#god it makes me want to chew glass

[swordenby]

thinking about the lovingly written character arc of juno steel. the story of someone so angry and full of loss learning to open himself up to others again. of learning to love and be loved and that it takes time to heal and that's okay. learning that recovery is not linear and there will be pitfalls and relapses but the important part is finding yourself again and moving forward knowing that even one step forward is farther than you were before. of how he learned ultimately to be okay with himself and that he doesn't need someone else to find joy. and only then does his love come back to him and they can start their life being whole and together.

[mohntilyet]

also i talk about 'getting lucanis out' like it's an easy thing but i do genuinely wonder if he experiences cognitive dissonance over it all. surely he must know if he stays with the crows and stays first talon, he's stuck in this state forever. he can change things, but how long does that last? how many times has he thought, guilty, 'maybe after caterina dies, i can be free'? how many crows will be waiting for him to die, so they can go back to killing for coin without thinking of the innocents lucanis wants to save? how could he ever ensure that? and if he has kids (i don't even think. he wants kids frankly.) i refuse to believe he would abuse them the way caterina abused him. like how does he raise any child to take over a guild that is infamous for infighting. he doesn't need to look far to know how that goes. the dellamortes used to be 14 members strong, and within a few decades that number gets whittled down to 3. lucanis stays with the crows? it can be whittled down to 0. but the dellamorte legacy remains. how on earth could he ever extract himself from the mess he's inherited. how could he ever trust any other hand except his own

[monte-charlo]

This photo this photo this photoooooo

[riotshotguns]

aauaughghh split happened this morning and even tho weve slept since im still exhausted and have a headache. this sucks im not having fun :/

[sukugo]

there's just something about official art teen satoru. he's so.....boyish so youthful, every time the official art team draws him they take satoru and just turn up the baby boy to 9000, they take every single aspect of satoru and make it 100x more fuckable. how am i supposed to live like this. im eternally grateful

[pisshandkerchief]

ok like here's the thing there's so many layers to The Husbands of River Song there's like SO much pain on both sides of it. both Twelve and River are missing something they can never get back. but it isn't each other. they've convinced themselves, at this point, that they do not miss each other. River's speech about sums it up. and yet. and YET they are brought back to each other. do you get it?? it's the inevitability of the people who love you

THE INEVITABILITY OF THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU......

[classyrbf]

nerd!gojo who can’t get you out of his head. Not a minute passes by where he isn’t thinking of you. So imagine breaking his little heart when he spots you swapping spit with some popular frat boy. He can’t help but feel jealous, even sad. It’s just a stupid crush, it’ll go away. Right? Wrong. Because the deal you two struck forces gojo to see you every few days for a tutoring session, where you hand over your chem work to him and he does it without hesitation like your little dog, only for you to jerk his cock and make him cum in return. Poor baby can’t help but imagine you doing the same to that jock. And he can’t help but grow curious the next time he sees you.

“Hey, um,” Gojo looks up from his desk, “who was that guy you were with earlier in the halls?” He blinked, watching at the way you typed away on your phone, your acrylics clacking against the screen, obnoxiously chewing on your gum with glossed lips.

“Hm?” You furrow your brows. “Oh! You mean that stupid jock frat boy Toji?” You sit up. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Is he…your boyfriend? I saw you two kissing…it’d be kinda weird if he was your boyfriend…you know—because—”

“Such a perv! Are you spying on me now?!” You scoff.

“No! No! I wasn’t! I’m not!” Gojo furiously shook his head. “I was…curious.” You carefully walk over towards Gojo, a soft smirk on your pretty face while you blew your gum into the shape of a bubble. “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed, stupid for even asking.

“Are you mad? Mad that I was kissing someone else?” You giggle. “I only use that idiot to get into all the school parties.” He slowly turned his head to look at you.

“But do you—”

“Do I what? Jerk him off like I do with you?” You almost laugh at the idea. No way in hell. “I’ve only sent the desperate loser nudes to get off to. But you’re special, Toru.” You push his chair slightly away from his desk that way you could straddle yourself on top of him. “You’re so much more smarter than him. So much more handsome. And you do everything I say just like the good boy you are.” Your tone is soft and sultry, just enough for Gojo to melt right into your hands. He could feel the heat creep up to his cheeks, face flushed red and throat dry as you rock your hips against his slightly. “I get it now. You were jealous, huh?” You coo. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Gojo opens his mouth, breathing shakily, hesitating to answer. “Y-yes,” he quietly says, nodding.

A smile creeps up on your face as you get an idea. “Toru, have you ever ate pussy before?” His eyes immediately go wide, breaking eye contact with you as he looks anywhere around his dorm. “I’ll take that as a no,” you giggle. “How about we change up your reward today, hm? You get to eat me out, yeah?” Gojo sheepishly nods, shaky hands pushing his glasses back up his nose.

Minutes later, he has you sprawled out on his bed, his pretty face buried deep in your cunt as he messily eats you out, sucking, licking, slurping all over your clit and folds. His teary eyes stare up at you, addicted to the way you smile down at him and run your fingers through his soft, pillowy white hair, holding his head down. “A little more up—ah, yes, yes, right there—mmmm.” You bite down on your bottom lip, surprised at how much of a fast learner he is. In all reality, you shouldn’t be. He’s a nerd. “You like the way my pussy tastes, don’t you?” You moan softly.

Gojo nods without hesitation, his hands holding your thighs apart as he runs his tongue up and down slit before circling it over your sensitive clit. He can your juices running down his and chin and god, he’s intoxicated by your taste. Everything about you just has him wanting more and more. “You look so cute looking up at me over your glasses,” you sweetly say. “Makes me even more wet.” Gojo is trying his hardest to cum in his pants right now, but you make it so damn hard.

He lifts his head to catch air, licking your juices off of his lips. “Am I doing a good job?” He asks, bashfully.

“Mhm, it’s like you’re a natural.” You cup his face, running your thumb over his cheek. Either he’s a natural or maybe he’s just so desperate to eat your pussy that he’s doing a surprisingly good job. Whichever it was, Gojo didn’t care enough to dwell on it especially when you’re pushing his head back down. Your phone began to ring, you picked up within a few seconds. “Heyyy.” You smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be down in a few minutes—mmph! What? No, I didn’t moan you pervert! Ugh, fuck you Toji, I just need to finish my tutoring session remember?” You roll your eyes.

Gojo could feel the jealously in his chest stir again. How could you make him feel so special and so casted out at the same time. But it only fueled the want to make you cum harder. He could see you were struggling to breathe normally, trying to hold your moans in. “See you in a few. Bye!” You quickly hung up, tossing your phone aside. “Fuck! What’s gotten into—oh, fuck! Ah, mmph! Yes, yes, yes, I’m gonna cum!” You grip onto his hair, rocking your hips against his face as you came undone, lewd moans and gasps filling the room.

Gojo sat up, staring at you, his glasses slightly fogged. “Did it feel good?”

“First time eating pussy and you already made me cum? I’m shocked, honestly,” You say, slipping on your panties and pulling down your skirt. “Thanks for the orgasm, sweets, but I really gotta go. Mwah!” You blew a kiss at him, snatching your phone off of his bed.

“Going to see Toji?” He couldn’t help himself.

“Ugh, Gojo stop getting all possessive and jealous. We’re not a thing. See you in a few days for the next assignment.” You rolled your eyes, tapping away on your phone.

"Oh...okay, sorry—" you walked out his dorm room, slamming the door. And once again, he was left there completely entangled with his thoughts and feelings. None of them good.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

❛ YOU AND RAFE TAKE HONEY PACKETS BUT HE CAVES FIRST ❜

girlfriend¡reader . . . rafe cameron

“Okay, but you guys have to hear this,” Mia said, swirling her wine before taking a dramatic sip. “Last weekend, Aiden and I tried those aphrodisiac honeypacks—you know, the ones they’re always hyping up on TikTok? Holy shit, it was insane.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting your glass down on the table with a soft clink. “Insane how?” you asked, curiosity piqued. Beside you, Lila, who’d been scrolling her phone absentmindedly, perked up, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Mia grinned, leaning forward like she was about to spill a state secret. “Okay, so you know those little packets you can get at sketchy gas stations or online? They’re like honey mixed with some herbal stuff—supposedly gets your blood pumping or whatever. We each took one, and I swear to God, within twenty minutes, we were clawing at each other like animals. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like every touch felt electric, and I couldn’t think about anything except jumping him.”

Lila burst out laughing, her voice bright and sharp. “Oh my God, that’s fucking hot. Did you plan it, or just wing it?”

“Totally spontaneous,” Mia said, her cheeks flushing slightly—not from embarrassment, but from the memory. “We barely made it to the bedroom. I’m telling you, it’s like someone turned the dial up to eleven on every nerve in my body.”

You shifted in your seat, the wicker creaking beneath you, a slow heat creeping up your neck as you pictured it. Rafe flashed into your mind—his broad shoulders, the cocky tilt of his smirk, the way his hands felt when they gripped your hips.

You’d been dating him long enough to know he’d be game for something like this, but the thought of him losing control? That was a whole different level of intriguing.

“Wait,” you said, cutting through their giggles. “So it’s not just hype? It actually works?”

“Works?” Mia echoed, incredulous. “Babe, I’m saying it’s dangerous. Aiden was begging me to touch him by the end of the night, and he’s usually the one playing it cool. You should try it with Rafe. Bet he’d lose his mind.”

Lila nodded enthusiastically, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, he totally would. Rafe’s got that whole ‘I’m in charge’ vibe, but I bet you could break him with this. Make it a game or something—see who caves first.”

You chewed your lip, the idea taking root like a seed in fertile soil. The thought of Rafe—your Rafe, all sharp edges and simmering intensity—reduced to a needy mess because of you? It sent a shiver down your spine, one that had nothing to do with the cooling evening air. “Okay,” you said slowly, a grin tugging at your lips. “I’m in. Next weekend.”

Mia clapped her hands together, delighted. “Yes! Report back. I need details.”

. . .

“Hey,” you said casually, tilting your head to look up at him. His blue eyes flicked down to meet yours, a faint smirk already playing on his lips like he knew you were up to something.

“What’s up, princess?” he drawled, his voice low and rough, the kind that always made your stomach flip.

You shifted, sitting up a little straighter, your knee brushing against his thigh. “So, Mia was telling me about this thing she tried with Aiden. Those aphrodisiac honeypacks—you heard of ‘em?”

