satoru gives you an emergency ultrasound with his six eyes!! | SFW pure fluff + a lil angst (blink and you'll miss it) 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯
It's been 48 hours.
Forty-eight hours.
And you haven't felt a thing.
Not a roll, not a jolt, not a kick or even just a twitch. Absolutely nothing.
After 7 hours you realized it had been almost all day and you hadn't felt any movement from within the almost 6-month swell of your belly.
It was irregular. Very, very irregular. The child of Satoru Gojo couldn't sit still for more than a couple of hours. For almost 2 months you'd been kicked awake like that baby had an alarm set every hour on the hour. Starting as little flutters, and getting stronger as the weeks went on.
And you loved it. Feeling that reassurance that they were healthy and strong and there and alive. Pressing your palm to that spot and murmuring praises and soft laughs even as your organs took a beating.
You didn't realize how much it'd affect you when all that movement just stopped.
"It's weird... don't you think it's weird? Maybe I should call the midwife." You'd said with knit brows, already picking up your phone to find her contact.
"Sounds like they're being a little lazy, taking an extended nap or something." Satoru huffed a laugh, amused eyes flicking up to catch yours for a moment. But as he caught the worry on your face, his smile softened, and he rounded the counter, stopping behind you to wrap both arms around. Palms flat on your belly and you melted just a touch, like a candle first being lit.
"I’m sure they're okay, but it never hurts to check." He'd murmured into the crook of your neck and you nodded. Your shoulders easing a fraction.
But they hiked right back up when the clinic said they'd get you in at the end of the week.
You almost burst into tears right there, but held it together. Telling yourself it could wait a few days, you had no other symptoms to worry about so it would be fine. You'd get in that room in a few days and see them and hear that tiny little heart beating away like a hummingbird.
Yeah... that lasted until the next morning.
Woken up at 4 am by the feeling of complete and utter nothingness in your womb.
You wept quietly over toast with egg and avocado and enough hot sauce to melt a hole in the plate. Spicy food always got them moving, they had the same palate as their sucrose loving father.
Still nothing.
You went out to get some errands done, met up with Shoko at the school, stopped to chat with the students, especially a pretty, young first year with a blue streak and stars in her eyes as she gaped at your belly.
"Wait, Gojo-sensei is gonna be a dad?! I thought he was joking about the wife and kid!"
You laughed it off and assured that you had to be an idiot too because you picked him. But you ignored that sinking, empty feeling in your stomach. Only letting your lip wobble a little as you walked back to your car to head home.
Regret settled in at brushing Satoru off when he asked if you’d be okay if he handled a mission somewhere in Iwate prefecture and left until the next day.
You were cursing your past self as you sat on the couch at 2 am. Still. Nothing.
Fuck that stupid bitch for being rational and easy going. You wished you'd stomped your foot and pouted instead, maybe then you’d be crying into Satoru’s firm chest instead of over your last ultrasound photo, alone.
When he got back the next afternoon, there was really no gentle way to say it, but you were a hot fucking mess.
Puffy eyed and red nosed, you looked up from the couch as he walked in the front door, a chipper greeting withering and dying on his lips as he caught sight of you in rumpled pajamas surrounded by a nest of blankets and throw pillows.
He blinked behind the dark material of the blindfold, pausing for just a moment before your breathing hitched and tears welled all over again.
"It-it's like they're just... gone." Your voice broke on the word and the dam broke all over again. "I don't understand, w-why is this ha-happening?" You hiccuped, snot and tears flowing freely. "It's my fault! They're gone and its all—"
"Lay back a little," Satoru cut you off, suddenly right in front of you and pulling the blankets away from your body and you just scoffed, the sound wet and choked.
"Really?? This is so not the fucking time!" You glared, snotty and tear streaked and Satoru scoffed right back.
As much as he loved you any way you came, you weren't arousing much besides worry at that moment.
"What? What kind of guy do you think I am? Geez, just trust me and try to relax a little." He murmured, hooking a finger into the blindfold and pulling it to hang around his neck. Wispy silver bangs falling over his brow and across the blue that could only be found in the sky, and in your husband's eyes.
You pursed your lips but did as he asked, resting your head on a pillow and letting him push your pajama top up over your stomach.
Your mind immediately flung back into the pit and you swallowed hard, but stayed quiet as bright azure eyes searched your body.
"You really think you can see their signature?" You broke the silence with a whisper and those eyes found yours for a second, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
"Pfft, of course I can." He reassured, tone confident like there was never an alternative. But you caught the worry in his eyes.
You laid there as Satoru scanned over your belly. Seconds felt like hours until finally his eyes went wide and his lips twitched up.
Cursed energy read differently from living beings to the deceased, and he'd just caught the flickering pulse of something very much alive.
"Really?" You asked, hope pitching your voice up with a crack and he nodded.
"Told ya." He said, brimming with confidence. But you heard the relief under it.
You flung yourself at him, arms squeezing tight around his neck and face buried in his dark jacket. He held you just as tight, nose in your hair as you sobbed with your own relief.
Pulling back, you sniffed and chuckled sheepishly at the dark spot on his jacket. "Ugh, sorry, you're kinda wet. Maybe a little snotty too."
"Gross," Satoru teased, grinning big and so handsome your heart fluttered for him. "Ijichi is gonna have a lot more dry-cleaning to do if we're adding snot to all the stuff coming out of you."
Your eyes rolled and your mouth opened to retort, but you were cut off with a jolt as you felt it.
Finally.
It was clear as day on your face and Satoru gasped.
"Awww! Baby's first prank!"
fanfic is my coping mechanism so I hope we aren't tired of the pregnant reader stuff bc I still got like 4 months to go hahhaaaa m. list | dividers by @/aesverse <33
Toph figures out you're pregnant before you even know.
It's not like you and Zuko have been trying; you're just not careful when it comes to it, so it was bound to happen sooner or later, but you had expected to find out from a missed period or a midwife or a physician, not like this.
“Hey, Sparky. Come here,” Toph had called for the fire lord a few minutes after touching down in the palace gardens, her senses immediately pinging the change in the air.
Zuko unwrapped an arm from your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple as he left your side to talk with the Earthbender.
You don’t think much of it, too enrapt in the conversation with Aang about his latest find in an old air temple.
“Are you pregnant?” Toph whispers, her arm slung around Zuko’s shoulders conspiratorially. (he has to duck down to allow her to drape her arm over him.)
“What?” Zuko looks back, confusion furrowing his brow.
“Are you two, you know…” she waggles her eyebrows, nudging her head back in your direction. “Have you two been…”
Zuko blinks. “Pardon?”
The Earthbender throws her head back and sighs dramatically, turning around to spear you with a question you had not been anticipating.
“Hey, princess, have you and Sparky here been fucking raw?”
The conversation halts, Aang’s words dying on his tongue mid syllable as the question echoes through the small courtyard. Sokka slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening as he tries to contain the cackle clawing its way up his throat. Katara turns red in the cheeks as her jaw drops, and you, well, all you can do is stare at the earthbender as she squints at you.
"Toph...wha-" you stutter, catching Zuko's equally as frantic gaze. "huh?"
Toph smirks. "You and your husband. Are you two going-"
"Toph, enough," Zuko interrupts the earthbender with a soft but firm hand on her shoulder.
Zuko locks onto you. Your furrowed brow, the slight pout of your bottom lip, how your skin is blazing pink, oh, you are so flustered. he is quick to close the gap, large hand sliding over your waist to plant firmly at the small of your back, the heat from his skin radiating comfort through your body. You lean into your husband's strong chest, fingers threading around the silk belt at his waist. Zuko ducks his head closer to yours, the space no longer so vast and overwhelming; it is now just him and you.
"Are you?" his question is whispered, and you can't tell if he is petrified or excited.
"I.. I don't know." Your bottom lip continues to tremble despite there being no reason to cry. "I am a few days late, but that doesn't mean anything. I've been stressed, and I thought maybe I..." your breathing begins to quicken, your heart thundering in your chest.
Your husband's hand on your jaw soothes you, thumb brushing over your full cheek.
"It's okay, my love. Breathe," he takes in a breath, guiding you as you feel your head begin to swim. “We’ll go see the physician to be sure. toph could be wrong about-“
“I’m not,” she calls over, pride brimming in her tone.
“Beifong. Drop it.” Zuko turns his head to bark at his friend, concern no longer on being a good host but entirely on you, his very panicked wife.
“I’m still right,” you hear Toph grumble before she yelps and the sound of water splashing.
“Zuko, what if I am?” you breathe, cheeks puffing out as you exhale shakily. “I know we’ve talked about it, but…how? when would we have-“
“I don’t know, sweetheart. But I mean, it was bound to happen” Zuko shrugs, blush dusting his cheeks as he recalls just how you have ended up in this predicament. “We aren’t exactly being careful.” his fingers push your hair back from your face, cupping your face in his palms.
“And now everyone knows,” you groan, a grumble rippling through your throat as the embarrassment takes over once again.
Zuko hums, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Sure, but you’ve seen Aang and Katara, they’re way more obvious than we’ve ever been.”
“I heard that!” Aang yells over.
“And we’ve all heard you,” Zuko calls back, smirk growing as you giggle, tension easing from your shoulders as you relax into him.
“We’re going to be fine, love.” he pulls your face closer to his, lips pressing against yours in a feather-light kiss. “And if you aren’t, it just means we can keep trying till something sticks.”
