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New Shawn pics mean another magazine cover mockup 👀👀👀 ⬇️⬇️
Dr. Jack Abbot gets a cover!!! 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
He has to go to some medical conference or is nominated for an award in his field of medicine. Does an interview and cover shoot, very begrudgingly. He did it because it made Samira smile.
After your fiance cheats on you, you break off your engagement. Your father tries to cheer you up by taking you to the Danforth Country Club. Unfortunately for you, he introduces you to someone you know all too well.
Warnings: age difference implied (never outright stated), SMUT (18+) with a little plot, oral (f receiving duh), unprotected sex, titus is so down bad, secret-ish relationship
A/N: yet another dream turned into a fic. i wrote this at 2 am el oh el
w.c. 2.6k
You could forgive your father for dragging you along with him. He meant well. But did he have to take you here? The ram statue protruding from the Danforth Country Club entrance peered down at you. You stood hesitantly beside the car as your father handed the valet the keys. Your fingers fiddled with the charm on your purse as you took in the state of the building behind your sunglasses. A building you had spent quite a lot of time in. Your father had been a member for as long as you could remember, bringing you to lounge by the pool while he had some business lunch, or attempting to teach you how to be good at tennis. You hadn't come back since you got engaged. An entire year without hearing the cries of the peafowl that roamed the gardens. Your fiance- well, ex-fiance- belonged to a different club and he had been adamant that you shifted your integration from the DCC to the one his family was a part of. You weren't exactly in love with him. The engagement felt more like a business deal than genuine romance, but he was a nice enough man who you thought was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. So you obeyed his command and handed in your membership card.
That was before you walked in on him fucking the chef. A simple mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you had seen her bend over the kitchen island, and that had been enough for you to throw your (very expensive and slightly gaudy) engagement ring right against his bare chest. One plane ride later, and your father greeted you back home with open arms and a mission to make you feel better. Starting with a good lunch and a massage. You had been excited, until he turned onto the all-too-familiar brick drive.
Your heart skipped when you walked into the main building. Memories from the years came rushing back. The coin machine you and your friends had been able to swipe quarters from. The ballroom where you first kissed- No. You were not going to make your chest hurt even more by thinking about him.
Your father's touch pulled you from your thoughts. He rested his hand on your shoulder and gently guided you to the dining room.
"I'm glad you came back during the summer," He mused "They have a good seasonal menu this year." You mumbled out something in return as you stepped into the restaurant. A too-bubbly host greeted you by your names and gestured for you to follow him. You sat at a table by the window overlooking the golf course. The ninth hole. Because the universe was funny like that. If you craned your neck, you could see the secluded spot you had driven the golf-cart to only a year prior. Stolen kisses and marks on your thighs from the hot plastic seats. You tore your attention away and focused instead on the menu placed in front of you. Your eyes vaguely scanned the descriptions until you found something that sounded good.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite member," The gravelly voice made your blood still in your veins. Your shoulders tensed and you held the breath you had just taken. You knew that voice. You hated that voice. The voice that you still remembered vividly enough to dream about. The voice that was making your stomach flip even after a year of not hearing it. You swallowed the saliva that pooled on your tongue and looked up. Sure enough, there he was. Titus Danforth. With a hand on your father's shoulder and a smirk that you could never discern as amicable or hostile. Your father grinned up at him.
"Ah! Mr. Danforth, so nice to see you!" He said cheerily. "Wasn't expecting you to be out on the grounds now that you're in charge of the place." Your eyebrows raised slightly. That was new. Titus had told you about how he would eventually be in charge of the club, but he talked about it like it was a distant goal. Something promised but just out of reach. Titus saw your expression change and he puffed out his chest a bit. He wanted to impress you.
"I saw you checked in and just wanted to say hello."
"Well, I'm honored," your father nodded. He seemed to remember that you were there, too. "Oh! Right. Mr. Danforth this is my daughter, I'm not sure you've met before." He turned his eyes to you. "He took over for Chester." You nodded, trying to swallow the lump that hardened in your throat. "We're celebrating the fact I no longer have to fund a wedding." Your lips turned up weakly and you saw Titus' eyes narrow slightly. He blinked.
"Pleasure," Titus grinned, reaching out his hand. You gave yours to him, breath hitching at the familiar scuff of his callouses against your skin.
Twenty minutes later, your tongue was down Titus' throat. Your back was pressed against the wall of some empty service hallway. Titus explored your torso with his hands, pinning you against the beige brick with his hips. You could feel his hard cock grinding into the plushness of your thighs. He nipped at your lips, running his tongue along yours in the dirtiest exchange of saliva you'd ever participated in.
"Missed you…so much," he panted between kisses. One of his hands groped at your chest, running under your shirt to memorize the lace of your bra with his fingertips. "Wh…fuck, where have you been? Haven't seen you since-." Since he'd fucked you in that golf cart on the ninth hole a year prior.
"Got engaged." You responded, tugging on his silver curls. The way you knew he liked. He growled, half at the sting of his hair and half at the pain of your words.
"Why?"
"Because," You rolled your eyes, pulling away enough to actually talk. Titus' pupils were blown wide, black consuming the hazel circles that haunted your daydreams and your nightmares. "I'm the oldest. I have a lineage to continue. I needed a husband."
"But," He licked his red and kiss-bitten lips. "You had me. You could've-"
"Titus, be serious," You scoffed, trying to cover the twinge of yearning that tugged at your heart. "There's no way my father would approve of that. You're-"
"I'd make him." Titus assured, eyes searching your face desperately, eyebrows pinched up. "We'd figure it out. I'd treat you so much better than that asshole. He didn't deserve you. "
"You don't even know him or what he did."
"I don't care. It doesn't matter. I would." You sighed and brushed a curl away from his eyes. You didn't have the proper words to express your objections in the moment, so you just kissed him again. Softer. Slower. But not for long. All it took was one involuntary buck of his hips into yours and a soft whine from his throat and your fingers found the buckle of his belt. The expensive leather unclasped easily and you popped the button of his slacks. Titus broke your kiss and turned his gaze down to where you slowly pulled the zipper over the prominent bulge in his pants. His torso heaved with every second as you taunted him, pushing the fabric over his hips tantalizingly slow. Titus sighed as you dipped your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. You wrapped it around his aching length, grinning when you felt him twitch in anticipation. You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his.