Rafe’s smirk deepened, his brows lifting slightly. “Those horny honey things? Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em around. Why? You wanna get freaky?” He chuckled, but there was a spark in his eyes, a flicker of interest that told you he was already hooked.

“Maybe,” you teased, running your fingers lightly over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his T-shirt. “But I was thinking we make it fun. Like a game. We each take one, no touching allowed, and the first one to cave loses. Winner gets bragging rights—or whatever else they want.”

He tilted his head, studying you with that predatory glint he got when he was intrigued. “You think you can outlast me, huh?” His voice dropped an octave, thick with challenge. “Baby, I’m made of steel. You’re gonna be begging me to touch you in ten minutes flat.”

You laughed, the sound light but edged with defiance. “Oh, please. You’re the one who can’t keep your hands off me half the time. I give it five minutes before you’re on your knees.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his smirk turning into something darker, hungrier. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You’re on, sweetheart. Next weekend. But when I win, you’re gonna owe me big.”

The heat of his breath against your skin sent a thrill through you, but you pulled back, meeting his gaze with a wicked smile. “We’ll see about that.”

. . .

The following Saturday night, the air in Rafe’s bedroom was thick with anticipation. You sat cross-legged on his bed, the navy comforter rumpled beneath you, wearing nothing but one of his oversized T-shirts and a pair of lacy black panties. Rafe stood across the room, leaning against the dresser, shirtless in a pair of gray sweats that hung low on his hips. His chest was broad and tan, a faint sheen of sweat already glistening in the warm light.

On the nightstand sat two small golden packets, their shiny foil catching the glow of the lamp. You picked one up, turning it over in your hands, the weight of it surprisingly light for something that promised so much chaos. “Last chance to back out,” you said, smirking at him as you tore the corner open.

Rafe snorted, grabbing his own packet. “Not a chance. You’re going down, baby.” He ripped his open with his teeth, the gesture primal and a little too hot for your liking, and squeezed the thick, amber honey onto his tongue. You followed suit, the sweet, herbal taste coating your mouth, a faint warmth spreading down your throat as you swallowed.

For the first few minutes, it was all bravado. Rafe paced the room like a caged animal, cracking his knuckles, his smirk intact. “Feeling anything yet?” he asked, voice cocky as he flexed his arms, the muscles rippling under his skin.

You shrugged, playing it cool even as a subtle heat began to bloom in your chest. “Nope. You?”

He shook his head, but there was a tightness in his jaw, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “Nah.”

Ten minutes in, the air shifted. The warmth in your body intensified, sinking lower, pooling between your thighs. Your skin prickled, every brush of the T-shirt against your nipples sending a jolt through you. You shifted on the bed, pressing your legs together, trying to ignore the growing ache.

Across the room, Rafe stopped pacing. His breathing was heavier now, his chest rising and falling faster. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands sticking to his forehead, and when his eyes met yours, they were dark—pupils blown wide, a storm brewing behind them.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. He leaned back against the dresser, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles whitened. “This shit’s no joke.”

You bit your lip, the sight of him unraveling doing dangerous things to you. “What’s wrong, Rafe? Cracking already?” Your voice was teasing, but it came out breathier than you intended, the need starting to seep through your composure.

He laughed, but it was strained, jagged. “You wish. I could bend you over right now and still win this.” But his hands stayed glued to the dresser, and his hips shifted—just a fraction, enough to tell you he was fighting the same war you were.

Fifteen minutes, and the room felt like a furnace. Your pulse hammered in your ears, your body screaming for contact. The air smelled of him—sweat and musk and that damn cologne—and it was driving you insane. You curled your fingers into the comforter, nails digging in as you watched Rafe.

He was a mess now, his sweats tented embarrassingly, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. His eyes raked over you, lingering on the way the T-shirt rode up your thighs, and he groaned—a low, guttural sound that hit you like a freight train.

“Goddamn it, baby,” he rasped, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re killing me. Just—fuck—just let me touch you. Please.”

You smirked, though it took everything in you to hold it together. “That sounds like caving, Rafe.”

He growled, stepping forward, then stopping himself, fists balled at his sides. “You’re such a fucking tease,” he panted, his voice raw, desperate. “Look at you, sitting there all smug. I bet you’re soaked, aren’t you? Bet you’re dying for it just as bad.”

He wasn’t wrong. Your thighs trembled, slickness pooling in your panties, but you weren’t about to admit it. “Guess you’ll never know unless you lose,” you shot back, voice shaking but defiant.

Twenty minutes, and Rafe snapped—or tried to. He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands hovering an inch from your thighs. “Fuck it,” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “I lose. I fucking lose, okay? Just—please, baby, I need you. I’m going crazy here.”

You tilted your head, savoring the power, the way he looked up at you like a man unhinged. “Not yet,” you said, voice low and deliberate, your hand reaching out to graze his cheek—just a featherlight touch, enough to make him shudder. “You can wait a little longer.”

His eyes widened, a mix of shock and pure torment flashing across his face. “You’re kidding,” he choked out, his hands twitching, aching to close the distance. “Baby, I’m dying here. You can’t do this to me.”

“Oh, I can,” you replied, leaning back on your elbows, letting the T-shirt ride up higher, exposing more of your thighs, the edge of your panties just visible. His gaze dropped, and he let out a strangled sound, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring. “You said you’re made of steel, right? Prove it.”

Twenty-five minutes, and Rafe was a wreck. He’d slumped back onto his heels, hands dragging through his hair, sweat dripping down his chest. His cock strained against his sweats, a dark spot forming where he was leaking, and his breathing was so ragged it sounded like he’d run a marathon. “You’re evil,” he muttered, voice hoarse, his eyes locked on you with a mix of reverence and desperation. “Fucking evil, you know that?”

You shifted again, letting one leg fall open slightly, giving him a glimpse that made his jaw drop. “Maybe,” you said, smirking. “But you love it.”

Thirty minutes, and he was begging—really begging. “Please, baby,” he whispered, crawling closer, his hands trembling as they hovered over your knees. “I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I’ll do anything you want, just let me touch you. I’m fucking losing it.”

You held his gaze, letting the tension stretch one agonizing second longer, then nodded. “Okay,” you said softly, victorious. “You lose.”

. . .

His mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard while his other hand kneaded the opposite side. The sensation—amplified by the honey packets still coursing through you—had you arching into him, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your nails dug into his scalp.

“Rafe—slow down,” you gasped, half-laughing, but he shook his head, his teeth grazing your skin as he moved lower, kissing and biting a frantic path down your stomach.

“No chance,” he growled, hooking his fingers into your panties and dragging them down your legs in one swift motion. He paused then, just for a second, staring at you—spread out, glistening, trembling—and the look in his eyes was feral, reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You’re so fucking wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, before diving in.

His mouth was relentless, tongue plunging into you, lapping up every drop like he’d been starved for it. You screamed, hips bucking, but he pinned you down with an arm across your waist, his other hand spreading you wider for him. He sucked at your clit, hard and fast, then slow and teasing, every movement driving you higher, the aphrodisiac making it all too much, too good.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling hard, and he moaned against you, the vibration sending you spiraling.

“Rafe—oh God—I’m gonna—” You couldn’t finish the sentence before it hit, a blinding orgasm that had you shaking, clenching around nothing as he kept going, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

He pulled back, lips shiny, chest heaving, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like a man who’d just won the lottery. “You taste so fucking good,” he said, voice rough as he shoved his sweats down, freeing his cock—red, leaking, impossibly hard. He climbed onto the bed, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach with ease, pulling you up onto your knees.

“Been thinking about this for thirty fucking minutes,” he rasped, lining himself up and thrusting in deep in one brutal stroke. You cried out, the stretch overwhelming, perfect, your walls fluttering around him as he set a punishing pace. His hands gripped your hips so hard you knew you’d bruise, but you didn’t care—every slap of his skin against yours, every grunt and curse spilling from his lips, was worth it.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, one hand sliding up your back to fist in your hair, pulling your head back as he pounded into you. “So perfect—shit, I’m not gonna last.”

“Don’t,” you managed, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust. “Come for me, Rafe.”

He did—hard—his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan, his fingers digging into your skin. The feel of him, hot and pulsing, tipped you over again, a second wave crashing through you as you clenched around him, milking him dry.

He collapsed beside you, both of you slick with sweat, breathing like you’d run a race. His arm snaked around you, pulling you close, and he pressed a lazy kiss to your temple. “You’re a fucking sadist,” he muttered, but there was a grin in his voice. “Making me wait like that.”

You laughed, breathless, nuzzling into his chest. “Worth it, though, right?” “Fuck yeah,” he said, already sounding half-ready for round two. “But next time, I’m winning.”

𓂅 notes ―

return home ⸝⸝

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ꪆৎ est. 2025

[succubusvalentine]

Butcher!Simon Riley watching you fuck up wagyu. CW : bad steak cooking. Fluff.

He’s trying to hold himself back, lovie. He swears it. But Jesus Christ you’re handling that Wagyu he procured horribly.

He felt his stomach twist as you didn't let it sit. Then it twisted even more as you over seasoned it.

"Baby, are you sure you don't want me to cook dinner?" Simon gritted out.

"No! No no, Si. You always work so hard" you reassure with that sweet smile that completely melted Simon into a puddle of goo.

Simon doubled his glass of whiskey as he watched you turn the heat up too high on the stovetop. But you looked so happy and proud of yourself as you burnt seared the wagyu.

After a while, Simon clutched his glass tightly as you cut the wagyu with the grain. Not against it.

You put the plate in front of Simon, and while the mash and roast vegetables were delicious. The wagyu...not so much. As soon as Simon took a bite, it was like trying to chew through a tire. You definitely overcooked it. And the seasoning was...well, it wasn't great.

"Good?" you asked hopefully.

"Absolutely delicious, lovie" Simon smiled. Lying through his God damn teeth. He couldn't bring himself to dampen how proud of yourself you were.

You sat across from Simon and cut into your steak, taking a bite, only to immediately grimace and force it down.

"Jesus Christ don't eat it" you grimace with a whine, taking Simon's plate as he chuckled. "Why didn't you tell me it was bad?!"

"You looked so proud of yourself, sweetheart. I didn't wanna make you pout"

"I am never touching wagyu again. You're making it next time...And we're ordering pizza"

Simon chuckled as you pouted, ordering the pizza as he pulled you into his lap. "It was a real sweet thought, lovie" he hummed as he rubbed your stomach, laughing again as you glare at him playfully.

