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stevesgother · 7 months ago

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Chalkboard Hearts - S.H

Pairing - KindergartenTeacher!Steve Harrington x Fem!Mom!Reader

WC - 4.3k

Contains - strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, so much fluff, teacher!steve and mom!reader. No descriptions are given of reader or abbey, other than that abbey has curly hair, steve and reader are the same age (about 24-25), set early-mid 90's

AN - i don’t write for kids often so i hope this reads well and is realistic. i don’t have a clear end for this series in mind, so i’m gonna keep writing it for as long as y’all want it :) feel free to send requests for blurbs for this AU if you so wish and as always, thank you - emma

“Moooooom,”

You hear a tiny voice whisper in your ear. Most mornings started this way, if not all of them. Whoever said getting children out of bed in the morning was difficult had clearly never met Abbey. Every day you peeled your tired eyes open to see the miniature version of them staring back at you, the only difference being they were much wider, and lacking the distinct fog of leftover sleep.

Today her hair was sticking up in all different directions; frizzy curls here and tangled knots there. Your daughter takes after you in many ways, one being that she’s an active sleeper and it shows when she wakes up. Her bed was always disheveled; embroidered blankets strewn across her bedroom floor and little red lines indented in her cheeks where they had been smushed against her pillow.

“Mornin’ Ab,” you say, voice gravelly with disuse. “Have you made your bed yet?” you eye her suspiciously.

You know she hasn’t and she confirms as much when she spins on her heel and dashes for her room down the hall. Truthfully, you couldn’t care less if her bed was made or not, it was merely a guise to buy you a few extra minutes of peace and quiet each morning.

︵୨୧︵

When she doesn’t reappear, you assume she’s gotten distracted and decide to make your way downstairs to scrounge for something to eat. You never ate breakfast before you had Abbey; either for lack of time or because the smell of food so early in the morning made you nauseous. Eating three meals a day was just one bullet point on the long, running list of changes in your routine since becoming a mother.

Two bowls of Frosted Flakes were set out on the table after deciding there was no time for anything more nutritious.

“Abbey!” You call, “Breakfast!”

You hear the sounds of sniffling and small feet padding on hardwood as she enters the kitchen– pouting. You try not to gape at the utter monstrosity of an outfit she's put on. She whines, “I don’t know what I want to wear!”

You sense a meltdown coming already, on today of all days. Pre-school was easy, as Abbey was a fairly agreeable kid. Or at least she used to be. Lately it felt like you had to battle her about anything and everything.

“You look so beautiful, Ab!” you reassure her, attempting to deescalate the impending tantrum. She has on pink corduroy pants and a frilly forest green blouse. For accessories she’s sporting a chunky plastic necklace that definitely came with a dress-up kit, along with a tutu. You have no idea where the tutu came from.

Eventually she decides not to fight you, at least not on her outfit. However, as she climbs into the kitchen chair, she scowls down at the soggy cereal in front of her and asks in the most darling tone she can muster,

“Can I have Scooby fruit snacks instead?”

“How about I pack some in your lunchbox today and you can eat them at snack time?” you try to barter.

Sneaking a glance at the clock, it mocks you with its unforgiving hands– you’re going to be late and your daughter will have skipped supposedly the most important meal of the day. Some mother you are.

“But I want them right now!” Her petite fists bang against the wooden table and she’s a heap of dramatics wriggling in her chair.

“Hey, what did we talk about? Yelling is not nice, even when we’re frustrated. Right?” She acknowledges you with a teary nod along with more crying and petulant moaning that can be heard as you run to the bathroom and grab a hairbrush with two bows. When you return, she’s still moping over her breakfast, but taking bites nonetheless. A win is a win.

You begin detangling the mess of knots and snarls at the back of her head. “Ouch, Mommy!” she cries when you try to comb through a particularly tangled section.

You place one of your hands over the crown of her head like a claw in a poor attempt at keeping her from squirming, “The more you move the longer it takes, sweetheart,”

“Hmph.” she pouts, folding her arms over her chest. When all is said and done, your daughter has her hair parted and tied into two high pigtails, secured with little pink bows, and you’re rushing her out of the front door with haste.

︵୨୧︵

In all the hubbub, you realize you’ve barely gotten yourself ready. Reaching over to buckle Abbey into her carseat, she asks,

“When can I sit up front with you?”

“When you’re this many,” You hold out both your hands to display all ten fingers.

She mimics you with her own smaller fingers, “Ten?”

“That’s right!” You smack a kiss on the crown of her head as you pull back, she smells like her strawberry scented shampoo.

“Watch your feetsies,” you warn and she tucks her legs unnecessarily far into her chest as you close the door.

The ride is filled with the usual nonsensical ramblings of a five-year-old. She beams back at you through the rearview mirror, eyes sparkling and nodding fervently when you ask if she’s excited to make some new friends today. Your social butterfly, the complete antithesis of you.

The elementary school is only a few miles from your home, and before you know it you’re circling a crowded parking lot and preparing to drop your only child off for her first day of kindergarten. The rush of emotions you feel are indecipherable, something like a mix of somberness, excitement, relief, and anxiety.

As you walk towards the front of the building, you’re surrounded by dozens of kids aged five through twelve greeting their teachers and saying ‘Hello’ to friends they haven’t seen all summer. The teachers are holding laminated signs that indicate their name and what grade they teach; thank God for that. Abbey’s little fist squeezes around your index finger and you can tell she’s becoming nervous, despite her previous unbridled anticipation.

“Hey, it’s okay,” You assure, “Look, I think that’s your teacher right there,” you point towards a tall, brunette man standing near the double doors.

A shy smile tugs at the corners of her lips when she sees the teacher in question. He’s dressed in a striped button-down shirt and khakis, with a lanyard dangling from his front pocket; the typical teacher attire.The sign he’s holding reads, ‘Mr. Harrington’ and just below that, ‘Kindergarten’ with a little cartoon apple printed next to his name. He looks young compared to the rest of the staff, closer to your own age. This must be his first year teaching.

As you approach him, Abbey treks in front, eager to meet him. Her backpack is adorned with sparkly butterflies and it covers nearly her entire torso; bumping the backs of her knees with every step she takes.

The man crouches down to her level and greets her, “Hey there,” he offers a warm smile, “what’s your name?”

