OogieBoogie innit

Fun fact: this is actually a redraw from sometime last year!

Original picture, found it on Pinterest vvvvvv

As Leon S. Kennedy aged — in muscle, experience, and just a bit of emotional damage — his tastes evolved right alongside him. By the time he’s made it through the worst the world can throw at him, the usual stuff just doesn’t cut it anymore. He needs something a little… more. And lucky you — you’re exactly his type at every stage.

You can trace it in the way he touches you — how it shifts from hesitant to practiced to downright filthy. Every version of him wants you, but they all want you differently. So here’s a little journey through the years.

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 21

Favourite Position: Missionary, standing

Favourite Location to Release: Your stomach

He’s nervous — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he really does. And he wants to do it right. Every kiss feels like a question, every touch followed by a breathless, “Is that okay?” He’s all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, looking up at you like you’re something sacred — like this is the only good thing he's had in days, and he’d rather die than mess it up.

He listens so well, too. One moan, one hitch in your breath, and he’s immediately repeating whatever made it happen. He’s inexperienced, sure, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm — always watching your face for approval, murmuring “you feel so good” like a prayer, hands trembling just a little as they explore. You could ruin him with just a look, and he’d thank you for it.

He kisses like he’s scared you’ll disappear — slow at first, reverent. Like every brush of his mouth is him trying to memorize you. His hands shake when they touch skin, but it’s not fear. It’s adrenaline. Want. Awe.

"Am I doing okay?" he whispers against your throat, voice breathy, lips still grazing your skin. He’s flushed and fidgety, hips rolling against you with the kind of desperation he doesn’t know how to hide. “Tell me if you like it—fuck, please—tell me I'm making you feel good.”

And the second you do — the second you breathe a quiet yes or tug his hair or beg him not to stop — something snaps in him. Not in a scary way. In a hungry way.

He straightens up, eyes darker now, mouth kiss-bruised and slightly parted. The rookie you were guiding seconds ago is suddenly in charge, and you realize he was holding back. All that sweetness? Still there. But now it’s laced with purpose.

He talks you through it the whole time. “You’re doing so good for me. God, you’re perfect.” He’s whiny when he gets close — almost trembling — and he begs to finish, like you could ever deny him. And when you finally give him that last little “yes,” he groans like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear it.

Praise him and he’ll melt, all flushed cheeks and bashful grins, hiding his face in your neck as he keeps going. But what really gets him? When you can’t say anything at all. When your head’s thrown back, fingers tangled in sheets or in his hair, mouth open in a breathless, choked little whimper — that’s when he really starts showing off. He’ll chuckle softly, voice low and hungry. He doesn’t just touch — he listens. Learns every hitch in your breath, every twitch in your hips, until he has you unravelling around him with nothing more than a whisper “Is that good, baby? Am I making you feel good?”

Spoiler: he always is.

You never would’ve guessed the kid fresh off his first shift could fuck like that. But then again, you were his first everything. Of course he wanted to make it unforgettable.

509 words

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 27

Favourite Position: 69, Doggy

Favourite Location to Release: Down your throat

By now, he’s tasted blood and gunpowder more times than he can count. The world’s burned around him more than once — and if he’s being honest, the only thing that still feels real is you.

This Leon doesn't ask permission with words. He reads it in your breath, your pupils, the way your thighs shift when he looks at you a certain way. The sweetness is still there, buried under calluses and scars, but it’s different now. Rougher. A little greedy.

He likes control — but not to own you. Just to unravel you. To see what you’ll give him when you stop pretending to be polite.

He always has either cuffs or rope on hand. “Just to keep you still,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement as he clicks them around your wrists. And he doesn’t even get inside you before he’s between your thighs, groaning like you’re his last meal. He lives for it — the mess, the noise, the way your legs shake against his shoulders. He palms himself through his jeans while he does it, that worked up just from hearing you moan his name.

