Baby

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

I'd really really really like to know how Carmy got into that point of sexgod-ism to spit in his partner's mouth 🫢 like how long it took? what it took? tell me everything plz xx

carmen berzatto is awkward.

there’s no use in sugarcoating the fact. he’s a master at communicating through food, but definitely not in terms of verbalizing his actual thoughts and feelings. but who is? confronting the complexity of them means facing ugly truths and undergoing crippling self-awareness and if he’s a mess now, he’ll surely be a mess nitpicking his inner contemplations apart. he… doesn’t mind his lack of social skills. if he’s busy interacting with people, how is he supposed to further hone his craft?

no distractions. no discomfort. no bullshit.

but he’s a man with desires no less. it’s tricky voicing this to the women he comes across in his life, often denying himself closeness until he’s in a predicament where he can’t anymore. when his breaking point hits, there’s no turning back. he falls into the rhythm of action, any moan and tug of him encouraging him to let loose, to stop fucking thinking already like mikey and richie would scold him to do, and feel his desires without guilt or uncertainty or any self-worth issue he’s not fixing to change and grow from if he can keep avoiding it instead.

but change grabs ahold of him anyways, as it tends to do in when he finally feels like his feet are steady and his head’s calm enough. you enter his life and the intimacies that make him human peskily rise to the front of the room, remind him they’ve always been here, and prey on his attention span until he’s afforded overall consumption of everything you are. he wants to spread your legs, he wants to see your face, he wants to bend you over a counter, in the shower, the armrest of his couch, and he both loves and hates how you bring it out of him.

it really begins with facing the enormity of his sex drive. being with you at every opportunity he has, making time, cursing himself when he’s inevitably late. you honor him and ease his self-doubt by voicing how much you like it, how often he needs you, your desire for him just as wanton and just as abundant. that’s what helps him step further into it, the exploration of his kinks and the additional details he never dove headfirst into. for example, he finds he loves praise, always fucking loses it when you tell him right there and fucking amazing, doing so good for me.

he loves putting his hand onto your neck, he loves watching your eyes roll back anytime he does it, and he loves how your lips part to moan louder for him and accept the open mouth (they have to be open mouth or else neither of you are going to breathe) kisses he bestows with an eager tongue and devoted lips. there’s power associated with it. the rougher he gets, which you only encourage, the more he’s able to conquer what it is that makes his desire tick. the short answer is you. the longer answer is what he wants to do to you.

he’s fascinated by your pretty lips. whether they’re blowing him a kiss or literally blowing him, stretched wide over his girth, he has an urge to fill it. he placed his fingers in there just to see what you’d do, and you didn’t disappoint, his cock throbbing harder inside of you as your tongue curled around his digits and sucked with closing eyes. he’s used your spit on your clit with those same fingers and then he shoved his tongue into your mouth once it howled in the spark of pleasure the action sent up your spine.

it’s no different when he has you lying back, needy noises spilling from your throat, the same that vibrates under his palm. he’s got you strung out. and it’s yet another thing that riles him, that gets him going… having control over you and your pleasure, capturing and nursing your submission. staring up at him with fluttering lashes as your walls squeeze him tighter, beg him for more despite the two orgasms he’s already given you. your swollen lips part, and he can’t help it. he would’ve never done this before you, but what the fuck are you turning him into, what the fuck are you inspiring?

“open,” he grits. as expected, your mouth opens for him obediently. this is what he’s talking about. you’re not fucking helping his case.

he gathers collecting spit, ample from the exertion and from his head between your thighs beforehand, and he lets it fall from his mouth to yours. it lands on your tongue and he sees the surprise in those blown features, your mouth closing with it and your body seizing up. your pussy grips him tighter, a whine betrays your satisfaction, and that’s the day carmen finds out he really loves molding you to his whim. his needy girl. all fucking his.

STITCHED TOGETHER

PAIRING: michael “robby” robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

SUMMARY:

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, dual pov, mentions of blood/wounds, mentions of domestic/child abuse (a case at the hospital), hurt/comfort, neighbors to lovers, baked goods as a flirting mechanism, explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), vaginal fingering, edging, oral - f receiving, light choking, praise kink, dirty talk, kissing, begging, p in v, multiple positions - missionary and cowgirl, a sprinkle of domesticity

Your hand pulses with pain. The dish towel you’ve wrapped tightly around your palm is now stained with blood. You raise your fist to knock on your neighbor’s door, hoping that he’s home. You don’t know much about Robby, but you know he works long shifts at the ER, always leaving the apartment with a thermos of coffee and coming home late with shadows under his eyes.

There’s no answer to your knock, no sounds of movement from behind the door, and you mumble a curse beneath your breath. You lift the towel from your palm to check the wound, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin and making you wince. It’s still just as deep as it felt and you’re pretty sure you need stitches but—

“Everything okay?”

You look up. Robby is standing at the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell closing behind him. He must have just finished at work since he’s still dressed in a pair of wrinkled scrubs, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. You suddenly feel very guilty for bothering him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, aiming for nonchalant. His eyes catch on your hand where you have it cradled close to your body. Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, long strides carrying him down the hall. He drops the backpack on his shoulder to the floor, all his attention zeroed in on your hand. “Let me see.”

You hold your hand out. He carefully unwraps the towel.

“It’s fine, really, I was just going to ask if you think I need stitches—“

“You do.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better—“

“I can do it.”

“No, no, that’s okay, I can just —“ Robby looks up at you, still holding your hand, and you feel your heart lurch at the sharp edge in his eye. The rest of your words fade away.