But don't worry, the following night Simon made the best steak you'd ever eaten.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

this was heavily self indulgent because I can make a mean mash potato, but any meats? I am HORRIBLE.

[abbotjack]

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

The Camouflage Onesie

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

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

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

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

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

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

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

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

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WEEK 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have a clever reply.

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

WEEK 9

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

You caught his glance. “What?”

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

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

“I got it,” you said.

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

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

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

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

You laughed into your spoon.

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

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

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

“Like where?”

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

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

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

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

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

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

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

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

WEEK 14

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

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

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

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

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re doing okay, right?”

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

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

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

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

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

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

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

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

WEEK 16

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “For what?”

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

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

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

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

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

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

WEEK 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

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

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

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

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

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

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

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

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

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

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

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

He nodded but didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

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

“I married you, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

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

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

That was how it started.

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

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

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WEEK 27

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

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

You looked up. “What?”

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

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

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

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

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

You exhaled and leaned back.

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

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

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

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

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

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

“We are.”

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

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

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

WEEK 30

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

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

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

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

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

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

You walked toward him. “What version?”

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

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

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

That stopped you.

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

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

Jack raised an eyebrow.

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

He snorted. “Thanks.”

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

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

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

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

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

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

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

“I know.”

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

WEEK 32

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

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

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

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

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

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

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

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

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

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

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

“I know. I’ve got you.”

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

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

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

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

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

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

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

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

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

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

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

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

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

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

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

“I never am with you.”

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

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

“I love you,” you whispered.

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

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

WEEK 35

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

Jack had adjusted too.

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

But tonight?

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

“Sweetheart.”

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

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

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

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

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

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

He looked up. “I do.”

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

You burst into tears again.

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

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

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

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

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

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

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

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

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

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

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

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

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

You looked over.

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

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

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

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

And you believed him.

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

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him.

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

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

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

WEEK 38

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

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

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

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

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

You blinked. “You packed already?”

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

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

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

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

WEEK 40

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

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

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

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

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

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

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

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s in labor?”

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

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

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

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

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

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

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

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

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

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

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

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

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

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

“You’re impossible.”

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

[enhaflixer]

nerdybf!jake x f!reader - a good boy and mommy kink. ENHA HARD HOURS (18+ MDNI)

Jake is whining.

Not just soft little noises—no, he’s whimpering, breathless and wrecked, his whole body shaking beneath you. His glasses are completely fogged up, his curls a wild mess against the pillows, and his tie—the only thing he’s wearing besides those useless, slipping lenses—is clenched in your fist, yanking him just enough to keep him grounded.

And you haven’t even moved yet.

You’re just sitting there, wrapped around him, tight and warm, not letting him do a thing. He’s gasping like he’s already been edged for hours, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know whether to grab your hips or beg for permission first.

But he knows better.

“P-please,” he sobs, voice so high and desperate it makes you throb. “I—I can’t—”

You hum, tilting your head. “Can’t what, baby?”

His chest heaves, every muscle in his body tensed like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“C-can’t just—just sit here,” he stammers. “I need—I n-need to be useful.”

That makes you smile. “Oh?”

Jake nods frantically, his glasses slipping even lower. He’s so gone, so fucked-out already from nothing but the thought of being good for you.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he gasps. “Please, baby, let me—let me be your good boy—”

You tug his tie, forcing him to look up at you, and he lets out the most wrecked little sound.

“You are my good boy, baby,” you purr.

His entire body shudders, his cock twitching inside you, his breath completely stolen.

“Then p-please—please, mommy—”

Oh, that gets him. He whimpers so sweetly, his lip trembling, his thighs clenching beneath you.

“Please—use me—please—”

He sounds like he’s about to cry, so desperate to please you, to do anything for you, to be good.

You finally roll your hips, and Jake breaks.

His mouth falls open on a silent gasp, his lips trembling, pink and swollen from all the nervous chewing he’s been doing. His eyebrows draw together so tight, his whole face scrunching in pure, overwhelming pleasure, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, completely fogged-up and useless.

And then the noises start.

“Oh—oh my God—ohh—”

It’s so high and breathy, so sweetly wrecked, the kind of noise that makes your whole body throb. His eyes are fluttering, half-lidded and glazed over, but he’s trying so hard to keep them open, to look at you, to watch you use himjust like he begged for.

“F-fuck, oh—baby—oh my God, oh—”

He can’t even string a sentence together, his voice breaking on every word. His lips part wider, like he’s about to moan, but it just comes out as a high, breathless whimper, his whole body jerking beneath you as you grind down hard.

His head tilts back against the pillows, exposing his pretty throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he swallows down another wrecked little sob. His hands grip the sheets so tight, but his fingers are twitching—like he wants to touch you so bad but knows he shouldn’t unless you tell him to.

“Ohh—ohhh, baby, I—” His voice catches, his chest heaving, his eyebrows twitching together again as he tries so hard to hold on, but you can feel him already trembling, already falling apart.

“M’gonna—ohhh—m’gonna—”

His lips quiver, eyes rolling back for just a second before snapping forward again, desperate to keep watching you.

You grab his tie, yank him up slightly, and his mouth falls open in a perfect little “O”, a helpless, broken moan tumbling out of him.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—baby, I—please, I—”

He’s so close, so wrecked, his face twisted in pure, desperate pleasure as you ride him like you own him.

Honestly ?

You do.

[chrissssssmut]

Whenever you get time can you make a Hanni x male reader Fic Again 😭. Thank you!🙏

OVERTIME

Hanni x Male Reader

Tags: Teasing, cum on face and glasses, dirty talking, anal sex, glasses kink, dominance, just overall fucking

It was just past 9 p.m. The office was dead quiet, save for the faint hum of computers on sleep mode and the soft tapping of keyboard keys coming from across the room.

You glanced up from your monitor, eyes landing on Hanni—your bratty, sharp-tongued, always-too-loud coworker—who sat perched on the edge of her desk like she owned the whole damn place.

Her short skirt was hiked indecently high, legs crossed and swinging slowly. Her glasses slid low on her nose, strands of dark hair falling over her face as she chewed the end of a pen with that same smirk that drove you mad.

“Still working?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet, mocking almost.

You didn’t look at her. “Unlike you, I don’t spend half the day gossiping in the break room.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me, I closed my report hours ago. Some of us are efficient and sexy.”

You snorted. “That what you tell yourself before you post another mirror selfie in the bathroom?”

Her eyes narrowed behind those glasses, but her lip curled in amusement. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Sure,” you muttered, not missing the way her thighs pressed together as she leaned back a little farther. “That’s why I avoid sitting near you during meetings.”

“Mhm.” She slid off the desk and strutted over slowly, her heels quiet against the carpet, hips swaying like she knew you were watching. “You avoid me because you’re scared.”

“Scared?” you echoed, finally looking up at her.

She stood over you now, hands on her hips, fingers tapping against her waist. Her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to tease, and the glasses only made it worse—like she knew exactly what kind of buttoned-up fantasy she was feeding.

“Yeah,” she said with a little tilt of her head. “Scared you’ll fuck me so good you’ll lose focus at work.”

Your throat tightened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh?” Her smirk widened. “So if I sat on your lap right now and begged you to use me, you’d still keep typing your little spreadsheet?”

You leaned back in your chair, slowly. “Try me.”

She didn’t hesitate. Climbed right onto your lap, skirt riding up fully over her thighs. You could feel the heat between her legs through your slacks. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t lose that grin.

“You gonna stop me?” she asked, whispering against your ear.

“No,” you growled. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Finally.”

You shoved everything off your desk with a sweep of your arm—papers, pens, your damn mug, all clattering to the floor. Hanni gasped like she hadn’t expected you to snap, but her soaked panties said otherwise.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” you said, spinning her around and bending her over the desk. “All those times you acted like a brat—this was the goal.”

She wiggled her ass, looking back over her shoulder. “Maybe I just like how mad you get. You’re so hot when you’re pissed.”

You pulled her panties aside and dragged your cock against her folds. She whimpered, legs shaking.

“Such a tease,” you muttered, gripping her hips. “I should just leave you like this. Dripping and begging.”

She arched her back, the glasses still perched on her nose. “I’ll scream. You know I will.”

You slammed into her in one smooth thrust.

Her scream echoed off the office walls.

“Fuck! Y-You—shit, fuck yes—!”

You grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her back into you as your hips snapped against her. The sound of skin slapping filled the room. Her glasses fogged. Her voice turned into high-pitched whines.

“This what you wanted?” you growled in her ear.

“Yes—god, yes—I need it, please don’t stop—”

“Say it.”

“I wanted your cock all day—I was so wet in that meeting—I couldn’t focus, I just wanted you to bend me over the damn projector table and fuck me stupid!”

You wrapped your hand around her throat, just tight enough to make her gasp. “Louder.”

“I wanted you to ruin me!” she screamed. “Wanted you to cum all over my face, make me wear it while I print reports tomorrow—fuck—!”

You pulled out suddenly. She whined, trying to push back into you, but you grabbed her by the chin and made her turn to face you.

“On your knees.”

She dropped like a good girl.

You stroked your cock in front of her, watching as her eyes sparkled behind the glasses, mouth open, tongue out like she was ready for communion.

“Please,” she begged, biting her lip. “Please cum on me—on my face—on my glasses—fuck, I want it so bad, I’ll be so good—I’ll stop teasing, I swear—I’ll let you fuck me whenever you want, just cum for me—”

You groaned and jerked harder.

“Stick that tongue out.”

She did.

You exploded.

Thick ropes of cum painted her lips, her cheek, her glasses—obscuring her vision, dripping down her nose, her chin, her throat. She moaned like she was being blessed, swallowing what she could and licking the rest off her fingers.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. “You really needed that, huh?”

“You’re the one who asked for it,” you said, breathless.

The office air was thick with sex and the musk of what you’d just done.

Hanni was on her knees, cum dripping down her chin, still licking her lips like she hadn’t just begged you to paint her face. Her glasses were fogged, smeared, and absolutely filthy—but she didn’t take them off. No, she adjusted them with cum-streaked fingers and grinned up at you like she wore it with pride.

“Done already?” she teased, breathless, still kneeling between your legs. “Thought you were gonna ruin me.”

You raised an eyebrow, cock twitching as you watched your cum glisten across her cheek and the curve of her lips. “You still think I’m done with you?”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I want more.”

You grabbed her by the chin and made her stand, pushing her back against your desk until she bumped into the edge.