And when he’s the one in your mouth? Oh, he’s ruined. Hand on your head, hips trembling with restraint, eyes locked on you like you’re holy. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants, voice tight. “God, you’re gonna kill me.” But he’s still a giver — always has been — so the second you shift toward a 69, he dives back down, already drunk on you.

It’s dirtier now, wilder. Sometimes he takes you outside — against a tree, in the backseat of a government-issued car, anywhere you’ll let him. Not for the thrill, but because he can’t wait. He’s too used to running out of time.

His praise is still there — but it’s changed. It comes out rough, filthy, just a few decibels above a growl. “That’s it. Fuck, look at you. Taking it so well. My good little slut.” The kind of praise that makes your cheeks burn, makes your thighs twitch. He doesn't just tell you how good you're doing — he shows it, grabbing your hips like he's afraid you'll slip away, fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. Splaying his hand across your stomach, your chest, your throat — anywhere he can touch, claim, hold.

He’s all muscle and motion now, and when he’s inside you, he moves like he’s trying to fuck the bad memories out of himself — or into you. Like maybe this is the only place he still knows what he’s doing.

But even when he's taking what he needs, he still needs you. You hear it in the way he pants your name, the way his voice breaks just a little. He still begs — only now it's deeper, rougher. “Please—please, make me cum. Need it, baby, fuck—” It’s desperate and unfiltered, and it makes your head spin.

And when you do? He loses it. Grunts, gasps, clutches at your waist like you’re keeping him alive. Bites into your shoulder just to muffle the sound he makes when he finishes — a cracked, open thing that sounds like he’s been holding it in for years.

He'll call you his favourite mess when it’s over. Run a hand down your thigh, still panting, and mutter something like, “God, look at you. So fuckin’ good for me. Think I might need another round.”

You always say yes.

Afterward, he’s quiet. Almost soft. Kisses your wrists when he takes off the cuffs. Buries his face in your neck and just breathes for a while. Because if he’s honest, touching you is the only time he doesn’t feel haunted.

618 words

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 36

Favourite Position: mating press, horizontal cowgirl

Favourite Location to Release: Inside you

There are two sides to him now — take and give — and there’s no telling which you’ll get until your knees are already hitting the floor.

When he takes, he takes. Permission isn’t part of the equation anymore — it’s a look, a click of his fingers, a soft-spoken order that leaves no room for “no.” And if you hesitate? He’s already got you pressed to the wall, whispering filth in that sugar-slick voice of his — calling you his "dirty little slut" like it’s a compliment, tracing reverent fingers down your spine as if to bless the bruises he’s about to leave.

Blindfolds. Rope. That paddle you thought was a joke the first time he pulled it out. And his hands — God, those hands. He loves using them, whether it’s to spank you until you’re squirming or to keep your hips perfectly still while he ruins you.

He’s a menace with a mission, and when he’s in this mood, nothing — not location, not consequences — is enough to stop him. He’ll spread your thighs open in the backseat of a moving car and say, “You knew what this was when you wore that.” He’ll put his hand between your legs at a restaurant and dare you to stop him. On missions, you’re lucky if he waits until after the danger’s passed — and even then, the adrenaline only makes him rougher.

But when he’s giving? You still don’t get mercy — only more of him. He’s insatiable, a machine wound tight and built to worship, except his version of worship comes with overstimulation and filthy, breathless praise. His focus shifts, but the intensity never drops — he just channels it into you instead of himself.

And you don’t just finish. You shatter. Over and over again. He makes it his goal to watch you fall apart, to feel you shake, cry, beg for him to stop and then beg for more in the same breath. It’s fingers, tongue, toys, that cock he never shuts up about — because yeah, he’s into breeding now. He wants you full, dripping, stretched and shaking while he tells you how good you take him.

“That’s it, baby. Milk me dry. You’re my perfect little cumdump, huh? Gonna fill you up ‘til you can’t think straight. Gonna fuck a baby into you, yeah?”

He says it like it’s the truth. Like you were made for it.

