#pregnant reader

Yet, he was stuck watching on the bed from where he had helped you off the bed before you snapped at him not to touch you, leading to your current positions. He helplessly watched as you braced yourself on the edge of the table, both hands white from strain as a particularly painful contraction rocked through you, your knees knocking together as they tried to bear the weight of your gravid belly without help.

Taking advantage of your distraction, he approached you hurriedly, kneeling at your feet. Still, he does not touch you, not until you have given him permission to, even if it nearly physically hurts him to see you like this.

"Sweetie, please let me help you sit down, I will leave you alone after," Sylus begged. He is a proud man, but his pride means nothing before you, has never meant anything before you, but especially not when you are doing him the greatest honour by bearing his children.

You cracked open an eye, previously screwed shut from pain and glanced at him and his eyes, misty with tears as he kneeled at your feet was enough to soften you. You may blame him for the pain you were currently in, but he alone didn't bear the blame. You too had begged him to fill you up with his child, over and over again, and he had only delivered what you asked for, twice, overachieving man.

"Fine," you huffed harshly once your contraction ended but that was all Sylus needed to spring to action, immediately wrapping an arm around you, cradling the heavy weight of your belly for you and allowing you to brace your back against his arm in one smooth motion, pulling you against his side as his other hand found yours. You couldn't help the way you sunk against him, instinctively trusting him to bear your weight.

He gently kissed your sweaty temple, murmuring his thanks before guiding you to the living area of your room. He matched your slow waddle, slower than usual with the way your belly has dropped and the contractions and your earlier frantic actions had exhausted you. You can't help the way you pant and whimper with each step, each one of them like an arrow to his chest. Still, he does not rush you, simply dipping his head and nuzzling against you when a contraction took over you, making himself your steadfast rock in the harsh waves of your contraction.

By the time the two of you reach the special armchair he had made for you, you were a sweaty panting mess, the sweat and milk sticking Sylus' silk shirt on you in an unflattering manner, and exhausted from your earlier maniac actions and the short walk to the armchair. He gently and slowly bent his knees along with you as he lowered you into the armchair, making sure that he carried as much of the weight of your gravid belly as possible. Still, his breath caught in his throat when your knees buckled as a contraction hit, but he managed to lower you into the seat without incident, watching helplessly as you rocked in the armchair, sinking deeper into the plush seat as if you could escape the pain. He won't deny that this was a reason why he had chosen this specific armchair, in which he turned into a chaise with a quick push of a button, elevating your feet. With how deeply your heavy body had sunk into the plush cushion, there was no way you could escape on your own, hence preventing a repeat of the earlier incident. Not that he wouldn't catch you before you succeeded anyways, with how slow your every breathless movement was when even shifting slightly left you painfully out of breath.

"Where are you going?" You rasped, voice gone from vocalising your pain since dawn. His answer of getting water for you was received with a flicking of your foot, and he left shaking his head. You were so goddammed spoilt, but you deserve every second of it even before now, but especially now when you were about to give him the greatest gift in the universe.

He knelt at your side as he helped you drink from the straw, setting the glass aside once you were done before unbuttoning your (his) shirt, trying his best to not brush against your tits, knowing that even the slightest touch was too much for you now, as sensitive as you were. Still, he knew that he failed when you hissed in pain, shrinking away from him even if only for a moment.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," he apologised, and it's not only for right now right this moment, it's for every pain this pregnancy has caused you from the very beginning up to today. He loved seeing you pregnant, and there's no greater joy than knowing that you are carrying his children but he is also so dearly sorry for every single moment of pain you have endured up to this point.

"I forgive you," you whispered back, and he knew that you understood, and your reply was also for everything up to today. "But you could do something for me if you truly feel so bad," you continued with a gentle smirk.

"I will, my darling," was his only reply as he grabbed a warm washcloth, gently wiping away the sweat and milk staining your skin. You were really too overly sensitive, he thought, gasping and whining just from the cloth touching your overstretched skin, it's too adorable for him to put into words. The way you sunk your nails into his skin as your belly contracted was adorable too, and so was the way you rubbed your belly once the contraction passed, gasping and panting for air, your lungs squished by the babies in your belly.

Once you were fully wiped down, or as best as he could when you were still sweating and dripping, he set aside the washcloth before gently pulling your foot to him, massaging the swollen ankle. You moaned lowly in pleasure, and it's gratifying to hear such a sound when every sound that had escaped you today had been from pain and exhaustion.