“Abbey,” she says timidly, twiddling her fingers and flashing a toothy grin at him. She doesn’t bother with her last name, honestly you’re not positive that she even knows it.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Abbey,” he holds a gentle hand out for her to shake and she does so hesitantly, “My name’s Mr. Harrington, and I’m going to be your teacher this year. How does that sound?” The way he’s so patient and attentive with her stirs something within you that you haven’t felt in years, but he’s a teacher, for goodness sake. He looks up then, locking eyes with you and rising back to his full height.

This time, it’s your turn to shake his hand. “I’m Steve.” He flashes you a smile directly out of a Colgate ad and you hope you’re not blushing as much as you feel like you are.

You must look nervous because he immediately assures you that Abbey’s in good hands this year. “We’re having an open house tonight, I hope to see you both there,”

You glance at your daughter, “What’d you think, Ab? That sound fun?”

“Yes!” She squeals and almost falls over from the weight of her backpack.

“Okay then,” With that, you crouch down to give Abbey one final hug. It’s clear that she’s itching to go socialize with the other kids, so you try not to delay her with your sappiness.

“Be good today, okay?” you give her a tight squeeze and a smacking kiss on her little cheek, “I’ll be back to get you at two-forty-five.”

“What will the clock say?” She asks inquisitively. Her favorite question.

“It’ll say ‘two-four-five’,” She nods in understanding, “But I bet you’ll be having so much fun that you won’t even remember to look.”

She’s already on her way to the door when she calls, “Love you, mommy!” and blows you a kiss with her lips puckered. You blow her one back and fight the tears threatening to surface. When did she get so big?

A pang of insecurity settles in your chest when you chance a look around and see all the children accompanied by two parents. You begin the walk back to your sedan before the thought has a chance to fester.

︵୨୧︵

Six hours goes by alarmingly fast when it’s spent running around your house in a frenzy, trying to catch up on all the cleaning you aren’t able to do when there’s a rampant five-year-old on the loose, making a brand new mess where you just cleaned an old one.

Before you can even register the time has passed, it's two o’clock and you need to pick Abbey up in a mere forty five minutes. Looking around your house, you feel satisfied with the progress you were able to make on tidying and call it a day.

This time, you decide to try and appear more presentable before visiting the school, and firmly remind yourself that it has nothing to do with how flustered your daughter’s kindergarten teacher makes you. By the time you’re dressed and have pulled your hair up into a halfway decent top knot; it’s time to go.

︵୨୧︵

The line for pickup wraps around the front of the building, aided by crossing guards and supervised by a few teachers. Twenty minutes into waiting, you regret not having gotten here a little sooner. ‘Tomorrow’ you think. Soon, you catch sight of two little pigtails bobbing up and down as your Abbey skips over to you, grinning ear to ear while Steve watches from the doors she just exited.

“Mommy!” she shouts as she bounds towards you. You place the car in park and run around to greet her.

“Hi, Bug!” you exclaim as you bend at the waist to pick her up. She gives you a tight squeeze around the neck, and you catch a split second of Steve’s gaze over her shoulder before he’s disappearing back inside the school

Plopping her as gently as possible into her carseat and fastening the straps over her chest, her mouth is already moving a mile a minute– absolutely ecstatic to tell you all about the activities she got up to while you were gone.

“What is ‘open house’ ?” she asks, kicking her feet like she can’t possibly contain all the excitement inside her little body.

“It’s just a chance for all the mommies and daddies to meet your teachers,” you explain, “And you get to show me around your new school, fun right?”

Her face lights up like a christmas tree at the prospect, “Are we gonna go?!”

“Yes, but first we have to eat dinner. What sounds good?”

Without missing a beat, she yells a little too loudly, “McDonalds!”

You want to say yes, of course you do, but your shifts at the ER barely cover the minimum of your living expenses. Your resolve begins to crumble, however, when she looks at you with those saucer-round eyes, and her bottom lip juts out in the most precious pout. Who knew she could be so harmlessly manipulative?

“I don’t know, Ab. I think we have some chicken nuggets in the freezer at home, though,” you say, with an air of hopefulness that she might accept the compromise.

“Not the same,” she whines, “Please, Mommy! I’ll be extra extra good please–”

And with that, it’s over.

“Okay! Okay, fine,” you feign annoyance through a smile, “We’ll stop on the way home,”

You can still hear her squeals of excitement when you close the door and walk around to the driver's seat.

︵୨୧︵

Abbey dresses a little more cohesively for the open house than she did this morning. This time she’s clad in a thrifted pair of overalls overtop a little purple blouse. She leads you, hand in hand, inside the school like she knows exactly where she’s going– despite only having spent six hours here.

Steve’s classroom looks exactly how you’d expect. The walls are a light, mint green and it’s as if a character from Sesame Street threw up all over it. Abbey leads you to a reading nook in the corner of the room, surrounded by books and complete with several bean bag chairs, and proclaims this is her favorite spot. She shows you where her desk is– right in the very front of the classroom– and on it, a laminated sticker with her first and last name sits neatly near the top. The walls are lined with colorful letters in alphabetical order, accompanied with numbers just underneath them.

“Abbey!” you hear a familiar voice call, “I’m glad you and your mom could make it!” turning to you then, “I’m actually not sure I ever caught your name,” he chuckles awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the fact that he doesn’t know it yet.

“Oh, it’s–” and before you get the chance to tell him, Abbey pipes up and tells him your first and last name with a confidence that she certainly didn’t have when it came to her own introduction this morning. You’re relieved that she feels so comfortable around him already.

He repeats your name back to you and holds out his hand for you to shake, “It’s nice to meet you,” You pay no mind to the way your heart beats a little faster in its cage at the sound of your name on his lips. His palm is surprisingly soft when you grasp it in your own.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you grant him a polite smile, “Abbey could not stop talking about you on the way home,” you pinch her side, teasing, and she giggles in that contagious way that kids do.

“Is that so?” he feigns surprise when he looks at her.

“Nooo!” her giggles amplify as she becomes increasingly bashful.

He crouches down to meet her at eye-level, exactly like he did this morning, “Well, that’s a shame, because I think you might be one of my favorite students,”

Now, she’s a heap of laughter and has a blush spreading from the apple of her cheeks to the tips of her ears. You can’t help but feel enamored by how great he is with children, silently wondering if he comes from a big family, or if he has a child of his own.