And just when you think he’s had his fill, when your body’s wrung out and your voice is gone — he cracks. Just a little. A sound slips through, high and strained, a ghost of that younger whine you used to know. And somehow that’s what breaks you most of all.

Afterward, he’s rough in a different way — wiping you down with calloused hands and murmuring soft things into your shoulder like he doesn’t mean for you to hear them. He still grips you tight, even then. Still marks you like he’s scared to let go. But he holds you through the ache, through the aftershocks, through the mess he made of you.

And in the morning?

He starts again.

531 words

Sal Fisher:

The pregnancy wasn’t planned. You both had agreed on a kid-free life—or so you thought.

Deep down, Sal always wanted to be a dad. He just didn’t think he deserved to be one.

He cries for days after you tell him. Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears. Soft, silent, endless tears.

Becomes ridiculously protective—he’s always been gentle, but now it’s extreme caretaking mode. I’m talking he won’t let you carry anything heavier than a sock. Overdresses you if it’s even slightly cold: “Just in case.” Spoon-feeds you. Puts you on “bed rest” even when you insist you’re fine.

Likes pressing the scarred side of his face to your belly so the baby can “feel” him before they see him.

Secretly terrified the baby will be scared of him. Never says it directly, but you know. Sometimes you wake up at night and he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, deep in thought, quiet and anxious.

“You’re doing it again,” “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” “I don’t mind,” you say. “But you should come back to bed. I'm cold without you behind me.” “I was just... thinking.” “C’mere, Sal.” He crawls back under the blankets without protest, but you tug him into a proper hug, his body fitting around your bump like a puzzle piece. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m scared they’ll be afraid of me,” he whispers. “When they see me.” “Then they’ll learn to see you the way I do,” you whisper. “They’ll grow up hearing your voice, feeling your hands, and knowing your heart. That’s what they’ll know first. Not the mask. Not the scars. You.” “…I sing to them,” he admits, sheepishly. “When you’re asleep.” “I know,” you say with a little smile. “I pretend to be asleep so you’ll keep doing it.” He groans and buries his face in your shoulder, embarrassed and pink at the tips of his ears. You guide his hand to your stomach, where a gentle flutter stirs under the skin. “They know you, Sal. Already.”

He goes to Henry (his dad) constantly for advice—especially about your cravings. Henry shows him recipes Sal’s mom used to love while pregnant. It becomes a bonding ritual.

Sal sings to your bump all the time. Quiet lullabies, soft melodies. He hopes his voice will comfort the baby.

Gives you full-body massages every night. From your feet to your scalp. No skipping, no exceptions.

Likes sleeping as the big spoon so he can wrap his arms around the baby bump—it calms him.

If you even hint at discomfort, he’s already adjusting pillows, making tea, or Googling something with terrifying intensity.

Refuses to let you feel guilty for anything—your moods, cravings, sleep schedule. "You’re building a person. You win. Every time."

Keeps a small music player on your belly sometimes so the baby can hear his guitar playing, calling it “band practice.”

He starts writing songs again—soft, private things he never plans to share. Some are for you, some for the baby, some just for himself.

He pulls out old tapes from the band and plays them quietly for the baby—even the rough demos—just so they can “hear Uncle Larry.”

Labour and Birth!

The first sign something’s happening is a sharp gasp and a hand on your belly—Sal’s immediately at your side, asking “Are you okay?” on repeat, fumbling with his phone and the hospital bag in a panic. But before you can even answer, there’s a sudden gush—your water breaks right there. He freezes. Then he starts crying—tears of excitement, fear, love—all while rushing around trying to get ready.

In his panic, he forgets a few minor essentials: his prosthetic mask, his shoes, and oh yeah, his pants. So there you are, in your sleep shirt, soaked in amniotic fluid, and Sal, in just a hoodie and boxers, barefoot and frantic as he speeds down the road well over the limit. You're breathing like the books told you, and Sal's knuckles are white on the wheel.