Her skirt was still bunched at her waist. Her panties, soaked, stretched around one thigh. Her inner thighs were sticky with need.

But it was the way she looked at you—defiant and desperate—that lit something dark in your chest.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice low. “You want more?”

She nodded slowly, biting her lip.

“Then turn around.”

She froze.

“W-What?”

“You heard me,” you growled. “Hands on the desk. Ass out. You’ve been a fucking brat all week, and now I’m going to put you in your place.”

Her eyes widened—but the shiver that ran down her spine said everything. She turned, bent over your desk, palms flat, hips arched back high.

“Wait,” she said, voice trembling, “you’re not gonna—”

You spit right onto her puckered hole.

She gasped.

You leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “I’m going to fuck your ass, Hanni.”

She whined, pressing her thighs together. “I’ve never—fuck—I don’t know if—”

“You’re going to take it,” you said, slicking your thumb with spit and slowly circling her tight rim. “You wanted to act like a cocky little slut in the office? Then you’re going to be one. Every. Inch.”

She whimpered. “You’re such an asshole…”

“You love it.”

You teased her entrance with the head of your cock, watching it twitch and throb against her untouched hole. She buried her face in her arms, glasses still crooked on her nose, still filthy with your first load.

And when you pushed in—just an inch—she screamed into her sleeve.

“F-Fuck—fuck—wait, it’s so tight, I—!”

You grunted, gripping her hips. “Relax. Let me in.”

She trembled under you, face down, ass up, as you slowly buried yourself deeper.

Inch by inch.

She clenched hard, moaning through gritted teeth. “You’re—god, you’re too thick—I can feel everything, fuck—!”

“That’s the point,” you growled, leaning over her, your chest pressing into her back. “I want you to remember this every time you sit in your chair tomorrow.”

She choked out a laugh between shaky moans. “You’re such a bastard…”

You bottomed out.

She whined. High, needy, shameless.

“You okay?”

“…Keep going.”

You pulled back and slammed in again.

Her whole body jolted.

The pace was brutal. Deep, tight, unforgiving. Your cock disappeared into her ass over and over again, her cries echoing off the walls as her glasses bounced on her face, catching more of her drool and tears.

“You feel that?” you growled, slapping her ass. “You hear how fucking wet you still are? From getting your throat fucked and your face painted?”

She moaned, voice muffled. “Y-Yes—yes, I’m such a mess—I can’t stop clenching—I-I feel full—”

“You are full,” you growled, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back so you could see the wrecked expression on her face. “You’re getting your ass used like you begged for. Look at you.”

Her makeup was ruined. Her glasses were even worse—smudged with tears, sweat, and the dried streaks of your cum from earlier. Her mouth hung open, tongue out, drooling onto the desk.

“Want me to pull out?” you asked darkly.

“No—n-no—don’t you fucking dare—”

You smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

You pounded harder.

Her legs shook, and every time your hips slammed into her ass, she let out another desperate moan. She was falling apart.

“Who do you belong to?” you asked, panting now.

“Y-You,” she whimpered. “Fuck—my ass is yours—use it, fill me, I d-don’t care—!”

“You want my cum again?” you growled.

She nodded frantically. “Yes—on my face—again—please—don’t stop, I want it on my glasses, on my lips—I need it—!”

You growled, pulled out of her wrecked hole, and spun her around so fast she nearly stumbled.

She dropped to her knees without hesitation.

Mouth wide open. Glasses crooked. Her ass still trembling.

You stroked yourself furiously over her face, her tongue sticking out again, begging, lips wet, eyes wild.

“Please,” she panted. “Cum for me—I want to feel filthy—want to taste it—want to wear it home—please—”

You exploded with a loud groan, ropes of hot cum splashing across her face, coating her glasses, dripping from her lashes, her nose, her tongue. She moaned through it all, swallowing what she could and licking the rest off her lips with a ruined smile.

“God,” she whispered, adjusting the cum-covered lenses with shaky hands, “I’m gonna wear these tomorrow.”

You smirked, panting. “You’re such a fucking mess.”

She grinned up at you.

“And you love it.”

You were barely through your second sip of coffee when she walked in.

Like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t fucked her throat, ruined her ass, and painted her face twice last night.

But there was something different this morning.

Something insane.

Her outfit was sharp, professional—buttoned white blouse, fitted skirt, tights, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail—but her glasses? Still smudged.

Not just smudged. Stained.

Your eyes zeroed in on it immediately. That faint streak near the edge of the left lens. The shimmer no cleaning cloth could fully erase. Her lip curled into a small, smug smile when she saw your gaze lingering.

She knew what she was doing.

And she was proud of it.

You raised your brow as she walked past your desk, slow, hips swaying just a little extra. She didn’t say a word.

Until you heard the soft ding of a Slack message a few seconds later.

Hanni:

“Storage room. 3rd floor. 10 min. Bring that look on your face.”

You didn’t even finish your coffee.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The fluorescent light buzzed above, casting soft shadows across rows of shelves stuffed with toner and paper stacks. It was quiet—too quiet.

And there she stood.

Back against the far wall, arms crossed, glasses still on. Streaked. Fogged from her own breath. A little crusted along the edge.

Her lips curled into a bratty smile.

“You came.”

You stepped in close. “You wore them.”

She nodded slowly, tugging her skirt up just a little. “Why wouldn’t I? Felt right.”

You grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up. The glasses tilted just enough to show off the telltale sheen near the temple.

“You’re insane.”

She bit her lip. “Insane for your cum, maybe.”

You stared at her. “You called me in here just to talk about that?”

She didn’t blink. “No.”

She slowly sank to her knees, never breaking eye contact.

“I want another.”

You exhaled sharply.

“Another what?”

Her hands already worked your belt. “Another dose. Another facial. Another mess. Right here. Right now.”

You weren’t hard yet, but she didn’t care. She pulled your pants down just enough and licked the head, slow, sloppy, deliberate. You twitched against her tongue, and she moaned.

“All morning,” she whispered between licks, “I’ve felt it on my face. People asked me what was on my glasses. I just said... printer toner.”

You laughed low, then grabbed her hair.

“Slut.”

“I like being your slut,” she whispered, tongue tracing your shaft. “I like being disgusting just for you. I like knowing I’m going to leave this room with your cum dripping off me again.”

You were hard now. Rock solid. Her hand wrapped around the base as she licked the underside, slow and teasing, glasses fogging again.

“God, you’re so full already,” she whispered. “You’re gonna give me so much.”

You growled and shoved your cock against her lips. She opened wide, sucking on the head like she was starved. Her glasses tilted further, smearing even more as her spit joined last night’s stains.

“You better not waste a drop,” you muttered, guiding her rhythm with firm hands. “You wanted this.”

“Mmmph,” she moaned around you, nodding, drooling, gagging just a little as you pushed deeper.

Her throat flexed. Her fingers dug into your thighs.

And then she pulled off, gasping.

“Cum on me,” she begged. “Do it now—before someone walks in—I want it right on my glasses again. I want to feel it burn on my skin all day. Just mark me again.”

You stroked fast, staring down at her ruined face. She kept her tongue out, her mouth open, her eyes fluttering behind smeared lenses.

“Fucking take it—”

You grunted hard as the first shot splashed across her cheek, hitting the corner of her glasses. She giggled, unhinged, delighted, moaning for more as you pumped your release across her mouth, her lips, her chin.

More streaks layered onto the old ones.

A new coat of filth.

She loved it.

She didn’t even flinch.

She tilted her face up into it.

When you were done, panting, hand still gripping the back of her head, she looked up through those sticky, fogged-up lenses and licked her lips with a pleased sigh.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I think I can get through my shift now.”

You stared down at her. “You’re insane.”

She smirked. “Just loyal.”

Then she stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, left the cum on her glasses, adjusted her skirt…

…and opened the door.

“I’ll message you again after lunch.”

[fixingtheon]

cockwarming with seonghwa

⚠️warnings - unprotected sex, cockwarming, if something else lemme know :))

minors dni!

bf!seonghw x fab!reader

────────────────────────

The rain had been tapping against the windows all afternoon, low and steady, the kind of sound that made the world feel quieter. Seonghwa was seated in his desk chair by the window, legs stretched out, a book resting in one hand, the other lazily tucked under the blanket draped across his lap. His reading glasses were barely holding on, perched low on his nose, brows slightly drawn in concentration.

You stood in the doorway watching him, arms wrapped around yourself, chewing lightly at your lip. It wasn’t about being aroused. Not yet. You just missed him. Missed the warmth of him, the way his presence calmed the noise in your chest.

“Can I…?” you asked gently, voice soft like the weather outside.

His eyes lifted from the page, immediately warm. “Come here, baby.”

You crossed the room slowly, straddling his lap without hesitation. His hands found your waist immediately, grounding you. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth—just a small one—before leaning in to whisper, “I wanna feel close to you. Just for a bit. Can I?”

Seonghwa’s thumb stroked your hip as he looked up at you, searching, serious in the most tender way. “Of course,” he said. “Always.”

You reached between you both, your movements slow, deliberate. He was already starting to harden at your touch, but not fully, and when you sank down onto him, it was slow and steady—more emotional than physical. Just the feeling of him inside you, soft and warm and whole.

You both exhaled, his arms wrapping fully around your back now, pressing you to him.

Neither of you moved. Not at first.

He held you like that for a while, kissing the top of your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. “You feel so good,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Like I’m supposed to be here.”

You nodded, your cheek resting against his. “Don’t move,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

But the minutes passed. Your hips shifted now and then, not to grind—but because the need to feel him deeper, fuller, was starting to hum under your skin. His hands began to roam more slowly too—dragging up your spine, sliding under your shirt, brushing along your ribs.

Seonghwa’s breathing deepened. You felt him swell slightly inside you, your body tightening around him without meaning to.

“Baby…” he whispered, his voice strained now, his grip on your hips firmer. “If you keep squeezing me like that…”

You smiled into his neck, whispering, “Then don’t just sit there.”

That broke something.

His hips rolled up into you, slow and deep, pulling a gasp from both of you. One thrust. Then another. Measured. Controlled. But hungry.

“You feel—fuck—so tight like this,” he growled into your skin, mouth finding your throat. “Wanted to keep it slow… but you’re making it so hard.”

You lifted your hips, just a little, before sinking back down, and his hands snapped to your thighs, anchoring you in place as he began to move with more purpose—grinding up into you, making every stroke hit where you needed it most.