—
Toph was right. You were six weeks pregnant at the time of her visit.
cw: age gap, smut, unprotected sex, mating press (duh), slight choking, family man kento, domestic kento, the word pregnancy mentioned once, breeding kink, manhandling, f!reader, all characters are 18+, MDNI, proofread
a/n: ty to jizzy @joemama-2 for helping me with proof reading my work <3 gradient dividers by @/cafekitsune
Older husband! Nanami who’s sick and tired of being invited to baby showers and seeing pictures of his coworkers' kids on their desks.
Older husband! Nanami who’s tired of kids being brought up in every single conversation among his friends and colleagues. His hands turn white as his grip tightens around his drink, a fake smile painted on his face, however, his gaze remains distant as he was forced to listen to the nonsense chatter around him.
Maybe agreeing to a night out was a bad idea.
Older husband! Nanami comes home late that night, tie loose around his neck and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His eyes land on you— his loving, doting wife in an apron, arms open and welcoming.
And with missing a beat, he hauls you over his shoulder, hands gripping your thighs as he pads upstairs with you.
Older husband! Nanami throws you onto the bed, ripping your clothes off with a vigor that rivals his work ethic. You're bare before him, pussy dripping without even being touched.
Your brows knit in confusion, concerned of your husband’s sudden behavior—the way his chest rises and falls so heavily. The sound of his belt hitting the floor echoes through the room, and the sheets beneath ruffle as he climbs over your form.
Older husband! Nanami whose fingers work fast on the zipper, lowering his boxers and pants in one go, his length springing free, slapping against his lower abdomen as he grabs your thighs.
"Ken—" you gasp, breath caught in your lungs.
Older husband! Nanami pushes your legs up, folding you in half until your thighs lay flat against your chest, and your knees tucked under your chin. His thick cock drags teasingly along your slick folds, swollen tip running over your slit—and then, with a sway of his hips, he thrusts forward, sinking deep into your tight heat.
Older husband! Nanami only had one intention tonight: to fuck you full of his cum until you're pregnant by the morning.
Your painted toes curl over his shoulders, and his weight presses you down into the mattress as his heavy balls slap against your ass with each deep, brutal thrust.
Older husband! Nanami whose unfaltering gaze is locked on you—watching every quiver of your thighs, every little twitch of your expression, and the pretty "O" your lips form as gasps and moans spill out helplessly from you.
Your eyes close in pleasure, and your grip tightens on the sheets beneath you.
Older husband! Nanami whose rough voice fills the room, "Look at me."
You force your eyes open, locking onto your husband's intense gaze—only to let your curious eyes trail down from his form, down to his blonde happy trail, and even lower to where he’s stretching your drooling pussy open.
Older husband! Nanami who, despite his gentle nature, isn't above punishing you whenever you test his patience.
He huffs, irritated at your disobedience. His hand wraps firmly around your neck, gaze intense as he stares down at you.
"I said—" his grip tightens on your neck, making your eyes roll to the back of your head, "look at me, sweetheart—fuck!" he growls when your gaze flickers away.
Older husband! Nanami who slips out of you, slapping his impressive length against your throbbing clit, pulling out desperate whimpers from your throat, before filling you to the brim with his cock.
"K-Kento—" pathetic mewls leave your pretty lips as he fucks the air out from your lungs, your back arching into him. He fucks you so good, hitting that spot over and over again, dragging out your pleasure until you can’t breathe.
Older husband! Nanami leans in, lips brushing against your soft ones, "That's it, darling, right there—” his voice slurring, “cum for me, honey,” he groans, closing the space between you both as his lips wrap around yours, drinking your moans of pleasure like a man starved.
You feel the familiar coil tighten, hot white pleasure traveling from the tips of your fingers to the tippy toes of your feet. Your walls clamp tight, further encouraging his unforgiving pace.
Older husband! Nanami always manages to say the filthiest shit to you, bringing you closer to the edge with just his words.
“Let me see you fall apart,” his breathing turns ragged, thrusts growing borderline desperate at the thought of filling up your womb—of keeping your tits full of milk and your belly round with his kids.
Your hands grasp onto his back, voice trembling as you reach your orgasm, “K-Ken... I’m close—” you sob, “please...”
“That’s right, darling... right on my fucking cock,” he moans, the bed creaking in sync with every brutal thrust as he makes a mess of your pussy.
Older husband! Nanami who buries himself to the hilt, groaning deep as he spills inside of you, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt. Your breath hitches, legs twitching, and sobs caught in your throat as your juices gush around him.
Older husband! Nanami finally pulls out, and you let out a shaky sigh of relief. Your legs become limp as they drop to your sides. But before you could recover from your orgasm, his rough hands flip you over, manhandling you onto your hands and knees.
Older husband! Nanami whose cock, still rock hard, eagerly grinds against your slick folds from behind.
"We're not done yet," he growls, slapping his cock against your ass, and lining himself back up to your pussy.
Retired!Robby who always wanted kids but never settled down. You who wants kids, but can't find a man who’s willing to support your career by supporting the family.
I mean… it’s a no-brainer, right?
Sure, you’re a lot younger than Robby and having kids with a man you’re not married to isn't ideal, but you just don’t want to put off starting a family until it’s too late. Plus, you know Robby, having been his resident for four years and his attending for another two before his early retirement. He’s proven himself time and time again that he’s a good and honest man.
You come to an agreement at a barbeque he was hosting. With only minimal alcohol in your respective systems, you shake on it: co-parenting. The next morning you meet at a café to talk more logistically.
Public or private school? Robby insists on private.
Living together or separately? Together, of course. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you or the baby to separate the family. Plus, Robby already owns a spacious (and gorgeous) home.
College funds? Set it up early and make sure it’s plentiful.
iPads? Fuck no.
Artificial insemination or the old-fashioned way? Robby respectfully left this question up to you, to which you said in your best impression of an I-don’t-find-you-fucking-me-raw-hot voice, “We might as well…”
When your next ovulation rolls around, you schedule time off of work to have what you coined baby making time, much to Robby’s chagrin.
During those five days, Robby goes through more little blue pills than he’d like to admit, and you get bent over in more positions than you thought possible.
Robby is endearingly methodical. He checks your temperature every morning and evening. He ensures you're well fed and hydrated. And after he fills you with his cum, Robby props your hips up with a pillow, even when you remind him that it won’t make it stick.
Robby is also incredibly intimate. Between rounds, when you’re wrapped up in his arms, he's hand-feeding you some fancy granola bars from Whole Foods. The pillow talk is sparse, but meaningful. At almost every step, Robby is thanking you, reminding you how big of a step it is that you're taking. Yet, somehow, you're not worried.
Your heart aches when the final day of baby making time rolls around. Robby has you with your face pressed in the crook of his neck. He rubs a once-calloused hand up and down the length of your bare back. Every now and then he whispers to you praises and gratitudes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
It nearly tears you apart on your walk to work the next morning when Robby texts you: Keep me updated. Don’t be a stranger.
Stranger you are not, texting him almost anything you think would warrant a response. He gets up to date on workplace gossip, your patients, to even pictures of your lunches. It goes like this for the better part of a month. One Sunday, Robby wakes to two words from you on his phone.
I’m late.
He shows up to your house with three different pregnancy tests, a bouquet of flowers, and a box of chocolates to give you to calm your nerves while the tests develop. He holds you during those 15 minutes, reassuring you that things would be okay no matter what the test says.
If you kiss him when all three tests turn up positive, that's nobody business but your own.
When Robby leaves you that night, he already has a plan to get you moved into his home by the end of the month. Very quickly do you realize how involved Robby's idea of co-parenting is.
During your first trimester, Robby is stocking up. Almost every day you come home to a new stuffed animal or onesie waiting in the nursery he's building. You're allowed to help with easy things, folding clothes or painting, while Robby builds the furniture, everything, from the crib to the matching pair of rocking chairs.
He comes to every appointment from day one. Even insists on picking you up for them. Except, his idea of “picking you up” is showing up to the Pitt and taking the elevator with you up to the obstetrics wing. It’s nice to have him there. Plus, Robby always makes sure to bring you Thai food as a treat.
In the mornings before you leave for work, he has breakfast waiting for you. Pancakes. Bacon. A bagel if you so desire. Or, if you spent the morning with your head in the toilet (with Robby holding back your hair, thank you very much), just a ginger tea to settle your stomach.
Sometime around the six-month mark, Robby convinces you to go down to city hall and get married. It’ll be easier for you three to be under one medical insurance plan, he said. Plus, then all three of you can share a last name. That’s all. You don't even let him talk you into a ceremony. And even if you wear his ring, you insist on sleeping in different beds most nights.
So it isn’t all that big of a deal when your libido spikes in your third trimester. Robby’s already your husband, and it’s not like you haven’t fucked before. If you could help it, neither of you would be doing this, but you’re just so damn needy it makes you cry.
In the weeks leading up to your due date, Robby insists on sleeping in the same bed as you. God forbid something happened in the middle of the night, say you going into labor, he wanted to be there.
When you do go into labor, he's there. You need to hold his hand? Which one. You're feeling gross and sweaty? He has a towel to your forehead and is telling you how beautiful you are. Angry? Curse at him, he is the one who got you into this mess. Sad? He's crying with you. Anxious? He's whispering reassurances with every breath.
When the baby does come, the splitting image of her father, Robby cries. As your daughter latches to your breast for the first time, Robby kisses you and says I love you.
When within a year you and Robby end up with another kid to complete your set of brown-eyed Irish twins, well... maybe then do you let Robby talk you into a more formal wedding ceremony.
