As Many Of You May Have Seen, There's Been A Lot Of Disrespectful Discourse Happening Regarding Ewan's

you cut off women from dancing, because girls of good characters do not indulge in such lewd activities. if they become one with their swaying hips, how will you hold down their bodies and spirits?

you cut off women from reading, because books have so many vile ideas about freedom and humanity. hence, they may begin to spin ideas from the yarn of knowledge, jeopardising the conditional safety of your cage.

you cut off women from adorning themselves lovingly, because lest they begin to like the shape of their noses or the curves of their waist; they will stop caring about other people and conforming to your standards of beauty.

you cut off women from expressing because girls from good families do not raise their voices. you say the devil resides in their voice boxes and if they don’t watch their tongues, they may taint the name of their families.

you cut off women from being, so the only thing they’re left with is fear and misery. grinding that terror on the stone of fate like grains, they toil away their lives.

then you call them many many rotten things if any of them refuses to believe this. still, if they don’t comply, force is applied repeatedly.

they become a skeleton of their potential self, grieving in secrecy; because privacy is a luxury. what if in the empty silence they finally start thinking & questioning?

yet, you wonder why they’re exhausted and angry, fighting silent wars within and outside.

jeongin + maknae’s private life intros ✿

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

can we talk about walker’s ability to act with his eyes…they’re so expressive in every scene and perfectly capture the anger, fear, and despair percy feels throughout tlt, but most importantly they exude love and longing in a way that’s practically tangible when looking at sally, grover, and especially annabeth in some of the finale scenes…rent was DUE

Eye of Madness / Eye of Greatness

pairings: targaryen family x platonic! velaryon oc

tw: blood, prophecies (?), my first tumblr fic, kind of dark idk, au, self-harm, helaena is kind of ooc

description: Elaena Velaryon was born during one of the worst storms that the Red Keep had ever faced. King Viserys even believed it may have been the start of the Long Night, but no, it just marked the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s second-born child. A girl. A beautiful little girl with amethyst eyes and a shock of curly brown hair that matches her older brother’s. The Gods had picked the girl for something special. A change of fate. A coin was tossed in the air that day and started its spin.

a/n: hey! hi! hello! so first tumblr fic... exciting. I mostly wrote stuff on wattpad and do a bunch of random short stories in my own time but I've never actually written a one-shot anyways I hope you enjoy this random little fic I wrote on a whim. Also I did choose Elaena as a name because I'm spiteful and wanted something that followed the whole Targaryen same name thing

p.s. I am taking requests so send any hotd stuff in and I'll get to it as soon as possible

part 1 / part 2

Elaena Velaryon was born during one of the worst storms that the Red Keep had ever faced. King Viserys even believed it may have been the start of the Long Night, but no, it just marked the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s second-born child. A girl. A beautiful little girl with amethyst eyes and a shock of curly brown hair that matches her older brother’s. The Gods had picked the girl for something special. A change of fate. A coin was tossed in the air that day and started its spin.

Sitting next to aunt Helaena, I absentmindedly turned the pages of the book but barely paid attention to the words. My third brother, Joffrey, had been born earlier that day with the same brown hair that rested on the heads of herself, her brothers and the Commander of the City Watch, Ser Harwin Strong. I knew I wasn’t my father’s child ever since I was capable of identifying human faces but it still hurt to hear about mother’s misdeeds gossiped about in the halls. Poison seeped into the walls of the Keep and blood was tainted green. That’s why I preferred to stay by the side of my aunt, who even with her little peculiarities was more similar to Elaena than anyone gave the girls credit for.

The door of the bedroom slammed open, making the girls jump and in strode the Queen. Helaena’s mother and my step-grandmother - even if she was the same age as my mother. She carried a mask of annoyance and her scowl only deepened when she noticed me sitting next to Helaena on the ledge. 

I quickly abandoned the book and curtsied. Even if she was going to be cruel it was better to bear it with a brave face. I enjoyed spending time with Helaena and we shared an affinity for bugs but the Queen never liked me or my brothers. She didn’t want bastards tainting her children by spending time with them.

“Your Grace.” Alicent's face pulled up into a strained smile and gave me a little nod of acknowledgement. “I shall be going then, my mother most likely requests my presence so soon after her labours and the hour grows late. As always it was a pleasure, my dearest aunt.” Helaena gave me a small smile and threw up the hand that was stroking one of her little critters to give a wave. 

“Very well. It was nice to see you, Princess.”

“Your Grace.” I gave her a nod before slipping out the door and shutting it behind me. Ser Erryk or Arryk stood outside the door, I could never remember which was which. 