“Did you introduce your mom to Nibbles?” he asks her when her laughing mostly subsides.

She gasps like she can’t believe she would’ve forgotten such a thing, then she hauls you by the arm over to a tiny cage on a table, presumably for an even tinier animal.

“Mommy, look! This is Nibbles,” She’s peering between the metal bars of the enclosure and encouraging you to do the same, when you lean in closer you see a small, tan gerbil sleeping in a little nest of bedding.

“He’s our friend and he helps us learn, so we have to be very careful with him,” she tells you with a sudden seriousness that's amusing to see displayed on such a young face. It’s obvious she’s parroting Steve.

You turn to see Steve observing from a few feet behind you, both hands shoved in his pockets, “I didn’t think teachers actually had class pets,” you breathe a huff of laughter.

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles with you, “I brought him from home, actually. Figured he could use some socialization. With dozens of children.” he informs you sarcastically. God, he’s funny too.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you to be a hamster guy,” you tease.

“He’s a gerbil, first of all,”

“Right, sorry, my bad,” you smirk.

“No time for a dog, I guess,” he shrugs, “thought I could use the company,” he’s clearly still bantering, but there’s an underlying melancholy in his tone that you can’t quite place. Before you can think about it for longer than a second, an impatient five-year-old is tugging on your arm and begging to show you the library.

“Okay, alright,” you laugh, “better get to it, the library awaits,” you shoot him an apologetic look for having cut the conversation short. You feel less guilty, however, when you see more parents and children start to funnel into the classroom, busying him in yours and Abbey’s absence.

“See ya, “ he waves.

“Bye, Mr. Harrington!” Abbey yells, already halfway down the hall.

︵୨୧︵

In the library you have to shush Abbey several times, much to her dismay.

“We use our inside voices in the library, Ab,” you remind her for the fifth time. She frowns but it’s temporary when she spots her favorite section: the picture books. Abbey is ahead of a kindergarten reading level now, and it's one of her favorite hobbies, but you can still never go wrong with a good picture book.

You’re about to follow her when you hear someone call your name.

You turn, “Stephanie?” you ask, puzzled.

“Oh my gosh! It’s been forever!” an old friend from your shared high school, Stephanie, pulls you into an unreciprocated bear hug. Squeezing and swaying back and forth for an awkward amount of time.

“Hey,” you draw out the last syllable and try to paint your voice with a nostalgic excitement, “How have you been?” you ask, even though you’re sure you’d rather be shot than continue this conversation.

You don’t know if you could really call Stephanie a ‘friend’, or if you ever could. The only reason she even knew your name being the shared, piranha-esq social circle you both ran in years ago. She reminded you of your past– who you used to be– someone who you’re not particularly proud of.

“Oh, I've been just fine!” She gestures wildly with manicured nails. Her lips are overlined and her hair is still damaged from bleaching and too many perms. Evidently, not a lot has changed. You ponder if she’s still the mean girl she always was underneath all that makeup, or if at some point in your adolescence she decided to mature.

“Todd and I just bought a house over on Maplewood, are you familiar?”

“Oh, no, not really– my daughter and I live across town,” You don’t like how ashamed you feel, “I’ve heard it’s beautiful over there, though,” you attempt to smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That was your daughter?” She’s trying not to sound taken aback and failing, “With–?”

“Yes,” Your teeth grit ever so slightly. You hate that she won’t say his name, as if speaking it into existence would somehow break you. Like you’re fragile.

“I was terribly sorry to hear about what happened, Hon,” Her sudden sympathetic tone irritates you, whether it’s genuine or not. You don’t need pity, especially not from Stephanie Nettles.

“It’s okay, Steph, really,” losing patience by the second, nothing about it was okay. “It was a long time ago, Abbey and I are doing fine,” you assure her.

“Oh,” she fawns as she presses her bony hands against her chest above her heart, “Can I meet her? Would you mind?" Her tone is saccharine sweet. You figure it can’t hurt, but when you turn around to retrieve Abbey, she’s not where you left her. The spot on the rug that she was previously occupying is empty and her book is abandoned on the floor.

“Abbey?!” Calling a little too loudly for the setting you’re in but you can’t bring yourself to care. You search row after row, it’s not a big library, and after every shelf you’re expecting her to be there– browsing novels and you’ll feel silly for overreacting.

But that doesn’t happen, and you realize with mild panic that she definitely left the library; somehow without you noticing. You suppose this is the safest place for her to go missing, but the thought doesn’t soothe you for long as you still have no idea where your daughter could be.

Stephanie is staring at you with concern, but still making no effort to help you locate Abbey. You don’t speak and neither does she as you rush out of the room and begin to pace the halls, still calling out for her. You check the bathrooms by the gym, a couple of empty classrooms that aren’t locked– she’s not there either.

When you’ve checked every available room and potential hiding spot in the near vicinity and still see no trace of her, that’s when the real dread sets in. What if she’d wandered outside and been taken? Or worse, there had been an accident and she’s hurt? She could be miles from here by now, she could be–

“I think this might belong to you,” a mellow voice rings out.

Steve and Abbey walk leisurely towards you, hand in hand. A complete contrast to the frazzled mess of anxiety you are right now. You hurl yourself in their direction and wrap Abbey up in a hug, lifting her off her feet.

“Oh my God, Abbey,” normally you’d be fuming at her for wandering off like that when you know that she knows better, but you can’t feel anything other than relief in the moment.

“Found her on the swings,” Steve continues, “Isn’t that right?”

Your relief does eventually morph to frustration, “You know better, Abbey Jane. Don’t stray off like that again. Do you understand?”

She succumbs to her guilt and you can tell her short-lived freedom has lost its novelty. “I’m sorry, mommy,” her little eyes well with tears. “The other kids were going to the swings, I wanted to go,” she pouts.

“We could’ve gone, baby, but you have to ask first, okay?”

Her meek response is muffled in the crook of your neck, “Okay,”

She’s still sniffling into your shoulder when you remember Steve is there, and your surroundings come back into focus.

“Thank you for finding her, Steve–”

“--His name is Mr. Harrington, mom,” she corrects like she can’t believe you’d embarrass her like that by calling her teacher the wrong name.

