#and it's just. what are you trying to say about that

[stylesispunk]

"I only see daylight"

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: What is waiting for you after life ends? Joel woke up to a life he had spent missing this whole time. You are there, Sarah is there, and a baby too. w.c: 1,7k (tiny baby) warnings: mentions of blood, crying, and mentions of an afterlife. I don't know if you believe in that but I like to think about it.

a/n: I don't know if you could consider this a fix-it fic, but I hope you do because I love this little idea I had the other day. I know it's short, but I have requests to work in and more "Blind faith" chapters to work in. Happy reading. Please remember to reblog and comment. I appreciate them very much.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

“Joel…Can I ask you something?” Ellie asked, clearing her throat.

He kept his eyes on the road ahead of them but gave a small nod. “Shoot.”

“Did you… I mean, before all this. Did you ever… you know. Love someone? Like, for real?”

Joel’s grip on his backpack tightened. For a moment, he wasn’t walking on that road anymore. He was somewhere else. Back when he was younger, with his baby girl in his arms and a woman’s laugh in his ears.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I did.”

Ellie looked over at him, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“Who was she?”

He hesitated, then let out a breath. “Her name was… well, she came into my life the day Sarah was born. Her mother… she didn’t stick around. But she did. God, she did. Never asked for anything. Just… showed up with a smile and a cup of hospital coffee. Held Sarah like she was her own. She was her mother and she was my wife.”

Joel smiled faintly, a ghost of a smile. “We were together for years. Raised Sarah, built a life in Austin. Didn’t even get around to getting’ married. World ended a month before that.”

Ellie was quiet, watching him. “What happened to her?”

Joel’s eyes clouded. “The outbreak happened.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.

He still couldn’t say out loud how you died on his arms two days after Sarah.

How the smell of fresh coffee that filled the kitchen at home became the smell of blood sticking on his hands while he tried to keep you alive.

The snow fell fiercely outside the lodge. Joel’s breath ragged and shallow.

He couldn’t take the pain anymore. He couldn’t survive another punch against his face. He was dying.

He could barely see Ellie, screaming some feet away from him. Pleading.

“Joel, please get up.” “Joel, please” she choked.

Oh, his baby girl. He wanted to swallow all the pain, but his broken bones and body could barely bear the pain.

One push, one try. But something sharp on his neck stole his lasts breaths away.

His vision blurred. The world dimmed. In those mere last moments, last seconds. He saw them.

Ellie crawling to him.

But he also saw you. Beautiful as ever, eyes wet, reaching for him.

And Sarah just as she was that night in Austin, her smile breaking his heart.

Joel tried to speak, but no words came.

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Then, nothing.

All went black.

For a moment, or perhaps forever, there was nothing. No pain. No cold. No Ellie’s voice calling his name. Just silence.

The soft chirping of morning birds. The faint hum of a ceiling fan. And the distant smell of fresh coffee.

Joel’s eyes fluttered open.

His breathing was steady, his body didn’t hurt. No blood. No searing pain in his ribs. No snow or cracked lodge ceiling above him.

Instead, a familiar ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and pale morning light streamed through the curtains of his room.

At home, in Austin.

He sat up abruptly, a cold sweat clinging to his skin.

The bed side next to him was made, your side, neatly tucked like you always did. A glass of water sat untouched on your nightstand. The clock on the wall read 7:14 AM. The same perfume he had never got to forget lingered on your pillow, soft and warm, and so goddamn real Joel felt his chest tighten.

His hand shot up to his face — searching for cuts, bruises, something. But there was nothing. His hair was damp with sweat, but his fingers came away clean.

He swallowed hard, heart thudding in his ears.

What the hell was this?

Joel swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet pressing against cool wooden floors. He could hear movement in the kitchen, the gentle clink of a spoon against a mug, the scrape of a chair.

His throat closed up.

It was you, your laugh echoing through the house.

Soft. Carefree. Real.

And for a moment, he was terrified to move, terrified that if he stood and crossed that room, it would disappear — like every other goddamn thing in his life had.

But the pull was too strong.

Joel pushed open the bedroom door.

The house was just as he remembered it. The old photographs lining the hallway. Sarah’s soccer trophies. The faded denim jacket slung over the back of a chair. Everything untouched by fire, or blood, or the passage of time.

And then, there you were.

Standing in the kitchen, back to him, pouring coffee into two mugs. One of them — his old favorite. The one with the chipped rim.

You turned as if you felt his eyes on you.

That same smile. That same light in your eyes.

“Morning, stranger,” you teased, unaware of the storm brewing in his chest.

Joel couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled you into him, arms wrapping around your waist so tight it made you laugh, the mug nearly slipping from your hand.

“Whoa! Easy, cowboy,” you chuckled against his shoulder. “Bad dream?”

His hand cradled the back of your head, burying his face in your hair, drinking in your scent, the warmth of your body.

“I… I don’t know,” he rasped, voice thick.

“Hey,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I’ve been right here, Joel. I’m not going anywhere.”

And when you kissed him , soft, steady, grounding, it felt like everything broken inside him finally came home.

He kept his forehead pressed to yours for a beat longer, eyes shut, breathing you in like a man starved. But then, something shifted. His hand, still resting against your waist, slid down — and froze.

A gentle curve. A fullness where there hadn’t been one before.

Joel’s brow furrowed, his eyes snapping open. He pulled back just enough to look down, and there it was.

Your belly, round and unmistakably swollen beneath the soft fabric of your, his worn t-shirt. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

You followed his gaze, a smile tugging at your lips. “Hey,” you murmured, resting your hand over his. “Don’t look so spooked.”

Joel swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your face to your stomach, then back again. His heart thundered in his chest, a thousand questions fighting for room.

And then you said it, soft and calm, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Ellie is right inside here.”

Joel’s breath caught.

That name.

Ellie.

The word carved through him like a lightning strike. His mind, already fragile, started to crack along the seams. He stared at you, at the tender way your hand cradled your belly, at the glow in your eyes, like this had always been your life.

“Ellie?” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

You smiled, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “Yeah?” you nodded, looking a bit worry because of his state. “Remember doctor says she’s stubborn already.” You chuckled, your eyes shimmering with a mix of joy and mischief. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

Joel staggered back a half-step, running a trembling hand through his hair. The room spun. A wave of warmth and memory and heartbreak crashing into him all at once.

He remembered Ellie. How couldn’t he? He remembered snow and blood and a lodge floor.

But here, here she wasn’t a girl with a mouthful of trouble. She was…

His and yours.

For real.

A future that had never existed. A life stolen from him, given back in pieces.

Joel’s vision blurred. His knees buckled slightly, and you caught his arm.

“Joel,” you whispered, concern flashing across your face. “Hey — hey, it’s okay. Breathe, baby. You’re alright. We’re alright.”

He clung to you like a man drowning.

Joel clung to you like a man drowning, his face buried in the curve of your neck, your hand stroking the back of his head, steady and familiar. You felt his breath hitch, the tremble in his arms. Whatever nightmare had clawed at him, it was still lingering in his bones.

Then, he heard the footsteps.

Light, quick steps padding down the hallway. The soft creak of the floorboard outside the room.

“Dad?” a young voice called.

Joel stiffened. His head jerked up.

And there she was.

Sarah.

Alive. Whole.

Framed by the doorway in her faded hoodie and denim shorts, backpack slung over one shoulder, a little messy ponytail, like she always rushed through it in the mornings.

“Dad, Mom — it’s getting late for school,” she groaned, rolling her eyes like any other teenager. “I already saw uncle Tommy waiting out front, and if I have to listen to him sing along to the radio one more time, I swear I’ll jump outta the truck.”

Joel’s breath punched out of him like he’d been hit. His lips trembled.

“Baby girl…” he rasped.

Sarah blinked, confused. “You okay, Dad? You look kinda… weird.”

You smiled gently, your heart cracking a little at Joel’s expression, and stepped toward Sarah, brushing a hand down her arm. “Hey, sweetheart — give your dad a second, okay? He’s just… he had a rough night.”

Sarah sighed, the way only a 12-year-old could. “Ugh, bad dreams again? Should’ve told him not to eat chili dogs that late.”

Joel let out a strangled laugh, a sound halfway between a sob and a chuckle.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to Sarah’s temple. “Uncle Tommy’s taking you today. Go grab your stuff, and I’ll be out in a sec.”

Sarah groaned but turned, heading back toward the hall. “Tell him I call dibs on the front seat!” she shouted over her shoulder.

The moment she disappeared around the corner, Joel collapsed back to your arms, his hand dragging down your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“You’re safe, Joel. You’re home.” You promised as you caressed his neck with your fingertips

His eyes, wet and wide, met yours. “Is this… is this real?” His voice cracked like it was too fragile to ask. “You. Sarah. Baby Ellie. Is this…?”

You leaned, pressing your forehead to his.

“It’s real,” you promised softly. “It’s ours.”

And for the first time in years, in decades, Joel Miller cried.

He didn’t know what he had done to deserve to see this light again.

But whoever had mercy on him. Gave him the chance to live a second life in daylight.

With you, Sarah, and a baby, Ellie.

[thalwri]

COLLARS ‘N LEASH

STARRING: caleb x reader

synopsis: you're injured and supposed to be resting but you just can't stop going out. so caleb finds a way to convince you to stay inside to let your injuries heal (it gets freaky).

warnings: porn with plot, use of collars, fingering, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, pussy slapping, obscene use of hands, cum eating, sloppy wet marathon sex, multiple creampies, manhandling, squirting, spitting, pussydrunk!caleb, cockdrunk!reader, you two are just nasty freaks.

wc: 3,4k

a/n: i'm literally about to cumbust. caleb's got me feral these days. and he will never be beating the panty sniffer allegations!!

MINORS DON'T INTERACT!

You believed it was a joke. Or some one of the many weirdly ominous things Caleb had a habit of saying to get a kick out of you. It must have been.

“What?” You blink, staring at his hands. 

“Remember what I told you?” He asked, free hand slowly reaching up your thigh. “About that stray cat.”

You were fresh out the shower, skin still steaming from the heat of the water pelting your back. You have nothing on but a gown, and not one of the fluffy ones either. His eyes had been on you since you left the shower and he hasn’t bothered hiding his blushing.

“The one you put a collar on?” Your brows raise at the memory. He really was worried about that poor kitty. It was all injured and kept trying to run, so Caleb eventually put a collar with a bell on the cat so he’d know if it tried to go and be adventurous again.

Then it clicked. You had a minor injury on your leg from your last mission. A solo mission that was supposed to be an investigation had ended with you fighting at least six Wanderers throughout the night. Caleb made sure your superiors put you on break for at least two weeks (with Zayne’s medical support) to give you time to rest. 

But being the stubborn person you are, you always found a way to leave your apartment to Caleb’s agitation. It got so bad that even he had to take leave from the Fleet to keep an eye on you— as if his usual methods didn’t already work.

It all makes sense. The fact that he’s in Linkon, the fact that you’ve been put on sick leave for two weeks, and the fact that he’s been watching you like a hawk especially since you try to go out. 

The damn collars in his hands are to make you the cat in this situation. 

“Are you serious?” You blink, trying to ignore the growing heat in your core. You couldn’t lie, it was hot. 

One of the collars, you presume is yours, has a pretty red bow tied around its bell. The other has a leather leash attached to it. Almost like a leash for a dog.

“I don’t want you running off when you’re still recoverin’.” Caleb’s hand disappear into your silk robe, inching higher and higher up your thighs, just so damn close to your pussy. “And I don’t want you to get worried. So I shouldn’t leave you.”

His lips inch closer to your neck, hot breath ghost over your damn skin. This fucker—

“How about I test a little theory of mine?” The metallic jingles of the collars ring in your ears. His sunset eyes raise to your gaze with that stupidly handsome puppy look he gives you when he gets needy and desperate. “Can I put this collar on you?”

“You’re such a freak.” You hiss, watching his eyes flutter in plain as the fucking sky obviousness. You learned he had a thing for you being a little bit mean. Just a little. And he does everything he can to get on your nerves.

“So are you.” His hand finally reaches your soaking pussy and circles your entrance with a single finger. You deeply inhale feeling your walls clench on air. “Look at you, so wet. I think you want me to collar you up. So I always know where you are.”

Bold of him to talk. You can literally see the growing tent in his pants. He likes it just as much as you do. 

His finger slowly dips into your pussy, pumping in and out with deliberate precision. He knows exactly what to do to set you off, turn you on, make you beg. And he is making things extra slow to get to you.

“Caleb.” You attempt to warn but he curls his finger right into that spongy pleasure spot that he knows drives you insane.

“Why would you wanna go out and about when you’re injured, pips?” He asks with concern in his eyes as if he isn’t torturing you with his finger. It’d be better if he put in another or two. Wet squelches travel right up to your ears to add to the injury. What a tease.

Your eyes gloss over with intense need. What a fucking— 

“It’s almost like you want me to keep you close,” Another finger finally slips in, stretching you out deliciously. A heavenly moan escapes your lips, not that you were trying to hide it to begin with. “Keep a close eye on you and remind you that you’re better off restin’ here at home.”

His words quickly become white noise just from how his fingers turn you into horny mush. If there’s one thing your boyfriend has mastered, it’s driving you insane with his fingers alone. Now imagine what his cock does.

“Fuck.” You sigh, feeling your back arch to feel his fingers deeper inside you. And like the good boyfriend he is, he gives you exactly what you need— pushing his fingers deeper and deeper until his knuckles nudge your entrance. “And– oh, Caleb- what- what about you?”

“Hm?” His tongue darts out his mouth, deeply concentrated on how your pussy clenches around his fingers as fast as your pulse. The tent on his sweatpants start to darken from his leaking precum.

“There’s two… collars.” You say slowly or else his ministrations would bring you to a stutter. “If the bell one’s for me, what about the one with the leash?”

Caleb’s lips form an ‘o’ shape, eyes following your gaze to the collars in his hand. “That one’s for me. You want me to stay close to take care of you, right? What better way to do that than to make sure I never leave your side?”

Your hand slowly travels down to grip his hardened cock, gently stroking it through the soaked fabric. Your finger danced around his tip just the way he liked it— slow and light, just to rile him up even more. You watch his eyes squeeze shut in a sore attempt to hold back his own lewd noises. 

“So if I wear the collar you will too?” Your hand expertly works his cock, squeezing his clothed shaft as you stroked him. Unable to verbally respond, Caleb slowly nods while huffing out soft groans.

That’s how you end up on your back in the bed, legs spread with your boyfriend ruthlessly eating your pussy.

Your room is silent apart from the obnoxiously slick noise of your wet, cum soaked skin being slurped and devoured. Caleb made you cum three times already and it looked like he wasn’t stopping. 

“C-Caleb—” Your eyes roll back for the nth time as his lips close around your clit for his tongue to flick back and forth in that delicious pattern. He expertly works your clit, slowly and carefully spelling out his name into your arousal all while curling his fingers deep inside your soaking pussy.

“Caleb— god— please—“ Your pleas fall to deaf ears, mostly because he’s trapped his head between your trembling thighs to suffocate in your grip. You can tell he’s getting off on it based on how he fucks your slick back into with his fingers, how he moans loudly with every slurp, kiss and bite on your skin. 

He is so gone and he fucking loves it. 

Your collar jingles every time you squirm and twitch, and sings a melody whenever your back arches for him. It’s like a little instrument that accompanies the symphony of moans and whimpers that leave your pretty lips.

He’s so animalistic with it, slobbering and drooling all over you while he slurps you up like one of his protein shakes. The bed’s shaking from how he’s grinding on the mattress to get a kick from all that self induced edging— his main priority, however, is you and that cute pussy that has him on a leash (literally and figuratively).

“Keep drippin’, pips.” He groans into your pussy, pressing hot smooches on your lower lips. “Keep cummin’ on my face. Tug on my damn leash. Fuckin’ love tasting you.”

Your clothes had been long abandoned after the first orgasm he ate you through. You made such a mess that your panties (which he will keep for later) were thrown across your room along with the rest of his clothes.

