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It started as something simple, really. Just a line. A suggestion, technically.
“Jaybird, want to have another baby?”
You’d tossed it out there like it was nothing.
And Jason took that personally.
It’s been about an hour since your oldest daughter was whisked away by her best friend’s mom for her first sleepover ever. She was vibrating with excitement the whole time. You… were not.
Jason handled bedtime stories and tucking in for your youngest daughter, your little four-year-old, and when he finally came to check on you, he found you curled up in bed with the photo album open across your lap—tiny newborn faces, gummy smiles, wobbly first steps. All the proof of years that slipped by a little too fast.
He doesn’t announce himself when he comes in. Just settles onto the edge of the mattress, that soft dip you feel before anything else. A quiet little I’m here, sweetheart without the words.
You don’t look up. Your thumb keeps running along the plastic photo sleeve, like you could rub it warm enough to step back inside those moments.
Jason watches you for a long second. His presence creeps up on you like heat from a fireplace—nothing loud, just steady and impossible to ignore.
“Babe,” he murmurs, voice low, the rasp he saves for late nights and soft things. “You okay?”
Objectively, absolutely not. You’ve been unraveling ever since your oldest bounded out the front door with her glitter-covered sleepover bag, didn’t even wave, just dove into the car like she’d been waiting for this exact freedom her whole life.
You let out a thin, shaky laugh. “She didn’t even look back. Just sprinted off like we’ve been holding her hostage.”
Jason huffs a quiet laugh that warms your ribs. “She’s brave. Gets it from her mom.”
You snort, because if he’d witnessed your pre-departure meltdown pacing around the kitchen like a wild animal, he might reconsider.
The album shifts when he covers your hand with his—big, warm, sure. His thumb strokes your knuckles once, twice. Slow enough that your breathing finds a little rhythm to match.
“You miss the baby stage,” he says, soft and certain. He’s not teasing. He just knows you.
Your throat tightens. “I miss… I don’t know. Everything? The way they used to need me. Need us. I blinked and now she’s going to sleepovers and making friendship bracelets and talking about boys who can do backflips on the playground.”
He immediately frowns. “Okay! First of all she’s definitely not allowed to talk about boys doing anything.”
The corners of your mouth twitch, and your laugh comes out watery, but it’s there. His smile says he’ll take it.
“And second,” he adds, quieter, his knee nudging against your hip as he shifts closer, “you’re allowed to miss it.”
“Jaybird,” you warn, barely. “Wanna have another baby?”
You finally meet his eyes, those soft, blueish green and you can see it. The moment he considers the offhand comment you made. He takes your hand fully this time, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to the back of it—slow, tender, deliberate. The kind that sinks straight into your bones.
And he looks at you like he already knows exactly what you were really asking for.
He doesn’t let go of your hand after that kiss. If anything, his hold settles deeper, fingers slipping between yours like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Move over,” he murmurs.
You blink, but do it anyway, shifting back against the pillows. Jason follows immediately—stretches out beside you, one arm sliding behind your shoulders so you can lean into him. It’s instinct at this point, how your body fits along his like a habit you never unlearned.
The photo album ends up on the nightstand with a soft thump. You don’t remember moving it. Jason must’ve done it, because his palm is already smoothing up your arm, slow, deliberate strokes that make your breath catch in a different way.
“Y’know,” he says quietly, voice brushing the shell of your ear, “I too, think it’s been so long since i’ve seen you in a baby bump.”
That, oh that sends a shiver up your spine.
His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and dangerous, and your whole body reacts before your mind even catches up. A tight, startled inhale. That sharp little tremor at the base of your spine. Heat blooming under your ribs like someone lit a match.
You pull back just enough to look at him—because surely he didn’t say that. Surely he’s not dropping that kind of line while you’re already soft and wobbly and emotional and so, so turned on by the thought.
His fingers trace the curve of your hip through the blanket, slow enough to be of ulterior motive but gentle enough to still be comforting. “What?” he asks, voice warm and easy. “It’s true.”