"Fuck me, Titus," You pleaded, eyes half-lidded and not even trying to cover the desperation you were feeling. "Make me forget about him." Titus was always good at following orders. Something in him snapped and he grabbed your wrist. He pulled your hand out of his boxers and tugged you a few feet down the hallway to a lone bench that rested there.
After pushing you down to sit, he dropped to his knees. He gathered the hem of your dress in his palms and pushed the fabric up around your hips to give him better access to what he wanted. He transferred the bunch to one of his hands, using the other to rip your underwear down your thighs. As if they personally offended him for covering his most coveted treasure. Titus held your eye contact as he licked the first stripe between your folds. It was obscene, open-mouthed and running along the entire expanse of your sex. His nose twitched up with delight at the moan that he pulled from you. The movement pulled up the corner of his top lip. A sneer in any other circumstance. Your hands found the crown of his head, needily pulling his face further into your pussy as he began to settle into his rhythm. The patterns surprised you. Somehow, after a year of not even seeing your face, he still remembered the perfect combination of licks and suckles to have you whimpering and whining and squirming under him. Something your ex-fiance could never accomplish. You didn't bother smothering your noises. You knew how much Titus loved to hear them. With every moan, he just worked harder. When you shifted your hips to try and get different friction, he followed dutifully. Anything to make you feel good. He had made that clear the first time he was between your thighs. And it wasn't long before you felt your orgasm catch behind your navel. It slithered around your abdomen, cinching the muscles tight as Titus tongue-fucked you like it was the most important thing he'd ever done. When it finally crashed into you, your thighs snapped around his head and your fingers pulled harder at his hair. He groaned against you, the vibrations only augmenting the intensity of your release. You rode your orgasm out against his face, rolling your hips along his mouth. And Titus stayed put, looking up at you with reverence as you used him to make the most of your pleasure. When you stilled, chest heaving, Titus pulled back from your core. He licked along the insides of your thighs, gathering every last drop of your arousal before wiping his chin with his fingers and sucking those clean, too. Like a man who didn't know when his next meal would be.
When he was fully satisfied, he stood. He stifled the grunt as his knees popped and you were too fucked-out to make an age-related quip. Titus reached over his head and pulled off his polo. Your eyes trailed down his torso, catching on the firmness of his shoulders and the greying trail of hair that accented his stomach. He kicked off his pants and hoisted you up from the bench. You grumbled in protest, but you were soon sat on Titus' lap. Your thighs bracketed his and he adjusted your arms around his neck. He helped you peel off your dress. You shivered at the sudden rush of cool air that surrounded your bare body. Titus was never one for wasting time. He guided you over his cock and helped you sink down onto him, inch by inch. Expletives filled the small gap between your faces as he stretched you open. You raked your nails over his shoulders, gripping onto him as your cunt struggled to accommodate him.
"So big, oh my…shit, Titus," You gasped, walls fluttering as you forced yourself to relax. Once you had taken him fully, Titus gave you a moment to adjust. One of his hands planted itself on the cold plastic of the bench. The other remained firm on your hip. When you nodded to him, Titus braced himself against the bench and began to move.
"Fuck," He hissed as he rolled up into you. His guiding hand pulled you up and down to meet each thrust. "Squeezin' me so tight, sweetheart." He went at his own pace, pulling halfway out and then pounding back into you. You accepted that you were simply along for the ride. His to use. Your head fell back and your hands pulled him closer to you. Titus' chin rested on your chest as he watched your face with devotion, committing each furrow of your brow and twitch of your lips to memory. When he shifted the angle slightly, pure pleasure shot up your spine and you let out a high-pitched keen.
"Ti-itus!" you gasped. He huffed and his pace quickened, hitting the spot over and over and over again.
"Feel good?" He cooed. Only a bit condescendingly. All you could do was whine and dig your nails in deeper. "Bet he never fucked you like this, huh baby?" Titus panted, eyes crazed. "Never fucked you so good?" Your pussy clenched around him.
"N-Never," You hummed "Feels so good, Titus. You're so good. Fuck you're so good!"
"Yea," he chuckled, unblinking eyes locked on the way your tits fell with each of your quick breaths. "Best you ever had, right? S'why you came back? Came back for me? Gonna cum on my cock the way you always do?" You nodded enthusiastically, weakly trying to bounce your legs to chase your second orgasm. "Yea, baby, c'mon. Cum for Titus." You obeyed with a shriek, thighs tensing as your release ripped through you. You felt a gush of liquid coat the junction of your bodies. Titus let out a mangled groan at the sensation. He didn't last much longer, fucking up into you with tiny whimpers as his face pinched together and he emptied himself as far as he could into your warmth. He gulped down quick breaths, jaw hanging loose as he blinked away the fuzziness at the edges of his vision. You couldn't have possible known that he hadn't cum since he last saw you. That your pussy was the only place worthy of receiving it. A year's worth of build-up finally released. His head fell back against the wall and he shakily wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you into him so that your cheek rested against his. Blood roared in your ears and you felt the pulsing of your heart in each muscle. You came down together, Titus pressing kisses to your neck as you scratched against his scalp. You had missed this, missed him, more than you had realized. And you suddenly felt stupid for even considering spending the rest of your life with another man. Titus, it seemed, was having similar thoughts.
"Will you at least think about it?" You barely heard his voice above the sound of your heartbeats. You took a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh and swallowed.