Still, you shook your head tiredly. "Sy, my breasts are sore," you complained and he glanced at them, painfully engorged in preparation of the babies that were to come. Even as he looked, a bead of milk leaked from one nipple, rolling down your breast and he was mesmerised. Despite himself, he couldn't help it when he licked his lips and swallowed, audible even past your breathless panting.

"Would you like a taste?" You offered and his head jerked up, eyes wide with disbelief and want as he started at your face wearing a gentle tired smile. You raised one small hand to cradle the back of his head, gently guiding his head towards you whispering, "It would help so much," and that's all the encouragement he needed to surge forward and wrapped his lips around a puffy nipple, already beading with milk.

The first taste of your milk was like the entryway to heaven as he gently cradled one hefty breast in each hand, alternating which nipple he sucked on so that none of your heavenly milk would go to waste. You were whimpering and moaning with each suckle, and he would have forced himself to stop if not for your hair still in his hair, now gripping it roughly as if asking him to not stop.

This close to you, curved around you to reach your breasts over your swollen belly, he could feel so much more. He could feel the babies kicking and moving in your belly, limbs scraping the thin walls of your uterus, each slight jerk and shift you made, trying to chase a comfort that was no longer available to you, the whimpers and moans spilling from your open mouth, both from pain and pleasure, the low groan from deep within your throat as a contraction hit, the way your belly tighten as a contraction hit. Your grip in his hair remained tight throughout, silently telling him not to leave until your breasts have gotten noticeably lighter, no longer filled to the point of leaking with milk. He gave one last suckle just to hear you whimper before pulling away to kiss you, letting you taste your own milk on his tongue.

Now, slightly more comfortable now that your breasts were no longer engorged, you apologised for how you treated him, teary eyed as you rubbed his hand against your cheek, nuzzling the marks your nails left behind on his hand and his arm.

"You can use me however you want, kitten. Mark me with your claws if you desire, I will take it all gratefully," he murmured, craddling your face in his large hand as you smiled tiredly.

You heard the front door click open, then the familiar heavy tread of his boots. Bucky was home. A flutter of excitement mixed with the pregnancy hormones already making everything feel heightened. You adjusted the robe, letting it hang loosely open just enough to tease, and waited.

"Baby?" His voice carried down the hall, low and rough from the long day. "You still up?"

"In here," you called softly, turning toward the doorway.

He appeared moments later, still in his dark tactical gear, the straps and holsters making him look every bit the Winter Soldier—except for the way his storm-blue eyes softened the instant they landed on you.

His hand braces against the doorframe, gaze dragging over you slow. Messy bun. Bare feet. The robe, barely hanging on your shoulders. The lace underneath. The curve of your stomach.

You shift a little, suddenly shy under the weight of it. “Hi.”

You turn slightly, letting the robe fall open just a bit more. “What do you think? I, uh… wanted to surprise you.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You can see it in his face—how it hits him. The way his throat works, the way his chest rises a little too fast. Like he’s trying to catch up with something.

“Doll…” it comes out rough. Quiet.

He steps inside, kicks the door shut behind him without looking, shrugging off his jacket and letting it hit the floor. His eyes never leave you.

“Look at you.”

You turn back toward the mirror, giving him the full view. The lace hugs your hips, sheer and soft, the robe framing everything like it was meant to. Your bump sits right there between it all—small, but impossible to ignore now.

“It’s probably silly,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over it. “It’s still early, but… I saw it and thought maybe you’d like how it looks. With the bump and everything.”

“Like it?” his voice breaks a little.

He’s behind you before you even realize, hands settling on your hips, pulling you back against his chest. His heart is racing—you can feel it through his shirt.

“Sweetheart, I’m… fuck. I'm speechless.”

You laugh softly, leaning into him.

His metal hand hovers for a second before resting gently over your stomach, like he’s still in awe that he’s allowed to touch you like this. His other hand brushes the edge of the robe, fingertips barely there.

His head dips, lips grazing your ear while he stares at your reflection.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs. “Seeing you like this… carrying our baby. Wearing something like this just for me?” His thumb moves slow over the curve of your belly. “That little bump… Jesus. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath catches.

“Can’t think straight,” he continues, softer now. “You’ve ruined me, doll. Completely.”

“Good ruined?” you tease, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

He hums, pressing a slow kiss to your neck. “The best kind.”