Summary: your husband has been there for you through every step of your pregnancy. through thick and thin. through every ache and pain. through hormonal outbursts and sleepless nights. you can't possibly feel more lucky. he would do anything for you, this of course includes helping you with your clogged milk duct.
Contents: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader, pregnancy, lactation kink, fingering, he cums in his pants, he whimpers, lots of ooey gooey intimacy, pope being perfect in every way.
Note: this has been a long time coming as someone with a huge soft spot for pregnancy fics and having written a few for jack. writing one for pope was truly inevitable, and i could truly write a million headcanons about how he would act with a pregnant partner. if this isn't your thing, that's completely okay, but i kindly ask that you move on without interacting! credit to @/saradika-graphics & @/designlikenonsense for the dividers.
Word Count: 2k
Sometimes it feels like Andrew is more researched on pregnancy than you are. Every day since you showed him the positive test he's rolled out of bed and shown you that he's the world's most capable, doting, attentive husband—and soon-to-be father. There's not a single task that he refuses to step up to. Cooking, cleaning, tidying, laundry. And he has never made you feel any less beautiful or loved—not even on your worst of days when you're feeling gross, uncomfortable, or awkward. Not when he's helping you put on your compression socks each morning and taking them off each night. Not when you've snapped at him over nothing and not when you're ugly crying afterwards for being mean to him. Not when he started giving you perineal massages because your belly got so big you couldn't do it yourself, talking you through the discomfort. Not when you're retching over the toilet bowl while he rubs your back. Not when he's found you standing in a puddle after your weakened bladder failed you.
He's held you, cared for you, worshipped you every step of the way, and he's been so enthusiastic the entire time. Your pregnancy app has been downloaded on his phone since day one, logged into your account. He's obsessed with the damn thing. He logs every symptom you complain about and assures you that it means you're right on track. Oftentimes, when he presents you a meal, he'll comment that the app said you needed extra protein that day and so he adjusted the recipe accordingly. Other times, you'll be sitting on the couch and he'll look up from his phone to announce that your baby is the size of a lime or mango or cantaloupe or whatever fruit the app has told him that week.
You didn't think it possible to fall more in love with your husband, but every day he proves you wrong. Such as today. He has whisked you away to a far too expensive hotel for the sole purpose of accessing the pool. The buoyancy takes all the built up pressure off your weak knees, achy hips, and sore back. It's the most comfortable you've felt in your own body in a long while. The relief was so potent you started crying which only served to panic Andrew before you reassured him that they were happy tears.
Back in the hotel room, he has helped you under the warm spray of the showerhead, rinsing off the chlorine. He stands behind you, chest flush to your back and arms wrapped around you. He cups your belly with both hands, lifting the weight where it cinches your lower back. It's pure bliss whenever he does this, and you've made that clear, so he does it as often as possible. Laying his chin over your shoulder, he noses at the side of your neck.
"You're so beautiful," he says. The words would've been drowned out by the shower if he wasn't so close. Wet curls tickle your cheek as he moves to plant his lips beneath your ear.
"And very lucky," you add. A small smile curves your lips as you cover his broad hands, where they cradle your belly, with your own. You can feel the look that crosses his face even though you can't see it. Knitted brows. The tilt of his head. Gears turning behind his skeptical eyes. You've had this conversation before. Not all men are like Andrew. Some only seem to do the bare minimum. Despite your foggy brain, you can remember the exact words he had said.
'This is the bare minimum.'
You melted at the words, and even now, standing on slippery tiles with him supporting you in every way he can, you feel like you could cry—but you bury the tears as best you can while Andrew flips off the water and guides you out. He swathes you in a big, fluffy towel, and you waddle out of the bathroom with his hand at the small of your back.
You sit on the edge of the bed with a huff, you're missing the pool already. Achiness has settled back into your joints. Pope pulls on a pair of boxers, and dries off his hair. When he lifts the towel from his head, his hair is a ruffled mess, sticking up in odd places and flattened in others. You giggle, and it brings a smile to his face.
"Makin' fun of me, are you?" He asks as he approaches with a t-shirt in hand. You shake your head, peering up at him through your lashes, feigning innocence. He doesn't mind you laughing at his expense, so long as you're happy and comfortable.
"I would never," you say, biting back another bout of laughter. He lets it go without another word, and instead focuses on getting you settled. He unwinds the damp towel from around you, tossing it aside unceremoniously. When you lift your arms for him, the dull ache you're used to sprouts into something more. Pain radiates from one armpit to your left breast. You must do a poor job of masking your grimace because suddenly Andrew is practically on top of you, the mattress dipping as he sits.
"What's wrong?"
"Mm, just tender I think." Andrew doesn't let you dismiss the pain though. He sets the shirt aside. You don't want to make a big deal out of nothing, and you're sure that's what it is. Nothing. Another new pain you'll have to come to terms with. However, your husband has never been one to just let things go—especially not when it comes to you—and you can tell by his expression that he's not going to allow you to pass this off without him making sure you're alright. You try to to reassure him anyway. "I'm okay."
"Let me check," he insists, hands hovering shy of you. You're not sure how you're supposed to look him in his puppy dog eyes and deny him. "Please."
"Okay," you relent.
Large hands cup your breasts, fitting them into the broad groove of his palms—cold against the swollen, tender heat of your supple skin. Gently, he massages one, and then the other, pausing when he finds something. A hard lump above your nipple. You wince and he mutters an apology.
"You have a clogged milk duct." He sounds so sure. Before you can begin to ask, he's already offering solutions. "Cold compress can sometimes help. Lymphatic massages too. Or—"
Hesitation ribbons through him, causing his words to wobble and tinting his cheeks pink. He stops himself short before he can rattle off the next solution that has come to mind.
"Or?" You ask.
"Suction can usually unclog the duct quickly."
It takes you a moment to process his words, but you piece together the implications and what they imply. Heat rises to your cheeks as well, and it feels silly. This man has seen every facet of you by this point. He's witnessed your most unflattering moments, and looked upon parts of you that no one else has. For some reason this is what leaves you stumped and at a loss for words though.
"You… you don't have to do that," you say.
"If you're not comfortable with it, that's okay." He inhales. "But if you're saying no because you think I care more about vanity than making sure you're comfortable, please let me help you."
Leaning down, he places a kiss to the top of your breast, pausing to look up at you as he inclines his head, dipping lower. Goosebumps prick atop your skin. His warm breath fans over your nipple, but he doesn't close the gap yet—he's waiting for your permission. You give the go ahead with the nod of your head. The discomfort is becoming bothersome, and if he says he can help then you'll let him. His lips latch around your nipple. He starts with a gentle suck, then more eager pulls. The relief is almost instant, a sigh swelling up your throat.
He pulls away, and with nothing else nearby, he grabs the shirt he set aside earlier and spits the clot into the fabric. The sudden release of pent-up pressure causes colostrum to shoot outward, spraying him. Pearlescent liquid rolls down Andrew's bare chest in rivulets.
"Oh my God," you squeal.
"Fuck…" He curses, not out of disgust or frustration or anything else. The single syllable is laced with reverence. His eyes glisten, and flames of desire lick behind his hazel irises. Beneath the guise of cleaning up the mess, he draws near, but it's not fooling anyone because you both know the truth. He's gotten a taste of something sweet and now he's chasing that sugar high.
He catches a droplet that crests the curve of your breast, swiping it up with the tip of his tongue. A guttural noise quakes his chest as he flattens his tongue over your nipple and tastes you straight from the source again. He licks up all he can, lazily, drunkenly, wanting—needing more, more, more. His mind has become so clouded, he forgets himself and pushes you down in a manner that's a touch less cautious than he would have had he been in a different state of mind.
"Andrew—ah…!" you gasp. His name comes out strained, partially interrupted by a moan that wells up your throat.
"Sorry… 'M sorry," he croaks between suckles, pawing at you, tucking himself over you, and stealing the infinitesimal sliver of space between you. He drinks from you in slow drags until he's so out of it he's only mouthing against your breast, slobbering over you. His hips rut uselessly against the mattress. Each shift of his cock surfaces another litany of muffled moans from him, pitching higher and higher until they've morphed into the soft, wheezing whimpers that you're all too familiar with. You've adored these sounds, cherished them, savoured them. You don't have to look for evidence to know he's made a mess of his boxers just then. It sends him into another series of apologies.
He slots his hand between your thighs, slipping his chubby fingers through the seam of your cunt before dipping them inside. His wrist strains as he angles them, veins standing out along the freckled length of his arm. Every retreat of his fingers is rewarded with another deep plunge, and the crook of them against the sensitive spot inside you. His thumb draws tight circles over your clit. Sweat pools in the hollow of your throat, and he'd lick it up too if he weren't adrift in a trance state—staring at you, mouth agape, watching every micro-expression that flickers across your face.
"That's it, that's it," he croons. Your body winds tight. His free hand digs burrows into the plush of your hip, keeping you anchored as you begin to spiral beneath him. You're hanging on by a single stitch. It comes loose, and you spin out into a writhing mess. Blindly, you grasp at him amidst your fall from grace, hand finding purchase on his scalp, weaving through curls then sliding down to palm at his jaw. Your cunt contracts around his fingers, drooling around them.
He gives you a moment—gives himself one too, so he can gather the shattered pieces of the two of you. After a few seconds, he pulls back and crawls up your body to kiss your temple. "Stay here."
As if you're capable of moving, even if you wanted to. It takes an absurd amount of effort even to sit up on the bed. He leaves to clean himself up, and change into a fresh pair of boxers. He snatches up a clean shirt and returns to your side. This time it doesn't hurt to lift your arms. Smoothing a hand over your side and across your back, he coaxes you to lay down. Thoughtful as ever, he requested extra pillows when he booked the room. He tucks one between your legs and another beneath your belly then sidles up behind you.
