People always talked about Sukuna like he was intimidating. Too tall, too serious, tattoos crawling up his arms, piercings, and that permanent annoyed expression. But nobody ever mentioned his hands.
It happened randomly. You were stretched out on his couch while he worked on an assignment, his laptop balanced on his knee. Yuji was asleep in the other room after refusing bedtime three separate times. You weren’t even doing anything, just lying there with your cheek against the armrest, watching him.
His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands moved over the keyboard. You stared for too long because they did not match him.
Not really.
His knuckles had tiny pale lines across them, old cuts. One thicker scar sat near the base of his thumb. His nails were short and uneven, and the skin around his joints was dry. His fingers looked rough and used. Not ugly. Just worked.
Warehouse shifts, carrying boxes, opening things with his hands because he never bothered getting tools, cooking, washing dishes, holding Yuji’s tiny shoes while yelling at him to stand still, fixing Choso’s bike, and probably carrying too much for too long.
You looked down at your own hands, soft with little rings and tiny scars from paper cuts and cooking, and suddenly your chest hurt.
Sukuna glanced over. “Why are you staring.”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
“That face means something.”
You shook your head, and he went back to typing. Two minutes later, you spoke again. “Why are your hands like that?”
He stopped typing and slowly looked at you. “What does that mean.”
You sat up. “No, like…” You reached over and took one of his hands before he could pull away. He let you. You turned it over in your lap, his palm warm and rough. You traced one of the scars with your thumb.
“You work too hard.”
He stared at you, then looked away. “What.”
Your throat felt strange. You laughed awkwardly. “I dunno. I just… I don't know.” You pressed your thumb into his palm, and suddenly your eyes stung.
He noticed immediately. His expression shifted. “Oi.”
You looked away, and he responded by closing the laptop. “Why are you crying?”
“M’not.”
“You are.”
You sniffed, and it sounded ridiculous even to you. You whispered, “I just got sad.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “About my hand.”
You nodded once.
He looked genuinely confused. You swallowed. “I know this is dumb,” you murmured, tracing another scar. “But every time I see stuff like this, I think you do too much.”
His face stayed blank, so you kept going quietly.
“You work all day. You raise Yuji and Cho. You always pay. You fix everything, and…” Your voice softened. “Your hands look tired.”
Silence settled between you. Sukuna looked at you, then at his own hand resting in yours. For a moment, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically, just a flicker of surprise, like nobody had ever looked at him and thought about him instead of what he could do.
He scoffed under his breath. “You’re weird.”
You nodded sadly. “I know.”
He stared at you for a few more seconds, then turned his hand and closed his fingers around yours. You froze. He looked away, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
“They’re just hands.”
You looked at him and whispered, “No.”
When his eyes flicked back to you, you smiled softly. “They look like someone whose been trying really hard.”
His jaw tightened, the way it always did, like affection made him uncomfortable. Then he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into him. You made a small, confused sound as he pressed your forehead against his shoulder.
“Stop looking at me like I’m dying.”
You laughed weakly. “M’ not.”
His hand rubbed your back once, slow and awkward. Then, quieter, he said, “It is not that bad.”
You nodded against him.
But later, when he was asleep, you held one of his hands against your cheek and thought that next time he came over, you were buying hand cream. Not because he needed it, but because somebody should take care of the hands that take care of everyone else.
Also, my sign to buy hand cream bc why tf are my hands so rough😭😭 Finally wrote something up, exams have literally drained my balls blue, I'm so DONE!!
you didn't flinch, or even bother to look up. all you could do was to hug your knees tighter against your chest, your fingers clinging onto your sleeves as you attempt to quickly wipe away your tears before anyone could notice.
but once sylus sees you and your current state, it's like his heart had shattered into millions of tiny, jagged pieces. he knew that you were crying. he could tell from the redness of your cheeks, the faint tear stains, and the way your eyes looked so red.
he quickly rushed to you, and pulled you in a tight hug (despite the fact that there might've been some blood stains on his clothes).
"sweetie, what's wrong...?" his voice was low and gentle, filled with concern.
that's what finally broke you. you were biting the inside of your cheek, hoping the pain was enough to not make you burst into tears again, but that failed.
your lips trembled, as your vision slowly got blurry from the tears welling in your eyes. you leaned against his chest, clinging onto the collar of his shirt. your sobs were quiet and soft, muffled, as the fabric of his shirt was getting soaked.
sylus rubbed your back in slow circles. "just breathe, i'm here for you." he reassures.
when your breathing steadied, he slightly tilted his head down to meet your gaze.
"are you feeling a bit better now?" he asked, whilst gently wiping away the tears on your cheeks.
"next time, " he says in a low whisper, "call me or text me if this happens again. i'll rush home or wherever you're at. you don't need to cry alone, i will always be here for you. i promise."
"thank you, sy." your voice was almost soundless, still a little shaky. sylus then pressed a delicate kiss to your forehead.
"no need to thank me. it's my duty to make sure that you're okay."
hotch headcanons cause im rebinging cm and i loveeeee my man!!!!!
VERY rare that he ever actually initiates physical contact - this man does not ever want to overstep boundaries so, particularly in the early stages of a relationship, he finds ways to offer his touch without invading your space
if you're sat together, his hand will edge into the space between you and linger there. he'll drop his eyes to it and find your gaze again, his silent invite that he reallyreallyreallyyy hopes you'll accept
loooooves to pretend to be a grinch but hes stifling laughs when jack barrels into your bedroom, soon leaping up and down atop the two of you to wake you for presents. and his smile!!!! when he sees how his loved ones react to the well-curated gifts he's been planning out for however long
eye contact is one of his favourite things. during freaky time, when you're just talking, or even in the quiet when you don't have to say anything to understand each other. in those silent moments, he's just gonna look at you like you're the most beautiful, impeccable thing and he doesn't deserve you at all. breaks the quiet just to compliment the flecks of colour he sees. that or he's just gonna be tilting his head and studying you, letting the soft moment linger without words
hypocrite asffff because he lavishes you with all the sweetest, softest words, even sometimes going to the extent of conjuring up a buried memory reids plethora of knowledge to recite some old old poetry to you. but if you compliment him???? might as well call a bomb squad negotiator cause he is gonna grumble and grimace and shake his head until you all but grab his face and insist he's handsome
before you, he was a strictly shower man, but he's easily converted to a bath-lover!!! being able to take a prolonged amount of time to just lie in the water with you, rub your shoulders, wash your hair and just appreciate you is already one of his favourite things. if he's not too tired after a case, he really appreciates when you pamper him in the same way, but will never admit it for fear of you thinking he'll expect it every time. he will always thank you but never disclose just how much he loves it; he'd never want to make you feel obliged to do anything for him, and doesn't want you feeling guilty for having not done it sooner or 'enough' afterwards
can definitely see him struggling translating his needs. he's learned to communicate the basic stuff, but his idea of luxuries, entirely non-material and all revolving around you, he struggles a bit more with. can be coaxed out of him but it's not easy, especially if it's still early stages
also struggles with prolonged exposure to loud noises (despite the fact it hurts his ears) and crowds because they overstimulate him, but won't ask you to step away from whatever you're doing just for him. of course you notice and ask anyway, and by the end of the night have made certain he knows he can ask for anything anytime, but he's still gonna be reluctant to disrupt your good time for the sake of taking care of him
needs reminders that he isn't a burden, but fears asking for that more than pretty much anything. at work, he's the strong, capable, reliable, steadfast boss. at home, he's softer while remaining all of the above, but a misconstrued joke or comment can shoot him down in an instant, especially on one of those days when he feels like it's all too much and he's not enough to make up for his faults and failings
almost never lets you apologise. know that even if you may be in the wrong, you haven't intentionally hurt him, so it's a cycle of you apologising and him apologising until the two of you are weeping into one another's shoulders, wiping each others tears away and kissing one another's cheeks
also is very reluctant to cry - another result of his father, unfortunately - but appreciates how you never laugh or mock him, and is reminded each time that those dam walls do crumble or crack, you'll be ready to comfort him and build him back up again
has sexy reading glasses. his eyes aren't THAT bad, and he's always thought they don't suit him, so he'd rather squint at a case file when at work. after you'd come home from a late shift one evening to find him in his arm chair, chin in his palm, book in his other hand and glasses perched on his nose, and seen your pupils dilate instantly, he just huffed out a quiet noise and decided that wearing them more often at home wouldn't harm anyone, even if it might risk the longevity of your bedframe
loves loves looooves how vocal you are in bedroom. it's a surefire way of him knowing he's doing a good job, and as a bonus, it's sexy as hell to see you lose whatever filter was there to begin with as he works you into the oblivion that is pleasure brought by aaron hotchner
loves eating pussy and that's just a fact. he'll do it on the floor, in bed, on the couch, in the shower. hell, he will risk his lungs and do it in the bath if thats what you want!!! but his favourite way is probably with you sat up on the edge of the bed, him on his knees, your legs thrown over his shoulders. also this man is NOT afraid of drowning in you and will ABSOLUTELY ask you to sit on his face
acts of service is definitelyyy one of his love languages; he just adores being able to fix things for you after seeing your nose scrunch up and your eyes narrow, a gentle hand on your forearm guiding you away as he ushers a cup of your favourite beverage into your hand and guides you to the sofa. "honey.. i've got it. let me handle it."
he also considers cooking one of those acts!!! and though he isnt amazing, he loves the fact that he can not only treat you, but he can improve on something with every dish he prepares, whether it's cereal or a steak or some fancy thing he hadn't even heard of two hours ago
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Art teacher!Reader
Summary: Sometimes the things you once thought lost for good come back in unexpected ways. It's Bucky's birthday, and even though you agreed on no gifts. You couldn't stop yourself from sharing with him what you found at your new job.
wc: +1.4k
warnings and tags: no use of y/n, FLUFF, idk if this falls into hurt/comfort, but there's a tiny bit of angst if you squint. Established relationship. Bucky feels. Bucky needs a hug. Bucky gets a hug. implied sexy times, nothing explicit. Set after FATWS. poorly proofread, no beta.
ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO IM SORRY FOR THE GRAMMAR MISTAKES. Let me know if I've missed a tag.
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and WIPS
Comment on this post to be added to the taglist
Ding.
You took a deep breath as the elevator doors opened. Your tote bag was still pressed against your chest. You had walked from your building to Bucky's apartment. Lucky for you, it wasn't a big distance even with the route you took, but it was already dark outside. And even though you had faith in the defense movements that Bucky had taught you, you had to be extra careful considering what you were carrying.