“Been holding back,” he groaned, “but I can’t. Not when you feel like this. Not when you beg for me without saying a word.”

The chair creaked under the rhythm of his thrusts now, his mouth everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your lips. The rain outside kept falling, unnoticed, drowned out by your quiet moans and the sound of skin meeting skin, the urgency between you unraveling fast.

And still, even as he fucked up into you, hard and deep, there was nothing rough about it. Just need. Just heat. Just love.

His rhythm grew heavier, deeper, as if every slow thrust was dragging something raw and honest out of him. You felt it—how much he’d been holding back. Not just his body, but everything. Like every quiet look across the room, every soft kiss earlier, had been building to this.

“God, you feel like you were made for me,” Seonghwa breathed against your mouth, voice shaking. “You always do.”

You tried to respond, but all you managed was a soft whimper as he rolled his hips again, pressing so deep it stole the air from your lungs. His hand slid up your back, gripping the nape of your neck like he needed to hold onto something—needed to remind himself you were real, here, wrapped around him.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, and he growled low in his throat, burying his face in your shoulder as his pace started to lose its steadiness. He was close. You could feel it in the way his thighs tensed beneath you, in the way his breath hitched with every movement.

“I was trying to stay soft with you,” he gasped, voice rough now, “but the way you’re clenching around me—I can’t. I can’t be gentle anymore.”

You moaned softly, hips meeting his now, chasing each thrust, your bodies slipping into that perfect rhythm where everything else disappears. You couldn’t tell if you were guiding him or if he was taking control—but it didn’t matter. It was mutual. It was messy. It was perfect.

“You want me to let go?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “Tell me. Please. I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you whispered, then again, louder, more breathless. “Yes, Seonghwa. Don’t hold back.”

And with that, the last of his restraint snapped.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and stood—effortless, controlled—lifting you with him, never slipping out of you. He carried you to the bed, laying you down so gently it contrasted with the way he immediately sank back inside you with a deep, broken groan.

Now he moved with purpose. No more hesitation. No more pauses.

He braced himself above you, hand cradling your face as he rocked into you again and again, faster now, harder, but never losing that reverence in his eyes. “So beautiful,” he panted. “So perfect for me. I could live inside you.”

Your nails dug into his back as you arched into him, thighs trembling around his hips. The buildup was unbearable—heat curling low in your stomach, your body tightening with every stroke, every word from his mouth.

“I’m so close,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. “Cum with me. Please. Wanna feel you fall apart around me.”

You didn’t need more than that.

The pressure inside you snapped all at once, and you cried out his name, body clenching tight around him. That was all it took—he cursed, choked on a moan, and spilled into you with a raw sound pulled from somewhere deep, hips pressed hard against yours as he let go completely.

You held him through it, arms wrapped around his back, hearts pounding in sync.

And when it was over, he didn’t pull away. He just kissed you—slow and lingering—and whispered, “Still wanna be close?”

You nodded, eyes soft and hazy.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Because I’m not letting go yet.”

────────────────────────

a/n: I hope you liked this 😼. Also I wanna make other members but it always goes back to seonghwa. I’ll try my best to do other members too. ( or maybe I just keep them to myself tehe😝) but yeah. If something suggest me members you’d like me to write about. Byeeeeeee

[leilakisakabiri]

Spill or Fill Your Guts (LN4)

Summary: Playing the game spill your guts or fill your guts with Lando for his Youtube channel.

Warning(s): n/a

Word Count: 450+

Masterlist

"Who's the cutest driver on the grid, excluding Lando?" Lando huffed, "What kind of question is this? Who came up with this?" He looked around the room accusingly, card high in the air as if it disgusted him to be near it.

You opened your mouth before he cut you off with a glare, "Y/n I swear to god you better not answer that and just eat."

You laughed out loud, trying to hug him as he squirmed further away from you, "I'm kidding baby of course I wasn't going to answer it."

"Do you want to spin the wheel for me?" You asked your still pouting boyfriend.

"Fine. If I must." He relented, finally putting down the card.

You cringed when it landed on the spicy wings, while it wasn't the worst choice, seeing Lando's reaction to it ten minutes ago didn't make you keen to try it.

"We can share my milk." He offered, holding the glass out to you that was stained with the leftover wing sauce from his hands.

You scrunched your nose in distaste, but took it anyways, "My hero."

The half eaten chicken wings were placed in front of you and just the smell of it was enough to make you cough. It wasn't that you couldn't handle a little spice, but the fact that Lando had intentionally ordered the extra extra fire sauce scared you. what was the need for two extras?

Lando urged you on as you looked at the camera, "I can't believe you're making me do this."

You took a quick breath before committing and taking two big bites out of the wing. You chewed quickly hoping the spice wouldn't hit but your jaw got tired quickly and soon the flavor was starting to creep in.

You swallowed it before it could get worse but it wasn't until five minutes later that you felt the real spice.

Lando was in the middle of explaining an answer when your hand shot out reaching for the milk, "Holy shit! I can't feel my tongue." Your words muffled together as you tried to soothe the burn.

"This is not helping." You shook your head in disappointment, looking for another drink, accepting the one Lando handed you without a thought.

You took a sip before your eyes widened comically, abruptly putting it down when you realized it was just making the pain worse. You gasped when you looked down to see what was in the glass he handed you,

"Soda? Are you kidding me Lando. You did that on purpose you dick!"

Lando laughed, dodging your slaps to his shoulder before clasping your hands in his own, "I'm sorry babe, I had to do it for the views."

You glared at him as he lay kisses all over your hand as an apology.

[cursedyuri]

a/n: surprise! here’s a little somethin’ while i work on my next fics. mwah mwah happy saturday!

cw: 18+ as always, minors dni. sub!ellie, dom!reader, oral sex (e receiving), choking, tribbing, some…controlling aspects, multiple orgasms

ellie’s got it bad for you.

so bad, she doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed when jesse and dina catch her staring at you in the middle of band practice, eyes glazed over, nodding along with whatever they’re saying even when she’s got nothing in her head but you you you.

it’s frustrating sometimes, what you do to her. she’s less efficient as a songwriter and guitar player—always casting glances at you in the middle of practice, chewing her lip till it damn near bleeds because it’ll keep her from making a mess of her boxer briefs. always picturing your pretty lips around her strap, you kneeling before her while she face-fucks you till you gag and choke. always tilting her head when you stand up from your seat beside her, going off to rifle through your purse for something, just praying she’ll get a glimpse at your panties when your skirt rides up.

when the rest of the band filters out and it’s just you two, she gets you in her lap, kissing you silly. you’re so perfect in her arms, smiling shyly when she pulls back and covers your face in chaste, adoring kisses.

“we should go,” you say, glancing at the clock on the wall. she frowns and you catch it, adding, “i really need to study, finals are next week.”

“you’re gonna kill ‘em, babe,” she assures you, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. your cheeks go pink. she could eat you whole. “smartest girl i know. smartest person, actually.”

you giggle, a sound that makes ellie’s stomach flip. and then your expression shifts from carefree to hesitant, and she furrows her brows. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing, i’m sorry—i was gonna ask if you wanted to help me study? i have flash cards.”

ellie grins. “i can do flash cards.”

it’s not the first time ellie’s been at your house, but it is the first time she’s pulled into the driveway and noticed that your parents aren’t home. she casts a glance at you in the passenger’s seat while she pulls the keys from the ignition, but if you notice that she’s wondering about the lack of two mercedes in the driveway, you don’t let on. you give her one of those sickeningly sweet smiles and her heart hammers.

inside, you stop in the kitchen to fix a couple glasses of pink lemonade with twisty straws and fresh lemon slices, then lead her up the stairs to your bedroom. ellie tries (and fails) to avert her eyes from the place where your thigh-highs squish into the meat of your legs, the skin pooling out of the fabric good enough to eat. she has to think about the worst things to keep her cunt from throbbing. dead puppies, shit like that.

“i’m so stressed,” you confess as you open the door to your bedroom, ellie striding in behind you.

“why, princess? you’ll do great.” she takes her glass of lemonade when you offer it, sips from the straw and beams at you.

your room suits you perfectly. all shades of white and pink, floral print everywhere, heart-shaped pillows, cute bunny plushies organized carefully on the bed. it smells like sugar cookies and your perfume. ellie watches you locate your study materials, then sort through them till you find the necessary flash cards. she starts looking through them while you climb onto the bed, your skirt riding up to expose a new sliver of your thighs. if there is a god, he’s got it out for ellie today.

“come here, el,” you pout, holding out your hands for her.

“don’t be impatient, now.” she joins you on the bed despite her better judgment. looks down at the flash cards and struggles to read the first one because her blood is rushing south at a dizzying rate.

“uh—eukaryotic cells.”

“cells which have a nucleus enclosed within the nuclear membrane.”

ellie gapes at you. “okay, smarty pants, you got it. prokaryotic cells?”

you answer and she shuffles through to the next card, continuing to prompt your spot-on definitions until it becomes clear that you’re more than ready for your final. it only takes five minutes to make it through the entire stack of cards. and then you’re asking her to kiss you.

“baby,” she mutters, leaning over the side of the bed to set the flash cards onto the floor, “i’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

just like every other time, your mouth tastes like heaven. sweet from the pink lemonade, your tongue dances over hers, soft moans leaving your lips for her to swallow eagerly. the two of you have made out more times than ellie can count on both hands, but it never leads any further. something always comes up—you have to get to bed, dinner’s ready downstairs, things like that. more often than not, you stop because ellie feels like she’s going to lose control of herself and scare you away.

but this time, it’s different.

your hands, soft and warm, skate up ellie’s tattooed arms. your perfectly manicured nails rake through her hair. your eyes are blown nearly black with lust when you pull away, staring up at ellie like you’re silently begging to be fucked.

“ellie,” you whisper, frustrated by the sliver of mattress that separates the two of you.

“yeah, yeah, angel, i’ve got you.” she closes the gap, climbing between your spread legs until she’s hovering over you. she nudges her nose against your cheekbone. “so pretty underneath me.”

and god, you are so pretty underneath her. white off-the-shoulder top skewed from her touches, lips swollen, soft locks of hair splayed around your head. that look in your eyes that says i’m yours, please take me. she wants to hear you scream her name.

the lewd, wet sounds of your make-out sesh go right to her cunt; she doesn’t even realize she’s grinding down against you until she feels your hips move in response, in search of friction. the sensation draws a ragged moan from her, and then she’s grabbing at your thighs with a touch that will certainly bruise. you won’t be wearing a skirt this short tomorrow.