“Come on, I’ve got a suture kit under the sink,” he says, grabbing his bag and digging his keys from the front pocket. He unlocks the door to his apartment, leaving it open behind him in a clear invitation. After a second of hesitation, you follow him, shutting the door behind you.

Robby’s apartment is a mirror image of yours. Open concept, with the living room blending into a dining area that opens up to the kitchen. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it’s clearly lived in — a stack of magazines on a low coffee table, a comfortable looking leather couch with a blanket draped over the back, and a small collection of empty coffee cups on the counter by the sink.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, crouching down to fetch the aforementioned suture kit. “Bring your hand over the sink for me.”

You do as you’re asked, unwrapping the towel and setting it on the counter. Robby washes his hands and dries them with a paper towel before pulling on some blue gloves, his motions steadfast and efficient. He picks up a squeeze bottle with a long, curved tip and holds out a hand for yours.

He squeezes the contents of the bottle over your wound, using it to wash away some of the dried blood. When it’s clean, he sets the bottle down.

“Good news is that you didn’t manage to hit any tendons,” he says. “Bad news is that hand injuries hurt like a bitch.” He picks up a syringe, uncapping it and sticking it into a vial of clear fluid. “Some lidocaine will help while I stitch you up. When it wears off, you’ll need some Tylenol. You got any at your place?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He sticks the needle into your palm and you resist the urge to flinch. Each time he repositions it, you hold your breath.

“You gotta breathe for me. I know it hurts, but when it kicks in you’ll feel a lot better.”

You take a deep breath, the exhale shaky. Finally, he finishes with the needle. The pain has eased considerably as the anesthetic begins to do its job.

“Have a seat at the table for me,” Robby says, tilting his head toward the dining area. You settle into one of the chairs and he drags another close to you, setting a sterile bag on the table before taking a seat.

Peeling the bag open, he methodically removes the contents. First the blue sheet that he unfolds and lays on the table, followed by the tray of utensils. He pats the sheet and you set your hand, palm up, on it.

“So, you gonna tell me how you did this?” He asks, opening a swab stained with brown liquid that he runs over the edges of your wound.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” you reply, heat rising to your cheeks. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a little smile.

“I’ve seen some stupid stuff. Promise this won’t even phase me.”

You sigh. “I was cutting an avocado.”

“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” He rips open a small package, pulling out a curved needle with a length of string already attached. “Finish the story.”

“I was holding it and sliced a little too deep. Went straight through the avocado skin and right into mine.”

“I wasn’t too far off. First stitch,” he says, sticking the needle through the edge of the cut. “Good thing I got home when I did.”

“I would have just gone to the ER if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, and you would have been waiting a few hours to get seen.”

“I feel bad. You’re off the clock. I’m sure you had things you wanted to do.”

“Had a hot date with my shower and some pizza rolls. I think they’ll forgive me for being late.”

You laugh and his eyes flick up, watching you for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. A comfortable silence settles between you and you take the opportunity to really look at Robby.

He’s older than you by a few years if the grey in his beard is anything to go by. His dark hair looks like it’s grown out a bit from a shorter style and is a little messy, like maybe he’s run his fingers through it a few times. There are faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that grow deeper when his lips curl up in a smile. He’s handsome, you’ve thought as much since introducing yourself when you moved in, but up close and hunched over your hand, helping you with a gentle touch, he’s nearly devastating.

“Done,” he announces, reaching for the surgical scissors on the tray and snipping the end of the suture. “These are meant to fall out as the wound heals, so unless you notice any signs of infection, you shouldn’t need any follow up.”

“That was fast,” you say, looking over the neat row of stitches appreciatively.

“Years of practice.” He wraps a roll of gauze around your palm. “Keep the bandage on for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can take it off but keep the area clean. Don’t soak it in anything. Try not to move your hand too much so they don’t pop. Alternate between Tylenol and Motrin for the pain.”

“I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try to be.”

Though he’s trying to make a joke, his tone sounds despondent. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning up the table, avoiding your gaze. You decide not to press him for an explanation. He hardly owes you one.

Later, back in your apartment and lying in your bed, you replay every moment of your interaction with Robby. The way he gently held your hand to check the wound, the confidence with which he moved, the sadness in his voice. You decide that you have to repay him for his help and you know just the way to do it.

Robby is half asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door. He checks his watch and frowns. It’s just after eight, the sky dark outside the window, and he’d taken an unexpected nap after his shift. His stomach grumbles, the aching hunger he’d felt when falling asleep returning with a vengeance.

He stands and stretches, rubbing the back of his neck as it cracks and shuffling down the hall to open the door. You’re standing across the threshold with a plate in your hands and a bright smile on your face.

“Hey! I hope I’m not bothering you,” you say, smile faltering as you take him in. “Did I just wake you up?”

“Just from a nap,” he replies, willing himself to look less grumpy. Based on the way your smile dips into a frown, he’s probably not doing a great job. “It’s fine, I promise.”

“I brought cookies. As a thank you. For fixing my hand.” You hold the plate out toward him and he takes it. The bottom is warm. “Chocolate chip.”

The scent reaches him and he nearly groans. “Thank you, but I can’t take these.”

“Are you gluten free? Shit, I should have asked before making something.”

“No, I just mean you don’t need to thank me.”

“Of course I do!”

At that moment, his stomach betrays him, audibly announcing his hunger. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands on your hips, and he knows he’s lost this argument.

