a frown. Smoke shakes his head with a small smile and kisses the corner of her lip.
“Yeah, he ratted you out. So did lil Sue. It’s why I moved all ya stuff in the kitchen to the countertop and ya books to that shelf. You reach just fine.” Smoke confesses easily. Annie looks at him with wide eyes, like she got caught with her hand in a cookie jar.
“You… you knew? You noticed?”
“ O’ Course I did. Why you think I be hopping up to cook ya err’thang, and let ya use my tin cups and mugs instead of drinkin’ glasses?”
Annie goes quiet at that for a moment, looking at the lump under his shirt where the mojo bag rested.
“ Lijah… When's the last time I redid ya bag?” Annie asks. Stack hums in thought at the sudden question.
“Uh, bout three months.”
“Elijah Jarrell Moore!”
“What?”
“Baby, why you been running ‘round here without protection! Why ain’t you remind me!” Annie demands from him, her hands tightening into fists that threaten to bang his chest. Smoke shrugs, his steady hands going over hers and bringing them to his mouth to kiss.
“Cause, I remember last time. You had to stop doing most of ya root stuff the more Mariah was cookin’. I haven’t even been running around or doing too much, besides that trip to Memphis for the restock. I be keeping cool so I ain’t risky on the bag you got on me.”
“You…. what? No, I gotta-”
“Annie, ple-”
“My roots good! Annie sputters as she tries to reach for the mojo bag. Smoke redirects her hands to rest on her own belly, to feel the flutters of their children growing in her.
“ Yes, you root is fine darlin’. But you don’t have to do that baby. I may not know much about ya HooDoo’ing but I know that shits tough on ya soul and body and the like. Remember what we talked ‘bout honey? I ain’t going nowhere, and I am taking care of you past just ya wants. I noticed when doing me and Sammie mojos all the time, it was wiping you out. So when you stopped, I ain’t say a word cause you needed that break. Imma do any and err’thang, big or small, so you are alright, Annie.” Smoke reminds her.
Annie huffs, she huffs and huffs until tears well in her eyes. She leans her weight forwards into Smoke and sniffles.
“Oh Ann, I gotcha baby.” Smoke reminds her as he wraps his arms around her and she starts to properly cry into him.
Because he was right.
No matter how much of a break her body needs, Annie wouldn’t ever have to worry about doing things alone ever again. Not with Elijah properly by her side.
Month 8- January
“Water’s ready. I put them eucalyptus salts and clove ya like in it.” Smoke says as he enters the bedroom in just his boxers, fresh from his own bath. Annie lays on her side, pillow between her knees, robe wide open so Smoke and see the peaks of naked rich brown skin and curves. Annies reads one of the books from the collection of books Mary had sent to them for Christmas last week to add to the twins little library.
“I don’t know about this Peter Rabbit book, this lil bunny hard-headed. Don’t want him to inspire my boys to be this damn rowdy.” Annie says. Smoke hums in judgement at her statement as he helps her to sit up then stand. He takes the book from her, eyeing the elaborate illusions on the cover as they make their way to the bathroom.
“As long as it ain’t that freaky ass Pinocchio. That triflin’ lil nigga gonna scare my girls” Smoke offers, making Annie giggle as she holds the underside of her belly that was dropping lower and lower every week.
Once in the bathroom, Smoke takes off Annie’s robe then gently helps her climb into the slightly warm water. Annie lets out a huge sigh as she slides in until the water is to the top of her chest, the pressing weight of her babies floating off her and the aches in her hips easing. Annie closes her eyes, letting her head lean back until it is pillowed by a towel double folded on the back edge of the tube. She listens to Smoke try and spike a match, humming as he gets it on the third try.
“The light orange one, baby.” Annie instructs him. Soon the light smell of citrus fills the room and Smoke settles on the small stool sat opposite of Annie and next to the tub. His position of guard to make sure she didn’t fall asleep in the bath.
It’s a quiet night for the two, the Juke (and most other businesses, even the fields were empty) closed for the holidays. The stillness promised to last longer as a more harsh frost was promised in a day. No mail from Stack, Mary, nor Sammie in two weeks, no visitors for even longer. Just the two (four) of them.