“--Mr. Harrington,” you stifle a laugh for your daughter's sake, sending him a knowing look.

He returns the expression, “Anytime,” he smiles, sweet . “Think that's enough scaring your mom for today, huh?”

Instead of acknowledging with words, she simply nods her head, eyes glued to the floor, ashamed.

“I think someones getting sleepy, might be time to head home,” you drag a gentle hand down her back soothingly.

“Will you carry me?” she asks too adorably to say no, despite her being ever-so-slightly too big for it. Grunting as you pick her up, you say, “Thanks, again,”

“No need,” he ruffles Abbey’s head lightly as you pass, “See you tomorrow, right?”

“See you,” her eyelids are heavy already. You make your way back to the car slowly but surely, arms growing more numb with every step.

︵୨୧︵

Abbey manages to bargain a bath out of you and four books before bedtime instead of the usual two. How you ever say no to her, you’re not sure. By the time you finally tuck her in, it's well past nine o’clock.

“Did you have a good day today?” You ask as you bend down to kiss her forehead.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington is my favorite teacher,” she proclaims drowsily.

“He’s your only teacher, Ab,” You snicker.

“But he’s still my favorite,” she replies in the same cadence one would say ‘Duh’.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to go to sleep super fast tonight so you can see him sooner, right?”

You can practically see the lightbulb turn on above her head like she’s just had a groundbreaking revelation and nods fervently. You tuck her in tight on both sides, and give her a kiss on each of her cheeks and once more to her forehead for good measure.

“Love you, Abbey girl,” you tell her on your way out, “Goodnight,”

“Goodnight, mommy,” she says wearily from underneath her princess bedsheets.

The door closes with a soft click and you make your way to the living room. You never had the chance to ask Stephanie what she was doing at the school– from what you knew, she didn’t have any children. Perhaps she was a teacher. It didn’t matter as long as you didn’t have to interact with her again.

As you lounged on your old sectional, you couldn't help your mind wandering back to thoughts of Steve. You wanted to know more about him. Where he came from, what made him want to work with kids, why he needed a gerbil to keep him company. Distantly, you imagined what he was like outside of an elementary school setting. You hoped one day you’d find out.

He was Abbey’s teacher, sure, but what was the harm in a little crush?

taglist - @soulxiez

divider credit to @/strangergraphics

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ysaona · 7 months ago

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Her arms, I’m going insane.

#— ˚୨୧⋆｡ eves journal #yes I’m making more c.ai jinx bots #lesbian #wlw #arcane netflix #arcane series #arcane #arcane smut #arcane jinx #jinx x reader #jinx smut #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx lol #jinx #jinx fanart

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kyumisyumi · 9 months ago

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Nikto who just doesn't let you leave his home after a one night stand.

You had a general idea of how one night stands went; you get in, you fuck, you get out. It wasn't really something you did often but when your neighbor who, in all honesty, has had your interest for a while asks... It was hard to keep your mouth from saying 'hell fucking yes'. Prior to this your interactions consisted of little more than pleasantries but you knew, from other neighbor's accounts, that he was more talkative with you than anyone else. And now you knew why.

Your neighbor did not disappoint. Nikto fucked the senses right out of your skull. Your clothes crumpled and discarded along with your inhibitions. You'd be feeling him for days; between your legs, in your mouth, in every bruise left on your skin and random twitch in your thigh. It was one hell of a good time but you knew how these things ended. Knew that once the breathing died down and the adrenaline left your senses it was time to put your clothes back on and skedaddle.

However Nikto finds every excuse for you to stay;

You shift to leave the bed but his arm casually wraps around you, pulling you back against him. You look back at him confused but his eyes are already closed and he only says one word. "Sleep."

The next morning you go to put on your clothes only to find they're nowhere in the room. Instead one of his shirts was left on the side of the bed you slept on. You tug it on and when you find him, he's doing laundry. "Hospitality. I clean them for you." He grunts. And so you end up chatting with him in the laundry room, helping out by seperating the clothes.

When that's all done you make one last trip to his room to double check you've left nothing behind. You announce your departure but Nikto stops you from in the kitchen, declaring he's already made breakfast for two. "Don't waste food." He says putting a plate in your hands. To his credit; it was a good hearty breakfast.

Another attempt to leave? He's rented a movie you mentioned, it has to be watched within 24 hours. "You wanted to see this, da. Come, we watch now?"

And another? "You've been wanting to learn how to bake, da? Let me teach you this recipe."

Another one? You can't leave without letting him show you one of his collections

Another? How about another movie?

And the final attempt? "It's too late to be out, better to just spend the night here." He says as if your home wasn't a hop, skip and a jump away from his.

You caught on, of course, but you don't really mind. It's been a while since you've felt wanted and the flattery had you beaming inside. You probably should be alarmed but he hasn't used any force, no intimidation, just a socially inept man trying to convince his pretty little neighbor to move in in the most roundabout way possible.

#kyumiwrites #cod nikto #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto #mwii nikto #nikto x you #andre nikto #I need this so bad rn #someone make this a bot on janitor ai

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yukiiisx · 1 year ago

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c.ai when

i did not spend like hours here n bro jus goes like this omg

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pittsick · 1 month ago

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IN THE CAR.

summary: after a year of unresolved tension during their shifts at the PTMC’s ER, a young resident and Dr. Robinavitch finally gives in to their desires. A night at the bar, drinking some beers turns heated and they end up hooking-up in the backseat of a car. But it turns out to be way more intimate than they thought.

pairing: michael robinavitch x younger!afab!resident.

cw: +18. mdni. praise. fingering. protected piv. mutual pining. semi-public sex. dubcon (tipsy people). power imbalance (mild). multiple orgasms. emotional sex. use of the word “kid” to describe reader (non-sexual).

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved

It starts the same way it always does—with a glance across Trauma 2 that lasts too long.

Robby's hands are still gloved, speckled with drying blood as he tosses the surgical shears into the bin with a sharp clatter. He’s focused, grim-faced, sleeves rolled to the elbow, straight hair going crazy on his head. You shouldn’t be watching him, not when your own hands are wrist-deep in charting and your resident badge is still clipped too tight to your scrub pocket. But you do. Everyone does, when Robby’s in the room.