"Okay." You relented. Titus' eyes lit up with hope. He parted his lips to say something, but a ping from your phone interrupted him. You groaned as you pulled yourself off him, wincing as his softened cock slipped from you and caused a rivulet of his cum to make its way down your thigh. You hobbled over to where your dress was pooled on the floor, already feeling the soreness begin to settle between your legs. You found your phone and cursed when you saw the notification. "Shit, I gotta go." You searched briefly for your underwear before giving up and just tugging on your dress. "My massage starts in fifteen minutes." You turned back to Titus. Something tugged at your chest when you saw him. He sat there, hands nervously fiddling in his lap. He looked so…small. Not physically, of course, but there was something in his expression that made guilt gnaw at your ribcage. You crossed the hall and pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead. He leaned into your touch and sighed. As you began to pull away, Titus caught your wrist. He pressed his thumb into your pulse point.
"Will you have dinner with me?" He rasped quietly. Not speaking too loudly out of fear that you might reject him. But you didn't. You gave him a kind smile and nodded.
jack fingering you and you moan “oh, your fingers are so fucking big…” while you roll your hips. and he just chuckles low in his chest and grumbles “only one finger baby” curling his digit for emphasis. “you want another, hm? want daddy to stretch you out?”
7.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Dad!Andrew x Pregnant!Reader; none of these are described in any detail/none happen/no scares that they might be, Andrew just worries about: losing the baby/miscarriage, going into labor pre-viability, placental abruption; Andrew worries generally about all the things that could happen to you or baby and how dangerous pregnancy and labor and delivery can be; morning sickness (not described); a touch of guilt and sadness for reader for a moment; quick thought of consensual rougher sex and spanking; they don't find out the sex of the baby; fluff; so much fucking fluff; seriously this is like 99.6% soft fluffy happiness!!
Summary: A collection of sweet moments during your pregnancy.
AN: Hello friends!! ♥️ Tonight's offering is set in the same universe as Both of You which I'm calling the Baby makes three AU. It's a small collection of moments from your pregnancy that came to me over time and I jotted down and then threw together to make this. Hopefully they're all okay! I've been so soft for dad!Andrew recently (especially boy dad!Andrew 🫠🫠). He deserves everything and all the happiness in the world! Also I'm trying a new thing with tag lists where I use a tag list blog to help keep dashes cleaner, so you might get a tag from @ butyoudidthis4whattaglist. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading and all of your support! It truly means the world to me!!
Andrew never thought he'd find himself here.
Even once you started dating, it wasn't something that occurred to him. Baz's words that one night had done too much damage.
Even after you'd brought it up while still dating, the possibility of kids one day, asked him if he'd ever want kids and said you would too but they weren't a deal breaker after he said yes, it still wasn't something that felt real or like it would ever happen. You'd realize eventually that he wasn't father material.
And even when you brought it up again when you were engaged, even after you were married, even after all the times it would randomly pop up in conversations or you'd make a passing comment or look at baby clothes, Andrew never thought it would really happen. That one day he'd really be sitting in the waiting room of an OBGYN with you waiting to go see the baby you made together.
But here he is. In the waiting room of your OBGYN with you. Waiting to go see the baby you made together for the first time.
It's been five days since you told Andrew you were pregnant. Your OB's office was able to fit you in for an appointment and dating ultrasound quickly between the gap from Christmas to New Year's Eve. As you thought might happen, you started to get more symptomatic with every passing day it seems. You're at the point where the first trimester exhaustion has hit full force, as has the morning sickness, though it doesn't stick to the morning for you. It kills Andrew to see you sick and be able to do nothing about it or to help other than be there for you and try every food possible to find what you can keep down.
You squeeze Andrew's hand tightly to try and help bring him down a little. His leg closest to you bounces with anxiety and his jaw is set as tensely as you've ever seen it, brows furrowed so that little wrinkle he gets between them is visible. You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his jaw as you shift in your seat so that you can bring your other hand across your body and rest it on his leg to help soothe him, not necessarily to get him to stop bouncing it.
"Hey," you murmur, nuzzling your nose against his cheek. "Everything's going to be okay, no matter what and no matter how long it takes for it all to feel okay again."
He licks his lips and sighs, looks over at you, his leg stilling. "No, I know." Andrew lets out a long breath through his nose. "I just…" Know way too much and see it all happening to you and them.
After you told him you were pregnant that night on the beach, Andrew had read everything, probably way too much. Books were ordered and read, websites scoured for all the information he could possibly find. He knows everything he needs to, what your body is going through, how the baby is developing, how he can help best, what to look out for. But he also knows way too much about what could go wrong for you and baby, has realized just how dangerous pregnancy and labor and delivery are.
"I know, Handsome." You give him a soft kiss on the lips and are pulling away when your name is called.
Andrew stands at the head of the patient bed you're laying almost all the way back on and holds your hand tightly in his near your chest as your doctor adjusts the transvaginal wand inside of you a little. Because it's a dating scan your doctor decided to just do the ultrasound herself.
You know it's coming, know what you're about to see, but neither you nor Andrew are prepared when the tiny gummy bear looking image that's currently your baby finally comes into view on the screen.
Both of you are breathless, speechless and teary eyed as you try to process what you're seeing.
"Andrew," you whisper, unable to come up with more at the moment.
"I love you," he whispers back, overwhelmed by just how much he loves you and this baby. "Thank you." He leans in and kisses your cheek, kisses your lips when you turn your head to look at him. That kiss and seeing each other is what you both need for your tears to finally fall, both of you breathing laughs of disbelief with smiles that match the ones you wore when you got married. "Thank you for them, for doing this. I love you."
"I love you too," you sniffle, give Andrew a watery smile when he wipes away your tears with his free hand.
You and Andrew look back at the screen, watch in awe as your doctor takes various measurements of your baby. Your baby.
"Well, based on the date of your last period and baby's size, I'd say you're eight weeks and two days," your doctor tells you. You were a little off in your calculation then, but not by much. "That little flicker is their heart. It’s strong, right where it should be."
Andrew knows he would've picked up on your doctor's body language immediately and can read that it's nothing but happiness for the two of you but he has to ask anyway. "They're okay?"
She nods at him with a smile. "They're perfect. Seem pretty happy and cozy in there." Before Andrew can even ask she continues. "And everything appears to look good for mom too. I'm going to order some blood work just to check and get some baselines, but I have no reason to believe anything concerning will pop up."