The way his tongue just effortlessly slides right past your entrance and caresses your walls brings a hoarse cry right out of your kiss-swollen lips. And of course your boyfriend dutifully responds with the sluttiest whine you’ve heard. You tug harder at his leash, overwhelmed by the continuous stimulation from his nose bumping your clit.

It all rushes straight down to his cock, jutting against he mattress. He shakes his head to spread your juices all over his face, wanting to be covered and blessed by your essence. Wanting to lick it right off his face once he was done. To have your scent on his form without having to scramble for it by rubbing your used panties on his face.

Eating your pussy alone was more than enough to make him cum untouched. What makes it even better is your relentless tugging of his leash, continuously pulling his face closer to your weeping cunt. If your moans weren’t enough then your trembling thighs were more than sufficient to keep him going. And he’d be damned to waste the meal you’re serving him on a diamond platter. 

“Caleb!” Your cry summons another harsh, intense climax bringing your legs to a violent shake. His grip on your thighs tighten and the slurps and muffled groans get so much louder that you can’t even hear your own moans.

He tilts his head back, finally releasing your legs from his iron grip. Eyes closed, Caleb chuckles as he gulps as much air as his lungs can allow.

“Should’ve had you sit on my face.” He rasps and wipes your juices off of his chin. Almost intuitively, you open your lips awaiting a taste of your juices.

“Fucking freak.” You whimper as he stuffs his fingers in your mouth for you to wipe him clean. Your tongue laps up your yummy essence, ensuring all that remains on his hand is just your saliva.

“Your fucking freak, baby.” He slowly move in and out of your mouth until the tips of his fingers tap the back of your throat making you gag around him. “Your freak that loves eating you good, loves making you feel good, loves making you cum.”

His free hand cups your pussy, feeling your wetness soak his hand like a waterfall. “Look at you. Making such a mess.” He raises his hand and lands a soft smack on your pussy making you jump from the overstimulation. Your bell jingles from the impact. He finally retracts his fingers to lick your spit off his hand, relishing in your taste with a low moan.

“Speak… for yourself.” You huff, eyes darting down to his reddened twitching length. Globs of precum dripped down his thick shaft surrounded with throbbing veins— three to be specific. “Got you all hard from eating me like a good boy.”

Caleb’s eyes flutter shut from the dirty comment. His cock jumped, dripping precum right onto your hot skin. “It’s like you want me to stuff you to remind you what gets your eyes rolling back.”

“All bark, no bite.” You grin, watching his eyes rapidly dilate. “You gonna bark again, baby?”

“Woof.” Damn, that’s fucking hot. You say nothing apart from spreading your legs wider for him. An invitation for him to act on his word. “Humble me then, Colonel. Or maybe I’ll be doing that—“

Your words get swallowed by his lips and tongue engulfing you in a lascivious kiss. Rough and demanding, breaths heavy and endless, Caleb wastes no time aligning his dripping tip with your entrance. He circles around you, slowly stroking up and down, bumping his cockhead with your swollen bud. Your juices spill all over his shaft, making it so much smoother, wetter, lewder. Fuck.

“Stop teasing,” You tug his leash as you moan against his hungry lips. “Put it in, ‘leb.”

“Mm, command me.” He grins. “You want me to fuck you good, yeah? You want this cock all up in you? Want me to stuff you full?”

The stimulation is too good for you to respond, all that can be mustered is a nod. “Use your words, pips.”

Of course.

His finger taps the bell on your collar, ringing out a cute dingle! Teasingly tapping on it, his cock slides up and down your folds, tip occasionally teasing itself right into you before pulling out. You can tell it’s driving him insane too, from how his breath is laboured, how his eyes are slowly but surely rolling back, and most definitely those soft whimpers he’s struggling to hide.

“Please, baby,” You whine, grinding your hips hard against his cock and tugging harsh on his leash. You’re practically drunk on him without even having his girth inside you. “Put in in f’me. Want you to fuck me full. Be good ’n stuff me.”

“Heh,” Caleb huffs, almost choking from how hard you pulled him. He presses his cockhead into your pussy, groaning at how tight you squeeze around him, sucking him in like a vacuum. “Yes ma’am.”

And he slips in smooth like a hand into a glove. Maybe because you’re slick from all the times he made you cum with his mouth. You both tilt your heads back, close to cumming right on the spot. He pauses to catch his breath, the dog tag on his necklace and the leather strap of his leash dangling right over your face.

“Oh, she’s squeezin’ so hard.” He grins, practically drooling from how your pussy sucks him riiiight in.

He rocks in and out of you fast, absorbing the sound of your slick and cum squelching, drenching his cock in your essence. Each thrust takes him deeper and deeper into you until his tip pokes your sensitive gummy spot.

Your little bell jumps with your titties, jingling and ringing with each relentless pounding of his length in you while his heavy sacks smack your skin. It feels so gooood and so fucking lewd that your words are reduced to incoherent mumbles.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Caleb chuckles, dragging his length in and out of your pussy with relentless speed. Even he can’t hold back his deliciously slutty moans from how good you squeeze and tighten around him. His eyes are locked on your collar, glossing over the jingling metal accompanying your moans.

“You like how I’m stuffing you?”

Your eyes cross right over, tongue tempted to loll right out. The overstimulation becomes too much even for you, forcing out so many fresh cruel orgasms from you that a ring of your cum paints the base of his cock.

“You— ah— must love how tight I clench on you,” You manage to bite back, deliberately clenching your walls to tease him. “While you fuck me deep ’n rough.”

“Fuck—“ The bed is practically screaming from the pressure of you being hammered clean. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Then do it, baby.” You must have trained him subconsciously. His cock spills heavy, hot globs of his cum right into your soaked pussy, stuffing you right up real good. His whines travel right down to your core, turning you on even more than you could possibly imagine. Something about him being so relentlessly horny for you drives you insane.

“You’re evil, baby.” Caleb groans, pressing hot kisses all over your skin, from your neck right to your jaw all while still thrusting his cum into you. You can just feel some of it escaping your plugged pussy, leaking onto the bed with the rest of your lewd juices. “Making’ me cum like this. Driving me crazy with that pussy of yours.”

Plap! Plap! Plap! sounds around the room alongside your joint cries, sweat-slick skin smacking, and your bell jingling like crazy. Your grip on his leash tightens, tugging him down right to your lips.

The kiss is so deliciously sloppy and wet with your tongues overlapping and teeth clashing. Your core tightens and burns with that familiar heat, screaming for release. “Caleb— ‘m gonna cum again.”

“Good.” He pulls right out of you, leaving your poor pussy clenching on air and practically pulsing his name in morse code. “Cum f’me like a good girl.”

He raises your legs from the bed, hooking them on his shoulders and pounding his cock right back into you. In a much deeper angle hitting your sensitive core all while pinching and rubbing your clit with a calloused finger.

You choke out a cry, vision going completely white as the overstimulation burns through your skin right up your spine. The tightness in your core completely snaps, releasing juices all over you, all over him, all over the damn bed until everything in the eye can see is soaked.

“Thaaaat’s it, baby.” He grins, watching your juices drip down his abs flexing with every thrust. He leans down, pushing you into the meanest mating press to date. His cock practically bullies your cervix with his inhumanely mean thrusts, spurting globs of cum from his last orgasm right into you. 

“Squirt on me.” Your toes curl as your eyes roll back into your head. “Make a mess all over me.” He’s babbling at this rate, praising everything you do while he rails you to the stars. “Pussy’s so good f’me. You’re so good f’me. Wanna stuff you to the brim. Wanna make you feel so good ’n comfy that you won’t need to lift a finger.”

You can only whimper in response to his praises. Your nails claw at his back while fruitlessly tugging at his leash. But a flimsy thing like that won’t hold either of you. If anything, it drives you even crazier for each other.

You could go on for hours, days, till the fucking room smells like you. Till the windows and mirrors fog. Till you milk him dry to the fuckin’ bone. Till you’re both so cockdrunk and pussydrunk that your names are the only things you can utter.

Not even a few seconds after Caleb loudly whines as another huge stuffing of hot cum fills you up good. His eyes cross as his tongue sticks right out, dripping saliva right into your mouth. Feeling so nasty yet so damn good, you take it all in, relishing in his taste.

“Fuck, wanna taste you—“ Using the remnants of his strength that didn’t go with his cum right into you, Caleb lifts you up into his arms with his cock still lodged inside. You swear it must have swollen up inside you. 

He drives his hips up into you, pushing his cock nice and hard and deep. “Spit into my mouth, baby.” He sticks his tongue out, almost wagging it for you like the tease he is. “Drip into my mouth.”

And who are you to refuse him of his desires? Not to mention, you’ve always had the desire to do it too. The only concern is how he expects you to do it while he fucks you both beyond the point of overstimulation.

But Caleb being Caleb always finds a way. He nips your squished titties, dragging a loud sultry moan out of your lips, bringing drool right out of your tongue and right into his waiting mouth. And that alone just makes him cum again, strongly spurting his cum right into you as if he hasn’t done it twice already. 

You’re fucked through and through, almost limp in his embrace and yet still hungry for more. As his cock pumps his seed deep into you, he kisses you with praises of reverence and love.

“So good.” He babbles, tonguing the bell on your collar, whimpering with the soft jingles. “So fuckin’ good. ‘M not gonna stop. ‘M gonna fuck you good all night. Stuff you full of my cum. You want that, baby?”

You quickly nod, mumbling your yeses with hiccups and moans. There was no way you were going to stop at the rate you were going. Perhaps when the sun rises. Or when your injuries heal. You’re not complaining though. It’s not every day you get to have your boyfriend like this, and you plan to make the most of it.

caleb's making me too feral for my own good.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink

It’s too soon. 

The weight of this certainty is nearly too heavy to carry, his footsteps echoing with dread. 

You’re not ready. 

He’s not ready. 

It’s his fault. Selfishly, he’s encouraged your co-dependence, pulled you closer and closer into deeper water where he knew you’d have trouble swimming without him. He thought he’d have more time to help you develop coping strategies, to get you settled, moved out of your apartment and into his house. Now, he’s leaving you alone as you try to navigate an entirely different life while straddling two living situations, without him at your side.  

You’re at his house tonight. It’s becoming more common, three nights turning to four, then five and sometimes even six, letting yourself in before when he gets caught up on base. His brave fawn on stronger legs, taking self assured steps, and following his lead, his guidance. Your comfort in his home, this world he’s created for you, feeds the beast inside his chest, the dark one, the monster curled around your body in the night, possessive and obsessed. It’s a perfectly balanced scale, never tipping too far in one direction, all his parts and pieces perfectly arranged for you, expertly developed so he can love you in every way you need. 

He’s pleased you’re home and already in bed an hour before you’re supposed to be, curled in the middle with your kindle, your blankets and pillows arranged in the usual bird’s nest, lips parted, glasses halfway down the bridge of your nose. 

They became a new rule after he realized you were getting headaches from not using them. 

“What do you think is appropriate?” 

“For my recipe cards?” 

“For screens and your recipe cards, precious girl. Squinting and strainin’ your eyes is what’s causing these headaches.” 

“Oh right.” You nodded, and then lifted your chin. When you have rules, boundaries, you have security, confidence, support. You don’t have to think, agonize, try to step into a skin that doesn’t fit. All the things that worry you, frighten you, overwhelm you, they now belong to him, they’re his to deal with. You just have to focus on the rules. “Wear my glasses when I’m looking at screens or my recipe cards. Got it.” 

“Good girl.” 

He pauses in the doorway. 

You’re kneading. 

It started a week ago in your sleep. You’d find your way to his chest, rocking and rolling overtop his heart, working a rhythm into to his sternum as you slept, a physical manifestation of your peace, your trust, a subconscious recognition of feeling safe, and cared for, and loved. It’s become present in the quiet of the morning or an evening lull too, when you’re relaxed and content, kneading away on a pillow or his thigh. Such a simple, silent thing that says so much.

Knuckles thunk on wood, and you kick beneath the blankets, kindle falling into the pillows, your startle turning to surprise, and then the sweet spread of happiness colors your face. His drug. The way you beam and light up when you see him is the same way you bloom when you’re baking, or talking about baking, or feeding someone. Your bliss gets him high. A gift he could never repay, and something he’ll never give up. You’ve been able to venture outside of your comfort zone more and into his hold, no longer hiding yourself within his walls, cautious steps becoming more self assured. He knows you’ll always struggle, but he’ll always be here, ready to catch you when you fall. 

“Hi daddy.” 

“Hi sweet girl.” He leans over the edge of the bed to brush a kiss across your lips, little whimper falling into his mouth as he takes it farther, tastes you, nips you. You give him more and more, truly limitless in his arms, your home, exploring and testing, discovering both him and yourself. This willingness, this trust, is a precious thing like your heart. And it all belongs to him.

Your throat bobs when he pulls back and tugs his shirt over his head, sneaking a sly glance as he tugs his pants down next. “I need t’get in the shower. Stay put, keep reading your book, I’ll be a few minutes.” 

“Okay.” He’d have you get in with him, but you look so happy, so cozy, fuzzy socks on your feet, cuddled up in a sweatshirt, and he wants to leave you to your peace. 

Since he’s about to ruin it. 

Your hand is small in his, and too cold. The ice he finds there matches your frozen posture, your nervous expression buried beneath snow as you try to put on a brave face. His precious girl. 

“I don’t understand… I’m- a-are you…” you lose your words, hitch of panic in your breath as you scramble to find what’s needed, something, anything to convey the influx of emotions, the quick build of questions, and he squeezes reassuringly. 

“Take your time.” Normally, he’d just stay silent, give you the space and time, but right now, he knows you need more, recognizing the way you’re tearing yourself apart inside your head. You blow out a shaky breath. 

“How long… how long will you be gone?” 

“It’s hard to say, but I think it’ll only be a few weeks.” The flash of fear strikes through your irises like lightning.

“Okay.” You nod, but it doesn’t stop. You just keep nodding, trying to steady yourself, and he doesn’t think you know you’re trembling a bit, lower lip start to peel away.  “What if something bad happens?” It’s a question for the ages, one he’s wagered his entire existence. A longstanding bet with the reaper, one he never made a fuss about.

Now, he’d barter his soul for one more moment.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen, I’m very good at my job.” He tries to soothe you, but you’re already lost, tangled up in a web, one he should have cleaned up before.

“B-but you can’t promise that, right? I mean, you can’t be sure. Right?” 

“I’m going to be just fine, baby. I want you to focus on yourself instead of worrying about me, alright? You’ll follow all your rules and take care of yourself. Do you understand?” You have a faraway look in your eye, responding like he didn’t speak. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not handling this… I feel… I’m overwhelmed, I don’t…” He pulls you close, and you don’t waste a second, placing your cheek to his chest, ear just over his heart. 

“My good girl, following her rules,” you look up at him, so tortured, conflicted and scared, and his heart aches. “There’s no reason to be sorry. I should have prepared you for this, and I didn’t. That’s daddy’s fault, not yours.” You’re drowning. You’re too far underwater, trying to reconcile what you know with what you fear, kicking and swimming against a current that keeps sweeping you out to sea, desperately clinging to him, searching for your lighthouse in the storm. It’s too much, he knew it would be, and if he could put it off he would, but this is one mission he can’t delay. It’s a rescue, in the bloody jungle, one squad already failing to reach the other. He has no choice.

He curves around you, pulls you down into the blankets and pillows, kissing your salt soaked cheeks. “I know you’re scared baby, I know. I’m sorry.” The guilt stings and bites, a serrated blade between his ribs. He did this, it’s the consequences of his failure that you’re facing now, your uncertainty and fear all created by him. 

Your face presses into his neck as he applies pressure to your nape, murmuring against the shell of your ear, surrounding you with himself, blocking out the rest of the world. 

That’s where the two of you stay, long past the conversation, your tears turning to quiet whimpers before you fall asleep, snuffling against his skin, still holding him tight. 