Ten minutes later Annie turns to her side, laying her head on her arm as she observes her man silently reading the book. Smoke was solid as usual, a touch softer with the bulk of cold weather and homecooked meals, his beard and mustache neat and full, the cornrows he let her put in a little fuzzed from sleep. A relaxed and easy expression on his face as he read about Peter Rabbit’s tale in the garden.
“I liked those poetry books outta Harlem more than these white folk fairytales. I still got that copy of Cane and Hazel you sent me, think I left them at the shop.” Annie says and Smoke hums.
“I’ll get em for you before the snow gets in tomorrow. With how this shit look, I'm finna hire Lisa to use that fancy ass typewriter Bo got her and Grace to do the drawings. We making our own books, fill em wit niggas.” Smoke complains.
“Oh! I could tell her some of my Granny’s tall tales and she could type em out for me!”
“Ah Hell! If Peter this damn bad, I don’t wanna think about what Brotha Rabbit finna do! Gonna have our babies scammin’ rocks.” Smoke says Annie cackles, the heave of her belly ripping hte water and she flicks water at Smoke’s face.
“Man you better stop!”
“You granny had them creepy ass stories baby! I remember that one ‘bout that girl that would turn herself into a cat.”
“White folks got Cinderella, we got Catskin-Ella. What’s wrong with that?” Annie asks.
“Whatever you want, my dear. Y’ know that uppity ass DuBois nigga gotta magazine for Black kids we could try that too. Our kids gonna be the smartest in town.” Smoke declares with a smile that almost rivals Stack with how cocky it is. Annie hums low in her throat at his announcement, rubbing her legs together in comfort as the warm water and relaxation start to hit her deeper. Smoke raises an eyebrow and Annie blinks slowly at him.
“Aht aht! Wash up before ya fall a sleep!” Smoke warns. Annie whines but scoots herself back so she can sit and does as such. Smoke grabs another washcloth off the side of the tub, suds it up with her rosy soap in the water.
“Turn around, let me get ya back.” He tells her softly and Annie swish around in the water to do as such. Smoke is intentional in properly soaping up her back and shoulders, easing the ache of his hands in massing her body through the terrycloth.
Annie hands drop to her thigh, holding the underside of her stomach as Smoke presses himself to the edge of the tub so he can reach his arms over her shoulder to her front.
Washcloth abandon to the water so Smoke soapy hands can properly rub down the front of her shoulder and to her plump chest.
“Ah! Smoke. Yeahh.” Annie moans out when cups both of her swelling breasts in each hand, tenderly squeezing them in then rubbing them out. His thumbs gently circle each deep brown nipple until they are hard, alert, leaking.
“Fu-uck” Annie stutters before moaning aloud when Smoke smacks the tender underside of one breast with a wet hand, forcing the heavy weight to bounce as he hard squeezes the other. Annie’s hands grab for purchase on the other side of the tub, she arches on to her knees.
“Fuck-k-k , you don got me started. I nee- Ah!” Annie is jerked out of her sentence by Smoke wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her stable against his front. His skin blazing compared to the cooling waters. Annie fullybody shivers when Smoke cups his hands and rains the handful of water down her body.
“I gotta rinse you first, Ann,” He damn near growls in his ear as Annie throws her head back to his shoulder. Smoke continues to tease the goose bumps over all her skin with the cooling water and groping hands, his mouth joining in with sloppy minty kisses around the back and sides of her neck. He water rubs her down, whole body: back, neck, chest, stomach, thighs. Annie whimpers as he intentionally ghosts all his whole hand, palm to middle finger tip, over the warm folds of her pussy before reaching over and pulling the plug out the tub.
Smoke hauls Annie out the tub in a bridal hold, the last of the water heavily dripping off her legs as he carries her back to their bedroom. Annie is only able to kiss only one mark into his neck before placing her on the edge of the bed.
Annie looks up at her man through her eyelashes with low and lusty eyes, she herself an enthralling image for Smoke to see. Annie’s skin is silky and glistening from the bath, her afro dragged down to her shoulders by the weight of the water. Little beads of water creating quivering stars in the black curls before rolling down her supple breast that leaked themselves.