You’ve been working with him for a year. A whole year of tense shifts, slow nods of approval, the brush of his hand at your back when you edge past him in trauma bays, the infuriating way he never says anything more than strictly necessary—unless it’s at 7pm, after back-to-back code blues, when his voice goes quiet and kind.

“You did good today,” he’ll murmur then, just for you.

That’s when it burns.

Tonight, he doesn’t say anything at all until the end of shift, when the patient finally stabilizes and the buzz of adrenaline dulls to the usual fluorescent-tinted hum of the PTMC ER. You’re both still moving, wiping down carts, scribbling notes, both pretending not to watch the other.

“You heading home?” His voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel—low, casual, dangerous.

You glance up, and there’s that look again. That look. Like you’re already under him, flushed and ruined. Like he can imagine how you tease. “I was gonna grab a beer,” you say, too casual, too practiced. “You?”

He wipes a hand over his face, scratching his short beard, pausing just long enough. “Yeah. Yeah, I could use one.”

The bar is a dive, five blocks from the hospital, dimly lit with sticky tables and a jukebox that only plays tragically earnest ‘90s rock. You end up at a booth in the back, the kind with torn leather and a tabletop you keep accidentally brushing your knees under.

You’re not even halfway through your first pint before it starts.

The staring.

The laughing too hard at his dry, grumbly sarcasm. The way he pushes your beer toward you with his knuckles and murmurs, “Drink, kid,” like you’re already his.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask, fingers curled around the cold glass. “You know I’m not that much younger.”

Robby chuckles, and it’s not fair—his laugh is too soft, too rare, and it turns your stomach in the good, awful way. “You’re young. You still get excited about things like charting.”

You nudge his knee beneath the table. “You still get excited about good central lines.”

“Touché.”

He’s already unzipping his sweatshirt, the white shirt shirt his scrub is low enough to see a good portion of his throat, and you’re tipsy enough to be watching his Adam’s apple move when he swallows.

You should stop drinking. But you don’t.

Somewhere between the second and third round, things tip.

He’s leaning in closer than he should. His hand brushes yours when he goes to pick up his glass, and this time—this time—he doesn’t pull away. He watches you, eyes narrowed, lip twitching like he’s fighting something. You don’t dare say anything. You don’t dare breathe too loud.

But the silence gets thicker. He’s looking at your mouth now.

“I should…” you start, heart racing, “get going.”

He nods slowly, blinking hard like he’s waking up from something. “Yeah. Let me walk you to your car.”

The parking lot’s empty, dark, the street lamp flickering. The night is humid, windless. You pause by your car door, and he’s still beside you, too close again. You also can smell him. “Thanks for the drinks,” you say, trying to be polite, steady, professional. You even smile. It trembles.

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks down at you, expression unreadable, jaw tight. You can feel your pulse behind your ears, a low drumbeat of is this it, is this the moment, are you finally going to—

“You drive okay?” he asks, finally, voice rough. “You didn’t drink too much?”

You shrug. “Three beers. I’m good. Buzzed, maybe. But I’ll be alright.”

He nods. Then—quiet, soft, gravel-low: “You sure?” It’s not about driving. You know it. He knows it. The air between you practically warps with the weight of it. He shifts on his feet and so do you. Closer.

“Are you?” you ask, not moving anymore. Not unlocking the door. Not looking away.

Something cracks behind his eyes. He exhales, shaky. “Fuck. I’ve been trying so hard not to—”

You don’t let him finish. Your hand’s already fisting the front of his sweatshirt, dragging him in. The kiss is messy, half teeth, way too desperate. His hands cup your face, then your jaw, and then they’re gripping your hips so tight you gasp into his mouth. He groans, low and ragged, when you press your thigh between his.

“You have no idea,” he mutters, half against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted—”

“Then get in the car,” you whisper, drunk on adrenaline and beer and him. “Please.”

The inside of your car still smells like hand sanitizer and cheap coffee, but you don’t care.

Robby’s hand is in your hair before the door’s even shut. The moment the lock clicks, he’s pulling you toward him again, kissing you like he’s been starving for months. Like something broke open the moment you said please, and now there’s no stuffing it back inside.

His mouth is warm and commanding, tasting of beer and frustration and heat. Your hands slide under his scrubs and white shirt, fingertips brushing the soft hair on his chest, and he hisses between his teeth at the contact.

“Jesus, love…” His voice is frayed, guttural. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“You don’t want to?” Robby pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. His expression is dark, intense — eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, his breath hot against your cheek.

“I want this so bad it’s fucking me up.” You swallow hard, your whole body buzzing. “Then do it. I’ve wanted you for so long.” He exhales sharply, like that knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re tipsy,” he says, but he’s already running his hands down your sides, already letting his forehead rest against yours. His voice is lower now, rougher. “I should stop. I should let you go home. We should both pretend we’re better than this.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that,” you whisper, fingers moving to undo the strings of his scrub pants. “Neither do I.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes. “Okay. Okay, come here—”

Then it’s urgent again.

You clamber into his lap awkwardly, straddling him in the front seat–not even caring if someone passes by and sees you — knees pressing into the leather as he yanks your scrub top over your head, tank top following. His hands are trembling, but his mouth never stops. He kisses your throat, your collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing over your bra as you grind down onto the hard length of him through both your clothes.

He groans, openly now, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You’ve been driving me insane for a year. Every damn day — those eyes, the way you walk past me like you don’t know what you do.”

“I don’t,” you whisper, breathless, head falling back as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your neck. “I didn’t know if you even noticed me like that.”

He actually growls. “I noticed everything.”

You can feel his cock pressing up through his pants, straining against the fabric of the scrubs. Your hips rock down instinctively, grinding into it, and Robby’s head thuds against the seat’s headrest with a long, shuddering moan.

“I used to jerk off in the shower after shift,” he admits, voice cracked and low. “Thinking about you. After rounds. After codes. Anytime you touched me accidentally.”

You whimper, dizzy from his words, from the weight of him beneath you.

“Say it again,” you breathe, tone almost begging.

“I touched myself thinking about you.” His hands slip beneath your waistband, fingers brushing the damp cotton of your underwear. “Is it alright like this?”

You nod frantically, your whole body arching into his hand.