“I’ll be good daddy, I promise.” He’s got a duffel slung over his shoulder and a backpack at his feet, truck running in the driveway, waiting. He should have left ten minutes ago. Fifteen even, but he can’t let go, still standing in the foyer cupping your face, memorizing every detail. There’s not much he can do now to fix his mistake. It will have to wait until he comes back, a razed city left waiting to be rebuilt.

“I know you will sweetheart,” he brushes his knuckles over the apple of your cheek, “everything is going to be fine.”

“And you’ll call when you can?” He kisses your forehead. 

“I’ll call when I can.” He’ll need to release all of this before he steps on the plane, but for now he allows himself to feel it, ruminate and own it. He’s worried. This is his fault, he’s pulled the rug out from beneath you without any semblance of a warning, he’s changing your routine, your life, again, uprooting you just when you’ve started to feel comfortable. You’re vulnerable, and he’s abandoning you. Ripping a freshly healed wound wide and pouring salt in it.

You lean in, turning your cheek to press your ear over his heart. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“I’m going to miss you too sweet girl, so much. But I’ll be home soon, I promise.” His younger self would scoff at him, chastise him for making such a promise, but it’s different now. 

He’d dig himself out of grave all over again just to crawl home to you. 

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | who wears the pants... and who doesn't

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid (ft. seb & kimi as requested) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @sonichkkaaascreams) : who on the grid wears the pants in the relationship, and who doesn't >.>

୨ৎ : genre : mature & romance ୨ৎ : tws : def suggestive for some ୨ৎ : word count : 2145

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : another rare monday grid post AND a double post >.<

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

pretends to be in charge until you say something like “on your knees” and he obeys like it’s instinct.

constantly teases you in public, but it’s all bark behind closed doors, he folds under your tone.

you tell him when, where, how. he lives for being told exactly what to do.

rarely talks back, but when he does, it’s 100% to rile you up so you’ll put him in his place.

after? he’s extra clingy. won’t stop stroking your thigh and calling you “babe” like you didn’t just ruin him 10 minutes ago.

subby max. bratty when bored. melts when you’re in control.

yuki tsunoda

fights it for about 0.2 seconds before giving in with a flushed face and a quiet “okay…”

melts the second you use a firm tone. especially if you call him out — “yuki. focus.” he’s instantly obedient.

loves being praised more than anything. you say “good boy” and he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard.

whiny, needy, and eager to please. he’ll ask “am i doing okay?” with wide eyes and desperation in his voice.

clings to you after, burying his face in your chest while you play with his hair and let him come down slow.

subby yuki. zero resistance. just wants to be told what to do and loved after.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

you try to boss him around once and he just raises an eyebrow like, “you done?”

he doesn’t tell you what to do — he instructs you, and somehow you always end up listening.

real composed until it matters, and then it’s all “hands where i want them. now.”

praise kink? yes. but for you. he’ll have you whimpering “yes, sir” and he’ll smile like it’s his life’s mission.

absolutely ruins you with that quiet authority voice and the way he looks at you like he owns every inch of you.

dommy george. calculated, commanding, never raises his voice — he doesn’t need to.

kimi antonelli

tries to act cool and composed, but the second you touch his jaw and say “sit. be good,” he’s gone.

wants to be the one in control, but gets flustered when you take over — and honestly? he kind of likes it.

gets so soft when you’re gentle but firm with him. your praise sticks in his head for days.

will try to return the favor and be dommy sometimes, but ends up red in the face and overly polite about it.

“can i… uhm… maybe touch you now?” yes baby. yes you can.

soft dom in theory. submissive in practice. let him be your sweet, eager-to-please rookie.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

always looks like he’s in control — clean-cut, charming, arm around your waist in public like he owns the place.

but in private? he’s a soft dom who lives to please you. will let you lead anytime if he sees that glint in your eye.

“you want to be in charge tonight?” he asks, smiling against your neck. “good. i like watching you work.”

still guides you gently when he’s domming — whispers in your ear, hands on your hips, praise always dripping from his lips.

you switch off control easily. for him, it’s never a power trip — it’s about intimacy. trust. making sure you both fall apart in the best way.

switchy charles. publicly confident, privately obsessed with your pleasure. gives and takes control like it’s an art.

lewis hamilton

you try to tell him what to do and he just chuckles low in your ear like, “you’re cute, baby.”

always puts you first — mentally, emotionally, physically — but he’s the one setting the pace.

hands around your throat with the softest voice in your ear: “you take what i give you. nothing more.”

doesn’t need to raise his voice — his presence alone is enough to have you falling apart.

aftercare king. whispering affirmations, kissing your skin, running you a bath while you’re still breathless.

dommy lewis. slow, smooth, and absolutely devastating — in the best way.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

tries to be all dominant and cocky until you pin him down and say

“is this what you wanted?” — instant blushing, stuttering.

loves the playful power struggle — but secretly lives for you winning it.

in public, it’s balanced — you both tease each other, both have control… until he accidentally calls you “ma’am” under his breath.

absolutely loses it when you give him commands — especially if you use that soft, deadly tone.

post-mess: clings to you, giggles into your chest, and says, “you’re actually evil. i’m obsessed.”

switchy but flustered sub when you take charge. tries to fight it. fails. loves every second.

oscar piastri

lets you run the show right up until he doesn’t — and when he flips it? you feel it.

quiet dom. doesn’t say much, but his hands know exactly where to be, and his eyes never leave yours.

doesn’t need to ask what you want — he already figured it out five steps ago.

you try to take charge and he’ll raise a brow, lean in close, and whisper, “you really think i’m going to let you?”

after? total softie. pulls you in, murmurs, “did i give you what you needed?” like it wasn’t the best night of your life.

quiet dom oscar. subtle, intense, and always one step ahead — no games, just precision.

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

always in control. always. you try to take over and he just smirks, leans in, and says, “you can try, cariño.”

knows exactly how to tease you — slow touches, low voice, making you beg without ever raising his own tone.

smug as hell but gentle with it. “you’re doing so well for me. look at you.”

physically overwhelming when he wants to be — hand around your throat, body pressed to yours, but still murmuring “beautiful” like a prayer.

after? genuinely cuddly. loves holding you close, tracing circles on your back, pressing sleepy kisses to your shoulder.

lance stroll

calm, cool, and confident in public — hand on your waist, guiding you through a room like he owns it.

but in private? one firm order and he’s already pulling his shirt off, flushed and eager.

gets so quiet when you take over. just wide eyes and breathy little “okay…”

melts when you praise him, but he’ll never admit how much he craves it.

still tries to act cool after, all like “that was good, huh?” while clinging to you like a needy puppy.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

teases you constantly — “oh, you’re in charge tonight? should i be scared?” (he’s not. he’s excited.)

loves when you take control, but every now and then he flips it just to see you squirm — and he loves that power struggle.

whispers filthy things with the softest voice and the most angelic smile.

in sub-mode? whiny, clingy, desperate for your praise. in dom-mode? smug, cheeky, and way too good with his hands.

always laughs after — pulls you close and says, “we’re so good at this. we should win medals or something.”

true switch. playful, sweet, and dangerous when he’s in control — but melts beautifully when you are.

carlos sainz

commands the room in public — hand on your back, eye contact like a promise, speaks for the both of you sometimes.

dominant in bed, yes, but not controlling — passionate, intentional, all heart.

still lets you take over when you want, especially if you whisper in spanish. immediate obedience.

mutters soft, sweet things while you’re in charge — “tan guapa… mi amor, look at you…”

always cuddles after. always. loves tracing your spine and mumbling how good you made him feel.

passionate dom in public. sweet, lowkey switch in private — soft for you, always.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

always talks big — “i’ve got this. i’m in charge tonight.” …sure, babe.

immediately flustered when you call his bluff. “wait, you’re serious? you’re—oh. okay. yes ma’am.”

lowkey loves being bossed around, but he’ll never admit it unless you’re teasing it out of him.

will try to brat his way into more attention. it works. every time.

whiny, dramatic, and totally obsessed with you taking over — grumbles about it after, but melts into your touch like a puppy.

bratty sub ollie. loud, chaotic, and completely soft when you take control.

esteban ocon

always tries to be polite and in control — you take over and he immediately forgets how to function.

quietly submissive. doesn’t say much, but the second you tell him what to do? he listens. every time.

loves structure and order, which makes him thrive under your rules — “yes,” “no,” “stay still.” it calms his brain.

eye contact turns him to mush. especially when you praise him in a low voice.

gets so soft after — arms wrapped around you, forehead to your chest, whispering “thank you” like you gave him peace.

subby esteban. quiet, obedient, and so soft when he’s in your hands.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

lets you play bossy for fun, but always with that knowing smirk — “you done pretending yet?”

dominant without being intense — guides you with a firm hand and a wicked sense of humor.

teases you relentlessly mid-moment, just to make you blush. “a little bossy today, huh? you’re cute when you try.”

loves taking care of you in a subtle way — holding your jaw, whispering in your ear, making you fall apart calmly.

afterward? pulls you into his lap like it’s second nature and says “told you i’d handle it.” (he did. you’re still shaking.)

confident dom liam. playful, relaxed, and always in control — without ever needing to raise his voice.

isack hadjar

walks around like he’s got it together but absolutely folds the second you give him a direct order.

chaotic energy, yes — but he lives for the structure you give him when things get heated.

will absolutely talk himself in circles trying to flirt until you shut him up with a hand around his throat.

gets so flustered when you praise him — covers his face, mutters “stopppp” while blushing like hell.

comes completely undone for you. every. single. time.

subby isack. chaos in the streets, soft and obedient in the sheets. you say jump — he asks how high.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

all charm and teasing in public — “she’s the boss. i just look pretty.” (he’s not wrong.)

tries to act in control but gives in the second you tell him to sit down and shut up.

total flirt when you take over — “you’re so hot when you’re mean to me.”

lowkey loves being overwhelmed by you. handsy, needy, and completely obsessed with how you handle him.

posts after with a smug grin like he did something — while still recovering from the way you wrecked him.

subby pierre. flirty, dramatic, and totally yours to control. he lives for it.

jack doohan

calm and obedient in daily life — does what you ask without question, super sweet, totally reliable.

but in the bedroom? switches fast. grabs your waist, leans in close, and says “let me take care of you tonight.”

doesn’t raise his voice — just gives one sharp look and you’re listening.

will let you lead sometimes, but only when he lets you — and even then, he takes back control when you least expect it.

soft hands, firm grip, and the kind of focus that ruins you slow.

quiet dom jack. sweet and obedient in life, deadly in bed. respectful menace.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

dry humor and sarcasm in public and makes fun of everything, especially the idea of being bossed around.

but behind closed doors? instantly obedient when you drop your tone. “yes ma’am,” with no hesitation.

loves when you call the shots, especially if you get bossy mid-moment, it gets him feral.

whispers things like “you’re really gonna do me like that, huh?” while letting you pin him without resistance.

afterwards? smug. kisses your shoulder and says “didn’t know you had that in you.” he did. he wanted it.

subby nico. playful, snarky, and totally down bad. lets you take control and begs for more.

gabriel bortoleto

all sweet smiles and soft hands until you push just a little too far and he flips you like it’s second nature.

tries to be respectful and let you lead, but his need to impress you always wins out.

can be so quiet and gentle one second, then breathless and possessive the next, “mine. you hear me?”

you call him “good boy” once and he blushes so hard he forgets how to function.

but then he gets confident. cocky, even. will absolutely ruin you with a shaky voice and a death grip on your waist.

subby with dom bursts gabriel. soft outside, secretly intense, and fully addicted to you.

ʚ・special feature

sebastian vettel

kind, warm, and always listening — until he shuts the door and says “take your clothes off. now.”

patient dom. watches you try to boss him around, smiles, then flips it on you with one sentence and a hand on your throat.

he doesn't need to overpower you — he just knows what you want before you ask.

utterly obsessed with making you feel good. whispering praise in your ear while taking you apart piece by piece.

aftercare is religion to him. warm towel, water, kisses to every part of you he touched. “you were perfect. every second.”

soft but commanding dom seb. gentle hands, sharp control, and worship-level devotion.

kimi raikkonen

lets you make all the plans, pick the restaurant, organize the flights — he’s chilling.

says “okay” to everything you want, barely looks up from his phone… until you're in bed. then it’s “lie down.”

silent dom. barely says a word — just grabs your hips, flips you over, and ruins your entire attitude.

loves when you’re mouthy, though. just watches you with that cold stare and mutters “you done?” before making sure you are.

after? goes right back to letting you do everything while he steals your blanket.

silent dom kimi. doesn't run the relationship, but absolutely runs the bedroom — no discussion.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[luna-azzurra]

Romantic Gestures for Characters 

❥ The “I Know You” Gesture

Your character remembers something tiny. Maybe their partner always peels oranges but hates the stringy bits. So they do it for them, meticulously. No grand speech. Just peeled oranges on a napkin, handed over like, I got you. It’s not flowers. It’s better.

❥  The “You Matter More Than My Ego” Move

Apologies. Vulnerable, awkward, ugly ones. Not performative, not flowers-as-a-bandage. Just a raw, honest “I screwed up. And you didn’t deserve that.” That’s romance with guts.

❥ The “I Made This With My Clumsy, Lovesick Hands” Attempt

It’s not a five-star meal. It might be an overcooked mess. But they tried. They Googled recipes, burnt a pan, and still showed up with a crooked smile and a smoke-scented apology. Intimacy lives in the effort, not the execution.

❥  The “I’m Thinking of You Even When You’re Not Around” Habit

A voice memo left in the middle of the day. A text that says, “I saw this book and thought of you.” A saved pastry because “you love those stupid lemon ones.” It’s in the thought, the noticing. The I-carry-you-with-me-even-here of it.

❥  The “You’re Safe With Me” Moment

Middle of a panic attack. They don’t run, they don’t fix. They sit. Hold a hand. Count breaths. They become a lighthouse in the fog. That’s not just romance, it’s sanctuary.

❥ The “Make You Laugh When You Want to Cry” Trick

Silly voices. Bad dad jokes. A spontaneous dance in the kitchen just to make them smile. Love doesn’t always whisper—it cackles, snorts, belly-laughs until you can’t remember what the fight was about.

❥ The “I See the You Nobody Else Gets to See” Love

Noticing the nervous tic they try to hide. The quiet resilience. The softness behind the sarcasm. Your character sees it all and chooses to love them there. Not despite their mess, but because of it.

❥  The “I’ll Go to the Boring Thing Because You Care” Sacrifice

They hate art galleries. Or jazz. Or your character’s weird book club full of PhD students. But they show up. They try. They listen and maybe even ask a thoughtful question. Not because they suddenly love postmodern fiction, but because they love you.

❥ The “Let Me Take Care of You, Just This Once” Flip

Especially powerful when it comes from your fiercely independent character. When they finally let someone in. Accept help. Rest their head on a lap and let themselves be held. Or be the one doing the holding for someone who never asks.

❥  The “I Want to Remember This” Gesture

No, not just a scrapbook. Maybe it's saving movie stubs, or voice recording a partner’s laugh because it's perfect and might not last. Maybe it's writing a poem they'll never read. Romance often lives in what we keep sacred, quietly.

❥ Bonus — The Non-Obvious Public Gesture

Holding hands in public when your character usually doesn’t. Or kissing their partner’s temple in front of their disapproving parents. Or calling them “baby” when it makes their partner smile like a fool. Public affection isn’t about performance, it’s about pride. Claiming someone. Softly, fiercely.

[eraserbread]

what abt postpartum reader x nanami who is insecure abt their sex abilities (?) after giving birth 🤔 like not feeling the same

you waited that six weeks like an obedient angel.

and, it was actually pretty fucking easy.

there's something about giving every second of your day and night to a crying newborn that pushes sex far, far back in your mind. right now, you're worried about nipple balm, diaper rash, milk temperatures, and the way kento's arms look when he's cradling his girl.

they're adorable, right now. kento's lying on the couch, book perched in his hands as his infant daughter rests on his chest. she's clingy to the bone, refusing to settle unless she's being touched by you or ken. at the end of the day, he knows you're exhausted with it, it's why he lets little rin snooze on his homey chest, memorizing the beat of his heart.

you gave birth six weeks ago to the day, and kento's been so enamored he hasn't even noticed. but, you have. you had a notification set in your phone for this day.

so when it's time to feed, burp, and rock rin to sleep, you're right on time, leaning down to scoop her from his chest.