"I love you," he whispers into the nape of your neck.
"I know," you say, feeling the huff of air he lets out against the nape of your neck in response. "I love you too."
Summary: This should’ve been the happiest nine months of your life.
Warnings: Pregnancy. Difficult pregnancy. Medical inaccuracies. Allusion to sexy times. Health scares and concerns. Protective!Park. Language, probably. Crying, possibly. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Emotional hurt/comfort. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
I know Park won the poll, but I’m probably going to do a version for Robby (let me know what you guys think!).
Word Count: 8,691
Masterlist
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You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it wouldn’t go down. Your stomach twisted violently, throat raw and burning from throwing up only minutes earlier. You’d suspected for a while now—the nausea, the exhaustion, your period being late—but you’d kept putting it off, too afraid to know for sure.
Until now.
With trembling hands, you stared down at the pregnancy test in your hand.
Positive.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand through your hair, fingers snagging at the roots. Your mind spun so fast it made you dizzy.
Pregnant.
You were pregnant.
The word echoed loudly in your head, almost unreal, like if you thought it enough times it might suddenly stop being true.
Your eyes darted back to the plastic stick as panic clawed its way up your chest. What the hell was Brendon going to think?
The thought hit hard enough to make your stomach lurch again.
Would he be angry? Freaked out? Did he even want kids? You’d only been married a little over a year. A year wasn’t that long. People were often married for years before even talking about children, and meanwhile you were sitting on the cold tile floor of your shared bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test like it was a live grenade.
Bile surged into your throat.
You slapped a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut as your breathing turned shallow. Your entire body felt hot and cold all at once, anxiety mixing horribly with the nausea already wrecking your body.
“Fuck,” you whispered hoarsely.
The bathroom suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
Pushing yourself up on unsteady legs, you sniffled hard and tried to force your breathing to slow. Your emotions were spiraling too fast, panic and nausea tangling together until you could barely think straight.
You tossed the pregnancy test into the trash like getting rid of it might somehow undo the last ten minutes, then turned on the sink. Cold water rushed over your trembling hands as you scrubbed at them absently, almost desperately, as if it could wash away the reality settling heavily in your chest.
Pregnant.
The word still didn’t feel real.
You slowly looked up at your reflection and let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
You looked awful.
Your eyes were bloodshot and glossy, tears still clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Sweat dampened the hair near your temples and neck despite how cold the bathroom suddenly felt, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath your eyes like it had carved itself permanently into your face over the past few weeks.
No wonder Brendon had been watching you so closely lately.
You swallowed thickly before splashing cold water onto your face, rubbing your hands over your skin in slow motions. You needed to pull yourself together. Needed to look normal. Functional.
At the very least, less like someone in the middle of a complete breakdown.
Maybe you could blame the red eyes on being tired. Allergies. A headache. Something believable enough to keep Brendon from immediately slipping into doctor mode the second he walked through the door.
Because if he saw you looking like this, he’d know something was wrong instantly.
And Brendon, for all his gruffness and sharp edges, cared deeply when it came to you. Sometimes almost too deeply. Beneath the intimidating exterior and sarcastic comments was someone painfully attentive—the kind of person who noticed every little change in your expression, your posture, your voice.
The kind of person who’d start firing off questions before you even made it halfway through an excuse.
Normally, you loved that about him. Loved the rare softness he only really let himself show around you.
But right now?
Right now you couldn’t handle the questions.
Your stomach churned again, exhaustion dragging at your limbs as you stared at yourself in the mirror.
Maybe a shower would help. Or a bath.
Baths always helped when things got bad. Even if only for a little while.
After drying your face, you made your way into the bedroom on shaky legs. The familiar space should’ve comforted you, but your thoughts were still too loud, your chest still too tight.
You grabbed the first comfortable clothes you could find from the dresser—which, unsurprisingly, ended up being one of Brendon’s old t-shirts, a pair of sleep shorts, and underwear. The shirt was worn soft with age and faintly smelled like him, something warm and clean underneath the lingering scent of hospital sanitizer that always seemed permanently attached to him now.
It helped more than you wanted to admit.
Back in the bathroom, you turned on the faucet and watched steaming water pour into the tub. The sound filled the silence as you slowly undressed, movements sluggish with exhaustion. Every part of your body felt heavy lately, like even simple tasks drained more energy than they should.
You poured some of your favorite soap beneath the running water, watching bubbles gather along the surface before finally shutting the faucet off.
Carefully, you climbed in.
A quiet hum escaped you as the heat soaked into your aching muscles, easing some of the tension wound painfully tight through your body. The warmth wrapped around you like a second skin, grounding you enough to finally unclench your jaw.
For the first time since seeing the positive test, your breathing began to steady.
The scent of the soap helped too—soft, familiar, comforting. Your stomach still rolled unpleasantly, but not nearly as violently as before.
You leaned your head back against the tub and closed your eyes.
Deep down, part of you thought you’d known already.
The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks. Neither had the exhaustion. At first you’d blamed stress, long days, poor diet, bad sleep—anything but this. But eventually the excuses stopped making sense.
And honestly?
Whoever decided to call it morning sickness deserved jail time.
Because there was nothing “morning” about it.
The nausea followed you through the entire day, lingering from the moment you woke up until you finally managed to fall asleep at night. Some days it even woke you up. And the farther along the symptoms seemed to progress, the worse everything became.
Certain foods were impossible now.
Coffee had become unbearable—both the smell and the taste. Which felt almost cruel considering how much Brendon relied on the stuff during long shifts.
Cooking meat was even worse.
The smell alone turned your stomach so violently you couldn’t even stay in the kitchen while it cooked. More than once, Brendon had ended up opening windows and airing the entire apartment out before you could step foot near the kitchen again without gagging.
Eggs were manageable…sometimes. But only in small doses. If they cooked too long or the smell got too strong, you were done for.
You let out a slow, exhausted sigh, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The problem was, most of the foods making you sick were foods Brendon ate constantly.
He was a big guy—broad, muscular, always trying to stay active despite the ridiculous hours he worked. Protein-heavy meals were basically a staple in his diet.
And now even the smell of them made you miserable.
Guilt twisted painfully in your chest.
You already felt like your body had stopped belonging to you. The last thing you wanted was for this pregnancy to start affecting Brendon’s life too.
But if you could barely stomach the smell without throwing up, how were you supposed to make this work without it changing things between you?
Groaning softly, you slid further down into the tub until the warm water swallowed you whole. Your eyes squeezed shut as silence muffled everything for a few brief seconds—no racing thoughts, no panic clawing at your chest, no endless loop of what ifs.
Just warmth.
You stayed under for a moment longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into you, letting yourself pretend—if only briefly—that things weren’t suddenly so complicated.
When you finally resurfaced, you inhaled sharply and pushed your wet hair back from your face, wiping soap and water from your eyes with trembling hands.
A heavy breath left you.
You needed a plan.
The thought settled heavily in your chest as you stared blankly at the opposite wall. You couldn’t just blurt it out the second Brendon walked through the door. Could you? Maybe you should ease into it somehow. Make it gentle. Reassuring.
Your stomach twisted painfully again.
Because despite everything, despite how much Brendon loved you and how safe he usually made you feel, fear still lingered stubbornly beneath your ribs.
You’d never had to carefully rehearse conversations with him before.
Never had to tiptoe around his reactions.
Brendon was blunt, straightforward, sometimes painfully honest, but never cruel with you. He made things feel steady. Certain. Even during arguments, you’d never doubted where you stood with him.
But this?
This was different.
You’d never been pregnant before.
Hell, neither of you had ever even seriously talked about kids beyond the occasional passing comment or teasing joke. Life had always been too busy, too chaotic. Between his exhausting hospital shifts and the constant unpredictability of adulthood, it had always felt like something distant. A someday conversation.
Not a right now one.
Your hand drifted instinctively toward your stomach beneath the water, fingers resting there hesitantly.
Everything after this felt unknown.
Terrifyingly unknown.
And no matter how many times you tried to calm yourself down, one thought kept repeating over and over in the back of your mind:
Please let this be okay.
You let yourself sink beneath the water again, the heat closing over your head as you desperately tried to quiet your thoughts.
But they wouldn’t stop.
Every possible outcome kept crashing into you at once—Brendon being shocked, upset, overwhelmed. Maybe happy. Maybe terrified. Maybe all three.
You needed to think of something. Some kind of plan. Some way to make this easier.
And because your mind was spinning so violently, you never heard the front door unlock downstairs.
You didn’t hear Brendon come inside after his shift, keys hitting the counter or his heavy footsteps crossing the apartment. You missed his voice calling your name the first time. Then the second.
So when you finally resurfaced, pushing wet hair away from your face with a shaky breath, the sudden sound of the bathroom door opening made you jump.
Brendon stood in the doorway.
His brows were already furrowed, concern settling heavily into his features the second his eyes landed on you. He still wore his hospital scrubs beneath his jacket, exhaustion written across his face, but the moment he saw you sitting there—pale, distant, clearly upset—his entire focus shifted.
“Hey,” you blurted, blinking at him through damp lashes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was calling your name.”
His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it now. Worry.
You swallowed. “Sorry.”
The bathroom suddenly felt too warm.
Brendon stepped closer in a few easy strides before crouching beside the tub, his forearms resting against the edge as he looked at you carefully. Too carefully.
You hated how easily he could read you.
“Are you okay?”