You try to swallow past the tightness in your chest, but he’s leaning in again, forehead brushing yours, his nose nudging the tip of yours like he’s trying to coax your reaction out of hiding.
He drops his voice lower, the way he does when he wants you to feel it instead of hear it.
“Mmh?” he hums, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist like he’s trying to soothe you and rile you up at the same time.
You feel another shiver crawl up your spine. And he feels it—of course he feels it—because his eyes dip to your lips, and then lower, traveling the length of your body pressed against his.
He doesn’t touch anywhere new. Doesn’t move in. Doesn’t break a single boundary.
He just says, softer now, “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it.”
Your breath catches. You don’t move, afraid it’ll break whatever fragile, intimate, moment is happening in the space between you that’s sending electricity down your spine.
Jason has been an incredible father so far; the kind who wakes up for the 2am feedings and teaches complicated things with boundless patience. The kind of father who braids your daughters’ hair, reads them bedtime stories every single night and holds them in his arms constantly. Seeing him in that role, so soft and focused and so natural, like he’s never struggled with family issues a day in his life, only amplifies your aching need for another round of that beautiful chaos.
You want another baby with your hair and his eyes!
And so you tell him, with a tiny whine.
Jason leans in just enough that his forehead rests against yours again. His hand is quickly moving, slipping the strap of your nightgown down to your shoulder.
“Say what, sweetheart, wanna make a baby now?”
His fingers skim your shoulder so lightly it almost doesn’t register at first—just a warm drift of touch, barely there, until the strap of your nightgown eases down and the cool air kisses your skin. His hand rests just below your collarbone now—steady, warm, not wandering, not pushing. Just holding. Just asking.
Your fingers curl into his shirt without you deciding to, pulling him the tiniest bit closer. Your heart is pounding—loud enough you’re sure he can feel it through your palm.
“Jason, don’t tease…” you breathe, and for a heartbeat you think your voice might crack.
His hand slides up your arm, slow and reassuring, thumb brushing over the bare skin he’s just revealed. Still, it is a tiny bit greedy.
The heat between your legs, that had been somewhat bearable by now, starts tingling, pulsing a little too tight. You rub your legs together in an attempt to soothe it, but it doesn’t work. You swallow back a moan, eyes closing for half a second because the warmth in your chest feels too big for your ribs.
When you open them again, he’s right there; waiting, patient, running his pointer finger from the crook of your neck to the trim of your bust hopeful in that quiet, earnest way only he ever manages. And your answer slips out in a breath, soft and honest.
“I mean, giving the girls a little sibling? Watching you fall asleep with a baby on your chest on the couch wrapped in a baby blanket? I… looove the thought of it.”
Jason exhales shakily, but you feel the way it loosens something in him. It makes you bite your lower lip in anticipation.
His finger rests at your jugular vein for a clock’s tick, almost grateful, then, ever so softly, his whole palm is wrapping around your throat.
“That’s all I needed to hear,” he whispers and starts kissing your jaw.
And then, before you can blink he is straddling you, trapping your body beneath him and the mattress and his hips, still clothed, take an experimental buckle towards you.
You’re already a whimpering mess. And Jason overwhelms your senses by stealing a kiss out of your eager, parted lips, just so he can try to swallow all of your moans.
Then he rolls his lips into yours again, just so you can feel how hard he is beneath his sweatpants.
You gasp, a sharp, ragged sound that’s swallowed by the sudden closeness. The buckle is a simple friction—just enough of a promise to make your hips lift instinctively beneath him, a silent, desperate plea for more.
You feel your underwear starting to form a wet patch— the effect he has on you is insane.
“Jay,” you breathe again, but this time your voice is a broken noise, half-command, half-surrender. It’s too late for teasing now; the air is thick, charged, and everything that was quiet moments ago is now screaming in your blood.
He stops the movement, leaning his head down to the side of your neck, his breath ghosting over the pulse his palm had just claimed.