"bedtime already?" kento hums, holding his book with one hand.

"getting close. i'm six weeks out, now. wanted to get her down pretty quickly."

he hums again, flipping his page and settling back. it's obvious he hasn't been keeping track. not that you could blame him, his postpartum hormones aren't totally out of whack like yours are.

you close your hands under rin's arms, watching her little face screw up in disturbance -- scrunching like a napkin. you coo, holding her tight to your chest so the maneuver is easier.

"oh, there's my girl," you whisper, letting your lips linger over her delicate head. kento sits up with a grunt, placing his book open-faced on the end of the couch.

“do you need anything from me before i lie down for the night?” he asks gently, in tune with his fatherly and husbandly duties more so now than ever before.

“yes.” you stop when you turn around, bouncing your daughter in your grip so she stays content. “take off all your clothes. wait for me right there.”

“it’s okay, just focus.” kento’s purring in your ear, two fingers crooked between your thighs.

sprawled out on the couch, back pressed to the cushion, completely naked, kento hovers over you. he treats you like a present needing to be unwrapped -- taking his time as he reintroduces his thick fingers to your overly-sensitive cunt.

and, though you can feel him in your bones, crying in pleasure, your body betrays you -- betrays him.

you're drier than a desert right now.

"i'm trying," you're begging for something -- anything. more kento, more focus, more need. your mind is flooded and overloaded. shame forms a sickly pit in the base of your stomach. "it feels good, just keep going."

kento's never doubted himself when it came to your sexual chemistry. he could usually just purr your name or shed his clothes, and you're dripping needy rivers between your legs. there was no force, no confusion.

right now, ken feels like he's forcing it.

"we don't have to do it tonight if you aren't feeling it."

"--no!" your eyes fly open, hands reaching to dig into his shoulder. you don't want him staring down at you anymore, you want him pressed to you. that way, he couldn't see the sad tears starting to pool in your vision. "no, I want it now. i can do it... let me- I can get wet for you again, baby. let me... i know I can."

you're babbling, saying anything to make this situation easier to swallow.

"i want you so bad, i swear-

"shh, i know." he's being so sweet, so gentle as his hand caresses the bulk of your thigh. you can feel just how painfully hard he is against you -- leaving a slick snail trail wherever his pretty cock passes over. "don't get yourself worked up -- here."

kento's repositioning himself, sitting tall and proud on his knees between your legs. his rippling torso shines in the dull lights, familiar gaze worried and loving.

he props your leg over his hip, leaning down to spit politely between your legs. the warm wetness pools at your labia, drawing down between your slit before two fingers are pushing it inside of you.

this time, with the wetness, it feels... familiar. good.

but, then he goes to press inside of you. you're confident, he's breathless.

and the baby monitor lights up; tiny infant cries scrambling through the receiver.

on a swivel, both of your heads turn to assess rin's circumstance in the black and white. she's kicking -- fussing as if it were her job. you're sighing, kento knows to get up and hand you back your clothes.

"there's always next time."

If you weren't so overwhelmed, embarrassed, and ashamed, perhaps you would agree. this time, you snatch your pants from his hand and seethe,

"shut up."

kento doesn't take it personally.

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where the mayor of Gotham retires or dies or something, and the Batsiblings decide it would be funny if they ran for mayor. Except they don’t run as their civilian identities, but as they’re vigilante ones.

Dick won’t stop pouting because the people of Gotham refuse to vote for someone from Bludhaven, Tim is incredibly offended that he ends up tied with Dick for last place, Damian is smug that he beat Tim and indignant that people refuse to vote for him because he’s “a child”, and Jason preens but is internally panicking as more and more people vote for him. He wins by a landslide.

His first act as mayor is to increase Bruce Wayne’s taxes. His second is to ban Lex Luthor from entering the city. Someone tries to tell him it’s illegal to do that and he just… walks away. Eventually he starts to get a hang of this whole mayor thing and ends up working with Wayne Enterprises to strengthen housing and construction in poorer neighborhoods, he gives teachers raises, encourages trade school and alternative routes for henchmen, he adds diversity and inclusivity courses to public schools, safety programs and gas masks are made more accessible, and he reinforces the security and integrity of Arkham.

Of course there are still times where he misuses his power a little bit, but it’s never anything serious and most Gothamites watch in amusement as the scene unfolds.

Like just imagine:

Jason, dressed as RH: You’re not allowed in, you know what you did.

Dick, standing outside the Gates of Gotham, giving his best pouty expression in his Nightwing gear: Please, Hood! I promised Robin I would take him to the zoo after patrol!

Jason: You should’ve thought about that before you ate the last cookie Agent A made.

Dick, now wailing: This is abuse of power! Cruel and unusual punishment! I demand a lawyer!

Of course there are also the times when Jason decides to do something nice for his siblings, except it just ends up confusing the fuck out of everyone else in Gotham. On Dick’s birthday, he announces that there is now an Official Animal of Gotham, and most people are expecting a bat, or maybe a bird, or hell even a crocodile. Everyone except for Dick, Bruce, and Alfred are confused when it ends up being an elephant instead. Jason also decides to unveil plans for a Gotham Animal Sanctuary on the same exact day. Everyone is even more surprised when Nightwing jumps on Hood, entrapping him in an octopus hug as their mayor flails around trying to pry him off. It doesn’t work and Batman has to pick Dick up by the scruff of his neck to get him off.

There are also some of the odder, but somewhat sensible laws that are passed. Condiments are banned during the holidays and in schools (Condiment King could be heard sobbing throughout Gotham when this proclamation aired). No one is allowed to dress as clowns for any circumstance. The sewers are off limits to everyone except maintenance/construction workers, who must carry guns on them at all times. Lex Luthor’s birthday becomes Gotham’s Official “Fuck Lex Luthor Day”.

Then comes Jason’s most popular decision to date, he has The Joker reassessed mentally, and when he’s found as sane he pushes for the death penalty to be given (not that he really needed to - it was going in that direction already). He almost expects an angry lecture or fight with Bruce to occur, but Bruce just looks at him and says, quietly, “You’ve done a beautiful job, son, I couldn’t be more proud.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was standing right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[abbotjack]

A Year of You

part three of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two)

summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could have—one small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isn’t something you find. It’s something you make—and hold onto with everything you have.

word count : 11,658

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.

MONTH ONE

It’s the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.

You’re crying, too.

Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.

Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.

“Move over, honey,” he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the baby—your baby—his daughter—like she’s something sacred.

"You’re doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "We’re just outnumbered, that’s all."

You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospital—something sharp and sterile clinging to his skin—but beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.

“C’mon, little bean,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We’ve made it through worse nights than this.”

You snort under your breath.

“She’s five days old, Jack. What worse nights?”

He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like she’s already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “You ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.

“You’re not in a war anymore, Jack,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughter’s head.

“No,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “But I’m still fighting for something.”

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

[sunaily]

Doing the “If you make me laugh, you’ll get this 🐱 tonight” trend on Haikyuu men (also you laughing your ass out as soon as they opened their mouth)

WARNING! Suggestive and Sexual content! all are adults in this btw (yall are married here)

Genuinely so confused and concerned (bless his heart), Confused because why are you acting like you don’t give him that pussy every night? Concerned because why are you laughing when he didn’t even tell the joke yet?

“Are you okay my love?”

“BWAHAHAHAHHAHA you are so funny baby…okay ur getting this pussy tonight 😘”

“…..”

-USHIJIMA , Akaashi, IWAIZUMI, Aone, Asahi, Kageyama, DAICHI, ARAN, Ennoshita, Hirugami, SAKUSA, Osamu (this man eats u for breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, dessert, midnight snack so he was shocked on why ur acting like that)

As soon as he heard the words that came out of your mouth, HE WAS RILED UP! Immediately started thinking long and hard (😉) about which one of his jokes can make you laugh (none) you ended up sitting infront of him in silence for 10 minutes because he was having a hard time choosing what joke to say….

“wha-”

“AHHAHAHAAHAHHAHHA BABE! that’s so funny 😂”

“but I didn’t even tell the joke yet? 😔 can I atleast tell you the joke?”

“If you want to fuck me, don’t 😐”

“☹️”

- BOKUTO (he was actually sad he didn’t get to tell the joke), ATSUMU (immediately started taking off his clothes) KUROO (Gave you a chemistry joke, Nerd Kuroo ily) Nishinoya (he has a lot of jokes okay? give him a break) Tanaka, Goshiki, Lev, OIKAWA (he still dropped the joke which led to you withdrawing his pussy privileges) Hanamaki

Knows about the trend, He was the one that did the trend instead of you, Wasted no time too! . as soon as you opened your mouth and he laughed, You were gone…..you both went straight to Poundtown afterwards. You never stood a chance (🐱)

“Babe if you make me laugh, you’re getting dicked down tonight”

“wtf?”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA you’re killing me 😂” *Immediately puts you in his shoulder and takes you to your room*

“?!!!???”

- SUNA (MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN) Mattsukawa, HINATAAA, SUGA, TENDOU, Semi (I LOVE HIM SM) Terushima, Atsumu (his turn ;P) , OIKAWA (trying to get his pussy privileges back)

Unbothered king, will not entertain you. He knows that he is still getting that pussy with or without making you laugh so why bother? it’s either make you laugh, or make you cum…(Why not both??!!!) and he chose the latter…

“hey…did you hear what I said? 😔”

“I’ll fuck you later, be good for now”

“😖”

- KITA, Kenma, TSUKISHIMA (just say you don’t have any jokes tsukki >:( ), Sakusa (yes him again), IWAIZUMI (😩) Shirabu

[cameronsbabydoll]

you’re scrolling through tiktok, bored, when you see the trend again. “i’m so hungry, i could eat…” followed by an ex’s name. curious, you glance over at rafe, who’s casually eating his dinner, not paying attention. you smirk.

“i’m so hungry,” you say, drawing it out, “i could eat… barry.”

his fork freezes mid-air. slowly, he looks up at you, eyes narrowing. the silence stretches for a beat too long.

“what the fuck did you just say?” his voice is low, dangerous.

you laugh, trying to play it off. “it’s a joke, rafe. a trend.”

his gaze sharpens, and without a word, he sets his plate down and stands up, looming over you. “yeah? well, how about i feed you something better?” his tone is smooth, but there's that edge—like he's done being patient. “you’ll never think about anyone else again.”

you reach for your phone, but he’s already snatching it out of your hands and tossing it aside. “you’re gonna learn not to joke about shit like that,” he mutters, leaning in close.

and just like that, you realize he doesn’t take jokes about anyone else lightly.

[rjkooks]

i'm outside, let's talk. (m)

you finally give in and talk to your ex after numerous attempts of him trying to contact you. surely, nothing will go beyond mere communication, right?

. pairing: exbf!jungkook x afab!reader . wc: 1.3k . genre: porn with very little plot, exes to lovers . cw: just two exes that don't know how to be exes lmfao, car sex, penetration, unprotected sex (don't be like them), doggy, dirty talk, dom!jk, sub!reader, creampie, i think that's it lmk if i miss anything!

a/n: heh... long time no see. after two years of hiatus, i thought about posting smth rlly short to ease myself into writing again :) happy reading! feedback is highly appreciated!

jungkook: come down jungkook: im outside jungkook: we need to talk

what more should be there to talk about? scoffing, you dismiss the string of messages your ex sent, proceeding to go back to your previous activity of mindlessly scrolling through tiktok videos.

why should you talk to him? he had a decision — and the decision he ultimately chose was to disrespect your relationship and leave, much like perpendicular lines never to cross again: that’s the only closure you need.

however, jungkook is different.

you think of him as an insect — those annoying ones in particular. once it gets in your abode, it’ll suddenly forget its way out and invade your precious space as if living with you free of charge.

that’s what your ex is.

stubborn, incessant, and most notably, stupid.

so, it’s not much of a surprise when you see his name appear on the banner on top of your phone again, one text being sent after the other.

jungkook: don’t leave me on read jungkook: i’ll climb up ur window if i have to, ___ jungkook: please baby i wanna talk with u jungkook: istg if u block me jungkook: pls dont

you were about to block him actually, if it weren’t for the video that redirected your attention.

“no caption, no hashtag, you were meant to see this! you’re going to get back with your hot ex tonight and i mean it. he’s thinking about you right now and is thinking of ways on how to make up for his mistakes. go get him, girl! get your fine shyt back!”

you swore your eye twitches after watching an absolute stranger predict the next moments of your evening.

with your ex’s unceasing messages and a random video that is severely relevant to your current situation, is the universe really giving you all the telltale signs you need?

as olivia rodrigo said, you probably shouldn't, but seeing him tonight isn’t a bad idea, right?

after deliberately having an internal conflict, you finally made up your mind after careful consideration.

you’re just going to talk. what harm could there be in that?

so, you heave a deep breath before standing up from your bed, your legs bringing you outside the premises of your home to see his black mercedes parked right in front of your lawn.

you stride over to it in quick steps with the intention of holding a brief conversation with him before you bid your final farewells: that’s what you hopefully thought.

assuming he’s inside the vehicle, you tapped on the tinted window a couple of times before you hear his muffled voice, “get in.”

you do as he says, sitting next to him on the passenger seat, and you almost regret it. it was no surprise that it was dim inside, and the air conditioning of his car only made goosebumps prick your skin, and what’s worst of all is the familiar scent of his perfume permeating your senses again.

and that’s when the realization sinks in that you’re actually with your ex boyfriend right now.

you gaze at him silently. thankfully, you couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, but his features are still there. you part your lips to break the awfully dead silence, yet your voice came out more meek than you’d like.

“you said you wanted to talk..?”

he lowers his gaze to where your hands are placed right on top of your thighs. he knows his presence was suffocating you, so he can’t help the sigh that escapes his lips. “yeah, just wanted to clear some things between us.”

that’s the last thing you remember your ex saying before he has you bent over in the back of his car.

“ngghh… jungkook!” you gasp, a string of drool dribbling from the corner of your lip as you leave a faint handprint of yourself on the fogged window.

“oh, fuck,” he hisses feeling you clench down on his throbbing length. “missed this tight cunt so much,” he groans before landing a harsh spank on your ass, for sure leaving a red mark that will sting for days. “you missed this dick too, baby?” he pants through ragged breaths, and you could sense that damn cocky smirk plastered on his face despite being behind you.

he pulls out another cry from you when you feel his dick kissing your cervix. “y-yes..!” you sob, face buried in the leather seats.

a chuckle full of menace was heard from him as you feel his slender fingers wrap around the roots of your hair, forcefully tugging you until you’re eye-level with the window.

he rips sob after sob out of you, undoubtedly aroused from how your gummy walls were sucking him in so eagerly, a creamy ring of white making a mess out of his length.

“bet you couldn’t find someone who can fuck you like i do, huh?” he huffs against your ear, voice hot and heavy as a tattooed finger presses itself against your clit. “that’s why your slutty little cunt is making such a mess on my cock, right?”

you mewl, resting your head against his shoulder as you nod eagerly. your bottom lip was trapped between your teeth, rendering you speechless from the way he’s perfectly molding the shape of his cock in your pussy right now.

seeing you like this—all hot and vulnerable beneath him, he couldn’t hold in the cocky grin on his face, his ego inflating to a size larger than the earth itself.

he lands a particularly harsh slap against your ass, making you yelp in pain before you fall face flat on the leather seats again.

and when he sets his pace to that of raw, primal need, you begin to tremble, sensing as if your legs are about to give in on you any moment.

“j-jungkook—hah… too much,” you whine, feeling your impending orgasm approaching rapidly.

“cum with me, baby,” he pants, pressing his solid chest against your back, leaving you no room for any escape.

the way the tip of his leaking cock kept kissing your soft spongy spot has you seeing stars. his car became way too humid from how long he’s been fucking you, and you could care less whether the car could be seen rocking back and forth in the middle of the neighborhood, or whether or not the obscene noises you and jungkook were making could be heard a block away.