Your friends had told you never to carry anything of value at those hours, especially when you were alone and walking through the streets of the city. Well, for your boyfriend — especially on his birthday, you'll do it. The proof was inside your tote bag.
Bucky was already opening his door as you walked out of the elevator. As always, whenever you visit, he would be close to his door the moment you arrived on his floor. You knew that he also got nervous whenever you came walking from your place by yourself. Usually, you would have taken his offer for him to go pick you up, but you had to decline since you had made a quick stop on your way to get his surprise.
"Hey, gorgeous!" He opened his arms for you and hugged you closer to him. Burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"Hi, handsome!" You whispered, kissing the sliver of skin that his shirt left uncovered. He shivered.
"I missed you," he said, moving back enough to kiss you properly. His arms still tightened around your waist, and lifted you as he walked backwards to close the door. Inside, he pressed your back against the door, his warm body against you.
"You saw me this morning." You mumbled against his lips.
"You were still asleep when I left. It doesn't count." He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to yours. Taking a deep breath.
"Hmm, sure. Next time you have a mission, I'm gonna tie you to bed so you don't get away so easily." He groaned, his thigh shifting until it was pressed between yours.
"Don't say things like that when we have to go. We have to be there in 15 minutes." He tried to sound stern, but you knew that his reminder was more for him than for you.
"You're the one who has me against his door." You pointed out.
"Touché." He went for another kiss, but you pushed him gently. "Is everything okay?"
You nodded, "Mhm, I just need to give you something before we go." You emphasized moving your forgotten tote bag so he could see it.
"You bought me something? Baby, we talked about this." He complained.
"Hey! I didn't buy anything!" He looked at you skeptically and waited for you to show him whatever you had brought. "I can't move if you're still pressing me against the door, you know. I'm gonna become a human tortilla at this point." You joked.
"A cute tortilla, though." He gave you a peck, making you blush.
"Would you still love me if I were a tortilla?"
"A tortilla, a worm, a rock, whatever you turn into as long as you're still with me." He nodded repeatedly. Moving away from you so you could move away from the door.
"Sit down, please." You pointed at his couch. He raised an eyebrow, but did as you said. You followed behind him.
Seeing him there waiting made your nerves skyrocket again. You knew he could tell you were nervous — damn him and his enhanced senses and his observation skills. Your hands were again sweaty, even though you had wiped them on your way up. You took a deep breath and placed yourself before him, wiping your hands again as you did.
"Tell me you're not breaking up with me," Bucky said, and just then, you noticed he looked as nervous as you were.
Your eyes widened, "What? No. I'll never do that, especially on your birthday. It's just that," You exhaled, as you sat on the floor, in front of him. "I'm nervous."
"I can tell, baby." He reached his hand, and you took it, intertwining your fingers with his. And asked, making circles with his thumb in your hand: "Is everything okay?" You nodded. "Just breathe, I'm here."
You nodded, and after a beat, you reached inside your tote bag with your free hand. You kept it there, and just as you practiced, you started saying: "Remember that I took that new job at the VA?" He nodded, "Well, they assigned me a room and I had to check some stuff that the last art teacher had left behind." He gave you a look, "Hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't ask for help because most of them were art supplies, I just had to arrange them as I wanted."
He hummed.
"Anyways! That's besides the point; you're distracting me. Where was I?"
"The art supplies." He said with a smile.
"Yes! Right, I noticed a very particular brush set, all of which had the same initials engraved. I got curious, you know me." He nodded, knowing exactly what you meant. "So I asked and found out something interesting. I had to bribe the guard with donuts so I could take a look at the rest of the stuff that used to be in that room."
You let out a shaky breath and whispered, "Please don't be mad."
Finally, you took your hand out of your tote bag, holding a sketchbook. Carefully, you placed it in his waiting hand. He caressed the leather cover where the same initials of the brushes were engraved.
S.G.R
It was Steve's.
He gasped. You let go of his hand so he could open it.
"Remember months ago when we went to empty his old apartment? You said that his sketchbook was missing. I guess I found it."
"How is that possible?" He mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
"During the blip, he also volunteered to give art classes. I asked around, and after the blip, they boxed his items and kept them. This was in a box with more of his brushes and sketchbooks from his students. You can go with me tomorrow in case there's more stuff."
You saw how carefully he looked through the pages until he stopped on one page.
"My love," he muttered and looked at you with watery eyes. His eyes went from the page to yours.
You nodded, mirroring his expression. God, you had to reapply your mascara again since you also cried at the VA."I know."
He pulled you towards him until you were seated on his lap. He kissed you before his eyes went back to the drawing.
Barnes' family.
It read on the right corner. The date next to it was a few days after he woke up from the ice.
Steve had immortalized his family on a Christmas morning. The details were incredible. The family was posing in front of a tree. Bucky was standing tall in the middle, his mother on one side and his sister on the other. Steve, pre-serum, was sitting next to them.
"I remember this day. Steve had a rough morning, so my Ma told him that he had to rest the whole day." Bucky said with a watery smile.
"Check the rest pages, baby." You said, kissing his cheek.
Pages and pages filled with drawings of his family. His mother, wearing her nurse uniform. Becca, playing in the park. Bucky, with one arm draped around Steve, wearing his uniform. Bucky and Becca, together, reading a book. Dozens of moments that Steve had captured on paper. He had turned his sketchbook into a photo album.
You knew, thanks to Bucky, that they had only retrieved a few photos from that time. Most of them were lost or in bad condition. It made sense that Steve had made good use of his talent in drawing and his enhanced memory.
There were other familiar faces, too. Steve's mother. Bucky's father and Steve's. Peggy. Howard. The Howling Commandos. The last pages were dedicated to his life in the modern era. Natasha had full pages devoted to her only. The Avengers. The tower. Even Sam and Wanda. Some drawings that you could recognize were parts of the city, others were from other parts of the world. Probably during missions or trips, he made to reconnect with this era.
The last entry was a drawing from Wakanda. Bucky, smiling next to Steve, in front of his hut.
"Happy Birthday, Buck." You smiled at him with tears in your eyes, hugging him.
"Thank you, sweetheart." He whispered, corresponding to the hug.
It wasn't a surprise that you arrived late to his birthday dinner after that.
tag list: @houseofhyde
a/n: I tried to write something fluffier since both of the fics im currently writing are deep in angst town. Thank you to everyone who read Secret? What secret?, you are motivating me so much to keep writing and seeing all your love for it helped me go through my finals week in school. Love you so much! See you in the comments and re blogs.
notes: kind of based in peace by taylor swift. in this fic reader has anxiety. of a specific situation. it’s based on my experience but i don’t want to treat this matter lightly so feel free to warn or discuss any concerns with me. thank you for reading <3
english is not my first language so apologies.
♡
part 1: but I'm a fire, and I'll keep your brittle heart warm
you really wish you’d outgrowned this by now.
you hear your name being called from the other side of the door and you lean against it.
“we’re almost up!” tetsutetsu affirms softly. “i’ll come back when we’re done, okay?”
at this point you don’t feel ashamed anymore. tetsu has been your person for a year now. his friendship had the softness his quirk lacked.
when you don’t respond he continues “i’m not disappointed in you.”
“okay.” you let out with soft snicker.
“i heard that.”
“aren’t you late?”
“it doesn’t matter.”
“please, go. i'm proud of everyone. you’re gonna be amazing.”
“do you understand that nobody is disappointed? i won’t leave until i’m certain you understood.” he says and his body leaning against the door is not a subtle sound. you take a deep breath.
“i’m okay.” you smile to yourself, feeling loved when you’re not really feeling deserving of it “and i understand. thank you.”
your response is sincere enough for you to hear his stance subtly getting ready to leave.
“you’re doing great.” his voice is as sweet as he can muster. you’re not sure you believe his words but you can feel he means them. “we’re proud of you! and i’ll be right back.”
he steps back and walks for a few seconds to deceive you that he wasn’t late but in seconds you can faintly hear him running.
you look around. you walk towards where the drums were supposed to be and sit on the floor there, back against the closest wall.
right now, your defeated breathing and relaxed but tense heart were more frustrated about the situation than the main issue of it all. you were in the 3nd year of the UA’s hero course. it shouldn’t be like that.
you’re mature enough to understand there’s nothing and no one to blame. you consider yourself a strong and secure person. since your first day here, you went out to find a way to have a private and open chat with present mic and he was so very considerate.
you explained how sometimes loud noises caused you to have a few anxiety crises. it didn’t happen much but sometimes you tried to deceive yourself when the situation escalated, not really wanting to admit you were having an attack. you're not proud of those moments.
but you want to become a hero so you want to be as clear and sincere as possible about this so it doesn’t affect your goals and your future.
not saying that noises in general are a problem for you but the whole ambient influences and the aggregation of noises is what set it off.
but you like to think that since the first day you’ve come a long and upright way.
you stayed in the music room for a while and felt your mind troubling. you feel a few tears falling down your face and you weren’t even feeling that sad but the disappointment in yourself was leaking from you.
you took a few deep breaths and tried to trick your brain's main focus.
this was your place of choice to calm yourself, not sure if it’s because of the sound isolation or it being the furthest from the arena where everything happens but it was a good place. a very nice room if you consider that barely anybody would be interested in music being in a hero course. no, that’s quite judgemental, don’t think like that. you’re here after all.
and it’s quite contradictory thinking when as soon as you finish your thought, the door slams open.
your eyes meet a pair of ferocious red dots and unintentionally you feel your whole body shiver. the fuck?
the boy stares at you for 5 full seconds before he starts to actually move. if he was even slightly surprised to see you there, his expression wasn't showing it. apart from the very much common furrowed eyebrows, he was blankly normal.
your gaze was glued on him as he walked towards you. he stops at the little drawer not far from you and gets something from the upper drawer as well as a coat that was hanging in the microphone stand nearby. you blink and he’s already at the door again, he slams it as he leaves and you flinch.
right, katsuki bakugo was supposed to play the drums today. it’s really interesting that he, a wild rabbit (as you named him, you know, because of the red eyes and not being very tall) in form of human, would be patient enough to learn how to play any instrument. you didn’t know much of the boy, being from class B yourself but your classes have done enough training together to understand that he doesn’t really like stillness, your class or people in general.
you stay perfectly seated there for a long time. the shame and resentment you were feeling, now it’s a snowball of sadness. you really wish you were brave as the kid you thought you’d be by now.
well, let’s not go down that path again. you wanted to become a hero and you will. you still had a year ahead of you and all you needed was a bit of bakugo’s fierceness in you. midoriya also seemed to be a very dedicated person and far more approachable...
when you hear your belly complaining you decide it’s time to face the consequences of your actions. and exactly when you move a single leg to get up, the door opens and bakugo is back and you freeze. he opened the door calmly like a normal person and perhaps that’s why you froze.
he’s not looking at you when he makes his way to the couch a few meters away, on your diagonal. he throws his body there like he’s exhausted and lays his head so he’s staring at the ceiling. and he just stays there.
you look around like you’re waiting for something in the room to indicate to you what to do next.
time passes and nothing happens so your body relaxes a tiny little bit.
drums are so cool, actually. we all know the drummer is the coolest in a band. if you could learn one instrument it’d be drums. maybe piano first cause they say that after learing piano everything is easier…
“we crushed your useless class today.” his rough and deep voice reverberates around the room.
anxiety fills you up for a slip of a second before you evict it out of your body. not exactly because of him but because of the possibility of him asking you that one question.