Smoke drills her with a look of equal measure of want and Annie spreads her legs without a word shared between the two. Annie eases herself back on her elbows, at first expecting him to drop his drawls and hook her legs around his hips. Instead, Smoke goes down to his knees until he is in the position of prayer to Annie’s pussy. His hands drag lines through the wetness on her thighs until they hook behind her knees and place each on over his shoulder.
“Fuck-k-l, Lijaj, I-I, can I take it Poppa?”
“Just a lil sample is all I need, Momma. You can take it.” Smoke swears as he licks the plush insides of her thighs.
“Just a smell,” he groans roughly, his nose leading forward to take in a deep whiff of her musk fresh from the source of her folds before slipping his dangerous tongue into her.
Automatically Smoke tongue going for her clits to prompt Annie to flood his face. Slick licking sounds, messy slurps echo from between Annie though as her mewling whine and breathy moans fill the whole room. Smoke head nods into her like a hound on the hunt, his beard exciting the sensitive skin of her thighs as he laps into her. Mixing the pressure on her clit to the flicks between her folds. Annie can’t even coax herself to sit and grip his braids, opting to tightly fist the sheets and fight the need to entrap Smoke's head between her legs.
Annie’s breath hitches as she feels his bottom lip drag through her slickness, spreading her lower lips apart just to meet with his top lips in a tight pucker on pussy’s pearl. He gently sucks and Annie’s yelling moan echos in the room.
“ Lijah! To-to too much! Fuck, I-I-I’m, Uhg!” Annie cries, as he seems to attack that sensitive spot with a darting tongue, her thighs trembling in trapping his head still. Star scatter across her vision as her hips rise and buck on his tongue when she cums. Hard.
Smoke chuckles down in his throat, the vibration shaking Annie even looser before he eases off that tactic. Smoke greedily returns to lapping her taste up as Annie squirts over and over down his throat while she rides the high he chased her too.
Annie pants, chest and swollen belly heaving as her body goes boneless. Smoke rises, cupping and massaging her the back of her knees as he goes until he stands between her legs. Dick bricked up and bobbing in reaction to his movements as he looks over Annie's slick body.
Smoke creeps up his side the bed palming her stomach and rubbing a few soothing circles before rubbing up her plump sides and ending with a teasing squeeze to her breast.
“You so fuckin’ pretty mommas.” Smoke huskily whispers as he finally settles beside Annie, sitting up against their headboard. His only warning is a brief grunt from Annie before she’s on top of him, straddling his lap. Annie gasps but swallows down the moan as Smoke’s thick shaft slaps the front of her sensitive pussy. She grabs him below with urgency making Smoke wince then laugh.
“I need that, Poppa. So damn good and it ain’t even in.” Annie rasps out around a whine.
Smoke lets out a low groan as Annie teases them both by pushing the wetting head of dick right against her swollen clit. That pulsing bud of hers laying right onto the slit of his dick head. Smoke grounds himself by holding onto the wide hips, gripping into this fat ass.
“And it’s all yo’s momma, you can handle it. It’s yours Annie, I’m all yours. Take that shit.” Smoke affirms her. They both groan together as Annie sinks herself down on him, the stretch of his girthy length aching so nicely.
Annie bucks her hips: once, twice thrice, before nodding that she was stretched. Smoke instantly starts to match her pace with his own trusts up into her, helping Annie to bounce on his lap. Slapping skin and grunts fill the room, Annie moans right into Smoke’s ear, empowering the man to strengthen the thrust his hand pressing on hard her lower back to deepen Annie’s arch.
Annie nails digs then drags down Smoke’s biceps as she braces herself on his strong body. Smoke hisses through his teeth before locking Annie in a kiss as both of them lose their rhythms with the coming highs of orgasm.
“Nah, nah you first.” Annie challenges, she purposely does a high bounce, rising up until his dick nearly slips out before crashing back down on Smoke.
“Dammit Woman!” Smoke cruses at the building in his core due to her magic hips.