You hear the small sigh of relief Andrew lets out at her words and it makes your entire body feel warm and your heart ache. He loves you so much, cares about you so fucking much you don't know what to do with yourself.
Your doctor moves her hand over the keyboard of the ultrasound machine again. "There's one more thing."
Nothing on the screen moves leaving you and Andrew confused for a moment until the sound fills the room. The sound of your baby's heart, strong and rhythmic, as it beats away perfectly in your womb.
"Oh my god," you whisper in disbelief. You knew you were pregnant and that by now their heart was beating inside of you, but hearing it and seeing it is something else. Your brain almost melts in a way. How you got lucky enough to have this life, to have Andrew as your husband and the father to your child you'll never know or understand. You squeeze his hand, grasp onto it like your life depends on it, something that’ll ironically be repeated when you go into labor. "Andrew… Oh my god."
"That's our baby," Andrew whispers, tilting his head so that your temples are touching. Another wave of tears spills over his lash line. "And that's their heartbeat. You, you did that." His voice has never held so much awe for you.
"Yeah," you breathe, the happiest disbelief in your voice. It's so much more real now that you're seeing them, hearing their heart. "That's our baby. That's them, Andrew."
"That's our baby." Andrew sniffles hard, voice as unsteady and shaky as the hand he uses to wipe your tears again and then his own. "That's our baby."
A month and a half or so after your ultrasound you and Andrew find yourselves at one of those stores that seems to have everything.
You turn to your side to ask his opinion on something and are surprised when he isn't there. You're even more confused when you look around and don't see him standing at either end of the aisle.
But you aren't confused when you walk up to one end of the aisle, turn your head and find him at the edge of the baby section, still as ever while he looks at a hanging onesie. You bite your lip at the sight and let yourself take it in and let Andrew have the moment before you start walking slowly over to him.
You've seen him looking at baby stuff, clothes and strollers and car seats and cribs before while the two of you have been out. But this is the first time you've ever seen him go over and actually touch something, look at it up close.
You never asked him why he didn't go look at it closer or invite him to do so with you because, even though he never explicitly told you so, you know Andrew well enough to know that he was afraid to look at baby things or imagine them too hard in his head because he didn't want to jinx it, didn't want to somehow provoke the universe into taking this baby away from the two of you. And you're correct.
That's the exact reason Andrew wouldn't let himself. He's too used to things turning out badly, to being what feels like cursed, especially when he manages to slip back and convince himself that he's unworthy of you and everything good in his life, that he's a terrible person who deserves nothing but the crushing feelings of grief and despair and sadness that burrow into his bones. Sometimes if he thinks about it too hard he's shocked nothing has happened to you. And now, sometimes if he thinks about it too hard, he works himself up into a panic that he's going to lose you and the baby, or that he'll lose you and have to try to figure out how to raise a child all by himself.
Andrew's not sure what it is about this onesie that makes him walk over. The more he looks at the onesie trying to pinpoint the reason, the more he realizes he simply found it cute and walked over because he finally could. His brain finally let him.
You're fourteen weeks pregnant now. Out of the first trimester. The chance of losing the baby has plummeted, though he knows it's never zero. It feels safe now. Safe to tell people and dream and imagine and buy baby clothes and think of names and a color to paint the nursery.
He's struck by how soft the fabric is when he reaches out and touches the sleeve. The onesie is sage green and has small bears all over and comes with a matching solid tan beanie with small bear ears on top. It's the second onesie he's touched since finding out you're pregnant, the first being the onesie you used to tell him. He likes the softness, wants only the softest and best for his baby, nothing that might scratch their sensitive skin and make them itchy or give them a rash.
"It's adorable." Your words don't startle him. He knew you'd find him here eventually. There's a little piece of him that feels terrible and like the worst husband and father in the world for leaving you alone even for just ninety seconds, but the store is quiet and he was just drawn to the onesie he's still holding onto. "I love the little beanie."
"It's soft," Andrew tells you in that deep, raspy rumble that comes from his chest. He doesn't know why it's hitting him so hard right now. Maybe it's because he's finally letting himself really look at baby clothes. He's not sure. He guesses in the end it doesn't really matter. "We're having a baby," he whispers, voice thick with happiness and wonder and excitement, tears stinging at the back of his eyes. He turns his head, lets out a single laugh as he beams at you. "Our baby could wear this."
"Not could. Will. Our baby will wear this." You smile and nod almost eagerly at him, grab the hanger the onesie is on because you're buying it. Of course you're fucking buying it. You're probably going online while he drives you back home and ordering every fucking size it's available in so you can see them in it as long as possible. The first onesie their daddy picked out for them. You'll undoubtedly get misty eyed and probably cry as you place the order.
"Come on." You grab Andrew's hand and lace your fingers together before tugging gently and walking into the baby section fully. He realizes he's unleashed a monster in you, a baby-shopping monster. But that's okay. Because he knows he's released the same in him. He wants to buy all of it. Your next words are such bullshit, you both know you'll be asking him to go get a cart in about three minutes. "Let's just look around."
It catches you by surprise.
That first kick you can really feel and know is a kick catches you by complete surprise one afternoon as you shuffle around the kitchen with Andrew putting away groceries. You tilt your head down slightly and take in a breathless gasp, grab the edge of the counter with one hand as your other flies down to your now noticeable bump where the kick was.
Andrew's blood runs cold in a way he's only felt a few times and only ever about you. It's way too early. Way the fuck too early. Pre-viability early. You're not even halfway through your pregnancy. You're only 19 weeks. Nothing can be happening to you or the baby. What if this is the start of a placental abruption, or, or, or…. His mind finally shuts that shit down. He just needs to know what's wrong.
He takes a step back, away from you enough that he can look down at your legs and make sure there's no blood or amniotic fluid running out of your shorts and down your legs. Relieved to see there isn’t, he steps right back up to you, one hand covering yours on the edge of the counter, the other wrapping gently around your upper arm of the hand on your bump just in case he needs to quickly move it under your shoulder to keep catch you and keep you from falling. "What's wrong?