His hands slide, pushing the robe off your shoulders. It slips down your arms and pools at your feet in a quiet shimmer of green.

“Turn around for me,” he says, gentler than his words usually are. “Let me see you.”

You do, slow.

The lace feels more revealing now, your skin more sensitive under his stare. Your chest rises unevenly, your stomach on full display, no hiding it anymore.

He drops to his knees.

Right there.

Hands framing your hips like it’s instinct.

His face presses against your belly, soft, careful, like he’s afraid to be anything else. His stubble brushes your skin, lips following after in slow, reverent kisses.

“Can’t get over it,” he murmurs against you. “My girl… our baby…”

Your fingers slip into his hair, holding him there.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, kissing the curve again. “Hurts a little, how much.”

His hand slides up, cupping your breast through the lace, thumb brushing your nipple until your breath stutters.

“Everything about you right now…” another kiss to your stomach. “I’m obsessed.”

You barely get a second to recover before he’s standing again, arms wrapping around you, lifting you like it’s nothing. You let out a soft laugh, clinging to him as he carries you to the bed.

He lays you down carefully. Always careful.

His shirt is gone a second later, scars and muscle and warmth as he climbs over you, settling between your thighs without putting any weight on your middle.

His dog tags fall cool against your skin as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, like he’s been holding it in since the second he saw you.

“Every day I think you can’t get more beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, trailing down your jaw, your throat. “Then you go and do something like this.”

His lips brush the top of your belly again, softer now.

“Show up in silk and lace with my baby growing inside you…”

His hand stays there, protective, grounding.

“I’m never recovering from this, sweetheart.”

You arch into him, overwhelmed by what he's doing. The way he looks at you. Like you’re everything.

Like this version of you is his favorite.

“I love you,” he breathes, pressing one more kiss to your stomach before moving lower. “Both of you. So damn much.”

And he means it.

You can feel it in every touch after that—every kiss, every whispered praise, every careful, reverent moment. Like he’s memorizing you this way. Like he’s never going to get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because the way he looks at you now?

Completely, helplessly gone.

His large, warm, and gentle hands rest gently over your growing belly from behind, the motion pressing his chest flush against your smaller frame. You feel all of his warmth seeping into your skin through your thin top.

But it’s not enough, still not enough. Theres frost in your bones waiting to be melted down, especially your feet.

“I’m cold. And tired. And this baby is still small yet so heavy and my feet are freezing and I don’t feel like eating anything and--” You stop your little ramble, sighing as your stirring in the pot turns more frantic, milk droplets splashing over the stove.

“And now there’s a stove to clean as well. Great”

Dazai hums lightly, pressing his face into your hair, the smell of your hair products like pollen to a needy bee. It makes the sight of spilled milk 3% less annoying.

“My poor, sweet wife” he coos, hand over your belly rubbing small circles over the slight bump. “My cold, tired, pretty, poor wife” pressing a kiss to the back of your head – his nose in your hair – he pulls away just enough to carefully spin you around.

Hes always gentle with you; patient and oh so sweet. But you've noticed how much more cautious and gentler hes been acting after you broke the news of your pregnancy to your husband.

His warm, slender fingers glide up over your arms, slow and deliberate, eyes glued to yours like sticky honey.

“Sounds like my wife is in need of a long, hot shower with her husband, mhm?” Your face squishes with his palms gently pressing into the hollows of your cheeks, puckering your lips for you before he presses a quick kiss. Soft, very soft. So soft it makes you want to nod along to anything he says.

Not that you weren’t desperate for some warm water down your body, to melt the frost multiplying in your bones.

The husband part is just the sweetest bonus. The perfect cherry on top.

And with that, Dazai guides you to the shower, a hand on your sore lower back. “I’ll make my adorable, cold wife a hot cocoa after” he beams, happy to be of any help.

“You better take responsibility. It’s your fault the baby is big at just 4 months” with one foot into the bathroom, you look over your shoulder, sensing a small glare his way. He only chuckles at that, not disagreeing. Not when his towering height is your evidence.

“You’re right. This entire baby is my fault actually” he nods, smiling to himself as he ushers you inside, peeling your clothes off for you.