She does it again, Smoke head tosses back as he groans, he slaps her ass, the meat of it shaking harshly and messing up the soul pulling Annie was trying to do. With a bruising grip, he plants his feet and rises up with a quickening pace that Annie just can’t match. Annie can’t even taunt him as Smoke hits a new spot within her, just uncontrollably moaning and hanging on around his neck. They grow pitchy in time with the pace.
Smoke sucks hickies into Annie's shoulder, grips harshly to her soft flesh because no way was Smoke cumming first.
Annie starts trembling, her pussy grips his dick tightly, forcing him to his. It was like he could barely pull out an inch to trust again with Annie’s grip upon him.
“ Lijah!” Annie cries out with her release, flooding both their laps . Smoke thrusts: once, twice, thrice, before groaning out himself and cumming hard within Annie. His hips relax back down as he bursts and both of them hitch in breath as Annie sinks down another inch at the height of their falling lusty highs.
Smoke dick twitches over and over, lighting up Annie gasps. She clutches close to him as Smoke tentatively rolls them to the side. Leaving his softened shaft inside of her, not ready to disconnect when stars still fill his woman’s eyes. Annie lets out a shaky breath before melting into Smoke’s arm, lazily kissing his neck as her fingers curl through his beard. Smoke sighs and clutches Annie close as he whispers sweet nothing into her ear.
Promises of everything and more as she drifts to sleep.
Month 9- February
“Oh! Look who the pitbull done let outta the house.” Bo teases when Annie waddles in with a large picnic basket on her arm. Annie rolls her eyes but smiles as Bo pulls her in for a quick side hug.
“Only for a lil bit, Elijah’s down the street talking to the portrait man. I wanna take a picture of me and him before the twins get here and he’s arranging it while I grab some things I need. Annie says.
Bo nods waving over Lisa from the register, “Take care of Mrs. Moore for me darlin, I gotta help Ma with loading up a pick up.” He tells her. Lisa nods politely before scoffing when Bo plants an obnoxious and exaggerated kiss on her forehead.
“Daddy!” Lisa scolds after the man, as he laughs and leaves. Lisa sighs before giving Annie a small smile and taking the basket from her arm.
“Whatcha need, ma’am?” she asks. Annie inspects a jar of honey to hide the wince caused by a lighting-like pan in her pelvis, a tinge that’s been creeping up on her for the last two days. Not quite a cramp, but definitely a warning of what was coming soon.
“Fill that whole basket with okra and hot peppers for me suga.”
-- -- -- -- --
“I know damn well ya ain’t finna have a portrait taken while lookin’ how you look!”
Smoke looks up sharply from the small block of wood he was craving the letter U into (a habit he was using to train his hands to keep steady before the birth of his children).
There Stack stands at the boundary of their yard, sunglasses and a black oversized umbrella his only saving grace from the late morning sun, a shaving kit case in his other hand. A scowl that is identical to Smoke’s own gracing his twin's face and Smoke feel like he was caught stealing honey candies out of his auntie purse during church. His free hand nervously runs over his three week old flat twists and the loose curls around his nape. Annie’s belly was getting in the way every time she tried to rebraid them or shave his face.
The only thing Smoke cared to do about it was trim his beard close with scissors and go about his day, too busy with getting the orchards up, improving the Juke Joint, and prepping the house for the arrival of his babies.
Smoke was a man of business over appearance. And here comes his goddamn mirror to harass him about it.
“What in the world are you doing out here! And during the day?” Smoke hollers back, settling down his project and standing.
Stack scoffs, “What do you think, nigga! All my poor sister-in-law wants is a good picture and you lookin like never heard about the Emancipation Proclamation! Ol’ cheap John Henry lookin ass nigga, now let me in!”
“Cheap!? John Henry?! Nigga I ain’t cheap! Go on somewhere!”
“Nah, you betta let me in!”
“No!”
“Let me in, ya’ll got that appointment in 3 hours and ya lookin like you still run ‘round barefoot in the backwoods!”
“Nigga I look good, damn handsome! Annie, don't complain! Get on!”
Smoke whirls around bewildered when the door to the house swiftly closes and the click of the lock echoes onto the porch.