The second you arrive, he picks you up bridal style and bolts inside, still pantless. When you’re in the delivery room, he doesn't leave your side for a second. He's holding your hand, breathing with you, whispering affirmations through tear-choked words. When the moment finally comes and you’re handed your baby girl—tiny, crying, with tufts of thin blue hair—Sal places a trembling hand on your arm.

She’s crying… but as soon as her head rests against your chest, she stops.

Then a shadow crosses his expression—fear. What if she’s scared of me? What if the scars… what if it’s too much?

But you meet his eyes and silently beg him to come closer. Your daughter opens hers, looking between you both—no fear, no tears, just quiet wonder. He reaches out, hand shaking, and gently touches her head.

She’s perfect.

And as he finally cradles her in his arms, the weight of the world seems to fall away. It’s clear in that moment—he was born for this.

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Larry Johnson:

The pregnancy was kinda planned, but also kind of not—it started with, "Hey, babez, do you wanna have a kid?" and you were just like "I wouldn't mind a kid." Then BAM! baby is conceived.

He was right there in the bathroom when you peed on the test. When it came back positive, you both jumped for joy—until he promptly told you to stop, "We want a baby, not a milkshake! you're giving little dude-or dudette, motion sickness, bea."

From then on? Feet up, snacks ready, Larry’s your loyal servant. Except for cooking. Cooking is not his ministry.

Constantly has his ear on your belly. If the baby kicks? He weeps into your stomach like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Told EVERYONE immediately—bounding up like a puppy, showing you off like you’re Peter Steele’s bass guitar.

He constantly puts headphones on your belly and plays Sanity Falls. “Gotta teach ‘em the classics,” he says, totally serious about it.

Every two weeks, he paints you nude—capturing the way your body changes, worshipping every detail. You were shy at first, but over time, it became your favourite kind of love letter.

You tug at the edge of your robe. “Larry, I really don’t feel like—my skin’s all weird today and I’ve got that stupid puffy face thing going on—” “Babe.” He kneels in front of you, resting his warm hands on your thighs. “I need you to understand something.” You raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “I’m not painting you because you’re some perfect porcelain goddess or whatever,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I mean—don’t get me wrong, you are—but that’s not the point.” “Then what is the point?” He leans forward, presses a kiss just under your belly button. “It’s you. Us. All of this. Your stretch marks, the way your body’s changing, the little frown you get when you’re feeling insecure. I love it all. I want our kid to grow up and see these paintings and know how much I adored you through all of it.” You blink at him, heart all gooey and sore. “And if I don’t keep doing this,” he adds, half-smiling as he grabs the brush again, “I’m gonna forget what this exact version of you looked like—and that would be the real crime.” You sigh, loosen the robe. “You’re lucky I love you.” Larry grins, already sketching. “I know.”

Your expanding belly button sends him into hysterics. He pokes it constantly and kisses it every time he walks by, like it’s your stomach’s little nose.

Skincare days stay a common occurrence(if not more often)— but now he puts a face mask on your bump and wraps a headband around it like it's a spa guest.

When he told his mom, he broke down crying. Not from fear—but because he realised this was something he’d dreamed of giving her since he met you.

He always sleeps facing you, one hand under your cheek, one hand on your belly. He says it helps him feel close to both of you.

If you even think you’re having contractions, he’s dropping everything and sprinting home. He’ll ghost friends, call in from work, climb out a window if he has to.

When you’re throwing up from morning sickness, he’s right there holding your hair and whispering you through it. You’re flushed, sweating, miserable—and still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

He makes everyone touch your belly if you’re okay with it. He wants the whole world to know how special this is.

He paints a mural in the nursery—stars, skeletons, and one massive sun—just like the ones he used to draw with his mom. It’s his way of passing childhood magic forward.

Labour and Birth!

Somehow, Larry just knows. He’s been saying for days, “Babez, I think it’s gonna be soon,” and obsessively checking the hospital bags by the door. Then, in the middle of the night, you bolt upright—and Larry’s instantly awake.