“Princess, would you be needing an escort?”

“No, I am quite alright, Ser. Thank you.” He gave me a stiff nod and I walked off slowly until I turned the corner. There I started off into a full sprint toward mother’s room. I bounded through the halls and burst through the doors, catching mother’s stern glare.

“What did I say about running through halls?” I pouted but relented under her calculating glare.

“Only to do it when you wouldn’t disturb the servants. Sorry mother, I just wanted to come visit you.”

“Very good and it’s quite alright, sweetling. How was your time with your aunt?”

“Splendid, we found this beautiful spider that shimmered with different colors in the light.” I came over and gave her a tight hug, careful to not put too much pressure on her stomach. Knowing it must be painful after giving life to another human being. Slipping under the covers and having mother tuck me under her arm was when I noticed that mother’s handmaidens were picking up clothes and packing things away.

“Mother? Why are you packing?”

“We’re leaving, sweetling. Your aunt Laena died, we are going to Driftmark for her funeral. We should have left a long time ago.” Mother murmured the last bit under her breath, making me tuck my chin up and look at her quizzically. 

A familiar shiver of unease ran down my spine. The hairs on my neck raised up in warning. The words of prophecy and the smell of scorched flesh clouded my senses. Voices whispered in my ears, their usual muttering turning fiercer. Flames encase the flesh while a man becomes a kinslayer, but not by his own hand. No, but by his treacherous mind. Brother against brother for a green Queen. Green with envy and red with spite. 

“El? Sweetling?” I felt mother shaking my shoulder and I realized I had been straying again. The smell of burnt flesh still remained on my mind as I gave her a reassuring smile. Madness gains roots and grows. A coin had been tossed. Greatness and madness. A Targaryen born of a storm. Gods. Coin. Tossed. I cuddled into her side and gave her a little smile.

“I’m alright, mother. Are we finally going to meet our cousins?”

The salty smell of the sea drifted past my face as I watched Aunt Laena’s coffin being lowered into the water. Vaemond’s insults lost to the torrent of ice and dragons that roared in my mind. I knew I would gain a dragon one day but today was not for me. Today was the day for Aemond. I brought my eyes up and looked to my left hoping to catch his eyes or Helaena’s as mother’s hands tightened around my shoulders in response to the Valyrian spewing from Vaemond’s mouth. 

Jace’s warmth permeated through my cloak as he intertwined our fingers. Giving his hand a little squeeze, I moved my eyes to the front and found the eyes of a tall, handsome man with shoulder-length Valyrian hair. Daemon Targaryen. Not my intended target but an interesting one nonetheless. He continued locking eyes with me as he took the attention from Vaemond’s insults with his laughter. Bold. Laughing at his late wife’s funeral. Well it was said that he murdered his first one, so this behaviour was really not that unexpected. I gave him a small nod of gratitude as I let my eyes stray once more. 

I finally catch Helaena’s eyes and return the knowing look she sends my way. So she knew, of course she knew. I offer her a small wink and smirk which she responds in turn with a small laugh that she quickly hid behind a cough. The sound of a loud splash caused me to look back over the ledge and into the churning water.

I traced patterns on the rough stone as Jace stood next to me, overlooking the sea. We had gotten the news that Harwin had died in a fire at Harrenhal. I knew Jace was grieving in his own way. He was angry as well, probably because we couldn’t attend his funeral in favor of going to one of an aunt we never knew. I felt my mother's warm presence behind me as she joined us at the railing. 

“Have you seen your father? Your little cousins have lost their mother, could use a kind word.” I nod but Jace only gets angrier, he takes the chance to voice his thoughts before I can interrupt him.

“I have an equal-”

“Not now, Jace. The days grow darker and night will shroud us all in blood.” Jace’s eyes widen and mother sends me a sharp look. I needed to warn them in the only way I knew possible but mother was always careful to never have others hear my mutterings, vastly different from the Queen’s behavior with Helaena.

“Go to your cousins, Jace. I shall speak to Elaena on my own.” He nods and surries away, giving me a small reassuring smile. His eyes still holding the fear he obtains whenever I speak the whispers out loud.

“Darling, what did you see this time?”

“Nothing of consequence, mother. You cannot temper fate.”

“Elaena.”

“You know I can’t tell you more. You know I’ve tried.” I pleaded softly, disastrous consequences had come from me trying to tell her more than riddles.

“I know, sweetling. I know.” She pulls into a hug which I quickly reciprocate, my shoulders relaxing and the whispers ceasing for a moment - a comforting blankness surrounding my head.

“Why don’t you go see your aunt, hmm?”