“i, too, you would brag about my skills with instruments if i couldn’t act for shit.” you retort softly.
his head moves and his eyes are on yours again.
“your plays are always shitty.”
“not what the crowd says.”
“it’s exactly what the crowd says.” his tone intends to finish the discussion. in his head, maybe.
“well, do you consider what the crowd usually says about you?”
he immediately squinted his powerful eyes, analyzing you. you look away like that would make his curiosity go away too.
“you guys are always great.” you continue, your tone off for those who knew you.
his furrowed eyebrows deepened and he shakes his head lightly.
“just say what you want to say.”
“you guys should change the genre once in a while. the sparkles and lights and glitter can only get you so far.” it’s out of you automatically.
he focus returns to the celling.
“it’s what i always tell those idiots.”
“why would they listen to the one that can explode the whole auditorium because of a fly, am i right?”
“don’t fuck with me, i follow their ideas every damn time.” he responds, in a rasp yet soft tone.
you start fidgeting with your rings. it’s a surprisingly peaceful feeling, this interaction. but there’s a question flying around you both. did he even notice you weren’t there? you’re probably thinking too much about yourself.
the worst of it all is that you’re dressed to go. your make up is nicely done. well, a bit blurred because of the tears but that added a charm, you think.
but it took a second for everything to seem impossible to achieve. so you just keep talking and not thinking.
“do you know how to play the piano?”
“no” he grunts.
“is there another instrument you’d like to learn?”
he drops his head to look at you again and it’s starting to feel familiar.
“no”
“yeah.” you look down at your hands “nothing like the drums.”
just keep talking. distract him and yourself.
“is there a secret to not get nervous before going up the stage?” you ask without even noticing where this question is edging for.
“i’m here to be a hero.” his voice impossibly lower “a bunch of students are nothing.”
you chuckle lightly. “aren’t you just a student as well?”
“i don’t usually believe what the crowd says about me.”
you’re smiling faintly when you’re looking up again. “you don’t?”
“not a single fuck is given.”
you nod still smilling. he’s kinda funny.
but his gaze is very still.
“i remember last month’s training our classes did together. you ended yaoyorozu.” he says, low and calm and you chuckle.
“that’s what happened. you won.” his gaze is unrevealing and calm but is also a challenge.
“think i can take you?”
his face tells you nothing and you’d give money for what he’s thinking. “wanna try?” he says.
a giddiness fills you up. like the thrill of making new friends or the good kind of nervousness you feel before your friends sing you happy birthday. yet, you don’t have an opportunity to respond because someone opens the door.
“heyyyy” tetsu comes in with the biggest smile on his face and when you look at him it’s like all the heavy emotions in your body reawakens.
oh, no. he’s your friend. don’t feel that way. bad, bad heart.
“hi!” your voice shatters. and now you’re feeling the fake kind of giddiness. you didn’t even want to look at bakugo. “i was about to look for you.”
“bakugo!” tetsu acknowledges bakugo while you’re getting up and his response is silence. perhaps he's spending too much time with kirishima because that barely affects him, so he turns back to you. “we’re about to get some food. kendo wanted me to get you immediately.”
you smile at him. “okay. let’s go.”
“they definitely cheered louder for us today-" as tetsu leaves the area, that heavy but welcoming peace of whatever happened there hits you. you stop by the door before leaving and turn around to look at bakugo only to find his eyes already on you.
and with a neutral face and inoffensive tone you tell him.
“i can take you.”
not waiting for a response, you close the door behind you.
part 2: if your cascade, ocean wave blues come
and for the next 3 months, everything moved regularly slow.
you did your best in everything you put your strength in. you didn’t let the uncomfortable situation hold you back in getting better with present mic and, granted, the results were appearing in your other life subjects.
you always did great in the theoretical part of school, always willing to learn new things and you had a saying you created yourself that was: all books eventually catch one’s attention. sometimes you gotta go through hell before everything gets interesting.
and accordingly, you put your name on the 3rd spot in your class ranking.
you were proud of that.
in the span of those next months you trained with new faces. you made a good friendship with honenuki, growing to meeting each other after hours to not hold back in the sparing.
present mic said that was a good idea. train with someone you didn’t know well to get habituated with different kinds of noises in different ambients.
now, when it came to the exercises with class A, there were interesting surprises.
the first one, happened 3 weeks after your encounter with bakugo, and unfortunately your group didn’t include him.
and it’s not like you were looking for something here but that situation you both had left you curious about the boy. for the particular reason that when you were feeling frustrated and sad about yourself, his presence were a calming thought in that storm. someone so outrageous gave you a sense off easiness.
like. that was perfectly normal, right?
he didn’t ask why you weren’t at the presentation and he didn’t underestimate you for that either. and that’s all you wanted. to not be and breathe peacefully because you were not being judged.
the second interesting event happened 4 weeks after that. in spite of aizawa’s enormous lack of effort and energy to deal with professor sekijiro, they decided to unify the classes for the day and let the students review and establish in pairs how to manage their quirks whilst working with an unfamiliar sidekick.
you were incapable of controlling your wide eyes the second bakugo walked to you with heavy steps and serious eyes. some colleagues also noticed the strange occurrence and that made you a little uneasy. but you handled like the mysterious and confident person you pretended to be with him that day.
you held his gaze but you couldn’t fucking stop the sweat it was forming in the back of your neck.
because honestly, nothing really changed between you two, only a few exchanged glaces in the cafeteria but that was it. and being even more honest, class A was annoyingly famous around the school so you couldn’t (and didn’t have the balls) to approach the angriest boy in the faculty out of nowhere.
since the task was to be a sidekick you didn’t have to fight against him or anything, so you just took a sip of water and went on with it with your head held high.
bakugo was a handful with capital H but a brilliant leader in a ferocious way, so it was a great activity.
and you could really sense that each time it was an activity outside of your comfort zone, you were feeling less and less overwhelmed with the noises. you were proud of that too.
the exercise took practically the whole day and when everyone was tiredly getting back to the dorms, he passed by you. the bastard didn’t even look at you when he rumbled.
“meet me in the gymnasium in two hours.”
by the time the phrase is understood by your brain, he’s already out of your sight.
but you already knew what it was going to happen. so, you quickly made your way to your dorm, took a slow shower and ate dinner while mentally preparing yourself.
what is this feeling?
excitement? nervousness? you tried not to look too closely at the tiny bit of giddiness also in there.
when the time came you made your way to the gymnasium, trying to make your heart and brain settle down and as you entered the place you saw bakugo himself with his back to you, stretching.
you’ve seen him with those black tanks tops out and about from afar innumerous times.
getting a closer look of his perfectly broad back and designed bíceps made your brain and heart finally agree in one certain feeling.
that’s enough. he’s here to purely beat your ass.
you walk towards him and put your bag on a bench nearby.
“took it to heart, i see.”
“no” he didn’t even look at you.
“you’re kinda easy to work with” you admit swiftly as you start to get ready too, taking your eyes off of him. “should make a great opponent as well.”
he grunts in response.
“if you go easy on me, i’ll walk.” you say.
and then you finally feel his eyes on you. “then don’t waste my time.”
and that’s how you had the most difficult practice of your entire life.
bakugo didn’t hold back and you had to think ridiculously fast to survive every single insanely fast strategies he came up with. but you did not hold back either and you’re very satisfied to say you put up with him for some good minutes before he won the match. the boy was almost number 1 of the entire school, you won’t minimize your efforts.
when it ended and you were on the ground breathing heavily, he walked to you and offered his hand. and without saying another word you two spared again. and again. and again.
and it took you some time to get used to his explosions so near you but you think you could maneuver your reactions when you actually focused on learning his movements and adapting yours to them. but you're not sure how he endures this loudness.
and he won every single time. but during fights you both were adjusting to how the other thought and moved. it was such an intense but pleasant experiment that you allowed yourself to comment to him your thoughts about his fighting, not criticising nor imposing but simply a different point of view.
and you think you worded everything greatly because his eyes weren’t showing you the usual amount of irritation and after a while he started to comment about you as well.
that was exactly 6 days ago.
right now, you were at the music room once again, sitting by the piano learning how to play twinkle twinkle little star through an app.
it was a choice you made after the festival and okay. not your proudest decision but it calmed you down when you needed to. school is not easy and having a hobby whilst wanting to become a hero is scarce nowadays.
it was an inoffensive little hobby.
you were thinking jingle bells was probably next.
you’ve been there for about 30 minutes when the door slammed open. they really needed to check it someday, people have not been gentle with it.
and you look up to find bakugo katsuki irradiating rage. it was clear he wanted to storm off to the couch he seated last time but to your unfortunate it was close to the piano and he stopped once he noticed you were in the room as well.
everything you knew about class A was from kirishima cause he and tetsu were strangely close. which is funny because he’s really close to bakugo too but you rarely talked to the blonde up until now.
well, you heard this week that class A had a very important evaluation today. the show-us-in-public-how-much-you-evolved-your-quirk-and-rescuing-people kind of evaluation. so this right now could be related to that information.
you tried to read in his expression if you’d be the target of whatever got him enraged but before you could analyze anything he simply moved again and angrily sat, closing his eyes.
his irritation tugged something in you. a bit of impotence. you had no idea how to help him and you’re certain that ask him how is the absolute last option.
so you did the most reasonable thing. you look down and continued to play the piano.
if it helped calm you down perhaps it did the same for him. the boy who smashed the drums. ha.
and for a fair 5 minutes that’s how you both stayed. once you thought you were beginning to understand how to differentiate the dozen of white sticks in front of you, you raise your head to find him in the exact position as before.
you don’t know him deeply but if you thought you did, you’d say the wrinkles around his eyes and the furrow between his brows seemed slightly softer.