“Larry… I think you were right.”

No panic. Just game face.

He throws on the outfit he’s dubbed “Meeting Mini Bae,” helps you clean up and change into something comfortable, and hauls the bags to the car like he’s trained for this moment. The whole drive over, he’s grinning, throwing out “WOO!”s between red lights, and hyping you up like you're on your way to a concert. Once at the hospital, he doesn’t bother parking straight—he’s too busy carrying you through the doors like Simba, shouting, “I need the doctor who's gonna make me a daddy!”

In the delivery room, he’s glued to your side. Hand in yours, smiling like a maniac, cheering you on between pushes. And when your baby boy is finally in your arms—with a full head of hair and a little mole on the opposite cheek from Larry’s—he breaks out into a full-blown victory dance. Headbanging. Jumping. Nearly slipping on the tile.

You’re about to ask why the baby isn’t crying—but instead, you hear soft laughter. Your son is laughing, watching his dad like he’s the funniest person in the world.

Larry doesn’t wait long. He gently takes him from your arms, cradles him close, and starts humming the lyrics to Sacrifice by Sanity Falls under his breath. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so tired.

Larry eases onto the bed beside you, still in awe, as if he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He lifts the baby boy up with a reverent grin, whispering, “Babez. Look at him. He’s perfect.”

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Ashley Campbell:

You weren't sure if Ash wanted kids, but the day you brought it up, she agreed so fast, it shocked you! And when you told her you were pregnant, her eyes widened with wonder—she hugged you so tightly you almost fell over. She whispered, “We’re gonna be so good at this,” like she already knew your baby was in good hands.

Ash is endlessly sweet, but she takes charge in the best way. She brings you snacks before you know you're hungry and organizes doctor visits with militant precision—but all out of love. You never have to ask for anything, because she's already halfway done doing it.

She loves massaging your back and feet, but never makes a show of it. It’s just part of her routine now—grabbing lotion, propping your legs up, quietly kneading the day’s stress out of your body while humming to your bump. She thinks your comfort is non-negotiable.

When you get emotional or anxious, she’s the calm to your storm. She wraps you in her arms, talks in a soft voice, and reminds you that you're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling. Her gentle reassurance is like a weighted blanket for your soul.

Ash is obsessed with your baby bump. She’ll cuddle up to it like it’s a separate person already, holding conversations with the “little one” while rubbing circles on your skin. Sometimes she even tells your bump secrets, like “Your mama is the bravest person I know.”

She’s a bit superstitious about health stuff. Like making you wear socks on cold floors because “pregnant feet are sacred,” and buying every fruit that supposedly helps with brain development. You’re not sure it works—but you’ve never eaten this well in your life.

Ash starts knitting. Badly. She's never knit a thing in her life, but she insists your baby will wear a handmade hat, even if it looks like a squished jellyfish. It's endearing as hell watching her cuss under her breath with pink yarn tangled around her fingers.

She paints little stars and vines around the crib. It’s a soft, homey touch, and she always invites you in for feedback—“Should I add a moon here?”—but you love whatever she does. It smells like paint and lavender when you fall asleep in her lap.

She’s deeply protective of you, in quiet, feral ways. If someone makes an insensitive comment, she’ll glare them into silence. If a doctor dismisses your discomfort, she’ll be firm but respectful, and always advocate for you like a warrior with a clipboard.

Every morning, she presses a kiss to your belly and says, “Morning, starshine.” It doesn’t matter if you’re throwing up or cranky or tired—she still does it, as if to remind you both how precious this chapter is. You start to look forward to it more than coffee.