“take this off,” you breathe when you pull back from the heated kiss. you’re tugging at her tattered band tee. “and your pants.”

a surprised huff of laughter leaves her lips. “whoa there, sweetheart. you sure?”

her eyes find yours. she’s just as turned on as you are, but she can still stop while she’s ahead. now, if you get her down to her boxers? that might not be so easy to come back from.

you stare back at her, unblinking. “i’m sure.”

sitting back on her heels, ellie keeps her eyes on you while she works her shirt up over her head. she revels in the way your eyes leave hers, only to admire the sight of her naked torso, her ample tits with dusty rose nipples. your tongue swipes over your lips. her clit twitches.

she has to get up to take her pants off, and when she does, she notices that you’re not making any efforts to undress yourself. she stops with her belt unbuckled, button undone, zipper pulled down. “what, i don’t get to see my girl naked?”

“only if you’re good,” you say with a wicked smile. it catches her off guard, hearing a comment like that from you, but it does encourage her to push her jeans down to her ankles.

when she gets back on the bed and kisses you again, you’re not as soft. not as pliable, like putty in her hands. no, you’re insistent—your tongue breaches her mouth almost instantly and you lick into her until he’s nearly panting. you’re sitting up in your disheveled clothing, holding her face and kissing her like you’re going to swallow her whole. given the fact that you’re usually the one on the receiving end of kisses like this, ellie’s surprised. she breaks the kiss and gives you a look - one you feign ignorance to.

“i’m—sorry, am i reading this wrong? i thought… aren’t you a virgin?”

you smile at her, eyes heavy-lidded. “oh, ellie, baby.”

the way you sound makes her go dizzy for a second. sultry, raspy, sexy. your voice must’ve dropped a couple octaves. you’re not a virgin, she suddenly realizes, not even close. not when you’re dipping your head into her neck and smothering her with hot, wet kisses, your hand moving to grope at the wet spot soaking through the thin fabric of her boxers, fingertips tracing heavy over the outline of her pussy. a moan leaves her lips before she can think to stifle it. worse, she bucks her hips up to chase your touch.

you suck your teeth. disapproving.

“eager, aren’t you?” you move to climb off the bed, kneeling beside it. the sensation of your fingers, skating right over the waistband of her boxers, makes her whimper. she whimpers.

“baby, you’re killing me,” she chokes out. you run a french-tipped nail over her sparse happy trail. she bites her lip.

“i know,” you respond, and your voice is still sickly sweet. “but i’ll take care of you, el. don’t you want that?”

she’s not sure what that means exactly, but she finds herself nodding quickly.

turns out that it means eating her pussy like a fucking porn star.

you’d ripped off her boxers in one swift motion, then spit a glob of saliva onto her flushed, aching clit. wasting no time at all, you’d slid your fingers through her cunt with the lubrication of your own spit, and finally, when she didn’t think it could get better, you’d put your mouth on her. and that’s what it’s been like for the past few minutes. you’re tongue-fucking her now, face buried so deep between her legs she can’t imagine how you’re not gasping and sputtering for air.

“jesus christ, babe,” she gasps, involuntarily thrusting her hips up. your tongue pushes further into the constricting heat of her cunt and she throws her head back, overcome with bliss. but then you’re pulling back, mouth leaving her soaked pussy. the loss makes her whine again.

“wh—what happened?” she’s dazed.

“you’re being a fucking brat,” you respond as you rub a hand over your mouth to wipe away the wetness. “can’t just let me eat you out, huh? have to push it. god, ellie.”

you sound genuinely pissed off, so she flushes red with embarrassment and gives you an apologetic look. “i’m so sorry, i couldn’t—”

“—couldn’t control yourself?”

she stares, mouth hanging open. you laugh, a humorless chuckle. and then you’re standing up, reaching under your skirt to slide your panties down your thighs.

“listen, baby,” you say as you step out of your underwear and move to straddle your girlfriend’s thighs. “if we’re gonna fuck, you need to learn how to control yourself. be a good girl for me. can you do that?”

in all of her daydreams about your first time having sex as a couple, she’d never imagined this.

“yes,” she hears herself say. “i can do that.”

“do what?”

“i can…” ellie’s cunt weeps another rush of wetness. “i can be a good girl.”

satisfied, you reach down to swipe your fingers through her folds—still sticky and wet from your unfinished head. “when i ride you, i don’t want to hear a sound. okay?”

“o-okay.” she’d agree to anything at this point. she’s under a trance. your rose-scented, strawberry-flavored hypnotism.

when you finally slide into a comfortable position, bare, soaked cunts sliding against one another, she bites her tongue so hard she swears she tastes blood. a strangled, ragged sigh leaves her nose, nostrils flaring as you lift your hips and move them back again. you’re wet, soft, and skilled with your hips. everything she’s dreamed of and more. she wants to moan your name, but the way you’re looking at her, like a siren ready to drag her underwater, it keeps her from making a single fucking peep. she lets you take what you need, content to stare in awe as your tits bounce beneath your pristine white shirt.

“doing so well for me,” you praise, hips circulating in a good rhythm now. “you can talk, baby—tell me, how’s my pussy feel?”

“fuuuuck,” she practically wails, “you’re so good, god, feels s’fucking good.”

“mm,” you hum. you’ve found a rotation to hit a spot that fills you with white-hot pleasure, and each time you lift your hips and rub against her again, you feel yourself getting closer and closer to an orgasm. “your cunt feels good, el. might come soon, would you like that?”

she nods. you can feel her hips twitch, like she’s dying to fuck herself up against you, but you’re so close to the edge that you don’t have it in you to chastise her. you do, however, have it in you to tell her, “beg for my cum, then. be a good girl, you said you’d be a good girl.”

“please,” she gasps, feeling your cunt twitch against hers, “please, baby, need your cum.”

she’s getting close too, so she doesn’t feel embarrassed that you’ve got her whining, desperate for you to cream all over her. it’s hot, actually, the fact that she’s begging for you. her sweet, innocent little girlfriend, giving her the ride of her life and making her beg for you. she’d never considered this. stupid of her.

emboldened by her impending orgasm, ellie reaches for one of your hands and moves it from her shoulder to her throat. her eyes are wide and pleading when you look down at her. relief overcomes her features when you adjust your grip and then squeeze, her pulse thudding beneath your fingertips.

this is new for her. it’s all new for her. but when you come with your hand around her throat and your cunt sliding, drenched, against hers, she can’t help but scold herself internally for not doing this sooner. you don’t whimper or cry when you come, but you do say her name, drawing it out in that low, gravelly voice of yours that she hadn’t heard until today. and that’s enough for her to reach her own high, coming with a ragged groan. a mistake that she doesn’t process until she’s spent, panting, still dizzy with the fading pleasure that leaves her in waves.

you’ve gone still on top of her.

she looks at you and finds your expression displeased.

“i’m—shit, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, sweetheart, I really wasn’t thinking.”

“i can tell,” you say, voice flat. she moves to lift you from her lap, intending to get up and clean you both up, but you swat her hands away. “did i say we’re done?”

she stutters for a second before she can get out real words. “no, you…didn’t.”

“i can tell you’re going to be a tough one,” you sigh, “but you’ll learn.”

and with that, you start moving your hips again. the overstimulation on ellie’s still-sensitive clit makes her jolt, but one pointed look from you has her going still again. your hips form slow, narrow circles. cum seeps out of your cunt and leaks down onto hers.

after an agonizing minute or two, the pain of overstimulation melts into pleasure. you notice ellie’s expression change, a wrinkle forming between her brows again.

“there’s a good girl.” your praise is music to her ears. her lips open to allow her to breathe as heavy as she needs to, heaving gasps that go straight to your sopping cunt. you gush even wetter.

“mmph, fuck,” ellie groans. she shoots a worried glance up at your domineering face, but when she finds that you’re gazing down at her with unbridled lust in your eyes, she relaxes again.

“you can make as much noise as you want now, pretty girl,” you assure her. “i wanna hear how good i make you feel. even when you’ve—mm, even when you’ve been a bad girl. and you don’t deserve it.”

if she weren’t already turned on again, she is now. you start to ride her in earnest again, fucking down onto her in a rhythm that has the entire room ringing out with sounds of skin slapping against skin. she grabs your hips to hold herself steady, but then you push her shoulders until she falls back onto the mattress. your hands grab her wrists, and she’s entirely unsurprised when you pin them above her head and ride her faster, harder—she’s unsurprised, but it still makes her cry out in pleasure.

“baby, i need you to apologize,” you coo down at ellie as you continue your relentless riding.

“h-huh?”

“apologize for coming without permission,” you clarify, voice just a little strained.

“oh,” ellie says. her brows are pulled together; her face is all twisted up in an absolutely sinful expression, one that makes your cunt feel impossibly wetter. “i’m sorry, babe, i already said sorry.”

“then say it again, if i tell you to.” you lift your hips until you’re barely touching her, and when she starts to sputter pathetic, whiny apologies in an endless stream, you drop your greedy cunt back onto hers.

“you really are a brat,” you tell her. it’s getting harder to talk to her like this, straight-faced and patronizing, because you’re getting close again. but you steel yourself and go on. “such a bad girl, what should i do with you, hm?”

“anything,” ellie blabbers, wrists flexing in your grasp, “i’ll do anything—i’ll let you do anything to me.”

“oh?” you smile, still gasping lungfuls of air, exhausted but chasing your second climax. you lean forward and lick along the angle of ellie’s jaw, up up up to her ear. she shivers violently as you whisper, “you’d let me fuck your tight little hole?”

you can’t see her face with your mouth against her neck, kissing and sucking and biting at her sensitive skin, but you imagine that she looks shocked. and you don’t blame her. you’ve got your good girl act down, you have for years. and ellie fell for it, bless her heart. she probably thought this would go differently; probably imagined she’d be the one overstimulating you and making you whine and beg and whimper, shaking like a leaf as you near another orgasm. but here you are.

and you’re glad she so obviously likes it.

“yes,” ellie hisses through her teeth. “yes, yes, i’d—you could fuck me, whatever you want.”

“bet you’d love it,” you tell her honestly. “you’d love having your pretty pussy stuffed with my cock, wouldn’t you?”

you’re practically dripping sweat at this point from the exertion of tribbing, clothes clinging to your body with perspiration. under your skirt, ellie’s pelvis is drenched with sex.