He kisses you again — slower now, like he’s savoring it. The air inside the car grows humid, fogged up with your breath and his heat. When he finally pushes your underwear to the side, his fingers slip through your slick folds with a quiet, obscene sound.

“Christ,” he breathes, staring down between your bodies. “You’re soaked.”

“You did that,” you murmur, voice trembling as he starts to circle your clit with maddening slowness. “You’ve been doing that for months.” His eyes lift to meet yours — wide, dark, almost reverent.

“Let me take care of you,” he says hoarsely. “Just this once. Let me make you feel good.”

Your heart stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Please.”

Robby kisses you like he’s trying to say thank you without words. Then he dips his fingers lower and pushes one inside you, slow and deliberate. You gasp at the stretch, your hips bucking forward instinctively, and he groans under you like it’s him getting fucked.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “God, you’re so tight. So warm around me.”

He adds a second finger and starts thrusting them, gently curling inside you, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit with practiced, devastating precision. You whimper, trying to ride the rhythm, but it’s too much — too intense, too intimate. The air between you is wet heat and shaking breath, and Robby’s eyes never leave your face.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Doing so good.” He praises you while his fingers gently do you, pushing against your walls in all the right places. Like he knows your body alright, like it’s a treasure he’s discovering.

You fall apart faster than you expect, way too soon for your own taste. Your orgasm crashes through you with a sob, your whole body trembling as you clutch at his shirt and cry out into his shoulder. Robby holds you the whole way through it, murmuring nonsense and praise into your hair when you clench on his fingers.

“There you go. That’s my girl. Been thinking about this for so long. You feel so fucking good.”

You collapse against him, panting, dazed. Your thigh brushes the hard length of him again, and you feel him twitch. “You’re still hard,” you murmur, eyes fluttering open. He chuckles, but there’s strain under it. “Yeah. You didn’t exactly help.”

“Do you have…?” You trail off, cocking an eyebrow. Robby nods, fishing in his wallet. “Yeah. Always.”

He pauses, the condom packet in his hand. “You sure?”

You answer by pushing his scrubs pants down his hips and pulling him out.

He hisses, throwing his head back as you stroke him — long, slow pulls of your hand along the heavy length of him, hand brushing on the hair of his pubic area. He’s hot and leaking pre-cum, flushed dark and twitching under your fingers.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want you inside me.”

Robby moves like a man possessed.

He tears the condom open with shaking hands, rolls it on quickly, and you lift your hips, guiding him to your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you — so big it almost hurts — and then he’s sliding in, inch by agonizing inch.

“Oh my God,” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

His hands grip your waist like a lifeline. “Shh, I got you. I got you, baby.”

It takes a minute to adjust; he’s thick, and the angle in the car is awkward, your knees are pushed inside the leather of your car seat and it almost burns already — but the heat and stretch of him inside you is perfect. When you finally start to move, rolling your hips in slow, desperate circles, Robby lets out a sound so guttural it doesn’t sound human.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Faster,” you whisper, “Please, I need—”

He thrusts up into you hard, and the moan that rips out of you echoes off the fogged windows. The rhythm builds; slow at first, deliberate, his cock dragging along every nerve inside you. Then harder. Deeper. His hands are everywhere — your hips, your waist, your back, like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, half delirious. “Been thinking about this for months. Fucking you. Making you mine.”

“You have me,” you whimper, bracing yourself on his chest as you ride him harder. “You’ve always had me.” Your hands move to wrap around his nape, eyes lowering between your bodies to look at his cock disappearing inside you.

Something snaps in him at that.

He grabs your ass, fucking up into you with punishing thrusts, cock hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over until you’re seeing stars. You’re close again — dangerously close — and he knows it. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing tight little circles as he murmurs filth and praise in your ear and that makes you dizzy.

“That’s it, baby. Come on. Come for me again. Let me feel you.” Robby praises and praises again, until he feels you clenching around his cock.

Your orgasm hits so hard it folds you in half.

You cry out, legs shaking, body spasming around him as pleasure wracks through you. Mouth open, eyebrows furrowed, unable to speak for a second. He groans, thrusting up once, twice more, then comes with a growl of your name — hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside the condom.

For a long moment, the only sound is your combined gasping. Sweat, breath, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You can feel your heart inside your pussy.

You collapse forward into his chest. He wraps his arms around you like it’s instinct. Like that’s where you actually belong. Neither of you says anything right away. When you finally lift your head, his hair is sweat-damp against his temple. His cheeks are flushed. He looks dazed. Human. Beautiful.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He smiles, slow and lopsided. “That was…”

“Yeah,” you say, snorting softly. “That was.”

You shift, wincing a little as he slips out of you. Robby helps you clean up — fumbling for napkins in your glovebox, still breathless, a hand still on your hips to make sure you won’t disappear. You won’t. You both start laughing halfway through before you move onto the driver seat to give both of you some space.

Then silence settles again. The kind of silence that feels like more than just post-orgasm calm.

You glance over. Robby’s watching you with that same unreadable intensity from earlier — like he’s not sure if he fucked everything up or fixed something that was broken.

“I’m not gonna regret this,” you say quietly. “Not even a little.”

He exhales, almost in relief. “Me neither.”

You pull your scrub top back on, shifting in the now-cooled air. He zips up, pulls his pants up and leans back in the seat, arm draped behind your headrest. For the first time all night, he looks relaxed. Sated.

“You want to do this again sometime?” he asks, tone casual but eyes serious. Behind his eyes is something deeper. More than just sex, and you understand that.

You grin, cheeks flushed, forehead sweaty.

“Yeah. I really, really do.”

#★ mika’s writing .ᐟ #the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt headcanons #the pitt fandom #the pitt x you #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt bots #michael robinavitch headcanon #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x you #dr robby #dr robinavitch

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fckmebarnes · 30 days ago

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add a gold chain and my legs open wider

#chatterbox e ˙𐃷˙#bucky barns imagine #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan #i #am definitely making a bot with this

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chrattho1 · 1 month ago

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sub!chris loves it when you call him your good boy.

chris is smitten for your praises, he'd do anything for you to praise him just a little bit, just so he could get a small “just like that” or a “doing so good for me” out of you.

but when you call him your good boy. oh yeah.

he didn’t even know he’d like being called that until you said it once. and from that moment forward, his life changed.

since then, he does everything in his power to get you to call him that.

right now with his head between your thighs, his tongue laps at your slick folds and drags up to your clit, sucking and licking it. the accumulated saliva in his mouth dribbles down your pussy with your own juices. his eyes stay focused up at your face, looking at every single expression it makes to his actions. he’s been at this for almost twenty minutes now.

his own legs pressed together, thighs rubbing close watching you let out small moans of his name.

he knows he is doing good, he just needs to hear it from you.

his nose pressing against your flesh, he is out of breath but would never dare to pull off when he knows you’re so close to just saying it.