Ash gently rests her hand on your growing belly, her thumb softly tracing circles on your skin. She smiles, eyes glistening as she whispers, “Good morning, little starshine.” You chuckle, half-sleepy, and press your head back into the pillow. “Morning, hon,” you murmur, sleep still thick in your voice as she brings her lips to your temple. Ash leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your belly, “You’re gonna be perfect, you know that?” she says, voice tender but full of certainty. “Like, the perfect little human.” You grin, turning your head to meet her eyes, “Perfect little human? What, like their mom?” She laughs softly, her fingers running over your bump. “No,” she says, pretending to be serious. “They’ll be perfect because they have you to teach them everything they need to know. I’ll just be the backup dancer.” You laugh, reaching out to tug her closer. “I think you’re the main event, Ash.” Her grin is as warm as the morning light flooding through the window. “Why don’t we both take centre stage then.”

She documents the pregnancy with Polaroids. But she never forces you to pose—instead, she catches you laughing, sleeping, wearing mismatched socks and talking to the belly. The photos are messy and real, and she keeps them in a shoebox labelled “Our Universe.”

She plays soft music in the mornings, classical or instrumental post-rock. Says it helps “set the baby’s vibe for the day.” You both end up lying on the couch, her hand on your bump, half-asleep in a sunbeam while Explosions in the Sky hums in the background.

Ash will happily carry everything you even look at for more than a second. You reached for a bag of rice once and she practically threw her back out trying to beat you to it. “That’s not a craving, that’s a lifting hazard,” she muttered.

She reads every queer parenting blog she can find. Half the bookmarks on your shared browser are titles like Lesbian Moms & Lactation Tips and Raising Baby in a Gay Way: Pride from Day One. She wants your baby to grow up knowing that love built their world.

Ash insists on decorating the nursery with “you energy.” She brings home trinkets, dried flowers, little frames with quotes you’ve said. “I want them to feel you in the room, even when you’re not here,” she tells you one night while holding your hand.

Labour and Birth!

Ash has been tracking your contractions to the minute. The second they hit five minutes apart, she’s hauling you onto her bike—no protests, no hesitations. Ideally, you would’ve taken the car, but it was out of fuel, and Ash isn’t about to waste time with that. Good thing, too, because your water breaks right as she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

She secretly loves that it happened on the bike. “It’s official,” she grins, steadying you. “Baby Maker lives up to her name.”

As you walk inside, she holds you close, supporting your weight with gentle strength. When your legs start to give out, she just picks you up—no warning—cradled securely under one arm like you weigh nothing at all. She has zero patience for the slow-moving receptionist and demands a room without taking no for an answer.

During the delivery, she never once lets go of your hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, soft and steady, as she whispers how much she loves you, how proud she is of you, how ready she is to become a mother by your side. When the doctors try to offer instructions mid-push, she waves them off—“Let them breathe, damn.”

And then, your handsome baby boy is here.

Ash immediately asks the nurses to wait for the cord to turn white before cutting it. While she’s bickering, you steal a first look—bald as a cueball, but already scrunching his face into the goofiest expressions.

Ash turned back just in time to catch that. And then she cried.

“He's gorgeous,” she whispered, pressing a trail of kisses across your face while her pinkie curled into his surprisingly strong grip. “I knew he’d be perfect.” She sat beside you, overwhelmed and glowing, whispering to him between happy sobs. When you finally passed him into her arms, she cradled him to her chest like he’d always been there.

“Welcome, little starshine,” she breathed, voice cracking. His eyes blinked open slowly, like he already knew her—her voice, that nickname, the love surrounding him.

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Travis Phelps:

Emotional Distance but Deeply Caring: Travis may act tough, but there’s an undeniable softness when it comes to the baby. He can’t help but care for you, and the growing bump reminds him of how much he has to protect.

Struggling with Touch: He’s used to being the tough guy, and touching, especially in this vulnerable situation, makes him uneasy. He’ll stand a little too far away, watching the way you cradle your belly. His hands shake when he wants to touch, but he doesn’t know how. You’ll often guide his hand to rest there, reassuring him with a quiet “It’s okay.”

Words Are Hard: Travis doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it. He’ll stumble over his words, usually saying something like “Uh, how’s... uh, how’s it feel in there?” He tries, but he’s never been great at being open about his feelings. Still, you can see the way his eyes soften when he watches you with the bump.