The question was gentle, but it still made panic flare hot in your chest.
“I’m fine,” you answered quickly.
Brendon’s expression didn’t change.
“Baby,” he murmured quietly.
The nickname alone nearly cracked something open inside you.
He reached up, brushing damp hair away from your face before cupping your cheek in his hand. His palm was rough and warm against your skin, grounding in a way that made your eyes sting unexpectedly.
You were so scared.
Not because you thought he’d hurt you or yell or leave—Brendon had never once made you fear him like that—but because this mattered. Because you loved him so much that the thought of this changing things between you made your chest feel unbearably tight.
His thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye. “Talk to me.”
You hesitated.
Your stomach churned violently.
“You can’t freak out,” you whispered finally, leaning instinctively into his touch.
Brendon’s brows pulled together deeper at that. Concern flickered across his face fast enough to make your anxiety spike again, but he gave a small nod anyway.
“Okay.”
You dropped your gaze to the water, fingers twisting together beneath the bubbles as your pulse hammered painfully in your ears.
Then, so quietly it almost didn’t sound real even to you, you said:
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence stretched between you.
It lasted only a few seconds, maybe less, but with the way your heart pounded violently against your ribs, it felt endless.
Your eyes searched Brendon’s face desperately, trying to make sense of the expression staring back at you. For one horrible moment, he was unreadable—completely still, his gaze flicking across your features like he was trying to process what you’d just said.
And in that silence, your anxiety spiraled.
Had you just ruined everything?
Your marriage. The life you’d built together. His career. Your future.
Every worst-case scenario crashed through your mind at once.
“Bren?” Your voice wavered embarrassingly. “I-I’m sorry—”
Brendon kissed you before you could finish.
The suddenness of it made your breath hitch.
One large hand slid up to cradle the side of your face while his lips moved against yours—soft at first, then firmer, grounding. His nose nudged against yours as he kissed you again and again, like he physically couldn’t help himself.
“You’re pregnant?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and low.
The sound of it sent heat rushing unexpectedly through your chest.
You nodded wordlessly.
Brendon let out something dangerously close to a laugh—breathless and disbelieving all at once—before pressing another kiss to your lips. His forehead rested briefly against yours, and you felt the deep rumble vibrate through his chest.
“Fuck yeah,” he rasped.
Your eyes widened slightly.
The sheer relief that flooded you hit so hard it almost hurt. Your body sagged instinctively toward him, tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding finally beginning to loosen.
“You’re not mad?” you asked quietly, still sounding unconvinced even to yourself.
Brendon pulled back just enough to look at you fully.
His cheeks were faintly flushed now, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip for an entirely different reason. There was still surprise there, sure, but beneath it was something warmer. Softer.
Something almost awed.
“You’re having my baby,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “Why the fuck would I be mad?”
Emotion clogged painfully in your throat.
“I thought…” You swallowed hard, gaze dropping briefly. “I thought maybe it was too soon. Or you wouldn’t want—”
“Hey.” His hand tightened gently against your cheek until you looked at him again. “Never.”
The certainty in his voice nearly broke you.
Brendon’s eyes flickered over your face slowly before drifting lower, toward where you sat beneath the water. Something shifted in his expression then—warmth mixing with something darker, more possessive, enough that heat crawled up your neck immediately.
A quiet exhale left him, almost disbelieving.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “My wife’s pregnant.”
The way he said it—low, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe he got to claim that—made your chest ache.
His thumb brushed along your jaw as he looked at you again, softer this time.
“You have any idea how fucking happy that makes me?”
“I think I have an idea,” you said with a breathy little giggle, the sound shaky with leftover emotion.
Brendon’s eyes darkened immediately.
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest as he leaned closer to you, forehead nearly touching yours. “Get out of the tub,” he muttered roughly, voice dipping lower, “and you’ll have a much better idea.”
Heat rushed straight to your face.
Even now—after the panic, the tears, the nausea—he still looked at you like that. Like you were something precious. Like finding out you were carrying his child had flipped some switch inside him entirely.
You smirked despite yourself, trying to hide how badly your heart was pounding. “Can I at least dry off first?” you teased softly. “I’m soaked.”
Brendon huffed out a quiet laugh, though it sounded strained around the edges.
His gaze dragged slowly over you where you sat in the water before he stood to his full height. Without wasting another second, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one rough motion.
Your breath caught slightly.
There was something almost unfair about how attractive he was—broad shoulders, thick arms, the lingering tension in his muscles from long hospital shifts and years of taking care of himself despite his chaotic schedule. Exhaustion still clung to him from work, but now it mixed with something restless and energized.
Something very, very focused on you.
His clothes hit the floor carelessly one after another until he stood there in only his briefs, the outline of his arousal impossible to miss.
Brendon caught you staring and gave you a look that was equal parts smug and affectionate.
“You’re really surprised?” he asked hoarsely. “You just told me you’re pregnant.” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward your stomach before meeting yours again. “Kinda hard not to lose my mind over that.”
“God, you’re hot,” you murmured weakly, still a little dazed by how quickly your panic had melted into something warm and overwhelming.
Brendon’s mouth twitched upward.
“Yeah?” he asked roughly, climbing carefully into the tub with you despite the cramped space. Water sloshed against the sides as he settled in behind you, large hands immediately finding your waist.
You let out a surprised laugh as he effortlessly maneuvered you onto his lap, his chest warm and solid against your back.
The intimacy of it hit harder than usual now.
Everything felt heightened somehow—the heat of the water, the rough scrape of his hands against your skin, the way he held you like something precious. Like he couldn’t get close enough.
Brendon pressed his face briefly into your neck, inhaling deeply before kissing just beneath your ear.
“My wife’s pregnant,” he muttered, sounding almost dazed by it still.
Your stomach fluttered.
His arousal rested heavily against you beneath the water, impossible to ignore as one hand slid firmly to your hip, anchoring you against him. The look in his eyes when you turned toward him made heat coil low in your stomach—dark and hungry, sure, but softer underneath it. Emotional in a way Brendon rarely let himself be.
“No teasing tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with restraint. “Not after dropping that on me.”
You laughed breathlessly, fingers curling against his shoulders as he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every overwhelming emotion he couldn’t quite put into words into the touch instead.
Relief.
Excitement.
Love.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as your forehead rested against his.
“You really that happy?” you whispered.
Brendon let out a low sound against your lips, almost offended by the question. One hand spread protectively across your stomach beneath the water, thumb brushing lightly there.
“You have no idea,” he admitted quietly.
And suddenly the teasing expression faded just enough for you to see it clearly—the genuine emotion underneath. The awe. The almost disbelieving happiness shining through his exhaustion.
It softened something deep inside your chest.
You kissed him again before he could see how emotional that look alone almost made you.
Brendon’s hands tightened around your hips, holding you firmly against him as the water rocked around the tub. A rough groan left him as he buried his face against your neck, his breathing uneven and hot against your skin.
You whimpered softly, clinging to him instinctively.
“You’re mine,” he rasped, voice rough with emotion more than anything else. His forehead pressed against your shoulder as he held you close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between you right now. “Say you’re mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice should’ve embarrassed you, but instead it sent warmth flooding through your chest.
“I’m yours,” you breathed immediately, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
Brendon let out a low, wrecked sound at that, his grip flexing against your waist.
“My wife,” he muttered again, almost disbelieving. “My pregnant wife.”
The words sounded reverent coming from him.
You could feel how overwhelmed he was beneath all the roughness—the excitement, the pride, the almost primal need to hold you close and keep you there. Brendon had never been particularly good at verbal vulnerability, but moments like this made it obvious anyway.
Especially now.
Especially with the way one of his large hands kept drifting back toward your stomach, protective without him even seeming to realize it.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he admitted hoarsely against your skin.
Your heart squeezed painfully.
You pulled back just enough to cup his face, kissing him deeply, slowly, trying to pour every bit of relief and love and lingering fear into it all at once. Brendon answered immediately, almost desperate in the way he held you.
Like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours as both of you tried to catch your breath.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your side.
The question softened you instantly.
Even now—overwhelmed, emotional, clearly losing his mind a little over the idea of you carrying his child—he was still checking on you first.
You nodded, smiling shakily. “Yeah.”
Brendon studied your face for another second before kissing you again, gentler this time.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against your lips.
You laughed softly. “Pretty sure I already was.”
His mouth curved faintly against yours.
“I’m gonna take care of you now,” Brendon said, voice low and rough as his hands slid slowly along your waist. The look in his eyes made heat curl low in your stomach all over again—darkened with want, yes, but softened by something deeper too. Something protective.
“You always do,” you hummed.
He nipped along your jaw. “You know what I mean.”
You nodded shakily.
Brendon’s gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer, like he was making sure you really meant it, before his mouth curved slightly.
“Good.”
The word rumbled through him.
He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring all that pent-up emotion into it. One hand cradled the back of your head carefully while the other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you against him as warm water lapped around your bodies.
You melted into him immediately.
The anxiety that had consumed you earlier still lingered faintly beneath the surface, but Brendon’s touch made it easier to breathe through it. Easier to believe things were going to be okay.
His kisses drifted from your mouth to your jaw, then lower to your throat, lingering there as he held you close against his chest.
“You scared the shit outta me earlier,” he admitted quietly between kisses.
Your fingers tightened against his shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” His brows furrowed slightly as he pulled back enough to look at you. “I just hate knowing you were sitting up here alone freaking out.”
Emotion tightened your chest again.
Brendon brushed his thumb beneath your eye gently, catching lingering dampness there before pressing a softer kiss to your forehead.