“Come and get ‘em, Stack! Annie hollers from the kitchen window as she places a basin of water and cup full of combs on the windowsill.
“Woman!” Smoke snaps in betrayal as Stack rushes down the path straight towards his brother, damn near tackling Smoke as he tries to pry open the door.
“Sorry Man, I can’t cut ya and you refuse to go to the barber!" Annie excuses, smirking as Stack fusses while wrestling Smoke into one of the porch chairs.
“I tolda ya you can trust Garrett with some damn clippers! Now I gotta get some damn hedge shears to fix ya damn head.” Stack fusses.
“Fuck you, my hair ain’t that damn bad!”
“Harriet Tubman woulda got lost in rows tryna follow the back of ya head.” Stack says as he soaks the back of Smoke’s head in water and starts to comb the first of the braids out. Smoke huffs and crosses his arms, only to groan when Stack forces a rattail comb into his fist.
“Nah, I’m putting that ass to work we got limited time. Take down that other side.” Stack instructs.
Smoke grumbles, bracing himself when Stack soaks the opposite side of his head but gets to taking down the braids. In his peripheral vision he spots a grinning Annie watching them with big rollers in her own head.
“Ya lucky you cute, roller head!” Smoke growls and Annie whooping laughter makes both men smile. “I’m going for that Mamie Smith look.” Annie brags.
“Dontcah worry Annie, imma make sure you gotcha a husband and notta caveman for a portrait.” Stack assures her, easily dodging as Smoke tries to stab his hand with the pointy end of the rattail.
“Imma shove a clove of garlic down ya throat.” Smoke promises, making Stack chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say brother, now tilt ya head forward.”
Two hours later, both Smoke and Annie are prim and proper and on their way downtown to get their picture taken. Smoke’s hair was cut short, taper-faded with a sharp part and slicked down with Murray’s pomade. His face is shaved back down to a thick goatee and mustache combo. Wearing a crisp white dress shirt with a new navy and white pinstriped vest with a pale blue handkerchief peaking in the pocket and ironed black slacks. The stylish matching fedora rests in Annie’s lap as they travel.
Annie is ethereal in her flowy deep-indigo dress with a Queen Anne style top. The strap sleeves are embellished with pale blue bows to match the one resting on her waistline just above her round belly. The only makeup she wore was curled lashes, a little plum on her eyelids and a matching shade on her lips. She wears a full set of brand new pearl jewelry and her polished silver wedding ring, matching the band on Smoke’s finger.
Smoke hums in concern when Annie suddenly squeezes his hand tightly, nearly pressing the break with how harshly she holds on. Annie closes her eyes tightly, a small whine escaping her grit teeth.
“Annie?” Smoke ask as he turns a corner, still 5 minutes out from town. She shakes head head before letting out a long breath, “Justa jolt, last one was right before Stack got in.” Annie whispers.
That makes Smoke hit the brakes. Annie groans in exasperation, she grabs her canteen and opens it to take a swing. Smoke’s nose twinges at the familiar earthy and spiced scent.
“Okra water?” he asks, surprise and a bit of anxiousness coloring his tone. Annie swallows with a small nod, “Yeah, with some red pepper and honey. Remember when I was lighting up three days ago?”
“Yeah?”
“Welp, it’s bout that time.” Annie says, her breath hitching again. This time with panic instead of pain. Smoke rubs away her tear before it can run down her face, Annie relaxes when he leans over and kisses her, it's a quick but assured kiss. His hand palms her belly, right over the naval and Annie grunt as someone pushes right at it, enough to move the fabric of her dress.
“We good.” Smoke reminds her and Annie nods as she takes another kiss.
“We good.” Annie repeats, embedding his message into her being.
Smoke leans back, presses his polished loafer to the brake and starts the car again. He goes to turn the wheel to take them back home but is promptly stopped by Annie snagging the side of the steering wheel and jerking it back straight.
“Annie!”
“Uh, uh. I’m getting my picture first.”
“Woman, we gotta getcha home and send for the midwife an-”
“I am four hours apart and only 3 fingers wide. I. Am. Gettin. My. Picture! Now drive.”