“please… wanna cum s’bad!” your words come out slurred, brain turning into complete mush devoid of any thoughts aside from cumming.

“awww, my baby wants to cum?” he coos sweetly against your ear, turning absolutely feral seeing you all submissive for him, sobbing as you beg for some sort of mercy from him.

and of course he’s going to give it to you.

he feels your walls hugging him for dear life, as if never wanting him to pull out, and he swears he could die a happy man like this right now.

“go on, baby, let go. i got you,” he whispers hotly before swiping your clit three more times, giving you the most delicious orgasm you haven’t tasted in months.

you tremble violently beneath him, a long whine escaping you as he fucks you through it, soon cumming right after you did.

he groans, flooding your hole with his warm cum before finally pulling out a minute later.

exhausted, he plops himself right next to you, and neither of you have spoken for a few minutes, merely the sound of your mingling breaths could be heard in his dark mercedes.

however, when you look into his eyes, you can see the change of look from lust to determination. you notice him hesitating for a bit, and before you could ask your ex what’s wrong, he swiftly cuts you to the chase.

“give me one more chance, baby.”

[creatingblackcharacters]

Are there any special considerations to make with black characters who are autistic? Cause I've just gone with basing their experience of autism off my own even though I'm white. Operating on a different body language, accent being quite different from other black folks, not caring about "fitting in" and having a very strong sense of right & wrong. As well as having their special interests and issues with various sensory related things.

That is a lesson I have cooking up!

Well, just as everything else with Black people and characters, it might not manifest differently than white people, but it's going to be treated differently. Everything I've discussed up to this point in all my lessons is gonna apply. I hate to say this, but society doesn't care if you're Black and autistic (or have any other mental or developmental health issues) because it's already judging you for the Blackness.

You don't have issues sitting still, you have a bad attitude. You don't have ADHD, you have ODD. You don't have a... what do they call it here, a hyperfixation, you're just "very passionate". My Uncle (rip🙏🏾) was visibly autistic, from the stimming to the echolalia to all the rest of his patterns, and people that didn't know him still saw him as a 6'2 large fat scary threatening Black man.

Hell, they barely consider women with autism, and they CERTAINLY don't consider Black women and girls with autism. I've known a few of us, and we usually get the "mean uppity bitch" stigma because no one cares that you might be overstimulated or anxious, or that you are really devoted to a pattern that you see, or that you're trying to express yourself with clear, assertive language, they just think you're being aggressive and hurting their feelings (which is what they expect from Black women).

Point is, we don't "look" autistic, and that's why it doesn't get treated the same, because what does it look like, then? 👀 The same behaviors indicative of autism in me might be the same as in you. Now, when it comes to being Black and autistic, I also think it's important to recognize that a lot of us don't get diagnosed, because of aforementioned things.

My family was far more aware of autism and how to deal with it (at least, for the visibly autistic children, the rest of us had to hack it), but I can't give you a generalized experience. I would suggest researching stories of Black families with autistic children, as well as Black autistic experiences to better buffer your writing.

[okaylikeschaewon]

Debauchery: Part 1

~7.5k words, male reader, smut, Part 1 of 3

“You can go first.”

“No please, you first.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“Mina please, you’re my senior.”

“Sakura, don’t do that,” Mina groaned with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t make this formal.”

“Fine, but then just call me Kkura,” Sakura smiled, spinning the chair in Mina’s direction.

Mina stepped forward and placed her knees on the chair, leaning forward over the backrest, and pressed her mouth against Sakura’s partially opened lips.

“Oh!” Sakura gasped, taken aback by the kiss. “I…”

“Was that okay? Kkura?” Mina teased, her lips curling up in a gentle smile.

Sakura hesitated, frozen in time for a moment, before answering.

“It… was…” she finally spoke, breathing heavily with each word. “It was just so sudden. I was surprised.”

“Surprised at how much you liked it?”

“No! I mean… I did… but…” Sakura stammered frantically. “You’re still my boss.”

“Was I still your boss last weekend?” Mina teased some more, smiling gleefully.

“Mina! I thought we weren’t going to talk about that?”

“Yeah, but then you just kissed me again out of nowhere,” Mina kept up the taunting. “And you know, the way you just melted against me-”

“I didn’t melt!” Sakura began blushing profusely.

Mina smirked proudly, loving every second of Sakura’s embarrassment.

 “I can’t help but notice how much you’ve been watching me at work lately,” Mina spoke softly, getting off the chair and pushing it to the side slightly to get closer to Sakura. “Speaking of that kiss, did you feel a bit of a spark between us or was that just me?”

Sakura paused for another moment, taking a couple of deep inhales of Mina’s lavender perfume in, closing her eyes for a second before opening them back up and staring Mina in the eyes.

“Yes,” Sakura whispered back, leaning her mouth forward just slightly with pouted lips. “I did.”

“It felt like you wanted more.”

“Wanted more?”

“Do you not?” Mina’s lips curled up into a smirk again as she inched a bit closer to Sakura who still had her lips pouted ever so slightly. “If you want, we could try it again… just to confirm.”

“This is why you invited me over, isn’t it?” Sakura whispered, tilting her head a bit and moving even closer to Mina.

“Maybe it is.”

“Then hurry up and kiss me.”

Mina - almost literally - jumped at the opportunity and pressed her mouth forward against Sakura once more, kissing her deeply and tenderly, gently pressing her tongue into Sakura’s mouth.

“Am I interrupting something?” you chuckled as you entered the room.

“No,” Mina edged back, licking her lips. “Kkura here was just about to show me how good she is at FPS games.”

“I’m really not that good,” Sakura stammered, cheeks bright red.

“Then let’s just say fuck the games for now,” Mina cupped Sakura’s face with both hands and kissed her again.

This time, however, Sakura quickly pulled away. Her eyes were almost as big as her face, beautiful and round, as worry took over and she glanced in your direction.

“Don’t worry so much,” Mina giggled before giving Sakura’s ass a little slap. “You’re not getting in trouble for anything.”

“I don’t understand…” Sakura mumbled, unphased by the slap, eyes darting between Mina and you. “He knows about last weekend?”

“You mean when you kissed me at the work mixer? Or do you mean the part where you ended up taking me to the roof? Yeah, he knows,” Mina laughed at Sakura’s mortified reaction. “Kkura relax, just forget about me being your boss for the night. You had no issue last weekend.”

“Mina told me that same night,” you walked over to the two girls. “You know, you’re not even the first girl she’s messed around with from work.”

“And oh my God you gave me such a good time,” Mina moaned softly before pulling the chair back and forcing Sakura to sit in front of you. “Sit. I think it’s only fair that I give you what you want as a thank you.”

“What I want?” Sakura stammered as she sat down and looked up at you. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you were pretty drunk, but do you not remember what you told me?” Mina asked while leaning over the back of the chair and kissing Sakura on the cheek. “Don’t be shy about it, we both think your little crush on my boyfriend is super cute.”

“Crush? I don’t have…” Sakura’s voice trailed off as she began piecing everything together.

“What do you remember?” you asked as you unbuckled your pants. “From that night, after you ate my girlfriend’s ass, do you remember what you said?”

“Don’t be crass,” Mina slapped your arm, glaring at you. “Ignore him,” Mina turned her attention back to Sakura. “Kkura sweetie, you asked for something pretty specific that night. Do you remember?”

“I take it this was all part of your plan?” Sakura chuckled nervously, her eyes fixated on your unbuttoned belt.

“Maybe,” Mina smiled and kissed Sakura’s cheek again. “Tell me, my sweet Kkura, do you still want to suck his cock?”

Sakura’s body jolted at the comment before she took a moment and began to relax.

“Now who’s being crass?” you chuckled under your breath.

“I assume I said that when I was drunk?” Sakura asked with a newfound calmness before pausing to look you straight in the eyes before continuing her response to Mina’s question. “Right after I ate your ass I bet?”

“That’s right,” you answered for Mina while placing one hand on the back of Sakura’s head and pulling her a bit closer to your crotch. “She told me you’re good with your mouth.”

“Maybe I am,” Sakura smirked, full of confidence now despite her blushed cheeks screaming embarrassment. “Want to find out?”

“Fuck the back-and-forth,” you groaned, pushing your hips forward a bit more. “I’ve been thinking about your sexy little mouth ever since Mina told me you wanted to suck my cock.”

Sakura smiled wide as she began undoing your pants and lowering them to your ankles. As soon as she released your cock from your underwear, it smacked against her face, making her flinch before she opened her mouth with pure desire behind her eyes.

“She’s practically drooling,” Mina laughed while grabbing Sakura’s hair and wrapping it into a makeshift bun. “I told you it was big.”

“Holy fuck,” Sakura mumbled, gripping your cock and stroking the full length slowly, taking her time to appreciate your size.

“Come on,” you moaned, grabbing Sakura’s wrist, guiding your cock towards her lips.

Sakura opened her mouth wide, welcoming your cock as you pushed into her throat. You grabbed her hand and pulled it off your shaft so that you could go deeper, pressing your cock as far down as you could. Once you felt too much resistance, you pulled back out, leaving Sakura gasping for air.

“It’s so fucking big,” Sakura croaked, catching her breath. “I can��t-”

“That’s what you wanted,” Mina giggled before reaching down and lifting up Sakura’s shirt. “Fuck, I love your tits. I'm honestly a bit jealous.”

Sakura moaned gracefully as Mina began playing with her chest, still staring at your cock with her lips slightly parted, waiting for you to make the next move. Her eyes were begging for you, as if she had this hunger that could only be lifted by your cock.

“They’re beautiful alright,” you mumbled, watching your girlfriend playing with Sakura’s tits as you stepped forward again and grabbed Sakura’s head with both hands. “You have no idea how much Mina has been raving about them these last few days.”

Sakura couldn’t respond before you pushed your cock into her mouth again. You didn’t even bother with any caution this time - not that you showed much the first time. Regardless, you pushed your cock forward about halfway into Sakura’s mouth before using your hands to maneuvre her head and fuck her senseless. You could see her body going limp as you went deeper and deeper, thrusting your cock hard while pulling her face into your body.

“You look so fucking good right now,” you moaned, tilting your head back, scrunching up your face.

Sakura continued to struggle on your cock before Mina finally saved her, giving her a chance to breathe by pulling her mouth off your cock. As Sakura gasped for air, Mina turned the chair around and began making out with her. Mina sucked up all of the drool dripping from Sakura’s lips after the face-fucking she just took.

“I could seriously fuck that pretty little face all night, I’d never get bored of it,” you commented casually, stroking back Sakura’s hair behind her ears while Mina moved down and began sucking on her tits. “But my girlfriend has other plans.”

“Oh?” Sakura looked down at Mina who had just released her nipple from her mouth. “And what would that be?”

“You don’t get to ask questions,” Mina hissed softly with an icy undertone that made your cock twitch. “In fact, no more talking either, you’ll just be doing whatever I tell you, okay?”

“Yes boss.”

“‘Boss’,” Mina smirked coyly. “I like that.”

Then, after giving Sakura’s tits a little slap, Mina pressed Sakura’s mouth against your balls. Instinctively, as they entered her mouth, Sakura took hold of your shaft and began stroking you gently - the girl needed no instruction.

“Good girl,” Mina smiled proudly as she began stripping off all her clothes, watching Sakura suck your balls proudly.

Once Mina had fully stripped down, she bent over at her hips and put your cock into her mouth. The view of Mina sucking your cock with Sakura licking your balls nearly made you blow in an instant, yet by some higher power you managed to hold on - at least for now. The two girls worked your cock in unison a bit more before swapping positions. Now Mina, who had dropped down to her knees, was licking your balls while Sakura was sucking your cock.

“You girls are going to make me fucking cum,” you moaned, shutting your eyes tight.

Mina released your balls with a little pop before joining Sakura on your shaft. Sakura, taking Mina’s lead, began licking your shaft up and down, both girls working in tandem to rub their tongues against your cock.

“I’m fucking serious,” you gasped as Sakura started kissing your shaft over and over.

“Then do it,” Mina whispered, her warm breath hitting your tip just the right way before she put it in your mouth.

Mina began working your tip hard, moving down your cock just slightly while applying pressure all around your head, her tongue massaging your frenulum. While she worked the tip, Sakura began licking your balls again, pressing her lips against your taint and kissing it deeply. The girl had no apprehension when it came to getting right up in there, pushing her mouth hard against your balls, licking them side to side.

“Mina…” you moaned as you felt the rush of euphoria shooting through your spine.

That was the last warning she’d get, within the next two or three seconds you felt your cock unloading cum relentlessly into Mina’s mouth. She held her lips tight against your tip, letting you fill her up, and Sakura kept prodding her tongue up against your balls the entire time. After the initial wave, Mina grabbed your cock and started stroking it, getting as much of your cum out as she could.

Once content, she lifted her mouth off your cock, spilling just a little bit on your shaft before she got off her knees and onto her feet again. Then, Mina gently took Sakura’s face in her hands and tilted her head up. Sakura obeyed without even being told and opened her mouth as Mina let a glob of your cum spill out of her lips and directly into Sakura’s mouth.

As soon as the cum landed on Sakura’s tongue, Mina bent down and kissed her, pressing her lips hard against Sakura’s. In a glorious, cum-filled kiss, the two girls began sharing the moment together, basically forgetting all about you as they played with your cum. Once pretty much all of it had moved from Mina’s mouth into Sakura’s, Mina leaned back and gently closed Sakura’s mouth with her hand, encouraging the girl to swallow it all - which she did with ease.

“Good girl,” Mina smiled as she motioned towards your cock. “You missed a spot.”

Without a second thought, Sakura leaned forward and licked the few streaks of cum left on your shaft, swallowing that as well. Then, Mina leaned in close and whispered something into Sakura’s ear. Whatever it was, she thought about it for at most a second before nodding excitedly at Mina.

“Such a good little girl,” Mina smiled, kissing Sakura again before climbing on the desk and sticking her ass up just slightly.

Sakura stood up from the chair and followed her to the desk. Once there, she took a moment to look over her shoulder back at you. While flashing you a smile, she pulled down her pants so that she was also completely nude and then bent over at her hips. While spreading her cheeks and flashing her pussy at you, Sakura pressed her face into Mina’s ass.

“Oh fuck I’ve missed this mouth,” Mina moaned loudly into the room. “Come on babe, give her what she deserves, give it to her good.”

“Gladly,” you muttered, mesmerized by how passionately Sakura was eating your girlfriend’s ass right now.

It was a beautiful scene as Mina’s back arched up, her shoulders flexed, and her head craned down towards the desk. Her legs were spread just enough and her ass was lifted to give Sakura easy access. Part of you was almost jealous of Sakura’s position.

That jealousy really didn’t last long though, not when you had a clear view of Sakura’s tight little pussy glistening before you. The girl was beyond excited, you could clearly see how wet she was. You walked up right behind her, pushing apart her cheeks just a little bit with your hands as you lined your cock up with her folds.

Just as you imagined, she was tight. But oh my God she was wet. Unbelievably. Sakura’s pussy felt fucking amazing right now, like pure heaven on your cock. It must have felt nice for her as well, because you heard a muffled but loud little half shriek half moan escape her lips the moment you pushed your way in. As you started gently thrusting your cock into Sakura’s tight pussy, you could see her back muscles flexing.

Even though you were willing to fuck her face hard earlier, for some reason you felt like being much more gentle with her now as you slowly eased your cock in and out of her pussy. She felt more delicate now - softer, definitely tighter, and just a bit more fragile in your hands. Maybe it was because you could see how amazing she was making Mina feel.

While still thrusting softly, you lightly pressed the back of Sakura’s head deeper into Mina’s ass just to see how she’d react. To your pleasant surprise, Sakura took that little pressure and doubled it herself, pressing her face even deeper into Mina’s ass until Mina began squirming like crazy. Sakura really was an angel.