"Nothing," you rush out, the word breathy and full of disbelief. After a few seconds you let out a small laugh and then look up at Andrew with a wide smile. "I just felt them kick." You let out another laugh and press down on your bump slightly as you look into his eyes. "I thought I might've felt a few before and thought maybe I felt them wiggling around in there, but that one, that's the first one I know is a kick." Tears of happiness flood your eyes. It seems so silly to you but you can't help it. "And that, that feeling, that's them moving around, I just know it now."
The tension melts off him, his anxiety and fear dropping back to their usual level. "Really?"
"Yeah," you nod, laughing as a couple of tears escape and slide down your cheeks. "And they kicked back. When I, when I pressed down where they had kicked. They kicked there again."
Andrew smiles at you, nodding as his head spins with excitement and joy. He's speechless, lost for words. You're feeling them move. They're strong and growing and big enough now that you can feel them move. Somewhere in his brain an anxiety he didn't even realize he was holding onto fades away at this milestone being hit.
"I can feel them!" You laugh in disbelief. "Andrew, I can feel our baby." You press up on the balls of your feet and give him a quick kiss before standing normally again. "Here." Before he can respond you're grabbing his hand and putting it on your bump where they kicked. You cover his hand with yours and then press down the way you had earlier. "Can you feel them? That was them kicking. Did you feel that? I bet they'll do it again."
Andrew closes his eyes and focuses hard on his hand after you press down again. He wants to feel them so badly, but you both know, even if it’s slipping your mind at the moment, that realistically he's unlikely to with this being your first time really feeling them. It'll probably be a bit yet before he's able to feel.
"There!" you giggle, looking down at your and Andrew's hands over your bump. "Did you feel them?"
No. He didn't. He knew he almost certainly wouldn't but he can't help the disappointment that floods him. Andrew knows he needs to try to hide it as much as he can from you, knows that this is likely to end up with your tears turning to those of sadness and guilt and that's the last thing he wants.
He's not sure how to break the news to you. Andrew flutters his eyes open and watches you as you smile down at your hands. Even though he hides his disappointment well enough that nobody else in the would be able to see it, you still can.
Your smile falls instantly and Andrew starts to shake his head, both of you opening your mouths to speak.
You win the race, get your words out first.
"I'm sorry." You suddenly look truly distressed in a way that kills Andrew and your tears turn to those of sadness and guilt on a dime, exactly the way he didn't want them to. "I’m so sorry, Andrew. I just, I got excited and I should've been chiller about it and thought about how you probably wouldn't be able to feel, and, and how it would make you feel to not be able to feel them yet." There's a whine to the end of your sentence that tells him you're close to totally bursting into tears and full sobs, and he cannot have that and you getting the migraine that crying like that seems to inevitably give you recently.
"No." He continues to shake his head at you as he brings his hands to cup your face, wipes away your tears with his thumbs. "No apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for. Please try not to feel guilty. It's not your fault and I want you to be excited and react that way. I want that for you. And I want it for me too, because seeing you like that is so special to me."
"But you can't feel them and it's disappointing and you're sad and I don't like when you're disappointed and sad, Andrew." Your breaths become jerky, bordering on wracked as tears stream down your face faster. "And I hate it even more when I've disappointed you and made you sad."
"You haven't made me disappointed or sad. I'm not sad. I'm a little disappointed, yeah, I'll never lie to you. But not because of you. You haven't disappointed me in any way. I promise." He leans down and kisses your forehead, tries to think of what else to say or do to get you feeling better. He doesn't want this moment ruined for you.
"I just want you to be able to feel them," you sniffle, lips quivering in the small pout they're pulled into. You're trying to believe him and let it go and stop crying and feeling this way, and in some ways the logical part of your brain has, but with the hormones it's hard to get the emotional part of your brain there. "I just want you to be able to feel them with me, Andrew."
"I know. I know you do," he tells you in that low, gravelly murmur he has, nodding at you. "And I will. And it'll be great and I'll get my own special moment just like you're getting your own special moment right now. It'll be perfect." He gently squeezes your face in his hand and smiles down at you. "Until then you'll just have to tell me what it feels like, yeah?"
"Okay." You're still pouting a little, but your tears have stopped and he can tell you're starting to feel better, that the idea of him getting his own special moment is soothing you. After a minute or so you nod at him, eyes round and pleading, the idea of a smile on your lips. "Yeah, I, I can do that."
Twelve weeks after that first ultrasound Andrew finds himself sitting in the waiting room of your OBGYN with you waiting to go see the baby you made together again.
You're twenty weeks now. Halfway through your pregnancy. Neither of you can believe it.
You look over at Andrew just like you did for that first ultrasound. He's just as anxious but it's manifesting differently. This time he's sitting up straight and statue still thinking about all of the different things he read and what this anatomy scan could potentially reveal.
"Hey," you murmur, reaching over and squeezing his thigh. "Remember what I said the first time? Everything's going to be okay, no matter what and no matter how long it takes for it all to feel okay again."
He looks at you and gives you one of those Andrew nods that's really more of a single nod that finishes with his chin down. "I know," he whispers. "I do." He swallows hard, almost like it pains him to say his next words because it does in a way, a verbal acknowledgment of one of his greatest fears right now. "I just need you and them to be okay."
"I know." You grab his hand and bring it up to your lips and press a couple of kisses to the back and over his knuckles. "And I truly think and believe we are. Call it mother's intuition."
That gets him to give you a small smile and quiet laugh through his nose. Before he can say anything else your name is called and he's standing to help you out of your seat even though you really don't need it yet, his hand on your lower back protectively as he walks with you to follow the ultrasound tech.
The anatomy scan goes well. The tech doesn't appear to see anything concerning, doesn't pause or make any faces. And when you go to meet with your doctor after, she reviews the images and videos taken and says on first impression she doesn't see anything other than a perfectly healthy baby developing right on track, but they always review everything closer and the results will be on your portal in two or three days. You also learn your blood pressure is good, the dead center of the normal range they give, and your bump is measuring perfectly.