“they say that after you learn how to play the piano, the other instruments are easier to master” you say almost whispering.
he shakes his head imperceptibly with his eyes still closed.
“fucking stupid.”
you play another verse of the one song you know on the piano before answering “i don’t think so.”
suddenly, you wish you could see how his smile is.
“i can teach you.” you continue.
“no.”
“you don’t trust me?”
he finally lowers his head and makes a face to you. a low and short grunt in response.
“oh no.” you shake your head “i thought we were past this. i swear i didn’t let you win when we trained. you won far and square, i promise.”
it was a single joke to lighten up his mood. you only intended to create a good and natural conversation but when you heard him snickering with a pinch of genuine laugh underneath it you wanted to make a few more jokes to keep hearing it.
“you’re a moron.”
“i thought we were past this too.”
“i’m gonna past you if you say that again.” his raspy but calm voice fills the room.
“i see you need a little more of twinkle twinkle little star in you.” you look down and start to play again with a surprising efficiency.
he exhales.
“okay.” you stop playing.
you look at him again and his eyes are you so you keep talking. “learned this one today.”
“congratulations.” very sincerely sarcastic of him.
“in half na hour. one note at a time” you add.
he grimaces and you smile.
“just saying.” you add. you pass your fingers through the piano keys threatening to actually force them. “do you consider yourself a good drummer?”
“i’m fucking great.”
you nod in response, agreeing.
he raises his eyebrows for a millisecond. “how’d you know?”
now, that’s the tricky part.
he doesn’t sound bitter or even rude. he’s completely neutral and you don’t know how to read this... dispute? audacity?
so he noticed you weren’t at the festival and you know what he’s asking you now and you’re not sure how to continue the conversation. or how to take that in general.
do you think you can handle how his view of you would probably change? if you’re comfortable enough to share, does it matter? and surprising even yourself, you think trust him to be honest without you getting hurt by his views.
“are we caring about what the crowd says now?” your voice is small.
“only the ones that don’t waste my time.” he replies just as carefully.
well.
that was not good for your heart.
“let’s say” you start “i’m here learning an instrument. it’s not very different from why you’re here today.”
his brows immediately furrow “i think it is-”
“did we not” bold move interrupting him. “learn these instruments for the same reason?”
“careful.”
“and honestly-“
“aren’t you a honest person.” it comes out rough of him.
“this” you gesture lazily to the room. “it’s working for me.”
he is genuinely paying attention to what you’re saying. you don’t wonder if it’s because he’s getting angrier or you’re an easy distraction.
“at least that’s what i’d like to believe. i’m 3rd place in my class and i’m getting better... with everything else.” anxiety, you mean.
he’s just staring and you keep going softly “you’re practically top 3 of the whole school. and that’s a lot of pressure, i’d be terrified."
“yeah?” he hums.
“uhum.” red is a fucking intimidating color to keep looking at. “even the most powerful person in school needs a little bit of ease. i hope this place helps you as it helps me...”
the last part comes out almost like a whisper. and you’re aware you’re talking too much but the boy already saw you sitting in a corner of this very room with ruined makeup. it doesn’t get worse or realer than that.
“we just need to work on our control.”
then even his aura changes. he carefully tilts his head, daring you to continue.
“we?”
“don’t get me wrong-” you add.
“oh.” he hiss. shit.
“what i’m saying is...” you hesitate and push aside any warning in your head. and your exploding heart. “i don’t know you well enough, and i don’t want to assume. how could i know you from other people's opinion?”
you can see him relaxing again. it’s very subtle. he’s not too guarded anymore, so you take that in consideration. you start playing jingle bells in the background of your head to motivate you.
“but i come here to calm my mind and if you’re just like me... then you’re probably losing control of your brain too.”
you look down to your fingers and your breathing stabilizes. if you truly think about it, you were acutely more nervous about the fact of letting what you’re feeling out of you than him blowing your head for what you said.
“are we psychoanalyzing each other?”
“no.” you shake your head “i just want you to enjoy twinkle twinkle little star with me.”
you want to look up but you’re scared.
a beat passes.
“you know what i think?”
he speaks and you look at him. he’s the softest he can be.
“that you are actually letting it control you.”
now, what the fuck.
you’re the one with the furrowing brows this time. okay. your secret is always pretend you’re confident and in the control of the situation.
“oh bakugo,” you smile a little “are we friends now?”
“for a honest person, you’re dodging a lot.”
goddammit. his answers are always so quick.
“alright.” you compromise “can we make na arrangement?”
“hm” that's all you got.
“every wednesday we train together after hours for a bit, that’ll help me” this part is very true “and in return i'll do my best to work wherever i can on whatever makes you almost break the poor door every time you feel the need to come here.”
he was sending you a gaze that could blow you into atoms in the blink of an eye but you see that he thinks before answering.
“i'm not holding anything back."
him going along with you in this was enough as it is. "i'm not expecting you too."
"and then what?"
"then we meet at christmas and whoever is better will get a prize."
you bite a laugh when he just looks at you. visibly forcing himself not to roll his eyes.
"like friends do." you add.
"i get it." he growls.
all of that leaves you with a sweet and fresh feeling. like when you're a little kid and you spend the day with your best friend of a week that is also your little crush but you don't know it's a crush cause you're too young and naive.
and that discovery doesn't ruin anything, cause you're a centered person. you're not expecting anything at all from this. having him as a friend is more than enough and you're grateful.
his phone seals the conversation when it starts to ring but stops after he even got out of his pocket.
"fucking hate when they do that." he mumbles.
you look down again, not letting your mind twist.
"when i win and meet you in a month." he breaks the silence very collectively as he starts getting up "i'll need you to be very honest with me, got it?"
your whole body hair did not just go up with that.
"careful, bakugo." you hope you sound as nonchalant as him.
he's already by the door when he answers you. "great. we have a deal."
he leaves closing the door. slaming it.
part 3: the devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me
katsuki is absurdly attentive. It’s a blessing and curse.
you two trained every wednesday night, for three months. that made too many nights of pain and a feeling you locked in a vault instead of actually feeling it.
you’re not very proud of how much you had to suppress yourself to focus on learning about fighting, strategies and agility and not about the way he was brutal yet methodical with the movements of his arms. how his blond hair was everywhere imitating his explosions in a tender and fierceful way.
bakugo were beautifully strong inside and out.
some of the trainings he talked about your movements in such a genuine way that made you almost unlock that vault.
it was very clear he didn't take bullshit in any form. a hesitation from you and he would make it obvious you were unworthy of his efforts. if he notice you were holding back by any means he would strike twice as loud. he had a way to push you to your best that was enchanting.
until one day your whole class had to toil an ignorant mistake monoma made professor sekijiro. everybody had show the UA to some little kids throughout the afternoon. some agitated and boisterous little kids.
the punishment left you with a latent headache but mostly on edge of everything. the constant screaming and agitation felt like a big step back from your work til now but you know a day is not regression. you just feel like you didn’t stop shaking a bit since lunch.
you made your way to the gym earlier than the last 4 wednesdays to tell bakugo if you could reaschedule.
you're not sure his boots had its own rhythm or if the structured angry marches were beginning to feel too comfortable in your routine.
he simply stood in front of your feet and you quickly stood up, not allowing his shadow overwhelm your figure sat on the floor.
"could we rearrange this today?"
your voice completely exposing your fatigue. months ago this would make you feel too vulnerable. now you're just thinking you'd rather hear his raw judgement than lift an arm and try to motivate your quirk to happen.
he just watches you. you're pretty sure he knows how his eyes are an entirely quirk by themselves. they weaken your thoughts.
"we could train our rescuing approaches."
his eyebrows furrow. oh, you need to be careful from now on.
"you quitting?" his voice was deep. lacking understanding on purpose.
"no." your response is fast.
"it sounds like you are."
"i'm just suggesting something quieter. then maybe train tomorrow?"
for someone who sounded offended when you analyzed each other on your earlier encounters, he sure was looking at you too firmly.
"quieter.” he repeats.
“theoretical.”
“why?”
you feel like crying for some reason “it was a long day. i’m just tired.”
he’s always immaculately angry, but you know that’s actually his neutral. a few seconds pass.
“no.”
you simply exhale.“no?”
he walks towards a beach and places his bag on it.
“our deal is almost up.”
“yes... i’m sorry. i can make it up to you tomorrow, i promise.” you respond. you’re supposed to meet each other in the music room next week.
he locks his jaw and looks at you. there’s a hint of hesitation before he speaks again. he’s such a hypocrite sometimes.
“aizawa told me i reduced 40% of damage on areas surrounding villains attacks.” he admits plainly.
your eyes widen a bit, automatically.
“bakugo… that’s truly amazing.” you confess you always wanted to have classes with aizawa. “i’m-”
“so you see how i can be pissed when i’m the only one making my part of the fucking deal, right?” his interruption was casually rough.
you furrow your eyebrows.
“i don’t see how i’m failing.”
“then why are you not being honest right now?”
it sinks in you. that is fair although it feels unfair. you’re not sure how to respond, paralyzed by being called out and knowing you made progress but feel unable to put it into words.
“it’s more complex than that, bakugo.” you relive “it’s a bad day.”
“it’s not whatever reason you had a bad day. it’s the why we’re doing this.”
“well, i’m getting faster and faster during our sparing.” you justify “i’m sure you can see how you’re helping me.”
“how would i? you’re still dodging.”
you don’t seem to understand his line of thought and you think he notices.
“you say there’s a reason we went to that room all the time” he sounded cold “i don’t do what i don’t want to.”
okay, you think you know where he’s coming from…
“but there’s enough shit i can take from someone when they’re always keeping me at an arm's leigh.”
you technically didn’t have to be an open book with him. it’s not fair of him to ask you to be so vulnerable about things he didn’t understand. but he was right, wasn’t he? he was giving you something and you’re empty handed.
“i see.”
you whisper and look around, avoiding the presence of the person you just now realized became a solid pillar of your growth. shame is an icy feeling.
after a second you look back at him and he’s looking at you. there’s an hesitation on him but it’s from a vastly different intention than yours.
he turns back to his bag.