Mina moaned hard, and you could have sworn you felt Sakura’s pussy tighten up a bit. Now, you decided, it was time to pick up the pace. You grabbed Sakura’s tiny waist and pressed her down against the edge of the desk, bracing her as you started thrusting with more force. You went harder and rougher until Sakura lifted her head out of Mina’s ass and began screaming, her legs shaking, and her knuckles white as they gripped the side of the desk.

“Pretty girl is cumming,” Mina sang gently as she slipped off the desk and watched Sakura with admiration.

Odds were pretty high that she didn’t even hear Mina’s words, as you could definitely feel Sakura cumming against your cock. The way her pussy began squeezing tighter, forcing you to fight just to stay in, it felt fucking unbelievable. Thankfully she was soaked, making it a bit easier to push in.

“Fuck you feel so - damn - good - right now,” you moaned, giving Sakura’s ass a hard slap before grabbing Mina’s arm and pulling her towards you.

“Oh!” Mina gasped with a giggle before immediately stifling it as you kissed her.

With your cock pumping inside Sakura, you kissed Mina hard and passionately, feeling your second orgasm rapidly approaching. Her pussy, even though it was relaxing a bit, was still squeezing your shaft so perfectly, warm and wet, coating your cock like a glove. Sakura was the perfect little fuckdoll for you, pussy designed perfectly to fit your cock.

“I’m going to cum again,” you whispered into Mina’s mouth before kissing her again.

As your lips met once more, you slipped your hand between her legs and began rubbing her wet clit. You toyed with her a bit, making her moan into your mouth, before slipping a finger into her asshole.

“Babe!” Mina gasped, shutting her eyes tight.

At that same moment, Sakura began moaning loudly into the air. Then, as Sakura began screaming, you felt her pussy clamp down even harder on your cock - she was cumming again. Each and every pulse could be felt through your shaft, each little gush of wet, each throb matching your own heat.

While Sakura finished once more on your cock, you pumped her pussy as hard as you could, nearing your own release rapidly. The finger you had in Mina’s ass was swiftly pulled out and the kiss ended as you began focusing everything in your body on fucking Sakura’s pussy.

Then, right before you could cum, you felt her body lose all energy as she began collapsing to the floor. Your cock slipped out of her pussy as she dropped to her knees and turned around. Sakura, face red and coated in sweat, looked up at you with her mouth open and her tits in her palms, pushed up together.

“Cum on me,” Sakura moaned, sticking her tongue out. “All over my body.”

Almost as if on cue, the first spurt of your cum shot forward right onto Sakura’s face. She jerked backwards instinctually as she closed her eyes before holding steady, taking the next two shots right to her face.

Mina, not wanting to be left out, also quickly dropped to her knees and began kissing your balls as the rest of your cum spilled out and began coating Sakura’s tits. You never would have expected so much, but Sakura’s chest was thoroughly coated in white while the last few dribbles of cum spilled on Mina’s cheek as she kissed your balls.

“I’m fucking spent,” you groaned, pulling the chair over and taking a seat.

“I can see that,” Mina giggled as she crawled over to Sakura.

The two girls lay down together and Mina began sucking on Sakura’s tits again, spreading your cum all over.

“That was amazing,” Sakura sighed, her chest heaving up and down as she caught her breath while Mina continued lapping up all the cum from her chest.

“How about we-” Mina began, pausing to kiss Sakura on the lips before continuing, “-head to the bedroom?”

Sakura and you exchanged glances before both of you began laughing.

“Alright, come on,” you got up with a smile and held your hand out for Sakura to take. “We’re not done yet.”

—

It was you who woke up first, when the sun started to peek through the curtains. After carefully removing yourself from the web of intertwined limbs on Mina's bed, you began to look for your clothes. Even though last night felt like a blur, you knew it was all real; Your body, aching with soreness, was ample proof that the night was real - and this wasn’t accounting for the two nude girls you just woke up next to. You were exhausted, but you were also experiencing a glow like no other this morning.

“You’re up early,” Sakura croaked from behind you.

“Morning,” you looked back over your shoulder to see her squinting. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she yawned, stretching her arms towards the roof, not caring at all about her tits being out. “Hey, do you think you could give me a ride home?”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied, picking up whatever garments you could find off the floor. “When?”

“Now’s fine,” she yawned again, gently lifting Mina’s arms off her and getting off the bed. “Let me just gargle some water or something real quick, my throat is on fire.”

“Sorry again.”

“Idiot,” Sakura chuckled, giving your shoulder a light hit as she walked past you to the bathroom.

Sakura’s figure was truly entrancing, that tiny waist with her gorgeous hips swaying back and forth with each step. Part of you almost wanted to follow her round ass into the bathroom to have another turn with her, even though you had plenty of fun with her last night. Instead, you refrained and turned to Mina.

“Babe,” you called out, giving her a couple of pats on her butt before palming her soft cheek. “I’m going to go drop Sakura off, alright?”

“Mhmm,” she moaned in her half-slumber.

“I’ll be back in a bit, text me if you need anything,” you added, leaning over and kissing her forehead before putting on the rest of your clothes.

—

“Not much of a morning person?” you asked while putting your car into park.

“Sorry?” Sakura asked, confused as she turned to you.

“You didn’t say a word the whole drive.”

“Oh,” Sakura began blushing slightly. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to muster up some courage.”

“Courage?”

“I wanted to ask if…” she hesitated before turning to face you with those beautiful puppy dog eyes. “If you’d like to come up for some breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“It’s a meal people have in the morning.”

“Sakura,” you burst out laughing. She smiled at you warmly as your laughter subsided. “Well, I mean, I guess I have time.”

“Perfect!” Sakura gushed as she got out of your car. “You like eggs, right?”

“Nah, hate them,” you replied while following Sakura to the elevators.

“Then you can sit there and watch me eat eggs I guess.”

“That sounds good to me,” you smirked at her. “I’ve really grown to enjoy sitting there and watching you swallow.”

“Stop!” Sakura whined as her smile slipped through her feigned annoyance. “My body hasn’t had a night like that in a while.”

“You also sore?”

“Yeah, all over,” Sakura giggled, exiting the elevator in front of you. “Your girlfriend is quite… intense.”

“Not like it’s your first time experiencing her,” you teased as Sakura unlocked the door to her apartment. “Shouldn’t you already know this?”

“That was different, I didn’t really have anything going inside me that night,” Sakura replied casually as she stepped into her kitchen and started the coffee machine. “I spent most of the evening between her legs.”

“Between her cheeks, you mean.”

“Are you ever gonna stop teasing me?” Sakura leaned against her countertop with her arms crossed. “So what if I eat ass?”

“After last night, nope,” you smiled at her. “And it’s not like I’m judging you for it, been there done that.”

She returned the smile, and you both paused to gaze at each other; Sakura was so pretty this morning, even though she just woke up. Mina showed you all of Sakura's social media accounts following the events of last weekend’s gathering. You admitted to Mina that you thought Sakura was absolutely stunning, which is the only reason last night even happened, even though Mina seemed slightly anxious about sharing you with another girl.

“Cream and sugar?” Sakura asked while turning around towards the coffee machine.

“Huh?” you snapped out of your trance. “You want me to cream on your face again?”

“Oh my God,” Sakura sighed with exasperation. “I’m really never living it down.”

“I’m just kidding,” you stepped up right behind Sakura and placed your hands on her hips and whispered into her ear. “But does the coffee really matter?”

“What?”

“Sakura,” you turned her around and pressed her back gently against the counter. “We both know why you asked me to come up, and it’s not for breakfast.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” Sakura replied with an aura of confidence. “Maybe I just wanted some company for breakfast?”

“Maybe, but I also know you don’t eat breakfast.”

“W-What…” she stammered, cheeks turning pink. “How did you-”

“I know a lot about you, Sakura,” you whispered while keeping eye contact. “So, am I right? Did you invite me up for eggs or for something else?”

Sakura hesitated, biting her lower lip and trying to avoid your gaze as her eyes darted around the room. Yet, they always managed to fall right back onto yours.

“Don’t be shy now,” you added gently while pushing her hair behind her ears. “After last night, there’s nothing you need to hide from me anymore.”

“What about Mi-”

“What about her?” you cut her off. “Not that she’d mind, but I won’t tell her anything either way.”

“But-”

“Sakura,” you spoke firmly and placed your hands on the counter around Sakura’s body. “Either you walk over to the stove, or you drop down to your knees, what’s it going to be?”

She hesitated for just a moment before you saw the flame ignite behind her eyes.

“You’re right,” she whispered softly, lifting her hands up to use the hair tie she had on her wrist as she bunched up her hair. “I don’t even have eggs.”

“That’s what I thought,” you smiled as Sakura slowly dropped down to her knees as you started unbuckling your pants. “I knew you couldn’t get enough of my cock.”

“Yeah, just like how you can’t get enough of my mouth,” Sakura replied as she pulled your pants down to your ankles.

“No I can’t,” you muttered under your breath as the sensation of Sakura’s mouth finding your tip again instantly sent waves of pleasure through your body.

With your eyes closed, you placed your hands on Sakura’s head and simply enjoyed letting her suck your cock with full control. You didn’t thrust your hips nor did you push her head, you just existed in the state of bliss that Sakura put you in. Gentle slurps were all you could hear as the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.

“I love your cock so much,” Sakura gasped as she finally took a breath. She grabbed your shaft with her slender fingers and started stroking you while tilting her head down towards your balls. She gave them a quick kiss before sliding her tongue all the way up your shaft and engulfing your cock once more, bobbing her head up and down your length.

“Fucking hell Sakura,” you moaned softly, pushing your hands against the counter to hold yourself up. “Lemme see those tits again.”

Sakura slowly rose to her feet, her fingers finding your shaft as she leaned in close to you, giving you a couple of gentle strokes as she whispered. “You love my tits, don’t you?” she asked with a sly little smile.

“That’s right,” you replied as your hands landed on her hips, slowly sliding up her shirt. “I had the best sleep ever, laying my face on them.”

“Did you also like cumming all over them?”

“I don’t recall, jog my memory?” you smirked at her as your hands finally found her soft tits.

As you gave her a little squeeze, you leaned forward into her and kissed her on the lips. As soon as you tasted her, you realized despite all the events of last night, this was your first time kissing Sakura. A wave of warmth shot through you, it was hard to explain, it felt both wrong and right at the same time. Before you could think about it and figure out what was going on, Sakura had pulled back and taken your hand, walking you over to her couch.

Sakura, after pushing you onto the couch, began slowly taking off her shirt. She made sure to sway her body side to side, inching the fabric up tediously, exposing her tiny waist inch by inch. It was only once her shirt made it to her chest did she quickly swoop it off her body, sending her tits recoiling into a bounce that felt like it lasted an eternity - almost cartoonishly.

The show wasn’t over yet. You started stroking your cock gently as Sakura turned around, showing off her toned back, and bending at her hips. Slowly, oh so painstakingly slowly, Sakura lowered her pants to her ankles, kicking them away. Then, with just her panties on and nothing else, she took a seat on your lap, pushing your cock between her cheeks.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whispered into her ear as you wrapped your arms around her body and palmed her tits.

“You like my tits that much?” Sakura whispered back, turning her face. “Wanna fuck them?”

Your cock began throbbing - which Sakura definitely felt as evident through her confident little giggles - and you squeezed Sakura’s tits hard between your fingers. There was no need to answer, Sakura already knew, and with an impressive smoothness she slid down your body and onto her knees in front of you.

“Just relax, let me do the work,” Sakura moaned softly as she pushed her tits together around your cock.

She started slowly, moving her tits up and down with her hands, making your entire length disappear between them. Then, once she had a rhythm going, she looked up directly into your eyes and began bouncing her entire body up and down, pushing her tits together hard, making a tight seal around your cock.

It felt like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. It wasn’t tight, but it was unbelievably soft and smooth - it just felt right having your cock between Sakura’s tits. You loved it. The sensation was unreal, you felt like you were getting close but not able to cum, as if Sakura was edging you, it just felt like a steady stream of dopamine straight to your brain. 

This was when you realized you really couldn't cum like this, but it still felt so damn good that you didn’t want it to stop. Sakura, enthusiastic as ever, stopped only to let a glob of spit fall from her lips as lube for your cock. It was hard to tell if she was enjoying this, but she made sure to keep going, doing all the work while you sat there in utter bliss.

Enough was enough, the pressure was becoming too much for you to take. You needed to bust, and all you could think about was Sakura’s sexy little mouth again. The girl must have been able to read your mind, because all it took was a shared glance of understanding before Sakura let go of her tits, letting them bounce down with gravity as you pulled her up to the couch next to you.

Sakura, eager as ever, immediately bent down over your lap and started using her hand and mouth in tandem to suck you off as fast as she could. You reached your hand over and slipped it down the back of Sakura’s panties, palming her ass and squeezing softly as you closed your eyes and focused. WIth your other hand, you lightly pressed down on the back of Sakura’s head as she worked your cock with all her expertise.

“That’s it Sakura, that’s the spot,” you moaned, pushing her head just a bit harder. “Don’t fucking stop, I’m about to cum.”

She heard you, and she obliged. Sakura, without needing your push, throated your cock as hard as she could, going down almost your entire length with each push. At this point, you were so close that you found yourself thrusting your hips up into her mouth right up until you felt yourself about to cum.

Before the final little thrust, you let go of Sakura’s ass and used both hands to push her face down onto your cock as hard as you could, lifting your hips up and shooting your load straight down her throat. Sakura’s entire core was flexed as she steadied herself, taking all of your cum directly to the neck. As you felt yourself starting to relax, the pulsing slowing down, you let go of her head.

Sakura lifted herself up, taking a heavy gasp for air as a flood of white spilled out of her mouth before she immediately went right back down on your cock, sucking it up and down, making a mess all over your shaft. She didn’t care about all the cum coating her lips, she just wanted to suck your cock until it all came out.

“Oh fuck Sakura that feels good,” you cried out, giving her ass a small slap before bringing both hands up behind your head and shutting your eyes tight again, relishing in Sakura’s blowjob.

She kept going until you were completely drained, before she started slowly licking up your shaft, collecting as much of your cum as possible on her tongue. She dropped off the couch right onto her knees and made sure to look up at you, making eye contact as she scooped up all the cum she spilled on your cock.

“You’re such a dirty fucking girl,” you laughed softly, stroking her hair while she worked.

Sakura didn’t even reply, but her lips curled up into a smile as she kept that same enthusiasm, sucking your cock until all of the cum had been swallowed. Only then, after giving your balls one final little kiss and one last lick of your shaft, did Sakura finally stop.

“Done?” you chuckled.

“Done,” she beamed up at you before suddenly getting shy.

“What?”

She paused for a moment as if she needed the courage again before speaking.

“Can I kiss you again?” Sakura asked sheepishly.

“Sakura,” you began whispering a response before having a change of plans.

Instead of answering her directly, you decided to just pull her up to you and press your lips against hers. She seemed a bit nervous at first, but you just ignored it and kept going until eventually you could feel her warm up to you. Her hands began exploring your back, while you did the same with hers, Her legs wrapped around your body as she climbed on top of you in an attempt to have as much skin on skin contact possible, intertwining your bodies together as you kissed.

This went on for longer than you had initially expected. The second either one of you pulled back to take a quick breath, all it took was the tiniest bit of eye contact before you both mutually decided to kiss again. You closed your eyes each time, getting lost in the feeling and the moment that you got to share with this gorgeous girl. Finally, after a lifetime of kissing, your lips parted and didn’t reconnect, leaving Sakura breathing heavily above you.

“Yeah,” you muttered softly.

“Yeah,” Sakura agreed with a smile.

A moment of warmth passed, your bodies still attached, while you both just looked deeply into each other’s eyes.

“You’re not in a rush, are you?” you asked softly.

“No, why?”

“Would you let me…” you began before carefully picking Sakura up and placing her onto her back beneath you. “Could I?”

“You mean like, down there?” Sakura asked, cheeks turning rosey again.

“Yes, down there,” you clarified gently, cupping Sakura’s face in your hand gently. “All the fun we had last night and I never got so much as a taste.”