That afternoon you fall asleep on the couch with your head in Andrew's lap. He stays there quietly for at least an hour, no TV on, not reading anything or looking at his phone, simply watching you sleep and stroking your hair and rubbing the side of your bump. He wants to memorize this, remember it forever, you, pregnant and napping on him on the couch.
Andrew does take a couple of photos because how could he not. You look so beautiful and peaceful and even at twenty weeks there are a lot of nights where you struggle to find comfortable sleep like this. It's how he knows you're knocked out hard. You're tired. The last couple of days have seen you struggling with terrible heartburn and reflux that make it almost impossible for you to sleep. He hates it. He hates seeing you in pain and exhausted but unable to sleep. You try to soothe him and tell him it's okay, hopefully you're taking it all on for the baby so they won't have any reflux. Both of you know it doesn't really work like that but you can still dream.
He thinks you're just as beautiful and painfully adorable when a little drool dribbles from the corner of your mouth onto his jeans. Another sign you're out hard.
Eventually he carefully lifts your head and slips out from under you, replacing his lap with a pillow. You make a little face that tells him some part of you knows you're no longer touching him, but you remain fast asleep. Andrew lowers himself and sits back on his calves for a few seconds so that he can press a kiss to your forehead and then your bump and then a few more to your forehead.
You keep your eyes closed and stretch deeply when you wake up, letting out cute little breaths of air as you do. It's easy for Andrew to imagine your baby doing the same. A small pout and furrowed brows pull onto your face when you nuzzle your face into the pillow and realize it's not your husband’s lap.
"Where'd you go?" you mumble half into the pillow and in your sleepy slur that makes his heart want to burst in that way he didn't know was even possible until he met you.
"I'm right here, Beautiful," Andrew calls to you softly as you flutter your eyes open.
You smile at him as he gets up from the padded lounge chair you have perpendicular to the couch. "Hi, Handsome."
Andrew reaches you in time to help you sit up and greet you with a flurry of kisses to your lips that make you giggle exactly how he hoped they would. "You were out hard, I wanted to let you sleep with how bad the last couple of nights have been."
"I appreciate that." The last half of your sentence comes out through a yawn, that makes you huff a laugh at yourself.
Your eyes find the coffee table and drag over the papers precisely laid out on it, your husband’s neat print covering them in varying amounts. You can make out the slightly larger underlined titles on most of the pages even with them facing sideways. Car seats. Mattresses. Bottles. Pacifiers. Strollers. Bassinets. There are a few others you can't quite make out.
"What's all this?" You nod at the table before turning to look at him.
"They're…" A light flush hits Andrew's cheeks and you know it's something he can't help, that he's not truly embarrassed, not with you, but that even after all this time a part of his brain still defaults to he's about to get made fun of or eye rolls or a quip about how that's so Pope with a laugh.
He lets out a breath and leans forward, turns all the papers so that they're facing you and pulls the coffee table a bit closer, laptop off to the side. "They're lists. I was looking around online and decided to make lists of things we’re going to need and write down the ones that have the highest ratings and highest safety rankings when that applies."
You smile widely and bite your lip as he explains what they are. You adore him and the way he researched to find the best and safest of so many things your baby will need. "I love you." Your hands reach out and cup his face gently, pull it back up and to yours so that you can kiss him softly. "You're already the best daddy, you know that? And the best pregnancy partner and husband. Our baby is so lucky to have you as their father and I’m so lucky to have you as my husband." You kiss him again so that he doesn't have to struggle to come up with something to say because you know hearing things like that still fluster him, probably always will.
After a quick nuzzle of his nose with yours, you let go of his face and smile at him, turn your attention to the lists. "Anything in particular you're interested in?"
Andrew knows what he's about to say is probably at least a little crazy and overzealous and way too much, but he can't help it. It's something that's been itching in the back of his mind your entire pregnancy.
"I think we need to get new cars." He forces the words out. "Or at least one. With a higher safety rating, but also to make it easier to get them in and out and have more space."
"Okay," you nod, your face serious, bottom lip pushed out a little and eyebrows slightly raised in curiosity. The way you take him seriously and don't make fun of him or make him feel crazy or self-conscious will never cease to amaze Andrew. You reach forward and grab the drink and snacks he set up and had waiting for you from the coffee table and then push back into the couch, curl your legs up and get comfortable. "I'm all ears, Handsome."
A little under two weeks later you and Andrew are lounging on the couch together watching TV while you scroll your phone and he rereads the chapter on what to expect in week 22. You're both sprawled with your legs on the couch, your back resting against Andrew's chest. One of his hands absent-mindedly strokes your hair while the other holds his book.
You can tell the baby is waking up now that you're still. They haven't been kicking as such, but you can feel them moving around like they're doing gymnastics. It makes you smile.
Five or so minutes later they do finally give you a proper kick and from the second you feel it you know there's something different about it. It's just a feeling you have, an intuition.
Andrew will be able to feel it. You know he'll finally be able to feel the baby kicking.
You have to swallow down your beaming smile and the little laugh you want to let out so that you don't ruin the surprise. You must see his face when he feels it and realizes what it is so you lock your phone and set it to the side. When you start to sit up Andrew is quick to rest his book on the back of the couch and help you, slides himself up against the armrest a bit further so that he's still somewhat reclined but not as much.
"You okay?" There's a hint of worry to his voice that's there anytime you do something kind of abruptly.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." You maneuver yourself so that you're sitting in his lap and watch his brows come together and furrow in the most adorable confusion.
You don't say anything as you grab his hand and put it on your bump where the baby just kicked. Your eyes stay glued to Andrew's face as you rest your hand over his and then push his fingers down with yours.
A few seconds later you're rewarded with another strong kick. But this time instead of just being against you or your hand, that kick is right against Andrew's hand.
You watch it process, the confusion slipping from his face as his eyes widen and his head tilts and bobs almost in a nod at you, eyebrows still furrowed but now in a kind of hopeful disbelief. It's all you need to see to know he felt them.
"Was that…?" Andrew whispers.
"Uh-huh," you nod, giggling and pressing his fingers down again. There's another kick, and then a longer press of a tiny foot against Andrew's hand. "That's them."