Silent Conversations: He’s not one for sappy talks, but you’ll catch him staring at your stomach in silence, like he's trying to figure out what’s going on in there. He doesn’t need words to show he cares; sometimes, he’ll just rest his hand near your belly, silently connecting with the baby, and you can tell it means a lot to him.

Reluctant Affection: When he does manage to touch your belly, it’s quick and almost hesitant, but it’s there. If the baby kicks while his hand is on your belly, he’ll freeze, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He’ll mutter something under his breath, like “Damn, that’s crazy,” and then look away, still processing the whole thing.

Protective and Observant: Travis has a habit of quietly observing how you’re doing, making sure you’re comfortable or not overexerting yourself. He won’t say much, but he’ll notice when you’re uncomfortable and take a mental note to fix things. He’s always looking out for you and the baby in his own, gruff way.

The First Kick: The first time the baby kicked, Travis was mesmerized. His hand was on your belly, and he felt the movement, not realizing at first that his eyes were filling with tears. When he noticed the tears, he tried to act tough, quickly wiping them away, but his hand stayed in place, not wanting to move. It was a moment of raw emotion that he didn’t know how to handle.

Travis sat stiffly at the edge of the couch, his hand hovering awkwardly over your bump. “I don’t… I mean, you sure it’s okay?” You took his wrist and gently placed his palm against your belly. “They’re your kid, Trav. You don’t have to ask permission to feel them.” He didn’t respond at first, too focused on the stillness beneath his hand— Then a flutter. A kick. Just one. His breath caught. “Was that—?” You nodded, watching his face change in real time. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent. Then… a tear slipped down his cheek. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing at his face with his sleeve like it betrayed him. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, sorry.” “Don’t be,” you said quietly. “They kicked for you.”

Protective to the Extreme: If someone bumps into you or is too rough around you, Travis doesn’t hesitate to get mad—really mad. His first instinct is to throw hands, and he’ll get in their face, fists clenched, ready to explode. But once the initial rush of anger settles, he forces himself to calm down. He knows getting into trouble would mean missing the birth, and that’s something he’s not willing to risk. After a few sharp words and a deep breath, he’ll mutter something like, “You better watch it next time,” and keep his distance from the person, but his anger doesn’t easily fade.

Secretly Reads Baby Books: He’ll act like he’s too tough for it, but Travis has been sneaking baby books when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s a weird mix of him wanting to be prepared but not wanting to admit it. It’s not his idea of fun reading, but he wants to make sure he’s not totally clueless when it comes to taking care of the baby.

The First Ultrasound: The first time you both see the baby on the ultrasound screen, Travis is hit with a wave of emotion. He’s never been the type to cry in public, but this moment hits him hard. He feels a connection, something raw and unspoken, and he can’t help but stare at the screen, a quiet "Holy shit" escaping his lips. It’s the first real glimpse of his child, and it shakes him to his core.

His ‘Big Brother’ Instincts: Growing up with his own chaotic, unpredictable home life, Travis often finds himself worried about creating a stable environment for his child. The thought of being a good dad nags at him constantly, but he’s determined to be better than what he had. He asks for advice more often than he’d admit, just to make sure he’s doing right by the kid.

Sleepless Nights: Even though he puts on a tough guy act, Travis finds himself unable to sleep at night, especially if you’re not feeling well. He’ll be up, pacing the room, trying to think of ways to help, and all the while, he's silently worrying about you and the baby. If you wake up and catch him, he’ll try to pretend he’s fine, but you can tell he’s not.

Baby Shopping with You: Travis tries to act all tough about baby shopping, but he’s surprisingly good at it. He’s picky about what the baby wears, insisting on getting only the best (but without going overboard). He’ll try to get the most practical things, but you can see the glimmer of pride in his eyes when he picks out something that looks perfect for his little one.