“till next week then.” he grabs his black tank top and a necessarie and goes straight to the men's toilet.
you feel impotent. on yourself.
this conversation added such a bitter brick on your mural of bad occasions of the day that you couldn’t find it in yourself to stay and try to fix this. it could wait until tomorrow, you think.
you left the gymnasium without looking back.
the next few days you were unsure of everything. of how to study, how to organize yourself, how to talk to present mic on your monthly encounters but he seemed to grasp and believe that you could figure yourself out.
you didn’t see bakugo and it was not an uncommon thing that you don’t bump into each other. but you felt like you were owing him something. an apology. but you’re sure he would appreciate more honesty.
you already had his christmas gift prepared disregarding the result of your little deal. you’re just not sure if he’d still show up. he’s impulsive sometimes but he doesn’t back down from anything. not even the smallest of the complications. so you’re holding onto that.
you exchanged numbers but only to arrange the training schedule. you’re brief when you send him your last text.
“we could meet at 2pm on the 24th. is that okay?”
the silence was loud.
swiftly, the 24th of December arrives and you’re already pacing on the large and very empty music room. your gift carefully situated on the piano’s bench. there’s a least 10 motives that you could put a fault to for reasoning your nervousness.
should have you apologized before this? you’d rather do this in person if you could. was your gift too much? you could’ve talked to kirishima on the sidelines. were you crossing a line?
you were thinking about playing the piano to calm your systems because it’s funny, you actually learned jiggle bells-
the door opens. not delicately but not too rough.
you stop to look at him. he’s an all black attire, too smooth to look like he’s genuinely warm from the cold. but he said it himself. he’s too much himself to do or wear anything remotely uncomfortable to him.
he walks slowly towards the column near the microphone stand and leans against it. hands on his pockets. very nonchalant of him.
you were too tense on your on feelings you didn’t take in consideration how you both became truly friends in those past months for him to be his casual self around you. the growing intimacy being the very reason of your feelings for the boy.
“how do we settle this?”
he sounds calm. you feel 10 tons less heavy. you inhale and exhale and wish you could talk elaborately like present mic talked to you.
“i’m getting there.”
“no rush.” he straights up and start stretching his arms.
he’s messing with you and bite back a smile.
“it’s safe to say you’re more worthy of a prize than i am.” you start talking, making your way to the piano bench “turns out you’re a better learner than me.”
“you had doubts?”
you grab the present and turn back to him smiling. “i think i had too much faith in myself.”
he huffed. you cautiously walk towards him and he just kept looking at you.
“pitying yourself now?” he whispers raspily.
“no.” you hand him the package. “you were just a surprise.”
his eyebrows went slightly up as he took it from your hands.
when you have nothing to lose you really do get braver. in a way that you’d accept his rejection with your head held high because he would not treat you any differently than his genuine feelings and intentions. that sincerity counts too much.
“i think i took you for granted…” you admit “i don’t think i should have opened up the way you wanted me to that day”
he didn’t move a muscle to open his prize. you could hear your heart beating but you force yourself not to become fidgety. “but our practices and my learning from you and this consistency of us became so familiar, too good… that i felt like i was the best version of myself in these moments. that maybe… i unconsciously didn’t want to ruin it in any way.”
he was always attentive so his complete focus on you weren’t strange. you were just overthinking the last whole year and trying to convince yourself that he wouldn’t find what you said cheesy or cringe.
after a few seconds he just looked at his hand and meticulously started to unwrap his gift.
“i struggle with anxiety when my surroundings are too noisy.” you let out watching his hands “and, well, your quirk isn’t smooth.”
he was unfolding the brand new black tank top on his hands now. you think this is a great gift, regardless of the outcome.
“so… i could say that working with you was perhaps the best thing that happened to me in all those years of school.”
his eyes were focused on your expressive idea. on the very middle of the tank top contained a small drawing and a few words. number one written on the top and on the middle of a delicate image of a grenade, it said hero.
you were pretty sure you crossed an immense line on this relation because of this but his softened wrinkles were your best prize.
he lightly brushed his thumb over the embossing before blinking and moving towards the little drawer you once saw him interact with and retreat a small red box from there. oh, his part was here all along. that’s performative. in a bakugo way.
“how long was that there?” you ask.
“don’t let it get to your head. i actually play one of the instruments here often.”
you pout with his response and he comes back to you.
he hands you his present and there’s only so much bravery you have in you. you can’t really look him in the eyes.
you start to unlace it and your brain is blank on what could this possibly be. when the box is free you open it quite briskly.
then you see a very elegant pair of earplugs.
thinking about it, you shouldn’t be that surprised. but you were.
“when you fought momo back then, i noticed how you flinched every time she created some kind of explosion.” he states and you keep focusing on the earplugs. he got you hearing protectors. they were beautiful, red and small enough. there were some golden embodiments on them.
“it was too subtle. even yaoyorozu didn’t notice” he continued. “but it takes one to know one.”
he takes his free hand to his pocket then proceeds to show you his own black pair. growing up with a power like his… you should’ve suspected. he was attentive to his objective but mostly to himself.
you finally look up with glistening eyes.
“i don’t…” what can you say?
“and after you won the fight, you stayed there for the rest of the students. i could see you shaking. you were just going through with it.”
he never looked more real and tender. he guarded his protectors and took his hand to your face. his fingers wiped out the single tear that escaped your eye and stayed there. smoothing your cheek.
you closed your eyes.
“had to kick your ass for weeks for you to finally see me.”
you chuckled and opened your eyes as he rested his hand on the nape of your neck. it was warm.
“just wanted you to control this stupid feeling. feel the security you pretend to have in public.”
he says and you look at his lips and you can’t look at anything else. the only thing worthy of your attention. you can’t control yourself and you let go.
“i’m gonna…” you sound breathy but it doesn’t really matter cause katsuki is faster and his lips are on yours. he kisses you passionately and you retribute putting your hand on his blond locks.
it’s a slow and deep kiss. raw emotions that words aren't able to understand. the intensity of it is matched between the two of you so it’s just deliciously passionate.
without stopping the kiss he pushes you lightly until your back hits the column. he presses you there like needs it. like he doesn't want you to let go of him.
after some time you separate, biting softly his lower lip and he let out a scratchy sound.
you look into his eyes before noticing you’re finally seeing a ghost of a smile on his face. he’s too appealing. too interesting and too gorgeous. you can’t take this.
“think i’m the number one hero, huh.”
then he goes and traces your neck with slow kisses.
“i’m learning all your secrets.” you force it out of you.
“please, do” he bites the area where your neck meets your ear and you hold your breath involuntarily.
an: this is just a small collection of stories based on random shit I did when I was a kid. I have a bit of writers block, but to celebrate 100 followers, I decided this would be my comeback post away from my little hiatus.
summ: You have a ton of weird habits. Sevika doesn't mind.
wc: 783
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You don't know how you woke up. Or why. You don't have the need to use the bathroom or to change your clothes because it's too hot– no.
For some reason, as you look around your messy room, you have the sudden urge to clean. To clean this messed room you've been trying to avoid.
(Or, at least tidy up as best as you can.)
You look towards your clock.
3:15 A.M.
You have nothing else to lose.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Sevika was scared; scared for whatever fucking possessed you to be cleaning like this.
To hear weird bangs this late was one thing– coincidental. But to hear it from her roommate repeatedly? It roused her out of her dreams and she grumbled making it down the hall.
“The fuck are you doing?”
And there you are. Stopped mid-vacuum with your entire bookshelf gutted out and a giant filled trash bag on your hip. Like a psychopath. Her psychopath. ..A cute one.
Sevika stands eerily at the doorway, eyes burning into you. But, you know she wasn't mad. Just.. mildly disappointed. Well, from what you could see in your dark hallway.
A small voice chokes out of you. “..Cleaning?”
A long, dry sigh leaves Sevika.
“Guess it was about time, huh?” She mumbles into her hand. “Give the bag here, I'll go take it out. ”
Slowly, you hand her the trash bag. It's heavy, filled with old office supplies and other hefty junk you forgot about. Though, Sevika makes it all look easy. She always does. One arm or not.
She holds the trash bag like she would a baby, a bit of an eyebrow raise directed towards you.
“Whatcha got in here?” And she's got that stupid smirk on her face that drives you half crazy.
“Junk, duh.”
She rolls her eyes and heads for the door.
“Shouldn't be out this late anyway.. shouldn't be up this late.”
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Sometimes, you like to start random projects around the apartment; and most of the time, it's you repainting something.
Your TV, Sevika's ashtray, the bathtub. They're all examples of the little paint jobs you do. Sometimes, it's just a slight hue change, a thing Sevika doesn't notice until months later. Other times, you're spray painting your TV hot pink for kicks.
Sevika learns to live with it. Not hard to argue with bringing some more life to this place. Plus, it keeps her on her toes. Let's her know that you may be coming for her TV too.
She comes to your room after work, her ashtray in hand. She opens the door to see you busy, already painting something else in your room.
“Your victims this time your lamp?”
You nod and Sevika sets down her ashtray on your drawer.
“When you're done, got a request. Instead of neon green, how about a Russian purple?”
You turn your head, a little confused until your eyes lock with the ashtray. “Uh... sure?”
“Alright.” Already, she's leaning off your door frame and going to her room. “Knock when you're done.”
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You like to eat popcorn. And you eat popcorn a lot.
A bowl at breakfast one day– a bowl at noon the next. It's an unpredictable and persistent craving that you submit to it everytime.
And Sevika’s noticed. Stares at you everytime you pass her with another bowl in your hand.
She used to say something about it. Found it very amusing. Would tease you or have some new joke to say.
Until she, admittedly, grew used to it. Loved it more than she would ever tell you.
She began to like that sweet smell that would waft through the apartment in between days; knowing you were home and you were safe. Started to crave it too, coming in your room just to grab an annoyingly large handful and leave.
It always makes you huff or rolls your eyes in a way that only she'd laugh at.
It's not like she does these sorts of things just to get your reactions to things.
Like she doesn't look forward to see you everyday. Like she actually wants to see your smile but just doesn't know how to ask without bugging you first. Like you don't live rent free in her mind, weird habits and all..
She just really likes popcorn, helping you clean in the middle of the night, and letting you paint her things.
“Thanks. Needed a snack anyway.”
You roll your eyes just like she imagined.
“Ugh, shut up.”
She smirks at that. “You know you love me.”
You probably don't. Probably just like being around her. But she knows she does; and she can't get over you.
cw: blood, period talk, reader has been thought that periods are bad and disgusting., there is like one suggestive moment
wc:1.4
A/n: thank you, anon, for this lovely request.
-You-
When you wake up, you thank your lucky stars your husband is still asleep. A glance outside the window told you he would not have to get op for at least another hour, giving you more than enough time to deal with the mess between your legs and the metallic smell on your night gown.