“Fine. If you’ll come in and eat one, too,” he says. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, turning to head toward his kitchen and hoping you’ll follow. When the door shuts and the soft sound of footsteps grows louder, he fights back a victorious smile.

He sets the plate on the counter and pulls off the aluminum foil on top. A small pile of golden brown chocolate chip cookies sits on the ceramic. You stand on the other side of the island, watching him. He picks one of the cookies up and takes a bite, groaning at how delicious it is.

“Christ, that’s good,” he says, punctuating the compliment with another bite. “You made these?”

“Yep. Even used the good chocolate. The real secret is a sprinkle of fancy sea salt.” You reach across the counter and pluck one of the cookies from the pile for yourself.

“How’s your hand doing?” Robby asks. You hold the hand in question out towards him. It’s been a little over a week and some of the stitches have started to dissolve, two of them still hanging on near the deeper part of your wound. “Looks good.”

“Thanks to a good doctor,” you say. He snorts, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. You frown, but don’t try to dig, which is nice. He’s so used to being around people who want him to be an open book when he’d rather sit quietly on a shelf, handling things on his own.

“I need to order dinner.” He turns his back to you, rifling through his junk drawer for the menu of the Chinese place down the street.

“I’ll just—“

“You wanna stay?” He asks, cutting you off. Your eyes go wide with surprise and he begins to internally berate himself when your expression shifts, going soft and warm.

“Sure. What are we ordering?”

It becomes a thing.

The first batch of cookies was a thank you. The second batch was a recipe test. Your excuse for the third batch was that you just made too many and would he want some?

He never turns you away, even if he looks dead on his feet from a long shift. He perks up when he spots the plate in your hands and invites you inside, singing your praises as he tries the recipe of the week. At the rate you’re going through sugar and butter and flour, you’ll need a membership to one of those bulk stores by the end of the month.

Robby doesn’t knock on your door, never seeks you out himself, but he does ask you to stay whenever you stop by. Over dinner, he’ll ask you about your week and listen as you talk about your job or the plans you made with your friends. He doesn’t talk about his own work much, not unless he’s got a funny story to share. You have a feeling he keeps the difficulty of his job close to his chest, shouldering the concern on his own.

That changes on a Friday night.

It’s late, nearly midnight, and you’re reading in bed, a half drunk glass of wine on your nightstand. A sound breaks through your concentration and you pause your reading, listening for it again.

It’s a knock. Soft, so soft you can barely hear it, three taps against your door, followed by silence. You scramble from your bed, nearly tripping on the duvet in the process, and rush down the hall.

When you open the door, Robby is there. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you know without asking that he’s had a tough night. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, the way he’s staring at you without really seeing.

“Come inside,” you tell him. He nods and walks past you, pausing in your living room. Compared to his apartment, yours exudes personality. Mismatched furniture and bookshelves full of memories, photographs and art on the walls.

He takes it in while you head to the kitchen, pulling together a sandwich from the contents of your fridge and filling a glass with water. You bring the plate of food and the glass to the living room, placing both on the coffee table and settling yourself on the couch, legs crossed under you. When he doesn’t move, you pat the cushion next to you.

“Eat,” you command.

Robby does as you ask and starts with the water. He drains the glass in a few desperate gulps and you refill it for him while he starts on the sandwich. You turn the TV on to fill the silence, putting on a nature documentary. You watch the show, your attention half on the eating habits of pangolins and half on the man beside you, concern creeping up your spine.

He still hasn’t said anything.

When the plate and glass are both empty, you start to get up to clear them away, but a warm hand on your wrist holds you in place. Your gaze locked with Robby’s, you slowly sit back down. He releases your wrist and you bring your hand up, settling it on the back of his neck and gently tugging him towards you, urging him to lie down. His head is on your lap, pillowed on your bare thighs, and he brings his knees close to his chest to fit the rest of his body on the couch.

You run your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. The tension eases from his body, like a balloon slowly losing air. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a contented sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask.

“Not really.”

“Because you don’t want to or because you think I wouldn’t want to hear about it?”

He sighs. “You don't want to hear this shit. Trust me.”

“We’re friends, Robby. You can talk to me.”

“Friends, huh?”

“Yeah. Friends,” you reply, despite the sudden dryness of your mouth and the racing of your pulse. He’s quiet for a long moment and you think maybe he still won’t open up but then he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Lost a patient today. A teenager who got between his mom and his piece of shit dad that was wailing on her. The guy pulled a gun on his own son and ran.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He turns, lying more on his back. His eyes are wet with tears that have gathered but refuse to fall. “We did everything we could do. I know that. But I had to look that mom in the eyes that her husband bruised and tell her that her baby was gone.”

There’s nothing you could say to take the pain away, so you don’t. But, you sit through it with him.

Sometimes, that can be enough.

Robby paces the length of his apartment from the door to the kitchen. It’s been a week since that night in your apartment and he can’t get it out of his head.

First he was stuck on the way you took care of him, how you knew what he needed without having to say anything. You were the calm to the storm in his head, the one that raged despite every strong command given to his team in an effort to save the boy’s life that day. He tends to shoulder the responsibility and, subsequently, the guilt on his own but it had been surprisingly helpful to let someone else in, someone who wanted to be there for him without a shared trauma bond. He felt lighter when he returned to his apartment that night.

Over the last couple days, however, the fixation shifted to the way your hands felt on him. The memory of your fingers dragging through his hair, though soothing in the moment, has morphed into something more. It’s no longer a gentle caress in his mind, but a sharp tug while he’s got his face between your thighs, tongue diving deep and desperate.