Daizzzy ᝰ.ᐟ

He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his chef’s whites pristine, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes scanning every single plate that came up, missing absolutely nothing, his expression intense and serious. But every few seconds, his gaze would flick away from the food, from the chefs, from the tickets, and land straight on you. And every single time he looked at you, that hard, sharp face of his would soften completely. His eyes would warm, his lips would twitch up into a small, proud smile, and he would stand a little taller, a little prouder, just knowing you were there, just knowing you were watching him.

You were his world. You were everything to him. And now, carrying his child, you were more precious, more sacred, more important to him than air itself. He would burn the whole building to the ground before he let anything happen to you.

“Let’s go! Come on, move it, move it, we have tables waiting, get the food out, hot, fresh, perfect, or don’t send it at all!” Gordon shouted, his voice booming loud and clear across the kitchen, sharp and commanding, exactly like everyone knew him. “Standards! We have standards here! I don’t care how busy it is, I don’t care how tired you are — perfection or nothing! Now let’s GO!”

The chefs ran back and forth, sweating, stressed, rushing, shouting back “Yes, Chef!” at the top of their lungs, plates flying up to the pass, orders stacking up, the heat rising, the pressure cranked up to the absolute maximum. It was chaos, beautiful, controlled chaos, exactly how Gordon liked it, exactly how he ran his kitchen.

You watched him work, your heart swelling with love and pride. You knew exactly how hard he worked, exactly how much he cared, exactly how much he wanted every single person here to succeed, to learn, to be better. You knew that behind every scream, every curse, every harsh word, was a man who cared more about food, about quality, and about people than almost anyone else in the world.

A waiter approached your table, smiling politely, carrying a large, heavy plate covered with a silver cloche. “For you, Madam. From the kitchen.”

You smiled back, sitting up a little straighter, your hand still resting protectively over your bump. “Thank you.”

He set the plate down gently in front of you, then lifted the cloche with a flourish, revealing the dish underneath: a beautiful presentation of herb-crusted rack of lamb, roasted vegetables, rich red wine jus, everything arranged perfectly, colorful, appetizing, looking absolutely stunning.

It looked incredible. It looked exactly like the kind of food Gordon would be proud of. It looked exactly like something you would love.

You didn’t hesitate. You were hungry — pregnancy made you hungry all the time — and you trusted the kitchen. You trusted Gordon. You knew he would never let anything bad reach your table, or anyone’s table. You picked up your knife and fork, cut straight through the thickest part of the meat, lifted the piece to your mouth, took a big bite, chewed once, twice, swallowed it down happily, and smiled, ready to take another bite.

And then… you froze.

Your smile faded instantly. Your hand stopped halfway to your mouth. Your eyes went wide, confused, then shocked, then horrified.

The texture. The taste. The coldness.

It wasn’t cooked.

It was completely, totally, utterly raw.

The meat was cold, bloody, soft, slimy, pink all the way through, no sear, no heat, no cooking whatsoever. You had just eaten raw lamb. You had just swallowed it down. You could still feel it in your throat, in your stomach, heavy, wrong, dangerous. You pressed a hand hard over your mouth, your eyes filling instantly with tears, your heart starting to race fast and hard against your ribs.

Raw food. Raw meat. You were pregnant. You couldn’t eat raw meat. It was dangerous. It could make you sick. It could hurt the baby. It could cause infections, bacteria, illness, things that could harm you and the little one growing inside you.

Panic shot through you like ice. You sat there, frozen, terrified, your face draining of every drop of color, your hand shaking as you lowered your fork back onto the plate with a loud, sharp clatter.

From behind the pass, Gordon saw everything.

He saw you smile. He saw you take the bite. He saw you swallow. He saw you stop. He saw the color drain from your face. He saw the way you grabbed your stomach, the way your eyes filled with fear, the way you looked down at the plate in absolute horror.

And then his eyes dropped to the plate in front of you.

From where he stood, he could see it perfectly. He could see the meat. He could see the way it glistened wet and cold. He could see the blood running onto the vegetables. He could see exactly what it was.

“No.”

The word came out quiet at first, breathless, disbelieving. Then it exploded.

“NO! FUCK NO! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Gordon roared so loud the windows rattled. He slammed both hands down onto the pass so hard every plate jumped, every knife clattered, every single person in the kitchen and the dining room jumped out of their skin. His face turned bright red, then purple, his eyes blazing like blue fire, his whole body shaking with absolute, uncontrollable rage. He vaulted over the pass — vaulted over it, like it was nothing, like a man possessed — and stormed straight across the dining room floor, boots thundering hard against the wood, making the whole room shake, every step faster, heavier, more terrifying than the last.