“You don’t gotta carry this stuff by yourself anymore,” he murmured. “Not ever.”
Your breath caught.
It wasn’t just about the pregnancy. You could hear that much in his voice.
It was a promise. One he meant with everything in him.
You leaned forward and kissed him before the sudden swell of emotion could completely overwhelm you again, and Brendon answered immediately, arms wrapping tighter around you like he never planned on letting go.
The heat in his touch had shifted into something deeper now—still intense, still edged with that possessive excitement that had flared the second you told him you were pregnant, but grounded by overwhelming affection underneath it all.
You could feel it in the way he touched you.
Like he suddenly needed constant reassurance that you were really here. Really his. Really carrying a future the two of you had created together.
“My girl,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your chest tightened painfully.
The water had long since started cooling around you, but neither of you seemed willing to move apart. Brendon’s hands stayed anchored to your body—your waist, your thighs, your stomach—always touching somewhere.
You kissed him again before he could see how emotional the look in his eyes was making you.
That seemed to snap whatever restraint he had left.
Brendon stood carefully from the tub with you still wrapped around him, strong arms securing around your thighs as he carried you out of the bathroom despite your surprised laugh. Water dripped onto the floor behind you while he kissed you breathlessly toward your bedroom.
“Bren—” you giggled weakly.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered against your lips. “Been trying not to lose my mind since you told me.”
The confession made warmth bloom through you instantly.
He laid you down gently against the mattress like you were something precious despite the obvious urgency thrumming through him. The softness only made the possessive edge in his expression stand out more.
Brendon climbed over you, broad frame caging you in comfortably as his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You okay?” he asked again quietly.
You nodded immediately, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “Yeah.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed at that.
Then he kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to feel every reaction you gave him. Every soft sound. Every shift beneath him.
The intensity of it made your stomach flip.
Brendon had always been affectionate in private, but tonight there was something almost overwhelming about the way he held you. Every touch lingered. Every kiss carried emotion behind it. His hands kept drifting protectively over your stomach like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“You have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?” he murmured against your skin.
You laughed softly, flushed from head to toe. “You’re biased.”
“Damn right I am.”
The rough honesty in his voice made you smile into the next kiss.
And despite the heat steadily building between you, Brendon never stopped paying attention to you first. Checking your reactions. Slowing when you needed him to. Kissing your forehead when your emotions threatened to overwhelm you again.
By the time the two of you finally settled afterward, the earlier panic in your chest had softened into something gentler.
Safer.
You lay curled against Brendon’s chest beneath the blankets, his arm wrapped securely around you while his fingers lazily traced circles against your side. The room smelled faintly of soap and steam, exhaustion finally beginning to settle into your bones.
Brendon pressed a lingering kiss into your damp hair.
“How you feeling?” he asked quietly.
“Tired,” you admitted.
He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
But his hand drifted instinctively toward your stomach again.
The movement was absentminded. Protective.
You looked up at him just in time to catch the expression crossing his face—soft awe mixing with lingering disbelief.
It made your throat tighten.
“You’re really happy?” you whispered.
Brendon looked almost offended by the question.
“Baby,” he murmured, pulling you closer against him. “I’ve never been happier about anything in my life.”
* * *
By the time your first appointment finally rolled around, you were a nervous wreck.
You’d spent most of the morning curled miserably over the toilet again, stomach rebelling against practically everything. Even after getting sick, the nausea never fully faded, lingering heavily enough to leave you shaky and exhausted while you tried to get ready.
Brendon hovered the entire time.
Not obnoxiously—though you were pretty sure he was trying very hard not to be—but close enough that you always knew he was there. He handed you water after you brushed your teeth, packed crackers and ginger chews into his bag “just in case,” and kept watching you with that same quiet concern that hadn’t left his face in days.
By the time the two of you left the apartment, you were already tired again.
The drive to the hospital was calm and quiet, Brendon keeping one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested firmly on your thigh. His thumb stroked absentmindedly against your skin every few seconds, grounding you whenever your thoughts started spiraling too hard.
“Are you excited?” you asked softly after a while, glancing over at him.
Brendon looked over briefly before pulling into the parking garage. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.
“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Are you?”
You smiled faintly, though nerves still twisted painfully in your stomach. “I’m kinda nervous.”
His expression softened immediately.
“It’ll be okay,” he assured you quietly. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“As my husband, right?” you teased lightly, raising a brow at him.
Because you knew Brendon.
And you knew the second anything involving your health came up, some deeply ingrained doctor instinct took over whether he wanted it to or not.
A small huff of amusement left him as he parked the car.
“Yeah,” he muttered, though there was obvious reluctance in it. “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart.”
You snorted softly. “That reassuring, huh?”
Brendon leaned over the center console just enough to press a quick kiss against your forehead before unbuckling.
“I’ll behave.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
You gave him a skeptical look that only made him smirk faintly.
Still, when he reached for your hand as the two of you walked into the hospital together, your nerves eased just a little.
The appointment itself was surprisingly calm.
Most of it consisted of routine questions — how far along you might be, how you’d been feeling, whether you’d had any pain or concerning symptoms. Brendon stayed quiet for the most part, though his grip tightened noticeably when you admitted how often you’d been getting sick.
“How often is ‘often’?”
“Pretty much all day.”
Brendon’s jaw tightened while the provider explained that severe nausea early on could happen, especially in the first trimester, and that they’d keep an eye on it to make sure you stayed hydrated and healthy.
Brendon listened intensely to every word.
You could practically see him shifting into work mode despite his earlier promise.
“You’re doing okay otherwise,” the provider reassured after finishing the exam. “Baby looks good so far.”
The tension in Brendon’s shoulders visibly loosened at that.
And when you glanced over at him, you caught the expression on his face before he could hide it—pure relief mixed with overwhelming emotion.
It hit you harder than expected.
Because this was real now.
Not just a positive test hidden in a bathroom trashcan. Not just fear and nausea and uncertainty.
There was really a baby.
Your baby.
Brendon’s hand found yours again immediately, fingers lacing tightly with yours as he looked over at you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
You nodded quickly, laughing a little through the sudden emotion. “Yeah.”
Brendon studied your face for another second before bringing your knuckles to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss there.
The gesture was small.
But it made your chest ache all over again.
* * *
The morning sickness never went away.
If anything, it got worse.
By the time you entered your second trimester, both you and Brendon had hoped things would finally ease up a little. Everyone said the second trimester was supposed to be better—less nausea, more energy, easier overall.
Instead, your body seemed determined to do the exact opposite.
Most days, the nausea clung to you from the moment you opened your eyes until you finally fell asleep again. Some mornings you couldn’t even make it out of bed before getting sick. Other days, just sitting upright for too long made your stomach churn violently enough that you had to lie back down again.
It was exhausting.
And terrifying.
Especially for Brendon.
He tried not to let you see just how worried he was getting, but you knew him too well by now. You saw it in the way he watched you constantly, like he was mentally tracking every time you got sick. In how quickly he appeared beside you anytime you disappeared into the bathroom for too long. In the way his jaw tightened whenever you admitted you still felt awful.
He hated feeling helpless.
Dana had tried reassuring him during one particularly rough shift after he’d apparently spent most of the day distracted.
“Morning sickness can last longer for some people,” she’d told him casually while charting. “When I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was sick for six months.”
Apparently, that information had done absolutely nothing to calm him down.
Though you knew he appreciated hearing it anyway, even if he’d rather die than openly admit that.
Because from Brendon’s perspective, things looked bad.
Too bad.
He came home every day to find you either curled up in bed or kneeling over the toilet, pale and exhausted in a way that made his chest ache. The spark in you seemed dimmed lately, buried beneath constant nausea and fatigue.
And it scared the shit out of him.
One evening after you’d gotten sick again for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Brendon finally snapped.
Not at you.
At the situation.
You’d barely finished rinsing your mouth before he was already standing in the hallway with his phone pressed to his ear, brows drawn together so tightly they almost touched.
“Yes, but she can barely keep anything down,” he argued quietly, pacing the bedroom while trying not to let you hear the panic creeping into his voice. “She’s throwing up constantly. She’s exhausted all the time.”
You leaned weakly against the bathroom counter, guilt twisting in your stomach.
Brendon had already contacted your doctor twice before this.
Now he was doing it again.
You watched him drag a tired hand down his face while listening to the response on the other end.
“Okay,” he muttered finally, though he sounded unconvinced. “Yeah. Thank you.”
The second he hung up, his eyes were back on you immediately.
Concern flooded his features so openly it made your chest hurt.
“Bren,” you said softly, “I’m okay.”
His expression tightened.
“No, you’re not.”
The honesty of it knocked the breath from your lungs.
Brendon crossed the room quickly before gently guiding you back toward the bed like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go of you for too long.
“You shouldn’t have to feel this sick all the time,” he muttered, helping you sit down carefully.
You leaned back against the pillows with a tired sigh. “Apparently some people just do.”
“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”
A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Brendon sat beside you immediately, one hand settling against your thigh while the other brushed loose hair away from your damp forehead.
“You scared me earlier,” he admitted quietly after a moment.
Your chest tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” His voice softened instantly at the guilty look on your face. “This isn’t your fault.”
You looked down at your hands. “I know. I just…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I feel useless lately.”
Brendon’s expression shifted immediately.
“Hey.” He hooked a finger beneath your chin until you looked at him again. “Don’t do that.”
Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes.
“You’re growing our baby,” he said firmly, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “You’re sick because your body’s working overtime right now. That doesn’t make you useless.”