Despite these thoughts, he’s hesitant to reach out again, especially with these new ideas for how to spend his time with you in his head. But you also hadn’t come over in a week and he worries that maybe you view him differently now that he’s let the wall down a little, he probably should have just—

“Achoo!”

Robby pauses, his attention gripped by the sudden sound that came from the direction of your apartment. He drifts closer to his living room wall.

“Achoo!”

Another sneeze, followed by a pained groan. Are you…sick? Is that why you haven’t come around yet? Before he can overthink it, he’s leaving his apartment and knocking on your door.

When you answer with a blanket held tight around you and a tissue clenched in your hand, he feels a conflicting rush of relief and concern. You sniffle loudly.

“Robby? What are you doing here?”

“I heard you sneeze.” You blink at him, wobbling a bit on the spot. He reaches out to steady you, hands on your shoulders. Gently, he urges you back inside your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He leads you to your room, the same as his but infinitely more comfortable. While he furnished his apartment, he didn’t take care to really make it a home, not when he spends so many hours at work. He didn’t see the point. Stepping into your room, it’s the opposite, facets of your personality in every corner.

He sits you down on the edge of the bed. A pile of tissues has taken up residence on your nightstand and he gathers them up while you make a feeble attempt to stop him.

“That’s gross, don’t touch those,” you whine. “I can clean them up.”

“Lie down,” he commands.

“Bossy, bossy.”

Robby hides his smile by leaving the room to throw the tissues in the trash. While in the kitchen, he finds your cabinet of mismatched cups and fills one with water. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds an open box of crackers that he brings back to your room.

“Where’s your medicine?” He asks. You gesture towards the bathroom and he digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few into his palm and brings them back to you. “Take these.”

“If I had a nickel for every time you told me to take Tylenol, I’d have two nickels.”

He laughs as he watches you swallow down the medicine and drink half of the glass of water. He hands you a sleeve of crackers.

“Eat a couple of those so that you don’t end up with an upset stomach.”

When you’ve finished, you set the remaining crackers on your nightstand and wiggle down the bed, bringing your blanket up to your chin. Robby sets a palm on your forehead and you watch him with an expression he can’t name.

“Am I gonna be alright, doc?” You ask. He smiles.

“Yeah, I think you’ll pull through.”

“Will you stay with me?”

Rather than respond, he walks around your bed to the other side and toes off his sneakers. He gets on the bed, staying on top of your blankets as he makes himself comfortable. You turn on your side to look at him.

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper.

“That’s what friends do.”

You wake to a heavy weight around your waist and warmth at your back. At first you’re confused until the memory of asking Robby to stay with you comes into focus. You remember him getting in bed with you, keeping himself on top of the covers while you snuggled underneath to fight off the constant chill your fever brought on.

You turn over slowly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still on top of the covers but he’s curled himself around you, his head nearly on your pillow in an effort to get closer. His chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths and his features are soft with sleep.

The shrill beep of an alarm breaks the silence and Robby wakes with a sharp inhale. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep as he moves around, presumably trying to get his phone out to shut off the alarm. The noise abruptly cuts off and you hear him let out a deep breath.

He shifts beside you. A palm is pressed to your forehead and his touch lingers for a moment, his fingers tracing your cheek as he pulls away. You fight to keep your breathing slow and even despite the fierce pounding of your heart against your ribs.

Robby gets up from the bed, the mattress creaking as his weight lifts from it. You hear his light footsteps around the room, followed by the quiet click of your door being shut. With him gone, you turn onto your back and stare up at the ceiling.

You know he had to leave, he probably had to get ready for work, but you wish he didn’t. A fantasy plays out in your head, one where he gets to sleep in and you wake up before him, sneaking into the kitchen to make coffee. He wakes up while you’re waiting for it to finish brewing, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his beard tickling your neck when he kisses your neck. The image fades as sleep catches up to your exhausted body, pulling you back into its embrace for the rest of the morning.

“Dr. Robby?”

Robby shakes his head free of his thoughts and looks to his left. Mel’s got a clipboard in her hands and a question in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” She asks in that blunt but empathetic way of hers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks in return. She blinks.

“Oh, uh, it’s just…you seem distracted?”

He is distracted. There’s been a restless fire in his veins ever since he woke up beside you, holding you close. He hasn’t seen you in a couple days now, giving you the space to get over your cold, and it has him growing a bit desperate, though he would never admit as much out loud and especially not to one of the med students.

“Everything is fine, Dr. King. Whatcha got for me?”

Mel launches into a presentation on a twenty-three year old female that was triaged for abdominal pain. Robby listens attentively and joins her at the patient’s bedside as she delivers a diagnosis and describes the treatment plan. One patient turns into…somewhere around thirty, he thinks. He lost count.

Finally, he finishes his shift and heads out into the night. Back in his apartment, he showers, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth for good measure. He’s rushing through the after work motions, an energy in him that he only feels when he’s making a split second call that could mean life or death in the ER.

Basic needs met, he gets his shoes on and leaves his apartment. Five quick steps have him knocking at your door. His pulse kicks into high gear when he hears your footsteps on the other side.

You open the door and your smile lights up your face when you see him and he knows you’re saying something but his focus is entirely zeroed in on your lips and how he desperately needs to feel them against his. He reaches out, framing your face between his palms. There’s a flash of surprise in your eyes but then he’s kissing you.

Finally.

“Hey! I was just about—“

Your words are cut off by Robby kissing you.

Robby is kissing you.