“chris, baby— fuck” his eyes fluttering but not looking away even for a second, his nails digging in the flesh of your thighs and knees lowered on the ground as he sits down between your spread legs on the couch.

your hips bucked up in his face and eyes rolling back, his hands sneak to the back of your thighs pulling them up on his shoulders and burrowing his face deeper. his hair tickling your stomach.

"oh fuck baby, so good, so fucking good f’me” you let out through gritted teeth, moaning and throwing your head back next. chris ate that up, literally.

his legs rub closer to each other, squirming on the ground hearing you praise him like that. it drives him crazy enough to rub one out in his pants.

“fuck, gonna cum baby, fuck” you screech pressing your eyes shut, legs quivering around him and face scrunched in pleasure. he pulls his head back just a tiny bit to get a proper look at you, his hair sticking to his forehead and eyes droopy. his tongue picking up speed and his lips moving along, all while trying to get some friction down in his pants.

“just like that, baby, fuck—” your body shakes, cumming undone and squirting all over his mouth creating a sloppy mess on the couch in the matter of a few seconds.

your lips caught between your teeth feeling chris lick and suck through your orgasm. his whole face damp and still buried in you.

when he does finally pull off, panting heavily he looks down at his own pants. well he kinda made a mess too.

your chest heaves and head falls back lazily on the couch, legs slumping on his shoulders.

chris lets out a deep exhale dropping his head on your thigh resisting the urge to kitty lick around it and clean you up. he stays still, taking a few deep breaths and letting you come down from your orgasm.

your hand reaches down to massage his scalp through his hair feeling chris sigh against your skin.

“such a good boy f’me” you spoke softly, voice hoarse and tired from screaming but he heard you perfectly.

“i am” he mumbles, letting out yet another soft exhale of relief and planting a kiss on your inner thigh

˗ˏˋ a/n ˎˊ˗ been on my mind all day so i wrote it and this is not proofread at all so. english is not my first language !

🏷️ @espressqe @ginswife @sturnsburna @carolina454 @hope2244 @hotgirlbl0gger @violetstxrniolo777 @riggysworld @verycoolmiyah @fadedstvrn @purpledreamertyphoon @mattsplaything @whore4chris @chris-halleluja @annsx03 @mattsdemi @chrislittleslut @poolover123 @luvvnai @chrissturniolossidehoe @pompomprrin @harmonysturniolo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @soph-loren @ccsturns @lovesturni0l0s @chriss-slutt @wysmols @sturniolosluttt @mattsdillion @alyssa-sturn @bilssturns @sturnobessed @mxnsonn @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @chrissturnioloswife88 @sxphiee3 @purpledreamertyphoon @whoreforchrissturnniolo @slutformatt17 @realuvrrr @sweetxcheeryx @sturnl0ve @estellesdoll @glitterybtch @courta13 @mattsbitchh @slvtf0rchr1s @trevorsgodmother

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pnghoon · 3 months ago

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심재윤ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⨾ 󠀠ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwho knows? i might let you make me juno.

(🎼) ── 𝓢IM JAEYUN [제이크] ⁞ ㅤㅤ𝓰. fluff, crack, married au, humor, suggestive???ㅤㅤ୨୧ㅤㅤ warnings : est. relationship, not proofread, skinship, kissing, suggestive themes but nothing crazy, pet-namesㅤ⟡ㅤ!nonidol hubby !ikeu 𝔁 fem baby fever wife !reader ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᯓ ꒰ wc : 1.6k꒱ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsynopsis .ᐟ in which your husband seems to be painfully clueless to your advances... ── 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ᡣ𐭩

juno's note ─ hehehehehehehhe i feel the baby kicking in me already while writing this!!! /j if you enjoyed reading this, please be sure to like & reblog !! ♡

you weren’t really sure when the baby fever started.

maybe it was that day your adorable niece fell asleep on your chest. or maybe it was when you passed by a store window and saw the tiniest pair of shoes imaginable, and your ovaries staged a coup. either way, it was happening.

the problem was: your husband. sim jaeyun, jake sim, seemed to think nothing of it. zero. zilch. absolutely no thoughts. you were starting to think your husband had no peripheral vision. either that or he had unlocked a state of zen so deep that even a flashing neon sign reading "put a baby in me" wouldn’t disrupt the peace in his goldfish-level intellect.

you wanted it. so bad. the whole messy, sleep-deprived, snack-packing, lullaby-singing adventure. and honestly? you figured jake would be on the same page.

he was not on the same page. jake wasn’t even in the bookstore.

you had tried everything.

you would bring up themes of raising a child any chance you could. even before bed when the lights were off. hell, you even started buying books about the jovial moments of motherhood. but still--nothing.

you were sure jake wasn’t dumb. i mean, the man built ikea furniture without the instructions once. he knew how to calculate the tip before the bill even hit the table. he even explained quantum tunneling to you using gummy bears and a freshly opened cereal box.

so why--just why--was he so blissfully, frustratingly, and painfully oblivious to the fact that you wanted a damn baby.

not a dog. not a car. not a plant. a full-fledged, tiny little version of the two of you.

you started simple.