“Of course.” She gives me a little smile and I bound across the courtyard where my aunt and uncles are located, giving the King a small smile which he returns with a larger one.

“Spool of green, spool of black…” I crouch down next to my aunt and slowly offer my hand to the spider which easily climbs over my fingertips. Hel ceases her mutterings once she notices my presence and offers a kind smile, lightning sparkling behind her eyes.

“Hello.”

“Hello Hel. She is quite the beauty.” I offer the spider back to her, the little creature gracefully climbs back into her pale hands. Helaena hums back in approval and I sit there crouched next to her as I thumb the hilt of my dagger, overhearing Aegon’s disgusting remarks. Sometimes I imagine how easy it would be to just take the blade and drag… no, not yet. It’s not the time for that yet.

Hel and I had moved over to one of the ledges and we were contently looking over one of the critters I had found hiding under one of the stones. Nursing a small cup of wine and leaning my head on Hel’s shoulder, I saw mother approach our little bubble from the side.

“Hello Helaena, El.” Helena gives mother a small nod before looking back down to the little beetle.

“Mother.”

“You better prepare for bed as the hour grows late.”

“Of course, mother.” She nods and squeezes my shoulder before making her way over to Jace and Luke. I give Hel a little kiss on the cheek and she gives me a contented smile as I leave, joining my brothers as we head over to our assigned rooms. 

The raised voices of my cousins and brothers outside my room waken me from the lightest of slumbers - dreams of a past filled with dragons and conquerors. It had started.

“We should wake her.”

“Nothing good comes out of waking El. She’s…”

“Well?”

“Different.” Luke pipes up.

“What do you mean different?”

“We don’t have time for this! Let’s just leave her be and we’ll come find her when it’s over.” 

They rushed away from my room and I slipped out from under the covers. Taking the dragonglass blade that sat at my bedroom table and tucking it under the sleeve of my nightgown, I sat down next to the fire and watched the flames dance. Dragons must not dance. Waiting. Waiting for the Gods’ coin to stop spinning. And waiting for a decision to finally come to be.

A while later after I heard Vhagar’s screeches outside of the window, my grandmother and grandsire arrived at the door. Slamming it in the progress of frantically trying to find me. 

“Elaena! Come quickly, girl.”

“What has happened?”

“We do not know but we are needed in the Main Hall. The King has requested our presence.” My eyes widened and I quickly bounded up from my place on the furs. The hilt of my dagger secured against my palm, we flew through the halls. The torches painted wild stories against the stone walls - about the future, the past and the bloody present.

I enter the fire-lit hall to find people fussing over One-Eyed Aemond, my bloodied brothers and cousins. Rhaenys instantly rushes to the sides of my cousins and Luke and Jace pull me into a hug, Jace’s arms protectively enveloping both of us.

“Jace! Luke! Are you two alright?” I gingerly touch their faces and they give me strained smiles.

“I’m glad you weren’t there, dear sister.” Was the only thing Jace supplied me with as mother burst through the doors, her hair in a frenzy and Uncle Daemon walking in behind her.

“Jace? Luke? Elaena!” She rushes over to my bloodied brothers and then looks to me for answers. I shake my head and she nods, knowing I didn’t have any part in this. Sensing the same confusion in my eyes that mirrors her own. Moments later chaos erupts as everyone starts shouting, I close my eyes in a grimace but the ringing in my ears increases. The sound of a coin spinning gets louder. Metal twinkling and grating against stone.

Everyone continues to debate about the events that transpired. Voices intermingle as insults are thrown and people are questioned. The words suddenly become so clear. 

“Blood for blood. Green for Black. The threads weave and interweave. The girl born of the storm will be at the mercy of the coin…” The song starts but it is not all clear yet. This song must not accompany a dance. Blood is demanded by the Queen, who rushes at my brothers in determination but mother intervenes. The blade of prophecy is aimed at my mother’s heart as Alicent harshly speaks against my mother’s face.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s trampled under your pretty foot again.” 

In that moment I feel the hilt of the dagger fall into my hand. It is time. I take out the shining steel, ripping the seams of the white gown. No one is watching the second-born Princess. The coin stops spinning. The Gods have chosen. And they have chosen…

I grip the dagger hard, fate has a funny way of balancing the scales. This will prevent a future where my brothers die. For my sacrifice, the Gods will accept my plea. The plea I made when I was only a babe in my mother's womb. Eyes open to the prophecies and bloody future of my house.

The dagger slides over my left eye. An amethyst iris forever lost. The steel cuts through flesh and blood runs down my face. I feel none of the expected pain. Maybe because I have had so long to prepare for this moment that pain has become a distant echo. Blood for blood. An eye of madness. An eye of greatness. 