Quietly you walk to the guest bathroom further down the halls, careful not to wake Mycroft. You fill the tub with water and change into a clean light gown. After having washed yourself, you gently rub the blood stains out of the cloths you had previously soaked in the water, determined to remove the worst of the evidence. In a couple of days someone would come and pick up all the dirty laundry.
You doubt that you would be able to sleep again, and seeing your husband before he was off to work was not the gloomiest foresight on an early morning. You go to the kitchen and start brewing tea, in the hope that some form of warmth would relieve the cramping in your lower stomach.
You hear the bedroom door open and close, and can’t help the giddy smile when you hear your husband shuffling towards the kitchen. It had been a little over two months since your wedding, and marriage became the two of you.
“There you are,” Mycroft mumbles with his gruff morning voice. His arms circle your waist from behind and he buries his face in your neck, his moustache tickling the sensitive skin where your neck and shoulder meet.
"Good morning, my love, " you muse, one hand reaching for his hair. “I did not mean to wake you "
“You didn't. I was just surprised to be alone, is all,” he replies and presses a kiss to your shoulder. He follows that one by another to your neck, moving higher and higher with one kiss at a time.
You gasp and giggle breathily. "Mycroft! What are you doing?"
“Come on, darling,” his hand travels up to cup your breast gently. “We have a bit of time.” His thumb flicks across your nipple once as if to accentuate the point he was making.
Another sharp gasp leaves you, though this one of pain shooting up your back and panic settling in your stomach. "Mycroft, wait…”
You are interrupted by the tea kettle whistling. Relieved, you free yourself from his embrace and take two cups out of the shelf. Mycroft stands confused for a second, blinking owlishly at you. You notice, of course you notice, and feel bad immediately. "I'm sorry, I just…" you trail of, unsure where to begin to explain your disinterest, without mentioning that issue.
But Mycroft just smiles, and presses a kiss to your temple, before he grabs the milk pot and sugar. "Don't worry about it.” You can hear the traces of disappointment in his voice, but he does not try to change your mind. “Come on, let's have some tea.”
You release a shaking breath, hoping that the pain in your back would fade soon.
The rest of the day goes by relatively calm. Mycroft is in the office, which means you have the house to yourself and no one will raise an eyebrow when you press the tenth cup of tea you made against your stomach in between sips. The cramps do not get easier and the blood flow is unusually strong for the first day. You groan at the prospect of the days to come. You hated the routine of it, and you hated thefuss you had to make because of it even more.
When afternoon arrives, you realise you are out of herbal tea. Too tired and in pain to go to the market, you decide to lay down and sleep off the worst of it.
-Mycroft-
Mycroft enters the house, surprised to not be greeted by you. Usually you would sit in the living room, which had widows towards the street. So when he came home, you would already see him and come to the door to greet him. He supposed you might be in the kitchen, or maybe one of your friends had come to visit you.
When he entered, though, there was complete silence. His brows furrow. “My love?” He calles out. He drops his bag and hangs up his coat. He throws a glance in the kitchen, but the only unusual thing there were multiple used cups.
He turns to the living room, but it is also empty. Worry creeps up on him when he also cannot find you in the bathroom. At last he arrives at the master bedroom. The door is slightly ajar and he can see that the curtains are drawn.
Carefully, he pushes the door open and is immediately flooded with relieve at seeing you in the bed, sleeping peacefully. He sits down next to you and pushes a lock of hair out of your face. You stir slightly, one eye opening carefully.
“Good morning, sleepy head.” He smiles at you, and you groan playfully. “Welcome home, husband,” you yawns.
He chuckles and leanes down to kiss you softly. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Better now,” you reply cheekily and get up from the bed. Mycroft follows your movements with his eyes and is startled by a tiny red spot on the back of your dress.
“Darling, wait a moment, please.” His hand comes up to your dress. “You have a stain.”
In a matter of split seconds, Mycroft observes his wife go beet red, yank the fabric out of his hands and turn around, so your back is facing the wall.
“It is nothing,” you squeak out.
His eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “I would believe you, if you didn’t look so guilty about it.”
You shake your head and repeat: “It’s nothing.” You don’t meet his eye.
“Please tell me?” He asks, stepping closer to you, ducking his head slightly to try and catch your eyes. His chest aches a little when he sees that tears are gathering in your lashes.
“It’s not important.”
“I want to know the unimportant things as well.”
You sigh and wipe your eyes. “It’s just - I am, well, I - I am menstruating.”
As soon as you forces out the words, you avoid his eyes again, but Mycroft just laughs in relief.
“That’s it? God, I thought something horrible had happened,” he chuckles and hugs you tightly to his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”
“Well, I… I thought you’d be disgusted,” you admit in a small voice.
“Why would I be disgusted ?”
“Well, the blood. And I know it’s not important and I shouldn’t talk anout it, and-“
He lifts his head from your shoulder and searches your eyes. “Who said something like that?”
You shrug. “Everyone. That’s how me and my friends were taught when we first had monthly bleedings. We were told not to speak about it in front of men and that it was unsanitary aand husbands wouldn’t want to deal with it.”
With every word you spoke, Mycroft’s face grew more incredulous.
“Well, they were wrong. Of course I want to know what is going on with you. I want to be able to help my wife. And I am certainly not disgusted by your healthy and functioning body. I know it’s natural for women to bleed, it is perfectly normal and not repulsive in the slightest. All right?”
You nod shyly. “All right.”
“Good. Now, tell me honestly: how bad is it?”
You look at him for a second, before admitting: “It hurts a lot today. And I’m out of herbal tea, so I don’t have anything to sooth the cramps.”
You half collaps back into his arms and he rubs soothing circles on your lower back.
“I will start a bath, and later I will run and buy tea for you. Does that sound like a good plan?”
“Sounds like a perfect plan.”
He chuckles. “Well then, back to bed with you, don’t you dare move.”
“Mycroft, I can still make dinner, it’s not that serious.”
“Are you out of your mind?” He asks overly dramatically . “What kind of horrible husband do you take me to be? Off to bed, do not lift a finger.”
You giggle at his faux seriousness, and lay back down. “Do I at least get a kiss to make me feel better?” You are still smiling, feeling like a little schoolgirl who just received a compliment from her first crush.
“If I ever say no to that, you go right ahead and send for the doctor.”
The kiss is soft and unhurried, and you are almost unable to kiss him back because your lips just won’t stop smiling.
Spaceman would be the best dad, I swear. Thanks to Morg for letting me bounce ideas off her and making sure I get my shit straight. <3
Pairing: Chris Beck x Reader
Word Count: 5,131
Rating: T (fluff with dashes of angst)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: It starts with a pregnancy test and ends with a nursery full of love. Somewhere in between, Chris Beck learns how to be a dad — one kick, craving, and late-night worry at a time. Tiny astronaut incoming.
Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes
The bathroom light feels too bright.
Not harsh — just honest. It shows you everything you can’t look away from. The faint shadows under your eyes. The way your hands are trembling even though you’re standing still. The thin hum of the fan overhead, doing nothing to settle the pounding in your ears.
The pregnancy test rests in your palm like it weighs more than it should.
Plastic. Cheap. Ordinary.
Positive.
Your breath leaves you in a soft, broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and you brace one hand against the counter before your knees can give out. The cool surface presses into your skin, grounding you. Real. This is real. You stare at the little window again, like maybe it will change if you give it time.
It doesn’t.
A thousand thoughts try to speak at once and none of them land. Instead, your body reacts first — your chest tight, your stomach hollow and full all at the same time. You press your free hand there instinctively, fingers splayed like you’re already protecting something.
Oh.
You swallow hard. Feel the sting behind your eyes. Fear blooms, sharp and immediate — but it’s tangled with something warmer, heavier. Awe. Wonder. The terrifying magnitude of what has just shifted off its axis.
You sink onto the edge of the tub and sit there, breathing, counting, letting the moment exist without trying to solve it. Somewhere in the apartment, life goes on. A distant sound from the TV. The faint creak of the couch as Chris shifts his weight.
Chris.
Your throat tightens at the thought of him — relaxed, unsuspecting, safe in a moment that doesn’t know it’s about to end.
You don’t rush. You wash your hands even though they’re already clean. You dab at your eyes with toilet paper and fail to fully stop the shine. You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, searching for the person you were ten minutes ago.
She’s already gone.
The door opens softly.
You step into the living room, the test still in your hand, heart pounding so loud it feels like it might give you away before he even looks up.
Chris is sprawled on the couch, one arm along the back cushion, jaw relaxed, the picture of ease after a long day. He’s smiling at something on the TV until he looks at you.
The smile fades instantly.
His body stills. His eyes lock on your face, sharp and attentive in a way that tells you he knows — something is wrong.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
And everything stops.
He’s on his feet before you even realize he’s moved.
Not rushing — reacting. Like something in your posture tripped a wire in him. The couch creaks softly as he stands, attention narrowing until it’s just you. Your face. Your eyes. The way your hands are clenched like you’re holding the universe together with your fingers.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. Careful. “What’s wrong?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Your throat tightens so hard it almost hurts, and for a moment you think you might lose it — right here, right in front of him — before you manage a breath. Just one. It shakes anyway.
Chris takes a half step toward you and stops himself, like he’s afraid of spooking you.
“Hey,” he murmurs, palms open at his sides. “You’re okay. Talk to me.”
Your eyes flick down to your hands. Then back up to his face.
And that’s when you realize there’s no gentle way through this — only honest.
“We’re…” Your voice cracks immediately. You swallow, force it down, feel tears sting. “We’re having a baby.”
The words hang there. So small. So enormous.
For a heartbeat, Chris doesn’t move.
Not because he didn’t hear you — but because he did.
You watch it land in real time. The way his brows knit, then slowly lift. The sharp inhale through his nose. The way his mouth parts like he’s about to say something and can’t find it yet.
“A…baby?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear the shape of it in his own voice.
You nod. Once. Again.
His hands lift, hover uselessly in front of him, then drop. He drags a palm over his face, breathing out hard, like the air left his lungs all at once. When he looks at you again, his eyes are glassy — not panicked, not pulling away — just overwhelmed.
“Oh my god,” he whispers.
You take a step closer, the test trembling between your fingers now that the secret is out in the open. He sees it immediately. Everything clicks. His gaze drops to it, then back to you, reverent.
“That’s…that’s real,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re—you’re pregnant.”
His chest rises and falls faster now. He laughs once, breathless and disbelieving, then stops, pressing his hand to his sternum like he’s trying to steady his heart.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Beck. Okay.”
You don’t know whether to cry or smile or apologize or reassure him — so you just stand there, eyes shining, waiting to see which way he’s going to fall.