"Good," he murmurs, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Don't stop making those sounds, I might cave and give you what you want.”
His hand leaves your throat, moving to cup the side of your head, threading into your hair. His kisses travel from your lips, to your jaw, then to the vulnerable, sensitive skin just behind your ear, and the small, electric nips of his lips, tucked under his few days stubble, send another wave of heat pooling lower in your stomach.
He shifts slightly, the movement aligning him more firmly over you, and the pressure of his clothed hips is a crushing, exquisite agony that makes you dig your heels into the mattress.
When he finally pulls back an inch, his eyes are dark and heavy, burning even. His free hand dips beneath the blanket, ignoring the remaining strap of your nightgown, and finds the spot he’s been heating; your thigh, right where it meets your hip. He doesn’t stroke, doesn’t wander—he grips the elastic line of your panties, firmly. A possessive hold that anchors him and reminds you he is utterly serious.
“So fucking wet already,”
He pulls his head back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze intense and demanding. His breath is coming faster now, rough and uneven against the sudden silence of the room.
"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp of pure need. His mouth is inches from yours, and the patience is finally gone, replaced by a consuming desire that mirrors your own.
His fingers find your slit, and trace a line from your impossibly wet entrance to tap on your clit. The touch feels like a vice, despite how featherlight it is.
You don't have the breath to form an actual answer, but in your need, you find the strength to.
“Fuck– i want you to put a baby in me.”
All you can manage is a whimper then, your hands moving up from his shirt to tangle fiercely in the small line of grey hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him inexorably the last few inches.
He takes the invitation instantly, his mouth crashing down on yours with a fierce, starved hunger that obliterates the last of comfortable teasing. There’s a sudden, immediate heat—not just the friction of the kiss, but the intoxicating taste of him. You meet his intensity, your own lips parting as you try to consume the sound of his groan that pours into your mouth.
He pulls his hand away from the line of your panties only to shove the blanket down to your ankles with a quick, frustrated movement, revealing the whole length of your legs pressed against the sheet. He shifts his weight, leveraging his hips back just enough to create space between your bodies.
His mouth is back on yours, savagely, but his hands are everywhere else. One hand grips your hip bone, holding you steady, while the other finally—finally—dives beneath your nightgown.
He pushes the thin fabric up, bunched around your waist and chest, exposing you fully to the cool air.
His palm is scorching against your bare stomach, then after a pause to imagine uou round and full again, it moves lower, slipping inside the band of your panties again. Though, he doesn't tease this time. He finds the swollen, aching seam of your pussy, and his pointer and middle fingers press into your slick entrance, while his thumb thuds on your clit.
You cry out into his kiss, a high, strangled sound that’s half shock, half delirious relief. The back and forth movement of his thick fingers as he enters you is exactly what you need.
He pulls his mouth away from yours, panting, and looks down to look at where his fingers are buried in you. He watches the way your hips immediately begin to buck beneath him, chasing the insistent pressure of his fingers as he curls them upwards, finding that delicious spongy spot inside you that always makes you melt.
His thumb circles your clit restlessly, even when his one knee moves to pin one of your legs in place.
Seriously, how is he able to do this?
Jason shifts his weight again, the straddling of his hips grinding lightly in the perfect rhythm with his fingers, adding external pressure that pushes you right to the edge.
Your breath escapes your lungs on a long, shuddering gasp as his fingers curl deep, hitting that sensitive point that’s making your pussy drool with sweet precision. You whimper his name—a pleading sound now—your heels digging into the mattress again as a wave of intense sensation crests through you.
"Not yet, sweetheart," he whispers, the sound rough.
He leans down quickly, his stubbled jaw grazing the sensitive skin of your neck again, leaving a trail of lava-like kisses on your skin. He captures your collarbone between his teeth, a light, just slightly painful nip, then moves to the curve of your breast, covered only by the bunched nightgown.
His mouth finds your nipple through the fabric and he worries it tenderly between his teeth.
“Yuh-you gonna make ‘em full of milk again babe?” You choke, squirming against the pillow underneath you.