Ringing fills the hall as I let the blade drop, the steel resounding throughout the room. Blood drips, drips, drips. Heads turn trying to find the source of a noise and when they notice the little girl with a deep laceration over her youthful face an echoing gasp is heard. That is when a second blade is heard fall. 

“Elaena!” Mother turns to face me with a horrified look.

“Blood for blood. An eye for an eye. You have now found your justice. Let us play no more foolish games.” I give a grand bow and smooth out the now blood-stained nightgown. My mother rushes in front of me and gingerly cradles my face, tears forming on the edges of her eyes, making them misty. The Queen’s hands cover her mouth as she stumbles back. They say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men but the Gods still have cards to play.

…madness.

so... thoughts???

You drive me crazy. Fine. Let’s try this kind of love, Hee-do. I’m going to do everything I can with you. So prepare yourself. TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-ONE (2022)

Palestinians are not "animals."

They are not "children of darkness."

Little kids are rescuing cats and trying to comfort them when they themselves are terrified.

A doctor broke down when his father and brother came into the trauma unit.

And several of his colleagues hugged and gathered to comfort him.

Journalists are playing with babies.

Doctors are refusing to evacuate hospitals because their patients can't and refuse to leave them.

There's a little boy who gives tea to the journalists and thanks them for spreading their stories.

He's displaced at the hospital, his home is gone.

A kid was asked what he wants to be when he grows up and he said kids in Gaza don't grow up.

Kids are writing their names on their arms so they can be identified.

Momin Kireka is a Palestinian journalist who was disabled by an Israeli attack in 2008.

And despite the difficulty in moving around, he vows to continue to show the world the truth.

Awni, a young Palestinian boy has a gaming YouTube channel he loved so much.

He was killed in the bombing.

Mohammed Sami was an artist who's dream was to open an art gallery.

He was playing with the kids to raise their spirits. And the next day he was killed.

They are victims.

They are going through unimaginable horrors and still find it in their hearts to be kind.

They have hopes and dreams just like you and I.

They are people.

And they deserve to be remembered as such.

7:00 A.M. // 9:00 P.M.

never ask a joel miller/pedro pascal girlie what happened on april 20th 2025

what are your thoughts on people saying that 2521 is problematic for portraying a relationship that began when heedo was a minor & yijin, an adult?

people should practice thinking sometimes. it helps a lot

i will try to be systematic here, so i'll present some points in list form. i've already addressed people's general idiocy in this post, so i'll try to keep things short because i don't want to waste energy fighting every person with a different opinion from mine.

a relationship is "problematic" as in "harmful" when there is lack of consent, or when the relationship is toxic for at least one party. hee do and yi jin did not participate in any sexual activity when she was 18 and he was 22, and they have never been toxic towards each other.

the show's entire focus is on how two people with a four-year age difference who meet at 18 and 22 can have a healthy romantic relationship eventually. the writing constantly brings the characters' differences and similarities into focus, both in terms of their age difference and in terms of their personalities. we see them develop their relationship through countless hours of talking, hanging out, providing each other emotional support, developing feelings. it takes eight entire episodes for one of the characters to really examine any sexual attraction they feel, and this character is the younger woman, who is also the person who takes every step towards crossing physical boundaries with the other. at no point is she taken advantage of for her lack of experience, her naivete, or her willingness to start a romantic relationship when she's 19. yi jin could have easily turned her head back then, but that's neither the person he is, nor the value he places in their relationship. the show emphasized emotional connection long before it even introduced physical attraction, and it's quite impressive to me that people still decided to feel bothered.

relationships with an age gap happen all the time in real life, and the role of art is to dramatize and discuss real life for its audience. the aim of this show is partly to demonstrate how such a relationship can occur in a healthy and natural manner, in which both parties are pursuing the well-being of the other. in this way, the show proves that a relationship with an age gap is not inherently exploitative, but can be anything both parties create with the way they treat each other.

the show has been vocal about the difficulty of defining such a relationship, and the characters have taken very careful steps to give names or actions to their feelings as they grow. in no instance has any romantic development been rushed or handled poorly. by the time the younger woman initiates a kiss, the age difference has become as irrelevant as it is between people in their twenties. if a first-year university student was dating a fourth-year student she's been close friends with for two years, would anyone find it "problematic"?

it's almost impossible to change someone's opinion if they're not willing to accept that they could be wrong. it makes me sad that such an incredibly-written show is still unable to inspire critical thought in some segments of its audience, because the majority of my points have been so clearly demonstrated in scenes that they must be visible from space. nevertheless, i'm persisting.