"Oh," he breathes, suddenly pushing himself to sit up straighter and pulling you closer to him as you sit perpendicular to him on his lap. "That's, that's…," he mumbles, head still spinning at the feeling and the knowledge of what that feeling is. He presses his own fingers down and when there's another kick in return tears fill his eyes as he looks up at you with a breathy laugh. "That's them."
Andrew has no idea how describe what he's feeling, a pure kind of joy similar to when you told him you were pregnant and when he saw you in your wedding dress for the first time with a flare of protectiveness that matches what he feels for you, and an awe for you because you're doing this, you created the little foot that made that kick, grew them from a union of two cells.
"Yeah," you laugh, "that's our baby, Andrew. I'm so fucking happy you can finally feel them." Neither of your hands move as you lean into each other and share a series of sweet kisses. "They're pretty active right now. Here," you grab his other hand, "let's see if you can feel. It's probably harder to, but maybe."
You adjust Andrew's hands on your bump and then cover them with your hands and press down fairly hard. He goes to ask if pressing down like that is hurting you, but there's no sign of pain on your face and the words dissolve on his tongue when he feels it.
It's not as strong as the kicks, but he's sure he can feel it, a kind of wiggle and fluttering he's sure must be what you describe to him. There's another flurry of kicks at his one hand and his chin and lips tremble as tears finally spill over and wet his cheeks. "That's our baby." He smiles up at you through his tears.
Like when you agreed to be his girlfriend and the first time you told him you loved him and when you said yes and when you both said I do and when you told him you're pregnant, this is one of those moments that Andrew knows has changed him forever. That he'll never be the same in the best way. His voice cracks raw and beautiful as he repeats himself. "That's our baby."
Andrew steps into the nursery and looks around.
He can't believe this is a real room in his real house he shares with his real wife, you. He has no fucking idea how he got lucky enough to call you his and be called yours.
A month and a half have passed in the blink of an eye. He can't believe you're 28 weeks now, seven months pregnant and officially in your third trimester.
The golden late afternoon sun that sneaks in through the blinds provides more than enough light to see around the room. The nursery is coming together nicely now that it's painted. You've hung a few things on the wall and the standalone bassinet that will eventually move to live right next to your side of the bed is off to one side where the crib will go once Andrew's finished with it. All of it’s almost done, the crib and dresser changing table combo and rocking chair he's built. He just needs to finish sealing and painting them all.
He smiles to himself when his eyes land on the onesie you used to tell him you were pregnant. Daddy's future skating buddy. You put it on a hanger and hung it on the curtain rod, the curtains you picked out yet to be delivered. You also twisted the neck of the hanger so that the onesie hangs parallel to the wall like a sign, easily readable without having to step to the side.
Andrew walks closer to it, brings his hand up and touches one of the feet. It's so small. He should be used to it by now with how many onesies he's touched, but he's not. Not at all.
"I know it was kind of silly to hang it like that," you call to him softly from the doorway. "I just had a moment when I was in here earlier."
He glances over his shoulder at you and then looks back at the onesie, his thumb running over the fabric. Andrew can hear you padding across the carpet to him. "No, I think it's cute. I like it."
You hum in acknowledgment as you wiggle your hands under his free upper arm in opposite directions and wrap your arms around his. You take a step closer and lean into his side, rest your cheek against his shoulder.
He shakes his head slightly and you can hear how hard he swallows. "It's so small. I can't… I don't know. Our baby will be this small." He pauses for a couple of seconds, lets go of the onesie and brings his hand back down. "I can't wrap my mind around how small they're going to be."
As you move your head and press a kiss to his shoulder over his shirt you hum again. "And they're going to look even smaller in their daddy's arms and against his chest."
It's a sight you've dreamed about, your tiny newborn in only a diaper against Andrew's bare chest as they do skin-to-skin, somehow looking even smaller against his broad frame with his large hand covering their entire back. You can't wait to see in person before the sight is lost to the blanket laid over the two for warmth. You’ll cry.
Andrew lets out a shaky breath as he thinks about holding them when they're that small, when you're still in a hospital bed finally letting yourself rest. Tears nearly flood his eyes just thinking about it.
But it scares him a little. The thought slips off his tongue before he even realizes he's saying it out loud. "What if I accidentally hurt them? They'll be so fragile and I'm, I'm…."
"I know you don't believe it and that she made you believe it was the exact opposite, but you're capable of treating someone more delicately than I thought was humanly possible," you murmur. "Do you remember our wedding night?" It's a rhetorical question and you both know it. That entire day and night are permanently etched in your minds. "You treated me like I was made of the thinnest glass as you took me out of my wedding dress and lingerie and had me as your wife for the first time. And that's just one time I can think of. You’ve touched and held me in ways that are softer and more gentle and delicate and careful than I could’ve ever dreamed of."
"The fact that you even have that worry tells me that you're not going to accidentally hurt them. Not every father-to-be has that thought, especially before the baby is here and they're holding them. And besides." You let out a soft, adoring laugh through your nose under your breath. "I think you're going to be physically incapable of hurting them. I truly don't think your body and mind would even let you, Andrew. Your paternal and protective instincts will be far too strong."
Andrew drums his fingers in the air how he does frequently, lips pulling into that neutral little scowl he sometimes defaults to as he thinks about your words. There's a piece of him that knows you're right because he has those same kind of instincts for you. Instincts that are strong enough that when you want him to be a little rougher with you during sex, want to feel a little pain and be spanked or have your hair pulled or whatever else, he has to actively fight them. And it's not an easy battle. Those instincts aren't easy to overcome.
But still. The majority of him struggles to accept that you're right.
You can just about hear the gears grinding in his head as he thinks about your words and tries to get himself to believe them while continuing to worry about accidentally hurting them and being a good father generally and about you. He's starting to slip too far into his head and you both know it. And you know that trying to finish this conversation right now will be unproductive and send him further into his head and potentially spiraling. Right now he needs to be distracted.
"Hey." You nudge his now tensed shoulder with your nose. "Can I have a kiss?"