The conviction in his voice nearly undid you.
Brendon leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.
“I just need you okay,” he murmured quietly. “That’s all I care about.”
* * *
As the months passed, pregnancy settled into something that almost felt manageable.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But manageable.
Your nausea had finally started easing up sometime after the halfway point, much to both yours and Brendon’s relief. You still got sick occasionally, especially in the mornings, but it was nothing compared to the constant misery of the first several months.
And because you could finally keep food down more consistently, some of the exhaustion faded too.
Brendon relaxed a little after that.
Not much—he was still painfully attentive, still hovering anytime you looked even remotely uncomfortable—but enough that the permanent tension in his shoulders eased.
Of course, new symptoms quickly replaced the old ones.
Your feet swelled if you stood too long. You got dizzy frighteningly easily. Sometimes simply getting out of bed too fast made your vision blur at the edges long enough that Brendon would immediately appear beside you with that worried crease between his brows.
But overall?
Things seemed okay.
Until six and a half months.
Brendon was at work when it started.
You’d just finished a small load of laundry and settled onto the couch afterward, one hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach while trying to relax. The baby had been unusually active all day—constant kicking and rolling that was equal parts reassuring and uncomfortable.
You’d been smiling about it only minutes earlier.
Then the cramp hit.
Sharp.
Violent.
A sudden bolt of pain tore through your abdomen hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
You gasped, immediately curling forward with a grimace, one hand gripping the couch cushion while the other flew protectively to your belly.
“Fuck,” you whimpered.
The pain eased slightly after a few seconds, but it never fully disappeared. Instead it lingered deep inside you, throbbing uncomfortably before another sharper wave rolled through your body again.
Panic prickled immediately along the back of your neck.
No.
No, no, no.
Your breathing quickened as another cramp hit harder this time, sending a sickening jolt through your entire body.
Something felt wrong.
Terribly wrong.
You shifted shakily against the couch cushions, trying to steady your breathing—and that’s when you felt it.
Warmth.
Wetness.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
Slowly, almost afraid to look, your trembling hand moved downward.
When you pulled it back, your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Blood.
“Oh my God.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Suddenly your thoughts were moving too fast to keep up with.
The cramps.
The bleeding.
The baby.
Tears sprang instantly to your eyes as panic crashed through you hard enough to make your hands shake violently.
“No, no, no—”
Your phone.
You needed your phone.
You nearly stumbled trying to stand, another sharp pain making you cry out as you reached shakily for the coffee table. Your fingers fumbled badly against the screen before you finally managed to dial 911.
The dispatcher’s voice barely registered through the roaring panic in your ears.
“I-I’m pregnant,” you choked out, tears spilling freely now. “I’m bleeding—there’s blood and cramps and—I’m six months—”
Your voice broke completely.
The dispatcher immediately shifted into calm reassurance, asking questions you answered through uneven breaths and mounting terror while trying not to completely fall apart.
An ambulance was already on the way.
But all you could think was:
Please let my baby be okay.
* * *
Brendon was halfway through a consult when the call came through the Pitt.
At first, he barely paid attention.
Then he heard your name.
“Pregnant female, approximately six and a half months,” she called. “Heavy cramping and vaginal bleeding. EMS is bringing her in now.”
Everything inside him went cold.
His head snapped up instantly, looking up so fast he nearly stumbled backward.
Brendon felt the blood drain completely from his face.
For one horrible second, he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Then panic hit him all at once.
“Fuck.”
The word came out ragged as he was already moving, heartbeat slamming violently against his ribs while dread clawed up his throat hard enough to choke him.
You.
Something was wrong with you.
And suddenly all the worst fears he’d spent months trying to bury came rushing violently to the surface.
* * *
The ride to the hospital blurred together in fragments of pain and panic.
Every cramp that tore through your abdomen made your breathing hitch harder, your trembling hands clutching helplessly around your stomach while the EMT beside you tried to keep you calm.
“You’re doing great,” she reassured gently. “Just keep breathing for me, okay?”
But it was hard to focus on anything except the blood.
And the fear.
By the time the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, tears were streaming steadily down your face.
The EMTs moved quickly, wheeling you through the emergency department while calling out information you could barely process through the ringing panic in your ears.
“Twenty-six weeks pregnant—”
“Cramping and vaginal bleeding—”
“Vitals stable—”
“My husband,” you choked out suddenly, voice cracking badly. “H-He’s a doctor here. Brendon Park—”
Someone nodded while helping transfer you onto a hospital bed. The sudden movement jolted another sharp cramp through your body hard enough that you cried out.
“—orthopedics,” you continued shakily, desperation making your words tumble over each other. “Please—I need my husband—”
You were cut off by the sound of Brendon’s voice.
Sharp.
Terrified.
“Where is she?”
The room shifted instantly the second he stormed in.
You’d never heard him sound like that before—not truly. Not with that jagged edge of panic barely restrained beneath the surface. His eyes found you immediately, and whatever composure he’d been trying to hold onto visibly cracked.
“Bren—”
You broke down sobbing the second he reached the bedside.
Brendon grabbed your hand immediately, dropping beside the bed without caring who was watching. His fingers tightened around yours hard enough to ground you while his other hand moved instinctively toward your stomach.
“I-I don’t know what happened,” you cried. “I was fine and then—”
“You’re okay,” he said quickly, voice softer now despite the panic flooding his expression. “Hey. Look at me.”
Your tear-filled eyes locked onto his.
“You’re okay,” he repeated firmly, though his own eyes looked dangerously glassy now. “You hear me? We’re gonna figure this out. You’ll both be okay.”
You nodded shakily because you wanted to believe him.
God, you wanted to.
But the fear in his face terrified you almost as much as the pain did.
Within minutes, OB was downstairs.
The room became a blur of movement around you—nurses adjusting monitors, questions being asked, someone checking the bleeding while another prepared the ultrasound machine.
Brendon never let go of your hand once.
Not once.
Even when he looked seconds away from falling apart himself.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured quietly near your ear while the OB spread cool gel across your stomach. “Just breathe for me.”
Your chest rose unevenly as you stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently into your hairline while the doctor moved the probe carefully across your abdomen.
The room fell quiet.
Too quiet.
The OB’s brows furrowed slightly.
Brendon noticed immediately.
“What is it?” he asked, too quickly. Too sharply.
The doctor didn’t answer right away.
Your heart stopped.
The silence stretched another horrible second as the probe shifted again.
Then another.
Brendon’s grip on your hand became almost painful.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath.
You could hear the panic creeping into his voice now.
And then—
A heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Strong.
Alive.
You sobbed outright at the sound.
Brendon sucked in a sharp breath beside you, his head dropping immediately as relief slammed through him so hard his shoulders physically sagged. One shaky hand came up to cover his mouth briefly before he leaned forward against the bed, eyes squeezed shut.
“Okay,” the OB said gently, visibly relaxing too. “Baby’s heartbeat looks good.”
You cried harder.
Brendon let out a broken exhale that sounded dangerously close to a laugh before pressing his forehead against your hand.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered hoarsely.
The OB continued the exam carefully, explaining that the bleeding appeared controlled for now and that they’d need to monitor you closely for the next several hours—possibly longer depending on whether the cramping settled.
“You’ll be admitted for observation,” she explained calmly. “We want to make sure both you and baby stay stable.”
You nodded weakly, exhaustion beginning to crash into you now that the initial terror was fading slightly.
Beside you, Brendon finally looked up.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
Terrified.
But softer now that he’d heard the heartbeat.
When your gaze met his, he immediately leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss against your forehead.
“You scared the fucking life outta me,” he whispered.
Fresh tears burned behind your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered back automatically.
Brendon’s expression crumpled for half a second.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Don’t apologize for this.”
Brendon pressed a trembling kiss against your lips, lingering there for a moment like he needed the contact as much as you did.
“We’ll get through this,” he murmured softly, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was rough around the edges now, worn thin by fear and adrenaline and the effort it was taking to keep himself together for you. “You, me, and baby. We’ll get through it.”
Your breath shook on the exhale.
The monitors around you beeped steadily now, the earlier chaos finally settling into something quieter, but your body still wouldn’t stop trembling. Every cramp, every lingering ache sent another spike of fear through you.
“I don’t know what happened,” you whispered hoarsely. “I was fine, and then it just…” Your voice cracked badly. “It happened out of nowhere.”
Brendon’s expression tightened immediately.
One of his hands remained wrapped securely around yours while the other rested protectively against the swell of your stomach, his thumb moving in slow strokes over the fabric of the hospital blanket.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said firmly.
Fresh tears burned behind your eyes.
“But what if—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended.
You flinched slightly, and Brendon’s entire face softened instantly with guilt.
“Hey,” he murmured quickly, brushing damp hair away from your forehead. “Baby, look at me.”
Your watery eyes met his.
“This is not your fault,” he said again, slower this time. Softer. “You hear me?”
Your chest ached.
Because despite how calm he was trying to sound, you could still see it—the fear lingering beneath the surface. The panic he was forcing down every second he sat beside you.
Brendon looked exhausted already.
His scrubs were wrinkled from the shift he’d abandoned midway through, his hair messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it, dark circles beneath his eyes more pronounced than usual. But none of that compared to the expression in his eyes.
You’d never seen him look so scared before.
Not even close.
“I thought…” Your voice wavered. “I thought we lost the baby.”
Brendon visibly broke at that.
His eyes squeezed shut briefly before he leaned forward, pressing another kiss against your forehead while tightening his grip on your hand.
“We didn’t,” he whispered.