With his hands on your jaw, he urges you back inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. One large palm moves cradles the back of your head, cushioning the blow when your back hits the wall and he presses his body close to yours, chest to chest and a thigh between your legs.

You’re in sensory overload, overwhelmed by the feel of his broad shoulders beneath your hands, the smell of his shampoo, and the faint taste of mint when his tongue tangles with yours. His hand settles on the side of your neck and you wonder if he can feel the way he makes your heart race beneath his palm.

When he pulls back, he traces a thumb over your lips, open admiration in his gaze. He presses down on your lower lip and you obey the silent command to open up, let him in, give him more. His breath stutters when you close your lips around his thumb and suck. He pulls it free with a lewd pop, dragging his hand down your neck, squeezing lightly at the base of your throat. Before you can react, his touch ventures lower and you gasp when he roughly palms your breast. Your hips flex against his thigh in a bid for friction.

All of a sudden, Robby steps back, taking your hand in his and leading you down the hall to your bedroom.

“Get on the bed,” he says, voice low and rough. You hurry to comply, crawling up the mattress and lying back on the pillows, anticipation and the hungry look on his face making the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable.

He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your legs, and runs his hands over your thighs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. You arch your back when his thumbs dig into the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. A whine escapes you.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks.

“Want you to fuck me,” you tell him, lifting your hips.

“Can’t do that yet.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Robby’s fingers curl into the elastic of your shorts, pulling the fabric down. You lift your hips again so that he can pull them off and toss them to the floor, leaving you in your underwear. His hand presses one of your thighs to the mattress, keeping you spread open for him as he drags his thumb over your pussy, starting at the damp spot near your entrance until he reaches your clit.

“You have to cum on my fingers,” he presses down against your clit, “and my mouth first. Think you can do that?”

When you don’t respond to his question, the deep pressure of his thumb is replaced by a light smack of his fingers. You gasp at the sharp contrast in sensation and try to close your legs instinctively, only to be blocked by his body and the firm grip of the hand still on your thigh.

“Answer me,” he demands, removing his hands from you and raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes,” you tell him. You’re pretty sure you would do anything this man asks as long as he touches you again. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.

“Good girl.”

Those two little words are like a bolt of lightning straight to your core and he knows it, his knowing gaze making you feel hot and flustered. He removes your underwear and with the last barrier gone, he drops to his stomach and brings his face mere inches from your soaked pussy.

His breath fans across your heated skin and that’s the only warm up you get before his mouth is on you, his tongue circling your clit and lapping at your entrance. Your hands are drawn to his hair, fingers gripping the short strands. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit between his lips and groans when you pull sharply on his hair in response.

If you thought Robby would finish this quickly to get on to the main event, you were incredibly mistaken. The man between your legs brings you to the brink of release before dragging you back from the edge more times than you can count, to the point where tears gather in the corners of your eyes and you let out a pained groan of frustration.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, lifting his head but keeping up steady circles of his thumb against your clit. Not fast enough to bring you off, just enough to keep your need simmering at the surface. You glare at him.

“Let me come already,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs.

“You could try asking nicely. Say please.”

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing around words that won’t form. He brings his mouth back to your abused bundle of nerves, licking with broad circles that have you seeing stars. You’re so close, just a little more—

He starts to pull back. The pressure of his tongue grows lighter. You drop your head to the mattress and one of those trapped tears finally escapes, rolling down your temple. You’ve never begged a man for anything before but there’s a first time for everything.

“Please, please, please,” you gasp. “Robby, please.”

Two fingers press against your entrance and slide inside, the sudden stretch making you gasp. He curls them against your inner walls with each drag of his hand from your body. The pressure and speed of his tongue on your clit increases. Your thighs start to shake as the thread of tension in your core tightens until it finally snaps and you come with a strangled shout of his name.

Robby doesn’t stop touching you. He keeps his fingers buried in your cunt and his mouth busy by gently licking you through the waves of your orgasm. Finally, he sits up. You watch as he takes off his shirt and stands up quickly to remove his shoes and sweatpants. His cock bobs free and your mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Not excessively long but he is thick and if you thought his fingers were a stretch, his cock might just split you in half. A bead of precum has gathered at the slit and you watch him smooth his thumb through it before dragging his fist over his length with a groan.

“Condoms?” He asks.

“Top drawer.”

He grabs a foil packet and tosses it on the bed before crawling over you, settling his body over yours. He kisses you, deep and slow, grinding his hips into yours and dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you. His lips deliver the taste of you to your tongue, earthy and erotic. You moan into the kiss when he drags against your clit.

Keeping himself balanced with one elbow on the bed beside your head, he uses his free hand to hitch your leg over his hip, opening you wider and bringing you closer. His lips find your neck, lavishing your sensitive skin with kisses and nips of his teeth. You need this man inside of you now.

“Robby, please.”

He nods against your neck, sitting up only long enough to roll the condom down his length before his weight is back on you, pressing you into the mattress. He flexes his hips against you but this time, the thick head of his cock catches against your entrance and he starts to ease inside, achingly slow. His eyes stay fixed to yours as he does.

“You feel so fucking good,” Robby says, face buried against your neck. You clench around him in response and he chokes on a groan. “Don’t do that, I’m trying not to embarrass myself here.”

You do it again for good measure.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowed at you, and pulls his hips back, his cock dragging against the same spot that made you come on his fingers. He thrusts forward with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs.