Sakura bit her lower lip gently before nodding up at you and taking a deep breath. She was tense, and you weren’t entirely sure why, but you were going to at least try relaxing her. You slid down her body gently until your face was between her legs which she had bent upwards, spreading them to make room for you. She lifted up her butt just slightly to help you ease off her panties, which you unhooked from her ankles and tossed across the room.

Her pussy was as gorgeous as ever, looking as tight and wet as you knew it was, but you didn’t rush it. Instead, you pressed your lips against her inner thigh and pressed down softly. This worked, as you could hear her breathing slow down and deepen. You kissed a bit closer. A drop spilled out of her pussy, sliding between her legs, leaving a trail for you to follow.

With some careful maneuvering, you pressed your mouth beneath her pussy and gave her a single lick, sliding your tongue up her skin. She let out a sharp breath, shivers shooting up her spine as your mouth made contact with her pussy for the first time. Maybe it was just the moment - definitely was just the moment - but Sakura had the best tasting pussy you have ever experienced.

“Please just this one, don’t go lower…” Sakura stammered nervously.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” you reassured her. “Just try to relax, if you can.”

Before going forward, you reached up with both hands and grabbed Sakura’s, interlocking your fingers. Next, you gently blew some air against her pussy, feeling her strength as she squeezed down against your fingers. Now, before she could fully relax, you pressed your mouth against her pussy, listening for her soft moan as you began prodding at her clit with your tongue.

“You’re good at this,” Sakura moaned softly, her fingers tensing up between yours. “Really fucking good.”

“I have experience,” you replied cockily when you suddenly felt a tinge of guilt stab you in the heart.

The realization of what you were doing dawned on you all at once. Would Mina actually be okay with you having your face in another girl’s pussy - especially one who she knows has a crush on you? You kinda assumed it didn’t matter after the events of last night, but all of a sudden you weren’t so sure anymore.

“Does that experience tell you to always tease this much?” Sakura whined, rubbing a hand through your hair while her lower body squirmed. “Please, I’m close.”

“Are you?” you replied, deciding to put your concerns on the backburner temporarily, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling you had in your chest and focusing instead of the gorgeous tight little pussy inches away from your mouth.

It was all so confusing, because even though you were feeling guilty, your body just naturally pounced forward and you ended up putting Sakura’s pussy entirely in your mouth with your tongue laying flat against her clit. You pressed down, swaying side to side, loving the gentle tug of your hair with each of Sakura’s little moans.

“Oh yeah, just like that, just like-” Sakura cried out softly, lifting her body up off the cushions. “I’m going to- you’re going to make- fuck- please-”

None of it made any real sense, yet it still made sense - in a way? Fuck it, not like it mattered. What did matter was the two fingers you slipped into Sakura’s pussy, at least that’s what mattered to Sakura in this moment. You curled them up, trying your best to hit the right spots while sucking on her clit. Whatever you were doing, she fucking loved it. Her moans - or rather, screams - were ecstasy in the purest form. Her voice was peaking, making all sorts of noises that every other tenant could probably hear right now.

Then, as Sakura released the loudest cuss of the morning, you felt a massive gush burst out of Sakura’s pussy and right into your mouth. You leaned back, relishing in the sounds Sakura was making right now, while using just your two fingers to force Sakura to squirt a couple more times, not caring at all about the mess she was making on you.

“Stop,” Sakura sobbed, bringing her legs together and grabbing your wrist.

The mixed signals had you smiling as Sakura refused to let you pull out your fingers, all while begging for something. You didn’t know if she wanted you to stop or to keep going anymore, she wasn’t making much sense, but this had to be one of the best orgasms she’s ever had and you weren’t going to be the one to ruin it for her. So, instead, you just continued doing whatever didn’t make sense, all for her.

“Sakura,” you whispered gently as she finally began relaxing. You slipped your fingers out carefully and spread her legs gently, leaning forward to give her pussy - which was beyond drenched at this point - a soft kiss.

“Oh,” she moaned quietly, her eyes shut tight still.

“You good?”

“Fucking amazing,” she sighed, finally opening her eyes to look at you. That’s when she suddenly became overwhelmed with embarrassment and hid her face in her hands. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“For what?” you sat up, confused.

“I’ve never squirted before, I had no idea-”

“Oh,” you started laughing as you lay down on top of Sakura and moved her hands away. “I don’t give a shit about that, it’s fine.”

“But-”

She couldn’t finish her worry before you silenced her by kissing her softly on the mouth. You could feel she was still on edge, but it only lasted a moment before you felt the shift in her body. She kissed you back, with a passion beyond what you imagined. It was so incredibly tender, as if your lover, but it didn’t last long.

“I can feel your cock,” Sakura smiled up at you.

“Uh,” you hesitated, struggling to think of a line.

“Put it in me.”

Fuck, that was probably the hottest thing she could have ever said in this moment in your mind. The amount of raw horniness coursing through your veins right now made you feel like you were about to explode from the inside. And with that one line, doubt and hesitation was simply not possible right now, your cock was throbbing - almost painfully.

Your mind was all fuzzy as you fumbled around between Sakura’s legs, trying to find her entrance. Eventually, you found yourself in position, and with one swift little push you went all the way until your balls pressed against Sakura’s soft skin. She was so fucking unbelievably wet that it didn’t matter how tight her pussy was - you were able to move with ease.

It took almost no time at all for you to find a nice rhythm - not too fast but not too slow. With your cock pumping into Sakura’s pussy, you tilted yourself forward and gave her another kiss, one she returned without any restraint. You kept it going for as long as you could, your hands sliding up to her chest and gently resting against her tits.

Nothing could have made this moment better, really, so there was almost a bit of sadness when you felt it come to an end so quickly. Of course, that sadness was completely washed away by the insane amount of euphoria you felt as your cock exploded inside Sakura’s pussy. You didn’t even feel it coming, it only took maybe a minute of fucking Sakura for you to cum this time.

The way she kissed you through your entire orgasm felt divine, she didn’t care about how quickly you blew, she just cared about making you feel good. Your cock, slipping in and out of her pussy, kept pulsing and throbbing, shooting an absurd amount of cum into Sakura’s pussy. With a final squeeze of her tits and one final kiss, you sat up and pulled out.

“My God,” you muttered as you watched your cum spill from Sakura’s pussy.

“It’s beautiful,” Sakura sighed, watching as well for a moment before scooping up the cum and spreading it on her chest. “I can’t believe you still had this much in you.”

“I don’t know how it’s even possible,” you replied, finally now as the euphoria wore off feeling a bit embarrassed by how long you lasted.

“That was so fucking amazing,” Sakura smiled at you, almost as if reading your mind once more and noting your insecurity. “You were perfect, in every way, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you were also amazing,” you leaned forward and kissed her again before she snuggled right up against your body.

“Best breakfast ever,” Sakura whispered quietly.

“I think the coffee might be cold by now.”

“Fuck the coffee.”

“Fair enough,” you chuckled while rubbing Sakura’s side. “Alright, I should probably-”

“Five minutes?” she whispered with a vulnerability that made your heartbeat double in pace.

The way she was holding onto your body right now, there was literally no chance you’d deny her. You smiled softly to yourself, one she couldn’t see with her head resting against your chest, and leaned forward to kiss the top of Sakura’s head softly before pulling her tighter into your embrace.

Those five minutes stretched much longer than five minutes, but you didn’t care one bit.

---

A/N:

Well this came out of absolutely nowhere. Backstory, one of my fellow writers did a little writing project and the theme was "unlikely pairings". I know Mina x Sakura isn't the CRAZIEST mix, but it's still somewhat uncommon I think?! Funny enough, I also recently got an Ask about "which two odd pair idols do you think about a lot?" so this was really just all destined to happen.

Anyway, the 3k submission has now turned into a story that will be probably 20k+, so here's Part 1! Part 2 is actually already done (spoilers, there's more Mina), I'll release it in maybe a week to let this marinate a bit. Part 3 maybe a week after that. Each part should be roughly this length, with Part 3 possibly being a bit closer to 10k.

Regarding other projects! I am going to really sit down and get the next Dating Seraphs chapter going, it's well past due at this point. After that we'll see, either Roommates or Twice I think, but I can't say for sure. I don't have an insane amount of time to write at the moment, but I'm still somehow writing quite a bit!

Absolutely love the insane amount of support my community has been showing recently, seriously, you guys are the best. I can believe how supportive everyone is especially when I'm so insanely inconsistent. Feel free to give any feedback you'd like on this piece, or don't, totally up to you! Cheers <3

[meowdei]

down the drain (literally) — ft. ryomen sukuna

female reader ; established relationship (engaged even!) ; modern bf sukuna ; slightly dramatic reader (she’s in shambles okay??) ; soft sukuna ; fluff

Sukuna is going to kill you.

For one, you’ve been in the bathroom for thirty minutes and he is clearly sick of it—the door handle rattling is proof enough. For another…well…your engagement ring is down the drain.

(Literally.)

You’re technically supposed to take it off when you wash your face just to be safe, but you get tired, and you forget here and there—mornings are always rough as it is. Sometimes, because you’re human, you forget. And it’s generally okay. Until it’s not.

Because your engagement ring is down the drain. (Literally.)

“God fuckin’ dammit woman,” he hisses, knocking on the door, “what are you doing in there? Open the damn door it’s been ages.”

“Just a second,” you call, panicking as you try to pull the drain plug out, but it doesn’t budge. Your fingers aren’t doing you any favors either—it feels like they’re the perfect size to not fit around anything to help you out here.

Your engagement ring is down the drain (literally) and there’s nothing to do but slowly bite your lip as tears collect at your lash line. So you open the door—and before Sukuna’s angry face can scold you any further, you’ve collapsed against his chest, soaking his bare chest with your tears.

“Wha—” he’s stunned. Stiff and standing there for a moment before he’s stuttering, “h-hey—I didn’t even yell at you that bad, what the fuck? Why’re you bein’ so—”

“I’m sorry, Kuna,” you sob, “please don’t be mad!”

“I’m mad but not that mad,” he says, bewildered. You sob harder at that, and his hands quickly find your hips and squeeze in panic at a poor attempt to reassure you. “Okay, okay! Not mad. Just…mildly annoyed. You’re…mildly annoying, better?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you wail.

“Okay! I got it! You’re havin’ a slow morning. Whatever, I waited. Can we just—”

“I didn’t think it’d slip off like that!”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“My ring,” you hiccup. He stills. You sniffle, pulling away and preparing yourself for his harsh, bitter anger as you whisper, “it fell down the drain.”

“What?” he looks at you, still confused. “What do you mean?”

“I w-was washing my face and then…and then—” you take a shuddering breath to try and work through your sobs before you continue, “it fell off and went down the drain! Now it’s in the sewers!”

“The sewers?”

“Yeah the pipes are gonna take it to the sewers!”

“I don’t think it’s in the sewers just yet—”

“And then the sewers will take it to the ocean and then I’ll never find it again!”

“The ocean is a long way from here—”

“I’m so, so, so sorry—”

“Oh my god, woman,” he grabs your cheeks, squeezing them together to shut you up as you stare up at him with wet, miserable, teary eyes. And he softens. Lets his shoulders fall a little as he sighs before rough thumbs are swiping at your cheeks less than gently, but more than in love. “’S just a ring.”

“It’s not just a ring,” you gasp, “it’s my engagement ring!”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, “but we’re still engaged—”

“But now no one will know!”

“Then I’ll buy you a damn new one,” he groans, rubbing his temples as he clicks his teeth when a fresh new round of tears soak your cheeks. (He doesn’t like how it looks—wobbly lips and puffy eyes on you make him feel like he’s doing something wrong. He has enough mistakes to worry about as is.)

“But it’s expensive and—”

“And not your problem,” he grumbles, “I’ll buy you a ring. A nicer one, too, if you promise to quit your whining.”

“You’re not mad?” you sniffle, slumping against his chest as your arms circle his waist.

He melts. Because it’s you, and he always does when it’s you. His arms wrap tightly around you, and a large hand cups the back of your head as he presses a small kiss to your temple.

“You want me to be mad that bad?”

��No,” you whimper.

“Then ‘m not,” he snorts, chest vibrating under your cheek at his laugh, “so quit worryin’. You’ll get creases and everyone’ll think I married some old hag.”

You crack a small grin. He’s good at that—at pulling a soft smile onto your lips against your will as you let out a quiet giggle, gently swatting at his back with your hand as you huff. For a second, the ring is forgotten. For a second, it’s just you, it’s just Sukuna, and it’s just nothing else.

“Not a hag, you asshole,” you huff.

“You nag like one,” he mumbles.

“Do not,” you huff, “you just always piss me off.”

“You piss me off, too.”

“Are you pissed off about the ring?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he grunts. His arms squeeze you tighter, his lips kiss your head once more, and his body sways you side to side ever so slightly as he repeats, more seriously this time, “no. Forget the ring. I’ll get you a new one if I have to, so don’t cry.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he hums.

He does. Ring or not, he does. And you can tell he does when he pulls away, gently pinches your nose and leans in to kiss the tears off your face as you can’t help but smile and giggle.

Your ring is down the drain (literally) and so is the hefty sum of money he spent on it, but everything else is still right here. Him and you and you and him and everything you’re ever built, nestled perfectly safe between the little space between your bodies.

“Done cryin’?” he asks gently.

You nod, kissing his jaw as he hums in content. “Yeah.”

“Great. Then get out—it’s my turn in the bathroom and I’ve waited long enough.”

—————— BONUS.

“Hand me the wrench.”

“Okay,” you hum. You hand him a tool, and he stares at you unimpressed as soon as he looks at it.

“That’s a screwdriver.”

“Oh. Which one’s the wrench?”

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” he groans, rubbing his temples.

Fifteen minutes later, and a good deal of bickering over what a wrench looks like and how his tools don’t all look the same, Sukuna has successfully retrieved your very shiny, and very pretty engagement ring. (It didn’t make it very far down the pipes—which is good. It didn’t make it to the sewers, and it most certainly didn’t make its way into the ocean.)

It’s no longer down the drain. (Literally.)

It’s now on your finger. (Literally.)

“Happy?” he raises a brow, watching as you grin at your finger, clearly pleased.

“Yeah,” you hum, sighing in relief. “Good thing you’re at least good at something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently.

“I’m flushin’ that thing down the toilet next time! Sendin’ it straight into the ocean so you’ll never find it again!”

I’ll never forget when I was six years old and I dropped the small ring I got from a gumball machine down the drain when I was brushing my teeth and then I had such a severe meltdown my dad had to bust out his toolkit, open the damn bathroom sink pipes, and fish it out. Because six year old me could not FATHOM losing my 50 cent plastic ring no matter how many times he promised he’d buy me a new one 💀

Anyway. My dad and I were reminiscing about that on call and then I decided it would make a cute sukuna drabble so here you go.

Anyway peace ✌️

[always-just-red]

Multi headcanon request please. The LIs touch their s/os' breast for the first time, but it's an accident. However, instead of getting mad, she gently scolds them "save that behavior for when we're alone".

You always give me such great requests tehe, I had the absolute time of my life with this one. Did mini fics again! Featuring this time: a baking class with Xavier 🍰, a check-up with Zayne 🩺, pottery-making with Rafayel 🏺, casino night with Sylus 🎲, and a VERY serious study session with Caleb 📚

Innocent Little Mistakes

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰

Genre: Humour

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, inappropriate touching (but make it ✨COMEDY✨), PDA, slight suggestiveness, established relationships

| Word count: 600-750 words each! | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One more strike and you’re out.

You furiously mix the bowl of cake batter under your arm, all too aware of the chef watching you from across the room. You don’t know why he’s looking at you— you’re not the problem. The problem is beside you, measuring out an ingredient you don’t actually need.

“What’re you up to, Xavi?” you ask with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound suspicious.

He looks up at you, blue eyes as warm as the oven that’s making everything feel too hot. “Measuring,” he declares with a smile.

“That’s great, sweetie.”

Don’t ask. Just leave it.