The thumb circling your clit slows, then stops, replaced by a firm, unbearable press. His fingers still remain deeply buried inside you, curling against your velvety walls in slow sweeps. The sudden shift in rhythm forces a moan from your throat as you arch against the pleasure of the anticipation.
He lifts his head, his gaze demanding yours, a predatory glint in the darkness of his eyes. "You like that, love?" he asks, his voice low, heavy with the promise that he knows exactly what he's doing.
He watches your reaction carefully before placing a kiss on your still clothed nipple; that sharp, needy arch of your hips, for only another second before the control snaps. The low growl in his throat is your only warning.
The thumb that had been steadingly pressing your clit suddenly releases, and his fingers pull out just enough to gather momentum, then plunge back in—hard, fast, and relentless. The rhythmic driving of his fingers is just what the ache in your core demands, and you are immediately lost to the sensation, a noise tearing from your throat that you barely recognize as your own.
As he pumps his fingers inside you, his focus shifts. He uses the hand that had been gripping your hip to push the fabric of your gown completely away from your chest. Then, his head descends.
“‘M gonna do whatever you want me to, sweetheart,”
He doesn't stop the fucking of his fingers inside you—if anything, the motion becomes more forceful, driving you harder against the mattress—but his mouth finds the swollen, aching curve of your breast. He latches on with a hungry fervor, drawing a sharp, involuntary gasp from you. His tongue is hot against your sensitive skin as he alternates from one tit to the other. And it’s too much— too electric, too slippery, just perfect,
Your entire body tenses, hands clinging to his shoulders, your voice fractured into pleas and ragged moans. You are shaking now, chasing the frantic pace he’s fingering you in. He doesn't slow, doesn't ease up, pushing you harder and faster toward the blinding edge.
“You really, really want another baby, huh?”
You nod, biting your lip to shuffle a loud moan that’s about to leave the depths of your chest.
Then the bastard, in all seriousness, takes his hand off of you, to put his fingers into his mouth.
He moans at your taste and honestly? You should have expected the edging. Because the second Jason realises you need something, he wants you to work for it. He wants you to make a mess on him.
And no, that’s definitely not his excuse to have you make him a whimpering mess as well.
“Then do what you do best babe,” he whispers, parting completely from you to lay on his back on the bed. “Take what you want, ride it till i cum f’you.”
Clothes go flying everywhere, and tonight, you don’t whine about your panties on the floor.
You’re straddling him so fast, it’s insane.
But your excuse is– well, it’s–
You want him inside you. Immediately, Right now.
You settle the best you can at his enormous lap, your hair swings across his chest as you pivot, and you lean down immediately, capturing his face in your hands. For a moment you look at him. At the scar on the right side of his jaw, the one on the bridge of his nose, and fuck if your husband isn’t the most handsome man on earth.
You don't resist the urge to kiss him, instead, when you pull his face to yours and your lips meet his you plunge your tongue into his mouth, mirroring the shocking intimacy he’d just subjected you to not too long ago.
He wants you to work for it? Fine. You will drain him of every last drop of his cum then.
The kiss stunts him for only a fraction of a second before his tongue mingles with yours and his hands fly up, instinctively, bypassing your hips to clamp down on the backs of your thighs, pulling you closer. You yelp when he slaps your ass, but deep down you adore the sting of it.
You’re kissing so fiercely like you’re trying to devour one another and the space between your bodies all at once. All the while, your hips are working, firmly, so you can drag the entirety of your pussy against his pulsing cock.
You’re so wet by now, that when your entrance catches his tip, his cock slips right in. His breath hitches—a deep, satisfying sound of pure surprise and pleasure that vibrates against your own lips.
You break the kiss with a gasp, pulling back just enough to look at him, your eyes burning. For a second you arch your hips, parting from him completely, then lower your body again, settling your pouring, aching entrance directly over the mushroom tip of him.
His breath catches sharply in his throat as your fluttering walls surround him.