"you ever wonder what our kid would look like?" you asked over breakfast one morning, twirling your spoon in your cereal while leaving no room for misinterpretation.

jake blinked up from his pancakes, "huh? oh, i dunno. maybe a mix of us? or like, 75% me, 25% you. no offense, baby, but my genetics are kinda elite."

you stared.

he kissed your forehead and stole your toast.

and that’s when you knew. it wasn’t cluelessness. it was arrogance. delusion. you married a mad man who thought his genetics were too good not to dominate the gene pool.

you glared at his retreating back as he happily munched on your toast, muttering something about "dominant jawlines" and "superior hair texture." you were this close to calling his mother and asking if he had always been this dense, or if marriage had fried his brain.

but you weren’t a quitter.

and if your husband wouldn’t see the signs? well, maybe it was time to make the signs a little harder to ignore.

you had it displayed on the coffee table like it was fine art. "nurture: a modern guide to pregnancy, birth, early motherhood--and trusting yourself and your body" the book was simple, with a soft off-white backdrop and a circular peachy hue design in the center.

you left it in the bathroom. nothing.

you left it on the coffee table. crickets.

you even left it on the kitchen island near his morning coffee. he used it as a coaster.

you felt like you were slowly losing your mind.

then one evening, you walked into the bedroom to find jake lounging with the book open on his lap.

you felt your pulse quicken.

"oh my god, you’re reading it?" you gasped, your excitement bubbling over like a shaken soda can.

he looked up, a soft smile on his face. "yeah, babe. it’s actually really insightful. i didn’t realize how much there is to know."

you pressed a hand to your chest, feeling like you might faint. "so... you’ve been thinking about it? about everything?"

he blinked at you, a confused expression crossing his face. "what? oh, no, i just had it here while i was eating snacks. It made a great surface for my chips, and the book’s sturdy--didn’t want to ruin it."

you stood frozen in the doorway, utterly speechless, as he nonchalantly reached for the bowl of chips sitting on top of your cherished book.

you considered divorce for exactly 2.5 seconds.

maybe you had to up the stakes.

every friday, you and jake had a movie night ritual. you’d alternate picking movies, and each time, you’d "accidentally" pick a movie that had a subtle theme of parenthood or babies--mostly romantic comedies with happy, chaotic families. but this particular friday night? you were taking no chances.

"so what do you want to watch?" jake asked, sprawling out on the couch, his arm slung over the backrest like he was ready for a good nap.

"oh, i was thinking we could watch baby mama tonight," you suggested, trying to sound casual as you pretended to scroll through the streaming options.

jake raised an eyebrow, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "that’s a classic, huh?"

"yeah, classic," you nodded proudly, pretending not to notice his lack of enthusiasm. "it's about two women and their...well, you know, their journey to becoming parents. super funny stuff."

he looked at you, still oblivious. "cool, sounds like a real feel-good movie. i'm all in."

as the movie played, you shot him a sly glance. "don’t you think babies are the cutest? i mean, especially when they giggle."

"yeah, babies are cool," he mumbled dismissively, munching on popcorn, clearly more interested in the snack than the conversation.

you sighed dramatically, thinking maybe, just maybe, this would be the night he'd catch on. but jake? nope. he just laughed at the jokes and passed the popcorn as if nothing had changed.

you sat there, defeated for the moment. you made a mental note to yourself: this wasn’t over.

you figured maybe you weren’t being direct enough. maybe you needed to turn the heat up.

and by heat, you meant lingerie.

the baby pink kind. with lace. and frills.

and little bows that screamed "breeder."

you strutted into the bedroom like a temptress straight out of a romcom, all hip sway and bedroom eyes.

he looked up from his sudoku puzzle and blinked. "woah. what’s the occasion?"

you leaned in, draped your arms around his shoulders, and whispered, "just thinking it might be fun to… try something new."

his eyes lit up.

progress.

he smirked. "ooh, like sudoku together?"

you nearly ripped your bow off and strangled him with it.

you were starting to get restless. either jake had a brain the size of a peanut or he just didn't like the idea of having a child with you.

you felt like you’d tried everything. baby books, baby movies, leaving your laptop open with your carter's cart filled with tiny onesies out on the coffee table. you even went as far as to borrowing your friend’s toddler for an afternoon. what did jake think? the second you walked in with chubby little noah propped on your hip, his eyes went wide. he stared at you like you’d just kidnapped a random baby--glancing nervously toward the door as if expecting the cops to burst in any second.

but despite all of it, the weird thing was--he was still the same jake. still kissed your forehead every morning. still left cute little notes in your lunch. still brought you that weirdly specific strawberry lemonade you liked without asking.

you knew he loved you. deeply. fully. unapologetically. but god, if he didn’t see your hints soon you were going to lose it.

and then one night, it all cracked.

you were curled up on the couch with a pillow under your sweater--mostly as a joke. another friday movie night, another baby-themed film. this time it was life as we know it, and you were two glasses of wine deep and high off frustration.

"ugh," you groaned, nudging jake with your foot. "i’d be such a cute mom."

he hummed. "you’d be the cutest."

"i’d give the best snacks. and i’d totally make our kid wear matching halloween costumes with us. no exceptions."

"you’d be so annoying about it," he laughed.

"do you think i’d be a good mom?"

he looked over, really looked this time, and your fake pregnant pillow belly shifted slightly under your arm.

his lips curled.

"yeah," he said, soft. "you’d be amazing."

you blinked. "so--so you’ve noticed?"

he reached over, pulling the pillow out from under your shirt, then leaned in to kiss your nose. "i’ve known for weeks," he whispered.

"i--wait--you knew?"

he grinned, that same stupid, lazy grin that made you fall for him in the first place. "babe. you’ve been naming hypothetical babies for three weeks, you’ve got a pinterest board titled 'nursery room ideas,' and then you called me ‘daddy’ during sex--only to immediately clarify, 'like, paternal daddy, not the kinky one. kinda hard not to know.'"

you smacked his arm. he kissed you again.

"i was nervous! besides, why didn’t you say anything?!"

"because," he murmured, flipping you onto your back with one arm, pressing soft kisses down your jaw, "i was enjoying the show."

you fell silent for a moment. "you liked watching me suffer?"

"no," he whispered against your skin, "i liked seeing how cute you looked trying to manipulate me."

you felt your ears go bright red. "you're still an idiot," you murmured out.

he chuckled at your half-ass insult, before leaning in to kiss you--properly this time. slow, deep, with a promise tucked right in the middle. "i love that you want this. i want it too. i was just waiting for you to ask."

you flushed. "so…?"

"so let’s do it," he said simply. "let’s have a baby."

𝓢igning off... @pnghoon

── 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [OPEN 🗯] @onlyhees @amouriu @greentulip @enhluv1 @samiikeu @hoonwhile @dearrwoni @won4kiss @jakesangel

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