He sets a pace that has you seeing stars and moaning his name like a prayer. Your orgasm builds, coiling tight in your center, but you’re not ready for the release. You push against Robby’s shoulder and his expression grows concerned, a deep crease forming between his brows as he pulls back, allowing you room to sit up.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks.

“No, no,” you assure him. “I just…can I get on top?”

A boyish grin chases the worry from his face and he flops onto his back in the empty space on the mattress. You laugh as you straddle his hips though it turns into moan when you sink down onto his cock. The angle is deeper and there’s an added friction to your clit with every roll of your hips. Robby’s hands are everywhere, squeezing your ass roughly or pinching a tight nipple between his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head pressed back into the pillow, the long line of his neck on display. “Just like that.”

You place your hands on his chest for balance, the dusting of coarse hair tickling your palms. When you lean forward, he meets you in a kiss that’s mostly shared breath. Your pace slows and Robby takes over, his feet planted on the mattress to thrust up into you.

“Come for me,” he says against your lips. “I need it, sweetheart, come on.”

You drop your head against his neck, licking at the sweat damp skin as your orgasm returns, no longer a slow building wave but a tsunami that floods your nerves and leaves you drowning in sensation. Your walls tighten around his cock and he groans, dragging you down onto his lap and holding you there as he pulses inside of you.

Sweat cools on your skin. Your breathing slows. His hands trail up and down your back, the gentle touch and cold air of your room making your skin prickle. You lift your head and press your forehead against his.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.

“Just Robby is fine,” he says.

You lift your head so that he can see you roll your eyes before slowly getting up, a satisfying ache in your muscles and between your legs. You go to the bathroom and Robby comes in as you’re washing your hands, tossing the condom in the trash and washing his hands as well.

You return to bed, crawling beneath the blankets. Robby joins you, lying on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, your eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.

“Will you stay with me?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Robby wakes to sunlight and the smell of coffee. He stretches before finally rolling out of bed and finding his sweatpants on the floor, pulling them on to follow the scent of dark roast straight to the kitchen.

He finds you at the counter, your hips swaying to a song that plays at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on your dining table. A pan sizzles on the stove and you pour the contents of a bowl into it. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck. You turn in his hold and kiss him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He could get used to mornings like this.

When you turn back around, you pick up a knife and reach for the basket of fruit on the counter, plucking something from the pile.

“I hope that’s not an avocado.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting 💕

Masterlists

For a moment i thought this said nonna carmy and truly I am beside myself thinking of a carmy with nonna like habits

Save me noma carmy save me save me save me

A Year of You

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

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

word count : 11,658

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

MONTH ONE

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

You’re crying, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort under your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first month is a mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

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

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

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

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

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

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

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

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

You don’t say anything.

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

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

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

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

"You both have."

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

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

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

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

"Jack," you say softly.

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

You cross the room without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t let him.

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

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

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

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

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

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

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

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

It’s stupid.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? So am I.”

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

Only from love.

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

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

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

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

His mouth presses to your temple.

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

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

Jack just holds you.

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

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

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

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

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

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

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

He tries to protest.

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

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

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

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

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

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

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

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

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

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

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

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

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

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

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

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

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

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

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

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

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

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

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

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

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

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

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

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

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

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

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

"She's allowed to make you soft."

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

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

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

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

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

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

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

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

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

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

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

"Look how tough you are, bean."

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

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

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

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

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

This is the month she starts teething.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

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

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

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

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

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

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

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

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

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

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dada!”

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

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

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

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

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

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

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

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

"That me?"

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

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

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

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

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He always kisses you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She out?" he murmurs.

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

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

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

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

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

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

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

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

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

Slow.

Lingering.

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

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

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

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

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

Silent.

Anchored.

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

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

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

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

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

MONTH SIX

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

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

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

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

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

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

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

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

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

"Hey," you murmur.

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

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

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

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

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

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

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

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

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

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

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

You snort quietly.

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

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

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

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

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

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

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

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

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

God, you missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Always gonna be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let him.

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

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

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

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

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

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

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

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

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

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

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

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

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

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

No rush.

No slam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep.

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

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

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

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

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

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

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

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

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

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

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.

I Start My Mornings With Folgers and Hot, Steamy Sex

Summary: Dr. Robby doesn't get to share many mornings with you, so when the day comes that he's finally able to spend just a little bit more time in your embrace, he doesn't pass on the opportunity to make it memorable.

Pairing: Michael "Dr. Robby" Robinavitch x FEM!Reader

Warnings: SOMNOPHILIA, Smut

A/N: HEYWASSUPYOUGUYSYES, I am back from my nearly year long hiatus with something from a fandom I have never posted about before, but that's okay! I'm a dirty liar and a cheat, so I'm sorry for not updating the Laszlo Kreizler series I had in the works. I'm bad at continuity. Anyway, I hope you guys like this one! Yay!

Mornings spent with Michael Robinavitch have always been painfully short, fleeting moments that spill from the gaps between your grasping fingers like rushing sand, so you treasure the times when everything seems to stop for just an hour or two and you can hold each other while the sun begins to rise. This morning is one of those intensely special times.

It’s around four in the morning–only now the sun is still slumbering soundly just beneath the shimmering horizon millions of miles away–when Robby snakes his arms further around your middle and squeezes ever so slightly. You unconsciously moan in response, the deep recesses of your brain faintly aware of the comforting action as you melt deeper into his velvet touch. His nose is pressed against the back of your neck, inhaling your vanilla-sweet scent with every easy breath, while his large, sculptural hands cup the heavy mounds of your breasts, gently kneading. 