He stopped right at your table, leaned over, stared down at the plate, stared at the raw meat, stared at the bite mark you had taken, stared at your pale, frightened face, and then he turned, slowly, deadly, terrifyingly, toward the kitchen doors, and screamed so loud, so raw, so full of fury that it echoed off every wall, every ceiling, every surface in the whole building.

“WHO THE FUCK SENT THIS OUT?! WHOEVER COOKED THIS, GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW! RIGHT FUCKING NOW! BEFORE I TEAR THIS WHOLE PLACE APART!”

The double doors swung open fast, and a young chef came running out, white as a sheet, shaking, terrified, eyes wide with fear, knowing already exactly what he had done wrong, knowing already that his life was over. He stopped in front of Gordon, head bowed, shoulders hunched, trembling from head to toe.

Gordon didn’t even give him a second to breathe. He stepped right into his face, close enough that their noses almost touched, pointing a shaking, furious finger straight at the plate in front of you, his voice roaring, screaming, every word loud, sharp, and full of pure rage.

“LOOK AT THIS! LOOK AT THIS FUCKING ABOMINATION YOU CALL FOOD! YOU CALL THIS COOKED?! YOU CALL THIS DONE?! IT’S RAW! IT’S FUCKING RAW! IT’S COLD! IT’S BLOODY! IT’S DISGUSTING! IT’S UNFIT FOR ANIMALS LET ALONE HUMAN BEINGS! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU BLIND?! ARE YOU STUPID?! DO YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING?!”

He grabbed the plate, lifted it high, pointed the raw meat right in the chef’s face, shaking it so hard the juices ran down his arm.

“YOU SENT THIS OUT! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO A TABLE! YOU SENT THIS OUT TO HER! LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT WHO YOU JUST SERVED THIS FUCKING RUBBISH TO!”

He slammed the plate back down onto the table so hard sauce splattered everywhere, then leaned even closer, his voice rising to a deafening, ear-splitting scream that everyone would remember forever.

“THATS MY WIFE! YOU GIVE HER RAW FOOD YOU FUCKING ARSE, AND WHAT’S WORSE SHE’S PREGNANT!”

The whole room went dead silent. Not a breath, not a sound, not a single movement. Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The guests, the cameras, the other chefs, the waiters — all of them stood still, terrified, shocked, watching Gordon absolutely lose his mind, watching the most protective, furious, terrifying display of anger they had ever seen.

Gordon was shaking, his chest heaving, his face bright red, sweat pouring down his face, tears of rage pricking at his eyes, every muscle in his body tight and hard with fury. He pointed at you again, at your bump, at your pale, frightened face, his voice cracking with how loud and angry he was.

“SHE IS CARRYING MY CHILD! MY BABY! OUR FUTURE! AND YOU SEND HER RAW MEAT?! YOU SEND HER SOMETHING THAT IS FULL OF BACTERIA, FULL OF GERMS, FULL OF EVERYTHING THAT COULD MAKE HER SICK, HURT HER, HURT MY CHILD?! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DANGEROUS THIS IS?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE JUST DONE?!”

He stepped forward, shoving the chef back hard, making him stumble, his voice roaring even louder, wild and unhinged.

“SHE ATE IT! SHE TOOK A BITE! SHE SWALLOWED IT! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED YOU! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED THIS KITCHEN! BECAUSE SHE TRUSTED ME TO MAKE SURE NOTHING LIKE THIS EVER HAPPENS! AND YOU FAILED! YOU FAILED COMPLETELY! YOU ARE USELESS! YOU ARE PATHETIC! YOU ARE A FUCKING DISGRACE TO THIS PROFESSION!”

He turned around, screaming at the rest of the kitchen staff who were now all lined up in the doorway, terrified to even look at him, his voice booming across the whole room.

“AND THE REST OF YOU! WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?! HOW DID THIS GET PAST ANYONE?! HOW DID NONE OF YOU NOTICE IT WAS FUCKING RAW?! ARE YOU ALL AS USELESS AS THIS IDIOT?! DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR HEADS STUCK SO FAR UP YOUR OWN ARSES YOU CAN’T SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACES?! DO YOU NOT CARE?! DO YOU NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT QUALITY?! ABOUT SAFETY?! ABOUT THE PEOPLE EATING YOUR FOOD?!”