The emotion in his voice nearly undid you completely.
“We didn’t,” he repeated, like maybe he was reassuring himself too.
A sob caught painfully in your throat.
Brendon immediately shifted closer, one arm carefully wrapping around your shoulders despite the hospital bed and monitors crowding the space between you. He pulled you against his chest gently, like you were something fragile.
“I got both of you,” he murmured into your hair. “I got both of you.”
You cried quietly against him, exhausted beyond words now that the adrenaline was finally fading.
For a long time, Brendon just held you.
His hand never left your stomach once. Even absentmindedly, his fingers kept stroking over the curve protectively, like he needed the constant reminder that both of you were still here.
Still okay.
Eventually, you felt his lips brush against the top of your head again.
“You know what the worst part was?” he admitted quietly.
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him.
Brendon swallowed hard before answering.
“Hearing your name.” His jaw tightened painfully. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
Your eyes immediately filled again.
“Bren…”
“I thought I was gonna lose both of you,” he whispered.
The raw honesty of it shattered something inside your chest.
You reached up shakily, cupping the side of his face. Brendon leaned into your touch instantly, eyes closing briefly.
“I’m still here,” you whispered. “We’re still here.”
His eyes opened again, glassy with emotion.
“Yeah,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly. “You are.”
all while his hands are splayed on your stretched stomach. rubbing and adorning.
Emmy don't play w me rn I need dada BAD. opted for reader to be spooning her man if that's oki!
WORLD'S GREEDIEST BABY
MDNI Please do not interact!
TW: Pregnancy
Throughout all of the things that Jack had witnessed in his long, long life, he was sure that this particular one would always be his favorite.
You, his darling wife, splayed on your marital bed and watching tv without a care in the world, your belly a proud arc that nestled your child of 34 weeks within - and a bowl of bbq chips sitting atop it. You looked radiant, glorious even. you looked-
"Jaaack!" You whined from your nest of fluffed up pillows and fuzzy blankets, lower lip already trembling in that ever familiar pout as you shook the empty bowl at him. A silent ask for a refill that he really shouldn’t give you unless he wanted your OBGYN to chew him up at your next appointment. "Can you, baby? My show's about to start."
Big, round belly full of his babe, chubby cheeks, those full tits spilling out your top, an ass that had doubled in size ever since you've reached your third trimester. You were glowing to Jack, a miracle even at his ripe age. And it almost got him to do your evil little bidding for more treats, again.
Christ you were insatiable lately.
The man in question chuckled and pushed off the doorjamb from where he was watching you pig out, walking over to sit by your side instead. "Think you've had enough snacks for today, pumpkin." He teased with a shit eating grin, dominant hand already inching forward to rest on the curve of your belly. Jack’s thumb stroked across the strip of skin that was peeking from under your tanktop, circling at your belly button before trailing down to caress one of the dozens of stretch marks that adorned your skin. "You can't just eat chips honey, s’bad for the baby. How about a fruit? I can make you a smoothie.”
He loved how indignant you'd get at being told “no” in this state, nose scrunched like a bunny, lips pursed,huffing and puffing as you set the bowl on the nearby nightstand and shuffled your heavy body to face him properly while you prepared your rebuttal.
"Your pregnant wife asks for a snack and you say no? No to your beautiful wife growing your darling child?" You cried out, sounding almost hurt at Jack’s very gentle refusal. “Do you even love me anymore?!”
Your penchant for the dramatics seems to have grown alongside your belly, this particular excuse being at the top of your pile, though if anything it served as a constant source of amusement to an otherwise stressed out dad-to-beJack Abbot. Pushing 50 with a kid on the way isn’t exactly easy.
"A strawberry shortcake roll then! that has strawberries!" You pleaded, your sweet tooth fierce and unyielding. "Nice try sweetheart, but no."
"Honey bun?" "Nope."
"Twinkie?"
"I'll give you my twinkie," Jack said with a wink, only to be immediately hit with an offended scoff and a pillow to the head.
"You're disgusting!" you cried out, even as your reddening cheeks betrayed you. "I'm so, so sorry your daddy's a pervert, sweetie," You mumbled to your swollen belly as Jack settled fully on the bed, pointedly ignoring the man in question until you heard his groan of relief, followed by the familiar gentle clank of his prosthesis hitting the floor.
Jack’s arms wrap around you slowly, slithering to pull you in until you’re pressed flush to his solid front, the plushness of his paunch (happy weight you’d called it once) warm and soft where it dug against your back. “C’mon baby…don’t be like that,” He crooned in response to your theatrics, his lips soon gracing the exposed slope of your shoulder with warm, affectionate kisses. “Y’know papa’s just tryin’ to keep you healthy.”
When you outright scoff him off with a grumbly little “Whatever..”, Jack has no choice but to amp up his spoiling ten-fold. He throws his thigh over yours, his already touchy hands now feeling up your full belly and round, pillowy breasts with reverence as he nudges your cheek with the tip of his nose. “So grumpy, sweetheart,” He says all condescending. “Guess i’ll just hafta take your mind off of it, yeah?”
———
“That’s it baby…not so grumpy now, huh?” Jack presses his naked hips closer, balls resting against the curve of your ass, his breath hot puffs against your ear as he sawed his engorged cock in and out your soaked, fluttering cunt, relishing in the wet, squelching noises that were coupled so prettily with your sighs and whimpers.
"Jackie, please- w-want -mmnh- want more..."
"More?" he chuckles, teeth nipping at your earlobe playfully. "Dad's stuffed this pretty pussy full and you want more?" he tsks sarcastically, thrilled at your reddening cheeks and shameful lust-darkened gaze. Jack's hips inch forward, pushing the broad head of his cock right against the spongy little spot that made you see stars and your cunt clench around him like a vise, grinding there until you sob all needy.
Though Jack now knew crocodile tears when he heard them, especially from you. "What am I gonna do with you, hmm? so greedy, momma. Wantin' me all the time...can't -shit- c-can't get you more knocked up y'know."
All the pregnancy hormones rushing through your swollen body had made you feel even more amazing, if that was even possible. Soaking wet at a moment's notice, oversensitive to Jack's touch and hungry for him like never before. Not that your normal sex life was lacking...but ever since your second trimester you've been on the poor man like white on rice, wanting at the mere sight of him even when he'd come home exhausted after a long night, smelling of sweat and dried blood.
Especially then, honestly.
You mewl and arch your lower half into Jack's undulating hips in response, the most amount of movement you can manage as of late, groaning in relief when your husband's freckled bicep hooks under your knee to pull your leg up and back over his hip. The shift in position feels exquisite, his length inching just a bit deeper into your needy slit.
"S'not m-my -oh- fault you're so sexy h-honey," You shoot back, grin wobbly as you crane your neck over your shoulder to look at your hunk of a husband. "Big and strong and..."
Jack's expression is nothing short of adoring, hazel eyes darkened and soft as they roam your swollen figure, as if he can't believe that he got you like this, big and round and full to bursting with his baby. His freckled cheeks were flushed a soft pink, his skin glistening, lips parted into a small O that let low groans and grunts of pleasure escape with every thrust into your sucking depths.
"You look so fuckin' good, sweetheart," Jack rasps before pressing feverish kisses up the slope of your shoulder and up to your waiting mouth. Your lips crash together in short, desperate smooches that almost have your teeth clacking, Jack unrelenting in his affections. "Look at you-" He rasps, though it comes out more like a plea from the desperate pitch of his voice. "Full of my fuckin' kid. Driving me crazy look- -unh- lookin at you-"
His single free hand leaves your thigh to shamelessly grope at your body like he owns it, squeezing your milk-swollen tits and feeling up the curve of your gravid belly. Trailing back up your thigh to grope and smack the soft, jiggly inner flesh near your currently spread and stuffed cunt. "Gonna give me another after this one?" Jack's hips speed up as his eyes and hands roam you, the excitement getting to him until his thighs are outright smacking against the backs of yours "Should just keep you knocked up all the time- you'd like that, yeah baby? Be all pretty for papa?"
Poor you could barely speak in the first place, but all thoughts of even trying to answer Jack flew out the window the second the rough pads of his fingers found your aching clit. He swirled his fingers around your swollen little bud in fast, tight circles, your slickness helping Jack in his endeavors to drive you as crazy as he was getting.
"Need you t'cum, sweetheart-" He gasped. You felt him throb and swell further inside you with the tell-tale signs of his orgasm, your belly quivering in response, heat engulfing your body as the familiar tingling of your own peak crept upon you fast. "M'gonna -fuck!- gonna cum, honey, gonna paint that pretty pussy w'it- make it mine-" Jack's desperate keening was music to your ears, your body tensing in sheer anticipation as you teetered on the edge of your own pleasure, spurred on by his increasingly desperate ramblings and the swirl of his feverish fingers.
It didn't take much after that for you both. Jack shuddered behind you with a loud groan of your name, climaxing into your own spasming cunt, his length twitching and throbbing while painting your fluttering walls white with his cum. You fell off the edge with a cry of your husband's name, hips bucking desperately in time with the clench of your walls as you milked him dry of every single drop of his essence.
A peaceful quiet blanketed the both of you, the room silent apart from the low hush of the still-playing tv and your own ragged breaths. You melt into Jack's chest easily as he snuggled into the crook of your neck, readjusting your heavy body ever so gently to fit into his strong arms better.
"Think we missed your show, honey," Jack teases, voice all soft and eyes tired while the credits roll in the background. "Didn't get all that Viscount stuff anyway," he yawns, snorting when you smack his shoulder in petty revenge. "Ow,"