The emergency room attending could stay in this protective bubble forever, completely blocking out the frenetic, ever-speeding pace of the world outside as he keeps one of the people he truly cares about anymore locked in his embrace forevermore. The glimmering lights of lampposts and stretching skyscrapers would wipe across his vision in great streaks, like the measured strokes of a master’s paintbrush across a twilight canvas. Robby is content to have that be his future; these rare instances being wholly untainted by the horrors of the known universe and only meant for your shared enjoyment. Then, he could finally find peace.

Unfortunately, that's not quite in the cards for him just yet. Life has its hands wrapped firmly around the deck, dispersing fate indiscriminately. Dr. Robby has this, though. He has just a few hours with you before he’s inevitably pulled into his grueling work and forced to clear its waters for the next twelve hours. Because of this, Michael Robinavitch is eagerly determined to make the best of the time he has with you. Robby figures he'll start this day off on a good, memorable note.

With that, Robby commences with his plan. As an attending who's participated in countless, intense surgeries, he's startlingly deft with his hands. His grip around your breasts tighten, causing the skin to spill over his palms before Robby lightens up and allows the tip of his calloused finger to graze the pebbled surface of your nipple. Robby’s touch is feather-light, for now, he doesn't want to rush through this like a crazed bull released from its pen. 

Ever so slowly, he circles your nipple with his forefinger, tentatively forcing the skin to contract and become a stiff, little peak beneath his hand. Now, Robby’s able to delicately grip the peak with his forefinger and thumb and roll it between the two, slightly squeezing with every other turn. The effects of his work are already taking place as you moan again, unknowingly bucking your plush hips into his, awakening Robby’s cock to full attention. Robby forces back a pleased groan of his own as he feels the soft mounds of your ass tenderly grip his aching dick in a warm hug. You're too tempting, most of the time. 

Robby isn't distracted from his goal, however. No, he just shifts his attention on your breasts to the other hand while another travels down the curved planes of your body, rustling your sleep shirt and shorts. Your stomach is smooth under Robby’s hand, radiating a soothing heat that he could get lost in for hours. On some days, he comes back from work and immediately draws you into bed just so he can rest his weathered face against your tummy. There, he’ll press light kisses and reminisce on how lucky he is to have a partner like you. At this moment, though, Robby is only using your stomach as a roadmap to somewhere far more important. 

Robby’s searching hand stops just above the puckered hem of your elastic, light blue sleep-shorts, curious as ever. As if it had a mind of its own, Robby’s hand begins to toy with the top of your satin shorts, mindlessly playing with the band while his other hand continues to work one of your stiffening nipples. Finally, your brain switches gears and your toasty body moves of its own accord, rocking into Robby’s firm silhouette. 

Robby unashamedly moans, now, his rough throat giving way to breathy gasps as your ass cradles his hard dick in a near-perfect way. He can already feel sticky, hot precum leaking from his tip, no doubt staining the front of his boxer-briefs with a damp puddle. Every sense is electrified, begging for Robby to amp up the sensations tenfold, but he can't let that happen just yet, this is still about you. 

So, Robby’s hand continues its adventure north, down the front of your shorts, and lightly skimming the silky lace of your panties as it reaches the apex of your pubic mound. Robby can feel the intense heat emanating from your core, nearly burning up his hand with its fire. The emergency room doctor can feel his head go dizzy as he fantasizes about how hot you'll be wrapped around his weeping cock. Still, he presses onward. 

With Robby’s hand now firmly seated above your sex, the man whose whole body surrounds you presses warm, wet kisses to your neck as his middle finger inches forward to grab the edge of your panties and pull them off to the side. Now, your sticky cunt lays exposed to the cold air around it, and even in your sleep, you shudder from the chill. Slowly, Robby’s middle and ring finger search through your folds, grabbing the glossy slick that's there, before finding the rosy bud at the top of your cunt. 

Covered in your wetness, Robby uses his fingers to rub slow, tight circles around your now-buzzing clit, delighting in the sounds you're making as his forearm muscles strain from the awkward position. You shift, opening your legs further as your sleepy brain struggles to process the new sensation probing at its walls. 

Even though Robby’s pace is sluggish, he can still hear the quiet, squishy slap of his fingers against your throbbing cunt loud and clear. Robby knows how wet you can get–what exactly can happen if all of your delicate buttons are pushed in the correct way and order, and tonight, he hopes to have you writhing beneath his touch while your sex unleashes tidal waves of arousal on his dick. In the times Robby has managed such a feat in the past, his ego would skyrocket to preposterous levels, allowing him to walk with a certain bravado he isn't keen to most days. Robby figures that he’ll like to start today off like that, even if it'll draw attention from others.

As the good doctor fantasizes about making you squirt, his rugged hand absentmindedly speeds up its pace, pushing against your clit just that much harder. It's not a painful amount of pressure, but just enough to make your entire body buck with pleasure, nearly pulling you out of your unconscious state. 

Too soon, Dr. Robby thinks. With this, he slows to a screeching halt as he can practically feel the electric currents of arousal flowing from your body to his, exciting his cock further. Robby guesses it would be fine to move on from this phase of his plan, even if every molecule buzzing around in his body is telling him otherwise. All of his barbaric senses are screaming for him to make you cum right then and there, to force multiple orgasms from you before you're even awake, but Robby wants this to be a somewhat relaxed morning, all things considered.