He is patient only for a heartbeat—the heat and the tension too thick to bear. Before you can gather the strength for the final push, he lets out a low, strangled curse, “Ffffuck–” and his hands on your thighs turn instantly possessive.
He slaps your ass again, this time rougher. Just how you like it.
He doesn't wait for your next move. He grips hard, dragging you down onto him in one harsh movement.
A sharp cry of pleasure tears from your lips as you stretch impossibly around him. Even if you’ve been so long with him now that you’re perfectly molded to the thick shape of his cock, the initial stretch is always your favorite thing in the world.
It’s what makes you so cockdrunk on him.
You can’t get enough of how amazing it feels when he drills into your pussy for the first time in a while.
You clench around him, and he lets out a broken moan, wrapping his arms around you so forcefully that almost shakes the bed beneath you. You brace your hands around his neck when he arches his back slightly, panting, eyes wide and glistening.
"There," he rasps, his voice raw, triumphant, and thick with effort. His fingers tighten on your thighs again, lifting your hips just slightly before dropping you back down onto him with a slow, grinding pressure. "Get your baby, baby"
You don't need to answer, or wait for a command. The feeling of his cock twitching inside you is all the confirmation you need, and the sensation it leaves you with is vibrating through your entire body.
You can't stay still.
“Oh I'm gonna have you spilling, just wait.”
You lift your hips slightly, then press down—slowly at first, testing the incredible stretch and fullness, then increasing the pressure as the initial shock fades.
It is primal, desperate rhythm born purely from necessity, the way you fuck yourself on his cock. Your hips circle and roll, finding the sweet, deep friction that makes sweat bead on his collarbone. You watch his face, needing to see the effect you have on him through his furrowed brows and hazy eyes, needing the validation.
His head falls back against the pillows, and the strong, columned cord of his throat strains. His hands leave your thighs to fly up, gripping the edge of the blanket next to his own hips, his knuckles white. The control he’d held onto so fiercely breaks, replaced by ragged vulnerability as you determine the depth, the angle, and the speed over and over again.
And, oh, this is exactly what he wanted all along.
"F-fuck, please" he slurs, the sound a ragged exhale "yeah babe, fuck yourself on my cock like you need it.”
You lean forward, your spine curving, tilting your hips just so, sinking onto him until the contact is deep, punishing, and so, so perfect. You don't answer him. You just move faster. You want to hear him break, want him to whimper the way you had, want to own the moment as completely as he had the moments before.
“Want you to cum inside me Jason,” you rasp through moans “want you to give me another baby. Tonight.”
You move faster, faster, faster, the pace blurring now, building an unbearable pressure inside your core. With a muffled cry, your hands leave his neck and settle on his chest, palms flat against the hard-packed muscle of his pecks. You use his chest as leverage, pushing down and sinking back up, pushing the pleasure past the point of endurance.
“Will, fucking, do” he moans
But you? You whine. “Please Jason, i want it. I want to have another baby.”
Every catch of his cock inside you feels delicious; it makes the coil in your lower belly tighten so much it feels like you’re straining.
Your clit is catching his navel with every bump, and for once it’s enough and too much at the same time, to send you over the edge. But since you’re so desperate for a release, the idea of him getting you all pregnant and round fueling your desire, you reach for his hand, put his fingers into your mouth to coat them with some spit and guide his hand to your pulsing clit.
“You’re a dear” you joke “so handsome baby. Make me cum, and i’ll do it for y–yah too.”
His fingers, slick with your spit, find the throbbing nub of your puffy clit. They settle there, hard and possessive, mimicking the frantic rhythm your hips are already creating in tight, broken movements that resemble circles. The addition of it shatters the last sliver of your control.
Your world narrows to the twin pressures—the desperate thrusts of him inside you and the sharp, targeted circling of his thumb on your clit. Your tiny joke about making him cum is lost in the rising, piercing wave of pleasure and the sound of skin slapping on skin.