That snaps him right out of it how you hoped it would. He looks over and down at you, his shoulders relaxing and scowl smoothing out as his mind returns to the present and not the what ifs. He loves you. He knows what you just did and that it was deliberate.
Andrew nods, and both of you turn so that you're facing each other. He leans down and presses the sweetest kiss to your lips, tells you thank you and I love you and I appreciate you and I don't take you for granted without a single word through a single kiss. His lips quirk up into an amused smile when he pulls away and sees your adorable little pout that tells him you're about to ask for something.
You run your hands up his chest and wrap your arms around his neck, play with his curls and try to act nonchalant. One of his hands finds one of yours, his other hand resting low on the side of your bump near your other hip.
"Will you make me a special grilled cheese and chocolate chips pancakes please?" You let your pout pull up into a hopeful smile. "The baby reallyyyy wants them."
His amused smile deepens, becomes more of an amused, playful smirk. He runs his hands back until they find your ass, squeezes with just the right pressure as he flashes his eyebrows up at you. "The baby, hm?"
"Yes," you nod confidently, "the baby." You raise your eyebrows and bob your head a little, pull your lips down at the corners a little and shrug. "And, you know, maybe I happen to really want them as well. But only because the baby wanted them first."
Andrew laughs softly and shakes his head at you. He moves his hands from your ass and wraps his arms around you, hugs you as close as possible as he can with your bump. His hands rub your back and he rocks you a little, presses a kiss to your temple. "Of course I'll make them for you," he murmurs against your skin. He pulls away and smiles down at you, eyes extra crinkled at the corners because you're too fucking cute and precious and adorable for words and he loves you so god damned much. "I'll make them for you whenever you want."
The excited smile and shimmer in your eyes at the confirmation that he'll make you your current craving and favorite meal makes him somehow melt even further for you. Andrew will never look at a grilled cheese and chocolate chip pancakes the same way again. They'll always hold a special place in his heart.
"Thank you, Handsome," you sing. "And the baby says thank you daddy."
"You're welcome, Beautiful," he hums before giving you another kiss. "And you're welcome too," he tells the baby as he rubs your bump, smiling at you when he feels them kick at his hand. He presses down a little against your skin to acknowledge them and then pulls his hand away and offers it to you. "Come on, you two. You can sit on the counter in the kitchen with me while I cook."
I love him. I LOVE HIM AND WANT TO MAKE HIM THE HAPPIEST MAN ALIVE. He deserves everything!! EVERYTHING!! He's just so precious I can't. 🫠😭 Sometimes I really meltdown about him. 😭 Thank you so much for reading! I hope it was okay and that you enjoyed! ♥️
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sammy bryant is the type of guy to secretly have a daddy dom twitter account.
it's his biggest and dirtiest secret, and god help him if tammi ever found out, but it turns him on so much to have random girls on twitter thirsting over him and giving him attention :(
he can't help it, he just wants to feel desired <\3 at work, the other guys make fun of him and his dad bod, but his followers go rabid over his chubby tummy. they can't seem to get enough of it.
he'll play the doting husband all day, and try to cuddle up to tammi in bed. but when she inevitably turns to face the other way? that's when sammy opens up twitter and lets his mind run wild.
it's just fantasy, of course, and some might even call it cringe, but it gets him hard like nothing else. sometimes he has to sneak off to the bathroom in the middle of the night to take care of himself because the replies get him so worked up :(
asking titus to buy you something absurdly expensive but only when he's balls-deep inside you. yeah, he'd probably buy it anyway, but there's something so addicting about the way he just nods, eyes glazed, clearly not fully comprehending what you're asking. he's so drunk on how good you feel around him that he can't pay attention to anything else.
until you stop moving and hit him with a coy, "so that's a 'yes'?"
he's irritated you stopped, confused at your question. "huh?"
"you said you'd take me out shopping."
his brow just furrows. he didn't say that, did he? he'd been trying so hard to focus on the way you take him that he can't recall.
but you get that little pout on your lips and sigh dejectedly, something dramatic to catch his attention. "you didn't mean it?" you'd whine. and when he doesn't give you a response, you start to pull away from the fullness of his cock.
titus decides it doesn't matter what he promised. he pulls you back, sinks every thick inch of his dick inside you, and holds you there tight. "no, sweetheart, we can go, s'fine. just don't stop, okay? c'mon..."
he turns into a blathering mess, muttering little pleas, promising to take you wherever you want, to buy you anything you ask for, so long as you don't stop, sweetheart, please. you clench tight around him in a mockery of thanks that actually makes him whimper.
robby and jack who currently have you sandwiched in between them in your tiny apartment kitchen, with robby in front of you and jack behind, the tiny space forcing more proximity with robby and jacks large bodies leaning against your counters
your tiny sleep shorts pool around your ankles on the floor, and robby's big hands shove up the fabric of your t-shirt to cup your tits, while jack palms the globes of your ass, laying a sharp smack when he feels like watching the fat ripple against his hips
your mouth is full of robby, soft lips wrapped around the girth of his cock as you barely manage to breathe through your nose, the soft, needy whines leaving your throat and vibrating his whole length have him groaning above you, his hand moving down to gather your hair into a makeshift ponytail
jack is rocking your entire body forward, your lips greedily taking more and more of robby's length, the hand in your hair guiding your head's movements, and jack's hand that's now wrapped snug around your throat keeps you steady and in place
you're pressed so tightly against their beefy frames that there's nowhere to run or hide, not that you would, but the stimulation is so overwhelming, with the feeling of both pairs of hands always touching you, caring for you, doting on you, while jack's cock hits deep inside of your drooling walls
the sound of your whines and the wet plaps of your pussy and mouth have you dripping down your thighs, the shiny slick glowing in the lamplight
"god, you love this, don't you? I can't tell whose greedier. is it this pussy? or our sweet little girl? what do you think, robby?"
"this mouth could be a good contender too... jesus, she's dripping drool down onto the floor, jack. gooood fucking girl, aren't you, baby?"
and you just love your daddies so much, only thinking of how sweet it was for them to come check on you after their long shift, and they're still taking care of you <3