“yessssss,” she cries out, eyes squeezing shut. “i’d l-love it, yes, fuck…”

“are you gonna come for me, pretty girl? you can—you’ve already made such a mess.”

she’s nodding, gasping. crying, even. you don’t notice until she sniffles, drawing your attention to her reddened face. her cheeks shine with tears. you coo a gentle good girl at her and she lets a high moan loose.

“come, el. come for me.”

she doesn’t need much encouragement, she really doesn’t, but your command pushes her over the edge. coming with a cry that nearly tears her throat apart, she shakes and shivers in your hold until you finally let up and slow your rolling hips. ellie looks so beautiful when she comes, and right after, too. dazed, pussy drunk, eyes foggy. lips chewed raw. tears still wet at the corners of her eyes.

“you didn’t come again,” she points out. she sounds so small.

“i know,” you agree. “but you can fix that, sweet girl.”

finally releasing her wrists from your grip, you roll onto the bed beside her on your back. you reach a hand between your legs and swipe your fingers through the puffy folds of your cunt, releasing a satisfied hum when you feel how soaked you are.

you’re surprised when you look up and find her already making her way between your legs, eyes glued to your pussy.

“i can fix it,” she repeats. “can i taste you?”

“oh, ellie,” you say, “i knew you’d be a good girl. go ahead.”

[livingdxadwriter]

Hands On

Dr Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader

Summary: when innocent flirting and longing looks turn into hiding in the on call room. Porn with a lil plot

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, fingering, little bit of exhibitionism if you squint, fucking in the hospital, he talks her through it, age gap (yk the drill, reader is 35+, robby is 50), established relationship, brief mentions of reader having hair long enough to braid, mentions of Robby being taller

WC: 4.2k

A/N: yay! Finally some more Robby smutties! This was mostly just me being horny and too tired to write convoluted plot. I did get some requests so I’ll work on them as soon as I finish the semester. But for now I wanted to feed yall so you wouldn’t forget me. Enjoy :)

i want to note that this was inspired by this post by @abbotjack so some dialogue bits are inspired by their post. Also thank you to @wittyjasontodd for putting up with my insanity and for encouraging having a quickie with this old man in the middle of a shift <3

This was so agonizing. You didn’t know what demon possessed your soul or why you were so flustered and bothered. All fucking day, from the moment you woke up. In his bed, tangled up underneath his sheets. You didn't know if he was the cuddling type, but you woke up in his arms, on his chest, every time. And this time? You wanted to fucking stay there. All over him. You could feel it, crawling in your skin, perpetually warm even after you shrugged your hoodie off your shoulders like it had offended you. You were hyper aware of his presence at any given moment. If you heard his voice, your head was snapping in that direction. He came in to assist with a patient? You gravitated toward the side he was on to be as close to him as possible. You even got lucky a few times when he was hovering over you, standing behind you to look over your shoulder. It was subtle, always professional, but he would never stand this close to another resident unless he was doing the procedure himself. He could watch from a distance, but he didn’t, because he could tell. 

You were on hour five of your twelve hour shift when you managed to sneak into the doctors lounge to munch on a granola bar and attempt to down your lukewarm coffee. You sat for a collective two minutes when Robby came through the door. Suddenly your pulse spiked and you nearly choked at the sight of him. He was on his phone, typing something, black framed glasses sitting on his pretty nose. Your eye nearly twitched. Why you were having such visceral reactions to seeing your boyfriend today, you didn’t know. You offered him a smile nonetheless, slightly nudging your head at the empty chair next to you. The lounge was empty aside from you, anyway. 

“You hiding?” He shot you a look, a tiny eyebrow raise making you smile a bit. Yes, from you, you thought. You nodded slowly as you chewed on your bar. 

“Maybe.” You mumbled quietly, eyeing him as he leaned back on the chair, casually sliding down it until his knee was touching yours under the table. You jolted the slightest bit, blinking at him, but you otherwise didn’t comment. 

Robby was a very observant man. Call it age, call it wisdom, call it whatever, but it didn’t take him long to be able to read your body language like an open book he read for the sole purpose of his amusement. Your fluttering eyelashes, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, your opposite leg bouncing incessantly. The way you damn near shuddered every time he barely touched you. Whether it was a subtle hand on your lower back when he walked away from assisting with your patient, or your shoulder just barely touching his arm as you talked to him in the hallway. Or how you nearly kneed the table just now. You were aching for something you couldn’t have, and it was driving you to madness. 

“Me too, I saw Gloria in the hallway.” He shuddered, shaking his head aggressively, which made you let out a giggle. God, he loved all your sounds, every one. 

“Want it?” You offered the last bit of your granola bar as you sat in that familiar silence that was often shared between people who had already said everything needed to be said. You sat in silence a lot, you didn’t need to fill it with small talk, but today you were painfully aware of his presence, his warm brown eyes lingering on you every once in a while, his knee touching yours. A subtle act, nothing more than a gesture of affection. But today, god, it would be your breaking point. You quickly realized turning your head to look at him would be a mistake. 

“Uh-huh. Thank you.” He happily and graciously accepted your offering, one hand lifting his glasses off his face and set down on the table as he grabbed your bar with the other. It was the most normal thing he could ever do, he did it all the time, it wasn’t like he wore his glasses for everything. But the simple act as he so unbothered munched on your leftovers made you dig your nails into your palm. “You did really good on that car crash patient, by the way. Readjusting a hip dislocation and a sternum fracture is pretty damn impressive.” 

You nibbled on your bottom lip, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. It always took you aback when he so casually praised you, it always left you a flustered fucking mess. “Mmm, really?” 

“Mhmm, yeah.” He replied, nonchalant. He blinked at you slowly, big brown eyes swallowing you whole. You could hear your breath as he slowly leaned in, stopping when your shoulders touched. 

“Are you gonna kiss me right now?” You dared to ask, which made him slip the tiniest grin. 

“No. But you want me to, don’t you?” He was toying with your sanity, a straight face meeting your fragile demeanor. You knew he would never display such affections so openly where you could be seen. Yes, everyone in the ER was well aware of your relationship, but that didn't mean he would shove it in their faces. But that didn’t mean you didn't  wish he would just grab you by your hair and kiss you silly. “If you want something, you ask for it.”

“You are so evil for that, I hope you know that.” You sighed out, a little unevenly, not amused in the slightest. He let out a dry chuckle, head tilted at you.

“I'm not doing anything.” He shrugged, the slightest bit of amusement lacing his tongue, but his expression remained stoic, probably to tease you even more. You found no humor in this, and you kicked his knee with your own under the table. “Okay, ow.”

You rolled your eyes, opening your mouth to berate him a little about the torture you have been enduring all day and that would continue to endure until you got home because how dare he not stay in bed with you like you begged him to that morning, but just as you were, the door of the lounge opened and Dana peaked her head inside. She shot you a suspicious look, but neither of you said anything. 

“Alright break time’s over. Langdon needs you in trauma one,” she shot Robby a knowing look, to which he simply sighed, choosing not to comment. And then she looked at you, “and you, you can take the auto versus pedestrian that’s coming.” 

So much for your little coffee break. You shot Robby a look that was a reminder that this conversation was not over and he would be hearing from you for the rest of your shift. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

You managed to compose yourself for the most part. Sure, you were a little amped up, a bit hot and bothered, your cheeks were a little flushed and your heart raced every time Robby was in the same room as you, but, you promised yourself you would finish your shift before you actually jumped his bones. And your plan has been working so far.

You were just leaving a patient’s room when you saw Robby, annoyance and a little irritation written all over his face.

“What happened to you?” You chuckled a little as he shot you a pointed look. You definitely noticed that his hoodie was gone and his scrubs were suspiciously a size too small for him. This was definitely not helping your issues today.

“Bleeding ulcer, apparently they failed to mention they had a cough when I was doing the exam. I had to change scrubs and now I have to try and get that blood off my hoodie.” He sighed out a groan, rubbing the back of his hair a little exasperated. You held in your laugh and simply gave him a sympathetic look. 

“I can try to wash it off when we get home.” You offered, knowing he hated throwing away hoodies when they got stained. He shot you a half smile and nodded. But you still couldn't overlook the way the sleeves were tight on his biceps, riding up more than normal, which revealed the slightest bit of his tattoos. And you definitely noticed the way they fit a little too short on his torso. “Couldn't find scrubs your size?”

“No, actually. All they had was medium. And of course, I didn’t bring a fucking spare today.” you could see how this predicament would be quite annoying, you, too, would be annoyed if your scrubs were too tight. But you were definitely enjoying this a little too much. Teasing him back was also a bonus.

“Don’t let Myrna catch you looking like this.” You snorted, bringing the back of your hand to cover your mouth. You had to bite down your lip to muffle your laugh at the glare he shot you. He tilted his head at you, eyes narrowed the slightest bit like he was plotting. 

“Don't start.” He warned you, voice low and leveled. You leaned your chin on your hand and shrugged. 

“No, really, it's a good look. Definitely one way to bring up your patient satisfaction scores. Whore yourself out a little bit. You’re definitely popular among a certain demographic.” You truly wanted to keep a straight face but the way he looked at you the more you teased him made you swallow a bit. Like he was considering whether or not to drag you by your arm somewhere. He found it so rich that you said that, like you weren't damn near fifteen years younger than him.

“Don’t you have patients? There’s plenty of people in the waiting room if you’re bored.” He said blankly, arms folded over his chest. You caught him subtly trying to fix his sleeve on his bicep and your eye nearly twitched, your lips curled up into the tiniest grin.

“Okay fine, Jesus. You're such a grumpy old man. You need a vacation or something.” You gave him one last jab as you started to walk away, but not before he shot you the sharpest glare, his jaw so tight you thought he would dislocate it.

“I swear to g—” you shrugged at him, blowing him a kiss over your shoulder as you all but ran away from his wrath. He chuckled dryly, shaking his head at himself as he plotted just how he was going to get back at you. It didn't take him long to devise a plan. With the one thing you were choosing to tease him about.

You balanced the ipad on one hand as you motioned around different points on the screen with each word you spoke. Mel stood beside you, she helped assist on your auto versus pedestrian case. She was always so sweet, so polite, she didn't mind your racing mouth or your chaotic explanations. 

“There’s a pretty substantial cranial fracture right here,” you pointed at the results from the head CT and X-ray you ordered. Your eyes sometimes wandered as you waited a few seconds for whoever it was you were on a case with to match your racing mind. Your eyes ultimately found your boyfriend sitting at his workstation, glasses sitting on his nose as he typed. Thank the lord you could multitask as well as you could. “I also saw some rib fractures on the left side, we should keep an eye out for pneumothorax and possible hemothorax.” 