He spun back to the terrified chef, leaning right down into his face, eyes blazing, spitting with anger, every word sharp and cutting like a knife.

“YOU THINK COOKING IS JUST THROWING THINGS IN A PAN AND SENDING IT OUT?! YOU THINK IT DOESN’T MATTER IF IT’S COOKED OR NOT?! YOU THINK YOU CAN HALF-ARSE IT, LAZING ABOUT, DOING NOTHING, AND GET AWAY WITH IT?! YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE?! YOU THINK THIS IS A FUCKING GAME?! IT’S NOT! IT’S A RESPONSIBILITY! IT’S A DUTY! IT’S SOMETHING YOU TAKE PRIDE IN! AND YOU HAVE SHOWN ME TODAY YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”

He slammed his fist onto the table, making the cutlery jump, making you flinch, his voice raw and desperate, full of fear as well as anger.

“MY WIFE! MY UNBORN CHILD! YOU PUT THEM IN DANGER! YOU PUT THEIR HEALTH, THEIR LIVES, EVERYTHING I LOVE AND CARE ABOUT AT RISK BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FUCKING STUPID AND LAZY TO CHECK IF MEAT IS COOKED! HOW DARE YOU! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! I COULD THROW YOU OUT ON THE STREET RIGHT NOW! I COULD BAN YOU FROM EVERY KITCHEN IN THE COUNTRY! I COULD RUIN YOU! AND YOU WOULD DESERVE EVERY SECOND OF IT!”

He stopped for just one second, breathing hard, running a shaking hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, his eyes wild and terrified as he looked back at you. The anger was still there, hot and burning, but underneath it was pure, blinding fear. Fear for you. Fear for the baby. Fear that something bad might happen, fear that you were hurt, fear that he hadn’t protected you enough.

He turned away from the chef instantly, rushed around the table, dropped to his knees right beside your chair, grabbed your hands in his, holding them tight, his face softening completely, all the rage vanishing in a heartbeat, replaced by pure love, pure worry, pure tenderness.

“Love… baby… look at me, look at me, please,” he whispered, his voice shaking, thick with emotion, his thumbs brushing frantically over your knuckles, his eyes searching yours, terrified. “Are you okay? Are you feeling alright? Tell me you’re okay, please God tell me you’re okay… did you swallow it all? Do you feel sick? Do you have any pain? Tell me everything, tell me right now, please…”

You were still pale, still shaken, your heart still racing, but you squeezed his hands back tight, tears spilling over and rolling fast down your cheeks, nodding quickly.

“I’m okay, Gordon… I think I’m okay… just scared… just shocked… it was so raw… I didn’t know…”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead hard against your bump, closing his eyes, breathing shakily, whispering quiet prayers, his hands moving gently, carefully, over your stomach, checking, feeling, waiting, desperate to feel any movement, desperate to know the baby was safe.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so fucking sorry, my love… I can’t believe this happened… I should have been faster… I should have checked… I should have known… I never, ever wanted you to go through this… never wanted you or our baby to be put at risk… I’m so sorry…”

He kissed your bump over and over, soft, desperate kisses, then stood up, wrapped his arms tight around you, pulling you right against his chest, holding you so close, so safe, like he was trying to shield you from everything bad in the whole world, his hand stroking the back of your head, his voice low and fierce in your ear.

“I promise you… I swear to you… nothing like this will ever happen again. Not to you. Not to our child. Not while I’m alive. I will tear this place apart before I let anyone ever hurt you again. You are safe. You are my whole world. And I will protect you with everything I have.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing tears away from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his blue eyes full of love and absolute devotion.

“I’m calling the doctor right now. We’re going straight to the hospital. We’re getting you checked over, everything checked, making sure you and the baby are 100% perfect. I don’t care about the service, I don’t care about the show, I don’t care about anything except you two. You come first. Always.”

He turned back to the kitchen, and the anger was back, cold, sharp, deadly, even worse than before. He pointed straight at the chef, his voice low, dangerous, terrifyingly calm.

“You. You are gone. You are fired. You are out of this kitchen, out of this building, and you will never work in this industry again as long as I am alive. You have no place here. You have no talent. You have no respect. And you almost hurt the only two things that matter to me in this whole world. Get out. Before I do something I regret. GET OUT!”

The chef didn’t argue. He didn’t say a word. He just turned and ran, fleeing through the doors, gone forever.