He closes the distance then. Slowly. Like he’s approaching something sacred.
When his hands finally come up, they’re gentle as gravity — one at your waist, the other settling over your stomach with awe written into every line of his face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice breaking as he drops his forehead to yours. “I guess we’re doing this.”
You let out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob against his chest, and he folds you in immediately, arms tight, protective, anchoring you like he always does.
“We’re gonna figure this out,” he says softly. “All of it. Together.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look at you — eyes bright, scared, impossibly full. His thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear.
“I love you,” he adds, voice steady now, certain. “Both of you.”
And for the first time since the bathroom, your chest loosens.
Just a little.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The apartment is quieter than usual.
Not empty — just hushed. Like the world knows something sacred is happening and doesn’t want to interrupt it.
You’re curled on your side beneath the covers, the lamp on the nightstand turned low. Chris is behind you, chest pressed to your back, breath warm at the nape of your neck. One arm is tucked under your head. The other rests over your stomach, palm spread, unmoving except for the faint rise and fall as you breathe together.
His hand has been there for a long time now. Neither of you has tried to make it mean more than it already does.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and awe.
You nod. Then hesitate. “Scared,” you admit quietly. “But good scared.”
He lets out a soft huff of a laugh, forehead pressing into your shoulder. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Silence settles again. The kind that isn’t empty — just full of unspoken things.
His fingers flex, barely there, like he’s afraid to disturb something fragile.
“I keep thinking about all the stuff I don’t know,” he confesses after a moment. “Like…how do you do this right? How do you not mess it up?”
You turn just enough to look back at him, but he keeps his gaze on the dark bedroom wall, jaw tight.
“I don’t want to be gone,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to miss things. First words. First steps. I don’t ever want them wondering if I chose something else over them.”
Your throat tightens.
He swallows, voice wobbling just slightly. “I want to be the kind of dad who shows up. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m scared. Especially then.”
His hand presses more firmly against your belly now, grounding, protective.
“I want them to know they’re safe,” he continues. “That they can come to me with anything. That it’s okay to be scared. Or mad. Or…weird.” He smiles faintly. “I want to be the guy they run to, not the one they have to work up the courage for.”
You reach down to your stomach, lacing your fingers with his.
“I don’t need to be perfect,” he whispers. “I just want to be there. I want them to know I loved them from the very beginning.” His breath catches. “From the second you walked out of that bathroom.”
A tear slips free and dampens your pillow. Chris notices immediately. He shifts closer, arm tightening, chin resting against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey. We’re allowed to be scared. That just means it matters.”
You nod, pressing your hand over his, holding it to your belly like a promise.
“I think we’re gonna be okay,” you whisper.
He exhales slowly, relief and fear mingling in the sound. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so too.”
After a moment, he adds softly, almost shy, “You think our tiny astronaut’s gonna like space?”
You laugh quietly through tears. “They don’t really have a choice.”
He smiles against your neck, eyes closing.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell them stories. About the stars. About gravity. About how their mom saves me by keeping me tethered.”
His hand stays right where it is as sleep finally starts to pull you both under — protective, reverent, already the steady presence he swears he’ll always be.
And the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.
It just feels…possible.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The waiting room smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee.
Chris notices immediately. Of course he does.
He also notices the outdated anatomy poster on the wall, the nurse’s shoes squeaking slightly as she walks past, the way the clock above reception is running forty seconds fast. His knee bounces despite his best efforts to keep still, one hand folded neatly over the other like he’s trying not to draw attention to himself.
You sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm. His hand has found yours already.
“You okay?” you whisper.
He nods instantly. “Yeah. I’m great. Totally fine.”
He’s lying.
You squeeze his fingers, amused and fond, and he exhales through his nose.
“I just—” He glances toward the door, lowers his voice. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Be here?” you offer gently.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Right. Yeah. That.” Then, quieter, “I keep wanting to…step in. Ask questions. Correct things. And then I remember I’m not—” He stops, frowns. “I am a doctor. But I’m also—”
“Dad,” you say softly.
The word still sounds new. Fragile. Powerful.
He swallows. His grip tightens just a bit. “Yeah.”
When the nurse finally calls your name, Chris rises immediately — too fast — and then freezes, clearly uncertain if he should follow.
You arch a brow at him.
He flushes faintly and steps in beside you, hand never leaving yours.
Inside the exam room, he stands at first. Then sits. Then stands again when the nurse starts asking routine questions, posture instinctively attentive, professional. You can almost see the reflexes firing — how he listens, how he tracks information, how his face shifts into that calm, reassuring mask he’s worn for years.
“Have you been nauseated?” The nurse asks.
Chris’s brow furrows. “A little,” he answers automatically — then stops, horrified. “I mean—sorry. She has. She’s been. I—”
You laugh softly, reaching for his arm. “It’s okay.”
He groans under his breath, smiling despite himself. “I promise I’m not normally like this.”
The nurse smiles knowingly. “First appointment?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just a bit.”
When you’re finally settled on the table, paper crinkling under you, Chris hovers uselessly at your side, one hand braced on the edge like he needs the contact. His thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles as the technician prepares the ultrasound.
“This might feel a little cold,” she warns.
Chris’s jaw tightens as the gel touches your skin. “Okay,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone. “Okay.”
The screen flickers to life.
And suddenly — there it is.
Small. Flickering. Real.
Chris sucks in a sharp breath like someone punched it out of him.
“Oh,” he whispers.
Your eyes fill instantly. His hand flies to your forearm, grounding himself and you at the same time, eyes glued to the monitor.
“That’s…that’s them?” he asks quietly, voice stripped bare.
“Yes,” the technician says gently. “That little flutter? That’s the heartbeat.”
Chris’s free hand comes up to cover his mouth. His shoulders hitch once. Just once.
He laughs softly, breathless and disbelieving. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
He leans closer, torn between wanting to analyze what he’s seeing and just feel it. Doctor instincts war with something much bigger — and lose.
He bends, pressing his forehead to your temple.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You did that.”
We did that, you think — but you don’t correct him.
Because right now, Chris Beck is becoming a dad in real time, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chris learns quickly that pregnancy is less like a straight line and more like turbulence.
He keeps a mental log at first — symptoms, patterns, triggers — until you catch him quietly timing your nausea one morning and give him a look.
“I’m not charting,” he says defensively, sliding his phone away. “I’m just…observing.”
You throw up twenty minutes later.
He doesn’t say I told you so. He just holds your hair back, cool hand at your neck, murmuring calm, steady nonsense while the room spins.
After that, he starts keeping saltines in every room. The couch. The car. His jacket pocket. There are two separate stashes by the bed — “just in case.”
He learns which teas help and which ones absolutely do not. He brings you ginger chews with a seriousness usually reserved for medical supplies.
Sometimes he overdoes it.
“You don’t need to take my temperature,” you tell him one afternoon, laughing weakly as he presses the thermometer into your palm.
“I just want a baseline,” he says. “Humor me.”
You humor him. Mostly because you love him.
Your cravings hit without warning.
One night it’s cereal — very specific cereal — and milk so cold it hurts your teeth. Another time it’s tacos from a place that closed three years ago, and he spends forty minutes on his phone trying to figure out which place has the same salsa.
“I can make it,” he says, already pulling on his shoes.
“It’s midnight.”
“So?”
He comes back triumphant, smelling like takeout and victory. You eat perched on the kitchen counter while he watches like he’s just cured something terminal.
The second trimester brings a little relief.
More energy. Less nausea. A body that feels a little more yours again — and a little less, too.
Chris’s hands linger longer now. Over your belly when he kisses you goodbye. At your hips when he passes behind you in the kitchen. He still slips sometimes.
“You’re getting lightheaded?” he asks, already halfway into assessment mode.
“I stood up too fast.”
He exhales. “Right. Okay. Still—sit. Water. Please.”
You catch him googling things late at night, phone brightness turned way down. He doesn’t talk much about it, but you know he’s reading ahead — weeks, milestones, statistics he pretends don’t scare him.
One evening you find him lying next to you on the bed, absently rubbing your stomach like it’s the most natural thing in the world and murmuring against your skin.
“Talking to them?” you tease.
He looks up, sheepish. “Maybe.”
“I bet they already know their daddy’s voice.”
“I hope so,” he says quietly.
He still calls you his Houston — especially on harder days, when you’re tired or overwhelmed or frustrated with a body that doesn’t quite feel like yours anymore.
“You keep me tethered,” he reminds you when you worry out loud. “And now,” he adds softly, hand warm over your belly, “you’re doing it for two.”
Every so often, you catch him in doctor mode again — watching your breathing when you nap, asking just one too many follow-up questions, hovering when you insist you’re fine.
But every time, it’s laced with wonder. With love. With a deep, quiet awe at the fact that something extraordinary is happening inside you — and that he gets to be part of it.
He’s learning. So are you.
And somewhere between saltines, midnight tacos, gentle scolding, and whispered tiny astronaut goodnights, you both start to believe it:
You’re really doing this.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It happens on a completely ordinary night.
You’re half-reclined on the couch, feet in Chris’s lap, the TV murmuring something neither of you is really watching. Chris is absently rubbing your calf, thumb tracing familiar paths while you scroll on your phone.
You freeze.
“Chris.”
He stills instantly. “Yeah?”
You reach for his wrist, guiding his hand higher.
His breath catches — not panicked, just attentive — as his palm settles over your belly. Warm. Steady. He doesn’t move, barely breathes.
For a moment there’s nothing. You almost apologize.
And then, a firm, unmistakable thump beneath his hand.
Chris inhales sharply, like the air got knocked out of him.
“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh—was that—?”
Before you can answer, it happens again. Stronger this time. A deliberate little shove, like your tiny astronaut has something to say about all this hovering.
Chris laughs once, breathless and wrecked. “That’s—holy shit,” he murmurs. “They’re…they’re really in there.”
His hand spreads instinctively, fingers splayed like he can protect you and the baby at the same time. He jumps ever-so-slightly at the next kick.
“That felt like a solid kick,” he says softly.
“They’re definitely active tonight.” You reply with a slight chuckle.
He drops his forehead to your stomach, eyes closed, laughing under his breath like he can’t quite believe the universe let him have this.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice tender and awed. “Easy on Houston, okay? She’s doing an incredible job.”
Another movement answers him — smaller this time, but intentional.
Chris swallows hard and presses a reverent kiss to your belly.
“I don’t think I could love anything more…”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The room is dimmed when the ultrasound screen flickers to life.
Chris stands close — too close, really — one hand on your shoulder, the other gripping the edge of the exam table like he needs the anchor. He tells himself to stay calm, to stay neutral.