Robby always noticed when you entered a room, he wasn't sure what it was, but he always knew where to look for you in a crowd. When he looked up from his computer, he saw you with Mel. You made brief eye contact as you spoke to Mel. it wasn't fully conscious, not entirely malicious, but it did work in his favor, perhaps. 

“What do we look for if there’s a possible pneumothorax?” You knew that she knew perfectly, but Robby always encouraged active teaching. You were listening, you truly were, until your eyes wandered again and you caught a glimpse of Robby stretching. Nothing strange about that, other than the fact that you caught in perfect view the way his scrubs rid up his stomach. You don't think anyone else cared nor noticed, but you went absolutely mental. Catching a glimpse of his thick happy trail was definitely the last straw holding your sanity together.

“Doctor…?” You heard Mel—sweet soul—say your name with a bit of concern. You swallowed a bit, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your cheeks and the racing of your stupid heart. You felt like a horny teenager. Is this what it has come to? Getting horny at the sight of your boyfriend's happy trail? Or was it the way he held his arms behind his head, further testing the strength of those scrubs? Fuck. You looked at her and gave her a strained smile. 

“Yeah, perfect. I have to go check on a patient, I’ll come get you in a bit to check on our patient, ‘kay? ‘Kay.”

An hour hadn't gone by when you realized you couldn’t take it anymore. You were hot and bothered, face flushed and warm to the touch. You were thanking the Gods that it seemed to have slowed down for now, nobody was grabbing you to assist on bleeding patients. You were waiting on some lab results. Which gave you even more time to think about how horny you were, as juvenile as it was. You were praying he would have mercy on you. You caught him walking out of a patient’s room, unbothered, blissfully unaware of your torment. Or maybe it was entirely conscious. You didn't know, or frankly, cared. You aggressively typed into your phone. He was pretty quick about answering, he almost never answered immediately.

Come. Here. 

Robby looked up from his phone, searching around the crowds of patients and staff, until his eyes landed on you. He tilted his head at you, curiosity in his eyes. He had the tiniest grin on his lips as he met you in the middle. He read your face with curiosity, amusement, even. Wide-eyes, fluttering eyelashes, bottom lip pulled between your teeth, god you looked a mess and he hadn't even touched you.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” He tilted his head at you, leaning down a bit to your level. The pet name was definitely adding insult to injury. He never addressed you by anything other than your name at work. He truly wanted to drive you mad. And he had the audacity to even ask. You oughta beat him up just for that. 

“Shut up, just come.” You spoke in a hush, tone sharp and laced with frustration. You grabbed his wrist without saying another word, making sure that nobody was actually paying attention to what was happening. Robby said nothing as he allowed you to drag him, realizing where you were going where you turned the corner next to the lockers. 

You dragged him inside the empty on-call room. You let out the loudest, most exasperated sigh as soon as he shut the door behind him.

“Do you have any fucking idea the day I’ve had? I just—“ You stopped in the middle of the room, a short breath leaving your heavy chest, your eyes all but pleading. “I just want you, please?”

“Honey,” his voice was low, steady, almost like a warning, with a head tilt as you heard the soft click of the lock. “You know we don’t do that.” Quickies were absolutely not Robby’s thing. A quickie in the ER? Recipe for disaster.

“I know!—” You gritted your teeth at your volume, immediately biting down on your lip. God, you felt so pathetic. Robby met you in the middle, crowding your space, and for a second your brain short circuited at the way he looked down at you. “I know, I just need you right now. I need you inside me and I don’t think I can wait another six hours.”

Who was he to ever deny his sweet girlfriend anything when she asked so nicely?

“Hmm, yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and baritone in your ear. You were this close to fainting. You felt dizzy, flustered and bothered, all at once. “You’re just needy today, hm?” You completely lost it when he grabbed your jaw, long fingers sprawled across your neck as he forced your head back to meet his lips. The moan that left your throat was so pathetic as he made you back up against the closest wall. 

His mouth just felt so good against yours, almost as good as his free hand finally touching your flushed skin. He didn’t waste any time, much to his dismay, but he had you at home anyway. This was about pure and raw release. He could make love to you in the warm embrace of your own bed, right now, he was okay with just fucking you. 

“You really want it, right here?” He spoke with the slightest bit of amusement laced with anticipation, he knew the answer, but he just wanted to hear it out of your pretty lips. Anticipation sat heavy on your chest, your breath heavy as he slipped his hand into your scrubs.

“Yes, yes, I want you to take me right here, please, please,” shame? You didn't know her. You would do and say anything to get what you so desperately needed. Robby was always so calculated, observant, with everything he did. He watched for your microexpressions, your little sighs and whimpers. They were always so gratifying to him. He took in the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his long fingers brushed your sensitive clit and easily slipped inside you.

“Fuck, you are so wet. Have you been like this all day?” There was a bit of humor in his tone, teasing as he fucked you with his fingers. You bit down on your lip, keeping your noises to a minimum as you bunched up the front of his scrubs around your hand. 

“Michael, please.” Words left you in a halt, breathless as your head fell forward against his chest. You wanted to hide how pathetic you looked, jaw hanging wide open, face flushed and glowing with a thin layer of sweat. But Robby loved looking at you, he loved memorizing the ruined fucking mess he made of you. His free hand found the back of your hair to force you to meet his eyes.

“Look at me just like that,” he wanted to focus you, ground you, remind you that it was him making you feel this way. His fingers left you empty, pulsing and throbbing. 

Out of breath, you watched as he dragged your scrubs down until they pooled by your feet, you unconsciously stepped out of one leg, but your panties were still on. You held your breath in your chest as he slowly pulled the soaked fabric to the side and a groan rumbled in his chest at the sight of your swollen clit and glistening thighs. Oh, that was all for him, and he was going to make good on that. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his scrubs fast, and while still keeping eye contact, you braced for what was about to come your way. Without a word, and still holding your panties to the side, he slides into you in one thrust that has you sliding up the wall. There was no, take it slow, or adjust to it. It was so sudden you gasped so loud you swore whoever walked by heard it.

“Uh-uh, quiet. I need you quiet, baby.” His hand was on your mouth, stifling your sweet little sounds as he drove into you. His other hand found your thigh and he was lifting your knee as high as it could go until only your heel was touching his shoulder. You wanted to fucking scream. “You wanted this, so now you take it, but you take it quietly.” 

His weight was pinning you against the wall as he drilled into you, his hand still covering your mouth. He could hear your little gasps, your high pitched moans each time his cock brushed up that one spot inside your walls that made your thighs shudder. His small sighs of exhaustion were right in your ear, a reminder that he, too, was trying desperately to hold himself together, and was failing by the second. 

“You were just so desperate for it. Wanted this so bad? Hm?” His conceding words were in your ear, raspy and out of breath. Your brain has completely turned off, there wasn't a single thought in that head of yours other than the feeling of his cock filling you exactly how you wanted. Deep strokes that have completely ruined you, broken your mind. Just how he liked it. His hand left your mouth just to make you answer him. “You can use your words.”

“Yes, god, yes, I couldn’t think about anything else.” Your voice was broken, desperate, completely overwhelmed with how good he was making you feel. This was the one thing in this world you didn't have to think about, he thought for you, he could take over and make you forget about the world around you and that drove you mental.

“You just wanted to be fucked like you deserved, trust me I know.” His words were sharp, like the way he drove into you. It wasn’t fast, but it was deep, intense and with purpose. He had no need to run in circles, he knew what he needed to do, and like with everything else he was infuriatingly good at, he did it with purpose. You, fucked. That was it. “I want you to feel me for the rest of your fucking shift. Remember what it feels to be just mine.” 

Just mine, he repeated, like a mantra. A reminder that he had to share you with everyone else in this fucking place. But when it was just the two of you? He could take over every little intricate part of your mind, of your body, all of it was just for him. And you let him. You begged him to. And for that? He would fuck you stupid every single time.

It felt like an eternity, it truly did. Every agonizing minute one closer to being caught or heard. Though you had to admit that only added to your purely animalistic arousal. Your trembling hands grabbed and pulled at whatever you could. You dug your nails into his torso under scrubs with one, holding him each time he rutted his hips against yours. Your forehead was leaning on his collarbone, and he didn't even bother to redirect you this time. You clutched his shoulder like vice and you were sobbing into his scrubs as your orgasm hit you way too soon for your liking. It was absolutely delirious, left you sputtering and absolutely wrecked. You were hoping your sounds didn't pass the door.

“Just like that, breathe through it.” His words only added to your delirium. His voice, his rough hands, his authoritative presence, it fucking wrecked you and you were afraid you would never be able to come back from it. You were ruined and only he could have you now. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me. You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”

His words grounded you. His voice. His hands cradling the back of your head as he fucked you through it. And he didn’t stop until he filled you, and when he did, it was with a breathy moan that got lost in your hair. He held you there until he felt your body collapse over his chest. Without saying a word he carried you to the makeshift bed everyone slept on when they were on call. He sat you down, amusement circling in his pretty brown eyes at the sight of you so cock-drunk. You half assed lifted your scrubs up your thighs but stopped when Robby grabbed your hand.

“Let me clean you first at least.” He chuckled quietly, to which you replied with a quiet oh. The neat braid your hair had stayed in for the past six hours was completely fucked, hairs sticking out everywhere. It was a lost cause. He was always so gentle when he cleaned you, so delicate and tender, a true juxtaposition of the predicament that led you here. “Next time? Wait until the end of our shift.” He wasn’t scolding you. It was more of a, we did something we weren't supposed to, tone.

“I know.. I’m sorry, I don’t know what was wrong with me today.” You were a bit sheepish, shifting and grimacing each time he touched you. As your eyes were down, you caught a glimpse of the angry red marks forming just underneath his scrubs. Wide-eyed, you reached to lift his scrubs and winced at the red nail marks that covered his side and stomach. “Ohhh, wow, my nails aren't that long, are they?”

“Uh, yes, yes they are hun.” He replied, mostly unbothered. You should see the ones you left on his back when he didn't have a shirt, he thought. “I hope no one asks.” He finished his thought with an awkward smile and raised eyebrows. “Oh, and by the way, maybe get yourself together before going back out? You looked like you got fucked.”

The next six hours of your life were going to be the longest of your fucking life, for sure.