So, Dr. Robby stops his ministrations. Instead, he brings his hand to the edge of his mouth and takes in your heady flavor. When Robby is in a situation like this, something nestled deep within him, a primal urge, takes over his mind and he becomes something wholly unlike his usual self. He can't quite explain it, but you're the only person who's ever brought this side of him out, before. Robby isn't necessarily complaining, either. No, he just moans around his fingers before eagerly unearthing himself from the nest he’s built around his body, you included, trying carefully to not wake you just yet. 

As he finally finds himself free, Robby climbs down the length of your now-prone figure and sheaths himself between your silky legs, adjusting once more to allow his arms to come around the bottoms of your thighs so his hands can rest just below your navel. Once there, Robby slides your sleep shorts and underwear to the side, breathing in your sticky scent, all the while. With your cunt now fully exposed to the outside air, Robby can see it glisten in the low light of your shared room, still drooling from before. 

Robby waits a beat, stilling as he watches your resting form rise and fall with each breath that leaves you, and he finds himself utterly in love with the person caught beneath his eager body. Dr. Robby is incredibly lucky to have someone like you.

It’s with that thought that Robby finally delves into your weeping folds with a parted mouth, his tongue zeroing in on your clit the moment he makes contact with your cunt. You and Robby share a wanton moan as you wake up from your sleepy reverie, your hips moving of their own accord while Robby desperately tries to pin them down once again. 

With a hazy fog still trapped in your throat, you call out to the man nestled firmly between your legs, “Mhm, Michael, what are you–what are you doing?” 

Robby hums before pulling away from your sex, slick dripping from his bearded chin, “Starting the day off strong, don’t you think?” Robby’s voice is deep and rich, now, his vocal chords inactive until recently. 

You laugh before choking back a strained moan when Robby reassumes his work, “If this is how we’re starting the day, I can’t wait to see how it ends.” 

Dr. Robby laughs, too, the vibrations ricocheting against your clit and sending shockwaves directly to the base of your spine. You thread your hands into Robby’s thinning hair, pulling ever so slightly when he sucks your clit into his lips and licks. You don’t know it yet, but your orgasm is closer than you can register, especially considering what happened before Robby positioned himself beneath your quivering sex. Your mind is too caught up processing how enthusiastically he’s eating you out, as well as the way Robby’s hips seem to hitch against the mattress with every swirl of his tongue. You don’t even catch when one of his hands slips from the resting point above your pubic bone to travel beneath your legs and station itself just to the side of your parted lips. 

When your mind finally does catch up is exactly the moment Robby begins to ease a finger into your cunt and carefully curl inwards, in a sort of beckoning motion. You groan loudly, impatiently welcoming the intrusion with a strong clench of your legs while Robby presses his free hand into the base of your stomach. 

His tongue, his finger, and his other hand all create this perfect symphony of pleasure that has you shaking beneath Robby’s touch. If you were in your right mind, you might have possibly felt Robby’s smirk against your cunt, but you’re currently preoccupied. 

Still, when Robby introduces another finger, deliciously stretching your wanton hole to a comfortable degree, you can’t help the thrashing your body does, completely overwhelmed with sensations. Before you know it, your orgasm is at the door and knocking to be let in, which you gladly allow. 

A burst of electricity simmers beneath the surface of your skin as your cunt spasms, your hold on Robby’s hair tightening that much more as he continues to lap at you like a starved man. Liquid gushes from your core, absolutely coating the lower-half of Robby’s face, the beginnings of his neck, and his hand while wild slurping noises can be heard just below your shaking body. 

He’s barely letting up, so it’s not long until you’re buzzing from overstimulation and begging your partner to ease off of you. Dr. Robby relents, struggling to hold himself back from tasting even more of you as your orgasm washes past your senses. 

Once the rush of sound filters through your ears, you tug on Robby’s sleep shirt to bring him to eye-level with you. Robby crawls back up your body, arms supporting his weight on either side of your head. 

“So, how was that?” Robby asks, a wide smile painting his features. 

You giggle, leaning in for a kiss and only slightly grimacing at the feel of your juices on Robby’s face.

“Is amazing an okay descriptor?” You answer his question with a question of your own, to which Robby chokes back a laugh. 

“That’s great. Don’t change it,” he says, leaning down to peck your cheeks and neck. 

The morning isn’t quite over, yet, as you feel the hard length of Robby’s dick pressing against your most sensitive spot. As Robby spares a kiss to your cheek, you take a minute to worm your hand down your bodies so you can firmly grasp his cock and squeeze. 

Robby moans, quickly getting the hint as he’s reminded of his own pressing matters that need to be attended to soon. Your partner pushes himself off of your body so he can lean back on his haunches and yank his pajama pants down, just enough to free his glorious dick. 

The sun is starting to peek through the curtains, now, so you’re able to see the faint outline of his cock, long and thick, proudly shoot out from the base of his pelvic bone. Robby takes it in his hand and cautions a gentle swipe over the leaking head, moaning again as you attempt to take your shorts off, as well. 

Robby snaps out of his daydreaming and helps the offending garment off of your legs, your lower half perfectly bare for him. You open your legs further, to which Robby eagerly positions himself between them before resting his dick against your stomach. You’ll never get used to his size, you think, with his dick being much bigger than anyone you’ve been with previously. 

Robby smiles, his question heavy in the air, “Are you ready?” 

You nod, eventually voicing an affirmative when he doesn’t continue. Satisfied, Robby takes his cock in his hands once more and leans back to line it up with your entrance. What a way to start the morning.

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

do me a solid and just reblog this saying what time it is where you are and what you’re thinking about in the tags.

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📷 saskialawaks