He fails immediately.
Because this time, there’s no mistaking it.
Your tiny astronaut isn’t tiny anymore.
There’s a head. A spine. Limbs moving with purpose. A whole person stretching and twisting like they own the place.
Chris sucks in a shaky breath.
“That’s…that’s a leg,” he whispers. “Right? That’s—yeah, okay. Wow.”
The technician smiles. “Very active today.”
Chris huffs a soft, disbelieving laugh. “That tracks.”
His doctor brain flares for half a second — measuring, noting — but it’s immediately swallowed by something much bigger. Pride. Awe. Fear. Love so sharp it almost hurts.
“They’re huge,” he whispers to you, incredulous. “How are you holding all that?”
You glance at him, quirking a playful eyebrow. “You wanna trade?”
“I didn’t mean—” He shakes his head, smiling helplessly. “I just—” His voice breaks slightly. He clears his throat. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
When the image pauses and the tech points things out — heart, profile, tiny fingers — Chris’s eyes don’t leave the screen.
He squeezes your hand, grounding himself.
“That’s our tiny astronaut,” he says quietly. “Not so tiny anymore.”
As you leave the appointment later, Chris is quieter than usual, processing. When you ask him what he’s thinking, he glances at your belly and answers honestly.
“I thought I understood scale,” he says softly. “Space. Bodies. Orbits.”
He meets your eyes, awed and undone.
“I didn’t know something this big could live inside something this small.”
You lace your fingers with his.
And for the rest of the day, his hand never strays far from your belly — like he’s afraid that if he looks away too long, the miracle might take off without him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It starts with boxes.
Too many boxes, stacked awkwardly along the hallway wall — crib pieces, a dresser you’re pretty sure is going to test your relationship, soft bundles of things that are somehow already yours. The room itself is still mostly empty, sunlight spilling across bare floors and pale walls, waiting.
Chris stands in the doorway for a long moment before stepping in.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
“This is theirs,” he finally murmurs, like he’s trying the sentence out loud to see if it fits.
You nod, heart in your throat. “Yeah.”
He exhales slowly, hands settling on his hips as his gaze drifts around the room, already mapping it. You can almost see his brain spinning — where things should go, what makes sense, how to make it safe. Not in a frantic way. In a careful, deliberate one.
He opens a box and pulls out the crib instructions.
Frowns.
“You sure this was designed by adults?” he mutters.
You laugh, watching him sit cross-legged on the floor, instructions turned sideways, then upside down. He’s focused, tongue pressed lightly to his cheek. Doctor brain, engineer-adjacent, fully determined to do this right.
An hour later, there’s progress — and a quiet moment where he just…stops.
You find him sitting back on his heels, staring at the crib frame like it might start breathing.
“They’re gonna sleep there,” he says softly.
The weight of it settles between you.
Chris reaches out, runs his thumb along the smooth wood, expression gentle and stunned all at once.
“I won’t be far,” he adds, like he’s already promising. “I’ll hear everything.”
Later, when you’re organizing the dresser, he lifts a onesie from the pile.
It’s impossibly small.
He freezes.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, holding it up carefully, like it might dissolve if he grips it too tightly. “How can a person be this little?”
You watch his throat work as he folds it with surgical precision and places it gently in the drawer.
“I’m gonna break down,” he says quietly. “Just so you know.”
“You’re doing great so far.”
He huffs a laugh. “Lies.”
When it’s time to hang the tiny jackets, his hands slow. He pauses, then presses his palm briefly to his chest like he’s steadying himself.
“I keep picturing coming in here at night,” he admits. “Just checking. Making sure they’re breathing. That they’re warm. That they’re okay.”
You step closer, resting a hand against his side. He wraps an arm around you immediately, instinctively pulling you in.
“I want this to feel safe,” he says. “For both of you.”
By the time the room starts to look lived in — crib assembled, books lined up, a soft rug underfoot — the air feels different. Fuller. Charged.
Chris sinks into the rocker experimentally.
It creaks. He still smiles.
He pats his thigh. “C’mere.”
You settle into his lap, one of his hands sliding to your belly without thinking. He leans back slightly, rocking the chair just a bit.
“I can already see it,” he murmurs. “Late nights. You asleep on my shoulder. Tiny astronaut right here.” His hand presses a little more firmly. “Me pretending I’m not terrified.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. “You are?”
He meets your eyes, honest and open.
“Yeah.” Then, softer, “But I’m excited too.”
He presses a kiss to your temple. Then to your belly.
“We’re ready,” he whispers — not because everything is perfect, but because the love already is.
And the room feels like home.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the third trimester, time starts behaving strangely.
Days blur together, but nights stretch long and heavy. Your body feels different now — fuller, slower, powerful in a way that’s both incredible and exhausting. Chris notices everything. The way you wince when you roll over. The small sounds you make when you stand. The way your hand sometimes goes to your belly without thinking.
He helps without being asked.
Shoes appear at your feet. Pillows multiply in the bed. He times your walks like he’s pacing a mission, adjusting quietly when you tire sooner than yesterday. He still asks ‘Are you okay?’ but there’s something else under it now.
Fear.
You catch him reading at night more often, phone turned low, jaw tight. Not the fluffy stuff anymore. Studies. Risks. Worst-case scenarios he pretends not to memorize.
One night, you reach for his phone and he startles.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just—”
“Chris,” you murmur. “What are you reading?”
He hesitates. Just a beat. Then exhales and sets it aside.
“Things I can’t control,” he admits quietly. “And that’s…not my favourite category.”
You shift closer. His arm wraps around you immediately, hand resting heavy and warm on your belly like a shield.
“I know the odds,” he continues, voice steady but tight. “I know most of the time it’s fine. I just—” He swallows. “Every scenario where something goes wrong, my brain wants to be ready.”
You tilt your head against his shoulder. “You can’t prep for everything.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
Appointments get more frequent. Measurements. Monitors. Chris is polite but alert, listening too closely, parsing tone like he’s on call. He asks good questions — too good — and sometimes you have to nudge him gently when he slips too far into doctor mode.
“Dad,” you whisper once, teasing.
He flushes faintly. “Right. Sorry.”
At home, he talks to your belly more now.
Not the playful stuff — quieter things. Promises. Reassurances.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs one night, forehead pressed to your stomach. “Both of you. Okay? I’m right here.”
When kicks wake you in the middle of the night, he wakes too. Always. Half-asleep, hand finding you in the dark.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just active.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. Then stays awake anyway, palm steady against your belly until you drift off again.
The nesting gets intense.
He double-checks the car seat three times. Installs it. Uninstalls it. Installs it again. Reads the manual. Watches a video. Then another.
“You’re gonna be great,” you tell him.
“I know we are,” he says. Then, honest and quiet, “I’m still scared.”
One evening, when the house is still and the baby room is glowing softly in lamplight, you find him standing by the crib again. Hands on the rail. Eyes distant.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods — but slow. Thoughtful.
“I’ve spent my life understanding risk,” he says. “Calculating it. Managing it. But this—” He gestures to the room. To your belly. To the future pressing in. “This is the first thing I love that I can’t protect by knowing enough.”
You step into his arms. He holds you carefully, fiercely, like the world might tilt if he lets go.
“I trust you,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes.
“That helps,” he admits. “I just can’t wait to meet them. To see them breathing. To hear them cry and know they’re here.”
His hand slides down to your belly, grounding himself the way he always does.
“Soon,” you say.
He exhales, steadying. “Soon.”
And despite the fear — despite the research, the sleepless nights, the ache in his chest — Chris Beck is ready in the only way that really matters.
With love big enough to be scared. And brave enough to stay anyway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It starts small.
A tightening. A pressure that’s different than before — lower, sharper, insistent. You tell yourself not to jump to conclusions. You shift. Breathe. Wait.
When it happens again, stronger, you sit up.
“Chris,” you whisper into the dark.
He’s awake instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
You swallow, heart pounding. “I think it’s time.”
The room snaps into motion — but not chaos. Not yet. Chris moves like he’s trained for this, muscle memory kicking in even as his face goes pale. He’s calm, voice steady, hands sure as he helps you sit up, pulls on clothes, grabs the bag that’s been waiting by the door for weeks.
But his eyes keep coming back to you.
Over and over.
“You okay?” he asks softly. “Talk to me.”
Every contraction steals your breath a little more. You focus on him — on the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours while you ride it out. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”
The drive feels unreal.
Streetlights blur past. Chris’s hand is locked in yours, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles in a grounding rhythm. He talks the whole way — not fast, not frantic — just enough to keep you tethered.
“You’re doing so good,” he tells you. “You hear me? You’re incredible.”
At the hospital, time fractures.
Voices. Paperwork. A wheelchair. Chris answers questions automatically, doctor brain sliding in where it’s needed — but every time you make a sound, his attention snaps back to you. Always you.
He stays close. Too close, sometimes. The nurse gently asks him to step back so they can adjust something and he hesitates, visibly torn.
“Chris,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”
He nods, jaw tight. “I know. I just—yeah. Okay.”
Labor is work. It’s pain and pressure and an intensity that leaves no room for anything else. Chris is your anchor through all of it — counting breaths when you need it, whispering encouragement when you falter, letting you crush his hand without a single complaint.
“You’re strong,” he says, voice breaking despite himself. “You are so strong.”
At one point, when you’re shaking and exhausted and certain you can’t do this, he leans down, forehead to yours, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
You do.
“I need you to keep going,” he says softly. “Just a little longer. I know it hurts. I know you’re tired. But I’m right here. And our tiny astronaut is almost here.”
The words land. You nod.
You push. And then…sound.
A sharp, unmistakable cry fills the room.
Chris freezes.
Time stops completely this time.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, voice utterly wrecked. “Oh my god—”
They place the baby against you, warm and real and here, and everything else dissolves. Chris nearly collapses to his knees beside the bed, one hand gripping the rail, the other trembling as it reaches for you both.
He laughs and cries at the same time, overwhelmed beyond language.
“Hey,” he whispers, touching the baby with reverent fingers. “Hey, tiny astronaut.”
His forehead drops to your arm. His shoulders shake.
“You did it,” he chokes. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”
He looks at your baby with awe so pure it hurts to witness.
“They’re perfect,” he says, voice thick. “They’re really here.”
He kisses your temple, then your baby’s head, so gentle it’s almost a promise.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers again. “Both of you. Always.”
And for the first time since this all began, the fear lets go.
Because your tiny astronaut has landed.
And Chris Beck is already exactly the dad he promised he’d be.