Gordon turned to the rest of the team, his voice ringing loud and clear, every word a warning, every word a promise.

“LISTEN TO ME! AND LISTEN GOOD! FROM THIS SECOND ON, EVERY SINGLE PLATE THAT LEAVES THIS KITCHEN IS CHECKED BY ME! EVERY PIECE OF MEAT, EVERY VEGETABLE, EVERY SAUCE — I SEE IT, I TOUCH IT, I TASTE IT, BEFORE IT GOES ANYWHERE NEAR A CUSTOMER! IF IT IS NOT PERFECT, IT GOES IN THE BIN! IF YOU ARE NOT SURE, YOU ASK ME! IF YOU CAN’T DO THE JOB RIGHT, YOU LEAVE! I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE, I DON’T CARE HOW LONG YOU’VE BEEN HERE! SAFETY COMES FIRST! QUALITY COMES FIRST! AND MY FAMILY COMES BEFORE EVERYTHING ELSE! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”

“YES, CHEF!” everyone shouted back in unison, terrified, determined, never wanting to see him like this again.

Gordon didn’t wait another second. He turned back to you, wrapped his arm firmly around your waist, supporting you, guiding you gently up out of your chair, holding your hand tight in his, never letting go, never looking away.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you out of here. Let’s get you safe. Let’s get you home.”

He led you slowly, carefully, all the way out of the dining room, past all the staring guests, past the cameras, past the chaos, his body positioned always between you and everyone else, shielding you, protecting you, his hand never leaving yours, his eyes never leaving your face.

Outside, the fresh night air hit you, cool and clean, and you breathed it in deeply, leaning back against his chest, feeling safe again, feeling calm again. Gordon wrapped his arms all the way around you, holding you close, resting his chin on top of your head, his hands resting protectively over your bump, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet dark.

“I meant every word,” he whispered, soft and serious, his voice vibrating through his chest into yours. “Every single word. You are my life. That baby is my life. I would burn down every kitchen in the world, shout until I lost my voice, fight anyone, do anything, if it means keeping you safe. You are mine to protect. Always.”

You turned in his arms, wrapped yours around his neck, looked up into those bright blue eyes that held every bit of love and fury and passion in the world, and smiled softly, finally truly relaxed, finally truly okay.

“I know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I know. And I love you. Even when you’re screaming at the whole restaurant.”

Gordon laughed, a rough, breathless, relieved laugh, leaning down to kiss you deeply, properly, pouring every bit of love and fear and devotion into it, his hands holding you tight, like he never wanted to let go.

“I’d scream louder,” he murmured against your lips, grinning that famous, wicked, loving grin. “I’d scream until the whole world heard me. If anyone ever even thinks about hurting you or our child… I’ll make sure they regret it. You and this baby are the best things that ever happened to me. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever change that.”

He pulled back just enough to press his hand gently over your bump, his expression softening completely, full of wonder and love.

“Now come on. Hospital first. Make sure everything is perfect. Then I’m cooking you dinner myself. Nothing but the best. Nothing but perfectly cooked, delicious, safe food. And I’ll stand right there the whole time, watching every single second, just to be sure.”

You laughed, leaning into him as he guided you toward the car, opening the door, helping you in, buckling your seatbelt carefully, checking everything three times over before closing the door and rushing around to the driver’s side.

As he started the engine, he reached over immediately, took your hand in his, brought it up to his lips, and kissed your knuckles gently, his eyes soft and full of love.

“Never again,” he promised quietly. “I swear. Never again.”

And inside Hell’s Kitchen, the team worked harder, faster, and more carefully than they had ever worked in their lives. Every plate was checked twice, three times, four times. Every temperature was checked. Every piece of meat was cut open to see inside. No one made a mistake. No one dared. Because everyone knew one thing, clear as day, written into the walls, written into the rules, written into Gordon Ramsay’s very soul:

“You’re joking.”

You looked up from your spot perched on the counter, oversized sweatshirt stretched over your rounded stomach. “I’m not.”

Bucky stared at the combination in your hands like it had personally offended him. “Baby, that is a crime.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

You took a loud, deliberate crunch before dragging the pickle through another swirl of chocolate. “You’re just closed-minded.”

“I’m not closed-minded,” he argued. “I’m sane.”

The look you gave him was deeply unimpressed.