Every other couple in the class look sickeningly in love— trading ingredients, utensils, and lingering gazes— all in perfect harmony. Meanwhile, you have a ticking time bomb for a partner. First there was the egg incident: a rogue egg from your table had somehow ended up under the foot of the man one counter down from you, slipping him over and twisting his ankle. Then the man from the couple behind you slipped too: on a butter wrap Xavier had sworn he’d thrown away.

Funny how so many of the things from your counter are going on little, deadly adventures.

You shoot Xavier another wary look. He glances up. Smiles. You smile back. When the cake batter’s done, tipped into the tin and tucked into the oven, you move onto the icing. You whip it up in a minute, lifting a spoon from the bowl and dragging a finger through to taste it.

“Xavier,” you say, nudging the bowl across to him, “mind putting a little more sugar in this? I need to start tidying up.”

“Sure,” he beams.

He can’t mess that up, right? You don’t want to exclude him. With a soft sigh, you start to reorganise your work station: making space for the cake you’re going to decorate. Xavier’s voice interrupts you, sweet like the sugar flowers you’re sorting through:

“How’s this?”

You turn, and the moment you do, something cool scrapes your collarbone. Xavier was holding out a spoon— too close— and it tips at your contact, spilling sticky white icing down past the neckline of your apron and shirt. You feel it, inching down your skin, between your breasts.

You’ve been stunned into silence. Xavier is staring down too, lips parted, spoon still mid-air.

“Don’t just stare!” you find it in you to scold, glancing about for something that’ll help you clean up. “Help me—”

That’s when you feel it: something warm on your skin. Your gaze shoots down and Xavier is wiping his thumb through the mess on your chest. He lifts the icing to his mouth. Pops it past his lips.

“Xavier!” you exclaim on a whisper.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but they open again. His lips are still on his thumb as he looks back at you. “Mmm?” he hums around it, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

That face is so devastatingly innocent, but you’re not falling for it. You cross your arms and glare.

“You want some too?” Xavier translates.

Before you can stop him, his thumb is on your skin again. “Xavi—!” you protest, but then that thumb is in your mouth, overwhelming you with sweetness. Except… it’s not all sweet. You frown as Xavier’s hand moves away, your nose wrinkling with disgust. “Wha— why is it salty?!”

“Wasn’t it salty already?”

“No! Xavier, what did you…? You can’t just—!”

“Are you okay?” Xavier laughs so lightly it’s almost a giggle. “You look… warm. What are you thinking about?”

He’s leaning against the counter now, cheek settled in his hand. He has the countenance of an angel and he knows what you’re thinking about. His free hand plays with a salt shaker on the counter; it doesn’t look anything like the sugar.

Behind you, someone clears their throat.

…

You walk home from the bakery class a lot earlier than planned, having— and you’re quoting verbatim, here— ‘crossed a line’. Xavier’s at your side, a bowl of icing in his hands that no-one dared take from him, and he hums pleasantly to himself as he lifts a fingerful to his lips.

“You did that on purpose,” you grumble, and it’s the first words you’ve said in a while.

He smiles like butter icing wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Zayne ❄️

“Zayne, c’mon… it’s not that bad.”

Lower half cocooned by the blankets of a hospital bed, you give your doctor a lopsided smile. He doesn’t grace your statement with a response— at least, not an intelligible one. There’s a tiny hum, to let you know you’ve been heard. There’s an even tinier frown, to let you know he was not amused.

So you got a little scraped up by a Wanderer— it happens! With your own frown, you regard the pulse oximeter that’s biting the end of your forefinger. You wiggle it, even though Zayne had instructed you to keep still. The tiny screen flashes and flickers. He writes… something down on his clipboard, and it feels needlessly dramatic.

“How would you rate the pain you’re currently experiencing?” he asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I feel great, actually.”

More scribbles for the clipboard, which means absolutely nothing good.

“I mean it, Zayne. I’m fine, really. I don’t even know why Xavier brought me here. Like, what’s the point of first-aid training if you’re just gonna dump someone in the hospi—”

“Please be still.”

You’d started gesturing, and Zayne stares across at the monitor on your finger. He sighs, which you don’t think is professional, then reaches to press a button on it, restarting its progress. You’re obedient this time: sitting still as he goes back to his beloved clipboard. That sigh sounded tired.

The oximeter bleeps. Zayne glances up. Makes another note.

“There,” he says, his eyes still trained downwards as he reaches across you to retrieve the device, “was that really so—?”

The words stop in his throat when his hand brushes your chest.

Just a graze, but his fingers hover guiltily for a moment before correcting their course: homing in on the oximeter, pinching it open. Zayne doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his writing. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that definitely isn’t professional.

This is amazing. “Did you just—?”

He gives an adorably slight shake of his head.

You gasp anyway, utterly scandalised: “Doctor Zayne! You took an oath.”

“Stop.”

“Here I am, weak from blood loss! Vulnerable!”

“Stop.”

“What sort of an establishment is this, hmm? What other twisted, sordid things go on behind the—” and it’s at this moment you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure— “ah, Doctor Greyson! Doctor Greyson! In here, please!”

The man had been passing through the ward, though he stops at the sound of your voice. “Oh, hello!” he greets, peering around your privacy curtain, “Zayne mentioned you were in! It’s good to see you. Well, not good to see you here, but— you know what I mean! How are you?”

“I’m shocked,” you witter on, because you’ve no time for pleasantries, “shocked, I say! Just now, this man here had the audacity to—”

A cold hand clamps over your mouth.

You are— actually— shocked. You blink at Greyson, eyes wide; even he looks like he’s seen a Wanderer riding a bicycle through the hospital. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he does that face you know so well. His ‘nope, I’m not going anywhere near whatever this is!’ face.

It’s not a surprise when he backs out, leaving you and Zayne alone once more. Your doctor’s hand is still over your mouth, breaching all kinds of ethics, and oh, how the mighty have fallen. This feels like victory. When Zayne’s hand finally drops, you’re grinning.

“Had your fun?” he asks quietly, looking back to his notes.

“Have you? Or do you wanna have another...?” You waggle a finger at your breasts.

Zayne’s mouth is a tight line, and he doesn’t dare look up. Something is scrawled on the clipboard and you get the feeling it’s a distraction. Your very important doctor is writing very important things. Definitely isn’t scribbling nonsense. He clears his throat, then stands rigidly, his face sombre.

Did you take your joke too far? Your heart starts to have some kind of episode as he walks away, and the stupid machine you’re hooked up to says nothing about it, which is typical.

But Zayne still stops at the curtain. Glances over his shoulder.

“Ask me later,” he says with a gentle smirk.

Rafayel 🎨

“This is just like that old movie.”

Rafayel hums a familiar, vintage tune as his hands cradle yours, guiding them up and down, up and down, as a wet clay vase spins beneath your touch. Everything about your partner is relaxed: his fingers, lazy and precise, and his head, settled comfortably on your shoulder. The song is so close to your ear that it tickles.

How the hell is he so calm? Your eyes are fixed downwards, brow furrowed with the sort of concentration you’d usually save for disarming a bomb. Your fingers feel clumsy and dangerous. Your head hurts. It doesn’t help that every other couple in the pottery class are stealing less-than-subtle glances your way: isn’t that—?

Yep! The Rafayel. Creative genius, ‘Da Vinci of our time’ Rafayel, and here you are, ever a moment away from destroying his latest masterpiece.

“Raf, stop…” you mutter, because he’s still humming away, distracting you.

“Okay!”

The song stops. You don’t think Rafayel has ever co-operated so quickly. Which means…

“Woahhh,” he sings quietly, privately, and right on cue, “my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your—”

“Stop!” you hiss under your breath, untangling a hand from your project so you can swat at his face.

“A long... lonely— ah! — tiiiime!”

The vase is already folding over on itself, collapsing into a sad, soggy heap as Rafayel half sings, half chuckles, catching your hand so he can launch a counterstrike. A wet finger brushes your nose and you gasp, wrinkling your face in indignance. Then you wriggle your hand free, going in for another swat. The artist’s head has left your shoulder. The arms around you are suddenly attacking.

There’s a kerfuffle of hands, slick and sticky with clay. Slapping each-other. Trying to outmanoeuvre each-other. One lands on your chest with a thwap!

You both go deathly still.

Rafayel has stopped laughing, his body a marble statue behind you; you think his breath has actually gone. When his hand lifts away from you, it’s like a delusional cat slinking away from a crime: if I move slowly enough, I’m completely invisible.

What isn’t invisible, however, is the crude clay handprint he leaves behind. You stare down at it, mortified. “Raf!” you scold, and oh gods you hope nobody saw what just happened.

“I didn’t—” he begins, and he’s staring down over your shoulder, too. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t just sit there!” You shoo him away, one hand hovering in front of your chest like you’re not wearing anything at all. “I need something to—”

“On it!”

He can fix this. He can fix this. He practically falls off the seat you’d been sharing as he unwraps himself from you, stumbling up onto his feet. His hands are on his hips as he catches his breath; it had taken a lot of effort not to end up on the floor.

With a glance about, the artist spies a nearby cloth. You see the ‘aha!’ moment— the relief in his eyes as he turns towards it, on a mission. Your hero.

There’s a soft smack!

Rafayel freezes, pink creeping into his cheeks.

By the time he looks down over his shoulder, eyes widening at the bright, wet handprint on his ass, you’re already salvaging your clay vase— moulding it back into a workable blob as you hum an old song, completely innocent.

Sylus 🩸

“So… what are we spending our winnings on, sweetie?”

“A diamond as big as me,” you whisper.

“Is that it?”

Hmm. “A diamond as big as you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Sylus chuckles, as rich and intoxicating as the alcohol he swirls in a glass as he stalls before his next throw. No-one would dare rush him. His other hand toys with a pair of dice, turning them over each-other, making them waltz about his fingers. The ministrations are practiced, experienced, and— glancing around the craps table— you’re not the only one who’s noticed.

One woman is utterly mesmerised. She takes a sip of her drink, swallowing thickly, and you like to think (delusionally) that you’ve never quite stared at Sylus as shamelessly as that. It isn’t her fault, though. Every person at the table is fixated on the man beside you, and it’s not just because they’ve got stakes in whatever he rolls next.

Sylus doesn’t own this casino— as far as you know— but he acts like he does. He places his bets. Smiles when he wins and smiles wider when he loses, as though in on a private joke. Everyone wants to know what it is. You inch closer to Sylus. Ask loud enough for them all to hear: “What do we need again?”

We.

“A nine,” he answers.

There’s a soft clack as the dice go still in his palm. He’s staring down the forest-green battleground you both stand at the head of. “Here,” he says, lifting his hand towards you, “blow on—”

He’s misjudged the distance, because his fingers collide with your chest. One of the dice rolls from his palm, tumbling down past the neckline of your dress and into your cleavage. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch. You look down in slow disbelief. Then you look at Sylus.

His crimson eyes are fixed on where the die disappeared. He glances up with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

Oops? Your gaze is a knife at his throat and he thinks if he’s cute enough, you might not use it. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips. Wanna try that again?

Sylus’s laugh is awkward, but he isn’t a coward. “May I just—?”

His hand comes towards you, and though those fingers were never actually going to commit to that little suicide mission, you still slap them away. “No!”

He pouts, splaying the same hand expectantly. With a sigh, your fingers delve beneath your neckline, fishing around for a second. You present the die with an uninspired flourish, and it’s warm when you drop it into Sylus’s open palm. His fingers close around it. He’s smirking to himself as he turns back to the table.

“Lucky die,” he muses under his breath.  

“What did you just say?!”

Louder: “I said ‘lucky—”

“You’re a dead man, Sylus Qin. D-E-A-D. Dead. You hear me? The moment we get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sylus nods dutifully; he’s not going to argue with that particular judge, jury, and executioner. He tosses the dice across the table and they clatter as they roll— the same, indifferent timbre as the chuckle in his throat. Everyone goes silent when they judder to a stop. Everyone leans in, fractionally.

A six and a three. Nine.

The gathering around you give a tentative applause. No-one really knows what just happened, least of all you and Sylus. You both stare at the dice, eyes wide, as a casino employee slides stacks of chips in your direction. Neither of you move when the dice are passed back, too.

It’s your turn, but Sylus has been throwing for you. He reaches forwards to collect the dice— starts to toy with them idly again, but it’s more pensive than last time. They clack, clack, but his mind is far away from them. Ever so slowly, his gaze inches towards you, pondering a silent question.

He’s not looking at your eyes.

Your arms cross. “Don’t even think about it.”

Caleb 🍎

“A Gelidus Dentis.”

Caleb’s voice makes you jump so much you almost drop your pen. “Huh?”

He’s stood behind where you’re sat, peering downwards. “It’s a Wanderer.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a Wanderer, Colonel Obvious. I meant why’re you talking about it?”

“Because it’s the answer? Duh.” He nods at the open textbook in front of you, and your gaze drops.

You’d practically been falling asleep reading through the practice question: some hypothetical about the aftermath of a Wanderer attack. Somewhere with a cold climate. Victims with ice burns. Multiple lacerations. Blah blah blah— you’ve got the idea.

“Please,” you dismiss as Caleb returns to his seat next to you. “It’s a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord. Easy.”  

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen one of those guys. That’s not it.”

“Oh you’ve seen one? Big whoop. I’ve killed one. Try, like, twenty.”

He tuts sympathetically as he goes back to his own work: some reports that’re definitely way too confidential for a public library. “Then it’s gonna be really embarrassing when you find out that I’m right and you’re wrong, pips.”

You scoff, making a point of writing out ‘Hoarfrost Wyrmlord’ as confidently as you can.

“Gelidus Dentis,” Caleb lilts in a sing-song voice as you flick to the back of your textbook.

You’re gonna shove your correct answer right in his face, you just need to find it. It should be right… here! Section Three. Question Twenty-Two. The Wanderer responsible is most likely a—

Fuck.

“I told you,” Caleb sings quietly again, signing his name on the bottom of a page, then turning it over.

“It was a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord.”

“It really wasn’t, but it’s cute you still hide your mouth when you’re lying.”

Your hand had lifted subconsciously in front of your lips, and you throw it back down on the textbook. “Oh, shush!”

“You shush!” The measureless galaxies of his eyes are back on you.

You slap his arm gently. He slaps your arm gently. You try to slap at his face, which means he tries to slap at your face. Soon enough, you’re both flailing your hands like two cats determined to bop the other.

Caleb’s paw lands on one of your breasts, and he doesn’t have time to regret it. With an indignant gasp, you give his chest a firm smack!

He stares at you in disbelief. You clear your throat, brushing down the fabric of your shirt as if the matter has been settled. Then you pick up your dropped pen. Okay! Question Twenty-Three: You’re called out to answer a distress signal from deep within a tropical rainforest...

“What was that?” Caleb asks.

You sniff. Say under your breath: “Tit for tit.”

“Come again?”

“Tit for tit,” you shrug. “That’s the saying. That’s how it goes.”

From the smile on his face, Caleb’s delighted. “Uh… I don’t think that is how it goes, pipsqueak.”

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready to look like an idiot, then.”

With a hmph, you reach for a spare piece of paper. Fold it in half. Write something brief on the outside, then on the inside. Caleb watches your pen move, quietly enamoured. There’s a click as it retracts. You hand the paper over.

Caleb’s face wrinkles, but he still handles it like it’s sacred. “Totally official dictionary!” he reads from the front. Then he opens it, continuing: “Tit for tit. Noun. If Caleb cops a feel in the library, then I get to… hey now—” he frowns— “this doesn’t seem very legitimate.”

“You dare question the authority of the Hunter’s Association?”

“I do,” he nods. “I do dare. Yeah, you see… look at this.”

He scribbles something down in your dictionary, then passes it back to you. You raise an eyebrow but relent, reading the new addition out loud: “Deepspace Fleet. Proper (awesome) noun. Has absolutely every right to question the authority of the Hunter’s Association.” You toss the paper down. “Whatever.”

Caleb sniggers victoriously as you try to get back to your work. When he doesn’t stop, you give his chest another slap. The sniggering dies out. The space between you goes quiet.

Then he reaches— smacks one of your breasts back. You look up, eyes huge.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I’m gonna like this little arrangement.”