"’M not gonna last," he manages to grind out through his teeth, his voice thick with the strain of trying to hold back. "Just look at you, look how much you want it."
“Yeah I want it, want you to make a mess of my pussy, Jason. Can you do that for your wife?”
His head thrashes slightly on the pillow; he nods at you solemnly. Your desperation alone and the thought of seeing you, his lovely wife, pregnant again, swollen with another baby of his, is messing up with his head so badly that his cock gets ever more painfully hard.
Oh, the way he cant wait to slide you off of him and watch his cum drop down your puffy folds, to push it back in so you don’t waste a drop— he gets dizzy just imagining it.
Above him, you let out a loud, ragged scream as the coil in your belly finally snaps. Your orgasm hits like an explosion, blinding force.
Oh fuck, of fuckohfuck —you’re squirting.
You can feel how much of a mess you’re making as you’re literally gushing on his thighs while entire body spasms, your fingers clutching the muscles of his chest so tightly your nails score his skin.
You ride the overwhelming wave of it down onto him, collapsing onto his neck with a purr as your pussy convulsively milks every inch of him, while still dripping down slickness.
“Oh my fucking god—" Jason whimpers, one hand flying out to hold you through your shaking “fuck yeah, that’s it babe, that’s it, I gotchu, it’s okay.”
You’re both sweating buckets, slick bodies united in one rocking rhythm that makes the bed creak and bum repeatedly against the wall.
He uses the moment for leverage. As your hips lock, his hands clamp down on your waist, hauling your spent body upward. He reverses the rhythm completely. He begins to pound into you; short, frantic strokes aimed at his own fast-approaching edge.
"Ba–by I'm gonna cum, fuck gonna cum inside you–" he groans, the words broken, choked.
“Then do it,” you plead, managing to quiet down the screeching on your voice. “Fill me up, puh—please—“"
It really doesn’t take much, when you kiss him again, when your tongue nearly shoves to the back of his throat, he fucks his hips into you just a few more, shattering times.
His release comes in scorching hot ropes of milky white, painting your clamping walls and his chest struggles with ragged breaths that your mouth swallows.
He goes rigid beneath you, every muscle locked, his body unmoving, while the pulsing of his release continues. You’re not sure how long it lasts, but you’re definitely drunk on how it feels.
Then, with a long, drawn-out groan that starts in his gut and vibrates through your chests, he finally collapses— you collapse too, fully on top of him.
He pulls out of you silently, as he's trying to control his breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, holding you against him until you manage to catch your own breath.
You gently nudge him back, lifting your head from his shoulder to look down at his face, though you don't break too far away.
Sweat has plastered his dark hair to his temples, making his cheekbones stand out, sharp and defined in the dim light filtering from the window. His eyes are still closed, but the exhaustion etched around them—the small lines of fatigue and the reminders of the years you’ve spent together—make him look impossibly handsome.
There's a slight flush across the bridge of his nose where your faces were pressed together, and the small, stubborn beard stubble catches the light.
He looks utterly spent.
You reach out, your thumb moving to gently wipe a streak of sweat from his temple, trailing it down the curve of his cheek, right over his scar. In this quiet, post-climax clarity, he truly is the most beautiful man on earth.
Yes, yes. You’re absolutely sure!
Your core pulses dangerously again.
He finally opens his eyes, a lazy movement, and they immediately fix on yours. A satisfied smirk curls the corner of his mouth.
"What is it, sweetheart?" he asks, voice still ragged and thick as he kisses both of your cheeks, your nose, your heavy eyelids.
And in all honesty? This is the moment you should pause, take a rest, slide off him and cuddle, smoke a cigarette and have some post- nut clarity. But the little devil on your shoulder, reminding you how much you want to hold a newborn baby in your arms again and give your daughters another sibling to love and Jason to always carry around the house, decides to take the wheel.
“Atta Jay… Again.” you giggle, pressing a kiss underneath his jaw “you gotta fill me up again. I want you to give me a baby tonight!”
And who is Jason to say no when his dotting wife demands something?