Pregnancy cravings had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this one might’ve been the worst yet. Earlier that week, you’d cried because the diner down the street stopped serving curly fries after ten. Two nights ago, you’d demanded peanut butter toast with hot sauce at one in the morning. Bucky had made it without complaint because he adored you, but even then he’d looked mildly traumatized.

This though?

This was villain behavior.

“You want some?” you asked sweetly.

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did think about it,” he said. “I thought absolutely not.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered, and continued eating while Bucky made himself tea. He kept glancing over his shoulder at you with increasing suspicion.

The worst part was the sound.

Crunch.

Then the soft scrape of pickle against ice cream.

Crunch.

It shouldn’t have smelled good together, but somehow the salty tang mixed with the sweetness in a way that kept making his nose twitch.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I literally offered you some.”

“You’re trying to trick me.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you gasped dramatically. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You grinned around another bite.

God, you looked cute.

That was the problem. You could be sitting there eating drywall and he’d still think you were adorable.

Pregnancy looked painfully good on you too, which Bucky tried not to think about too hard unless he wanted to combust on the spot. The softness in your cheeks, the glow in your skin, the way your stomach curved beneath his shirts—it made him emotional in ways he couldn’t explain.

He crossed the kitchen and settled between your spread knees automatically, large hands resting on your hips.

“How’s our girl tonight?” he asked, rubbing your belly gently.

Right on cue, the baby kicked.

Bucky’s entire face softened instantly.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You smiled down at him, carding your fingers through his hair. “She’s been moving all night.”

“Probably trying to escape because of what you’re feeding her.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he said solemnly. “She’s fighting for her life in there.”

You laughed so hard you nearly snorted, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with affection. He loved making you laugh lately. Loved seeing you happy when pregnancy had been exhausting on your body.

Then you held the pickle toward him again.

“One bite.”

“No.”

“One.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You made me try sardines.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You weren’t pregnant and emotionally unstable.”

Your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

Bucky grinned.

“You’re evil,” you informed him.

“Maybe.”

But you kept staring at him with those big hopeful eyes, and unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes had never been capable of denying you much of anything.

Especially now.

Especially when you were carrying his child.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward.

“One bite,” he warned.

Your face lit up triumphantly.

“Oh my god, yes.”

“This better not ruin my life.”

“It’ll change your life.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

You guided the pickle toward his mouth like you were feeding a wild animal. Bucky took the smallest possible bite, already grimacing before he’d even tasted it.

Sweet chocolate.

Cold vanilla.

Sharp vinegar.

Salty pickle.

His eyebrows furrowed immediately.

You watched him expectantly. “Well?”

Bucky chewed slowly.

Then paused.

Then frowned harder.

Because the horrifying part was—

“…it’s not terrible.”

You gasped like he’d just confessed his love all over again.

“I knew it!”

“No, hold on—”

“I knew it,” you repeated louder.

“It’s weird.”

“But good.”

He hesitated.

“…a little.”

Your victory screech echoed through the apartment.

Before Bucky could defend himself, you shoved another bite toward him and he actually accepted it this time, which was probably his first mistake.

His second mistake was taking a bigger bite.

Because somehow it worked.

The crunch with the creaminess. The salty and sweet together.

Bucky looked deeply disturbed by his own reaction.

“I hate this.”

“You love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He pointed accusingly at you. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”

“Too late. I’m telling Sam immediately.”

“Baby.”

“I’m putting it in the baby book.”

Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your stomach while you laughed. He could feel the vibrations of it beneath his cheek, warm and alive and so overwhelmingly you.

After a moment, your laughter softened.

“You really don’t think I’m gross?” you asked quietly.

Bucky looked up immediately.

“What?”

“The cravings. The crying. Me waking you up at weird hours.” You gave a tiny shrug. “I know pregnancy’s kinda… weird.”

His expression melted so fast it made your chest ache.

“Doll,” he said gently, sliding his hands over your thighs. “You’re growing our baby. You could ask me to grill a watermelon at four in the morning and I’d do it.”

You snorted.

“Actually,” he added thoughtfully, “that might be better than the pickle thing.”

You laughed again, and Bucky leaned forward to kiss you softly.

Sweet chocolate still lingered on your lips.

“…Okay,” he muttered against your mouth. “Maybe give me another pickle.”

Your eyes widened in delight.

“Oh, you are SO obsessed with this now.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Sure, honey.”

Bucky sighed dramatically as you handed him another chocolate-covered pickle.