Belly Casting Obsession: Every time he notices a change in your bump, Travis insists on having a professional belly cast made. He’s fascinated by the process and wants to preserve every moment, from the smallest change in size to the curve of your belly as it grows. The casts end up all over his place, a testament to his odd but heartfelt desire to immortalize each stage of the pregnancy. At first, you think it’s a bit much, but the thoughtfulness behind it is something you can’t help but love.

If you ever try to do something yourself—like pick something up or bend over—Travis will immediately stop you, giving you a hard, almost scolding look. "What did I tell you about that?" he’ll say, gently but firmly. He’ll do everything for you, even if you protest, because he’s determined to make sure you don’t strain yourself. He’s very much in overprotective daddy mode and won’t hesitate to act on it.

Labour and Birth!

Travis gets the call while he’s at work. Your voice is shaky, telling him you think your water just broke. The moment you finish speaking, he doesn’t say a word—he just hangs up. There’s no time to waste. He storms out of the office without telling anyone, knowing the clock is ticking.

On his way to you, he quickly types out a message, his fingers shaking with nerves. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hang up like that... Don’t move a muscle, I’m on my way.”

He’d been preparing for this moment, keeping the bags in his car for weeks. Still, that doesn’t stop the whirlwind of anxiety tightening his chest as he drives. He mutters to himself, “Don’t panic, just breathe, don’t panic.” You’re not sure if he’s talking to you, or trying to convince himself of that.

His speed? Well, it’s more than a little reckless. You end up getting tailed by a cop, and instead of slowing down, he steps on the gas. It’s a high-speed chase now. When he finally pulls up to the hospital, he swings open your door… but is immediately tackled by the cop tailing him.

The officer looks down at him, then at you, clearly understanding. He doesn’t press charges, but Travis still gets a ticket. The cop helps you into the hospital, making sure you’re seen immediately before walking off.

As you’re labouring, Travis paces the room, hands raking through his hair. Then, he hears you shriek—everything in him shifts. He’s at your side in seconds, holding your hand, reassuring you through the pain. You’ve never seen him so raw, so vulnerable.

In between your contractions, he starts to speak, voice shaking, tears slipping down his cheeks. “You’re amazing, y’know that? I don’t say it enough… but I really do appreciate you, everything you’ve done for me, and everything you’re doing for us. I love you… I’m just so grateful for you.”

When the beautiful baby girl is born, Travis doesn’t waste a second. He scoops her up, bringing her close to his chest, overwhelmed with pride. He whispers to her as he holds her, a promise forming in his voice. “I’m gonna be the best dad the world’s ever seen… You’ve got a good one, kid.”

She’s perfect—golden eyelashes, a tiny strand of golden hair sticking up at the top of her head. Travis looks at her with a love you’ve never seen before. There’s no doubt in your mind—he’s going to be an amazing father.

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Also had to draw Larry snotting over your baby bump, I couldn't not, it was so clear in my head.

Sal Fisher:

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Sal adores when you play with his hair, braid it, put it in a pony, do his pigtails, ANYTHING! Just touch his hair!

Likes to have his scalp massaged too ^^^^

He feels a warmth in his chest every time you kiss his prosthetic—whether it’s his cheek, forehead, he practically melts when you kiss his lips.

When he takes off his prosthetic, he doesn’t want a big fuss made. He’d prefer it if you acted like it was no big deal, like you haven't even noticed. Though deep down, he appreciates the understanding. 

That said, when the prosthetic comes off, he especially loves when you kiss the scarred side of his face, right on the cheekbone. It’s the quiet reassurance he needs.

At first, he would always ask if it was alright for him to take it off, uncertain of your reaction. But with your constant reassurance, he eventually stopped asking and started leaving it off when you two were alone, growing comfortable with his vulnerability.

His sense of touch isn’t gone, just dulled—everything feels a little fuzzy ever since the incident. But even with the lingering numbness, he craves closeness. Skin-to-skin contact is grounding for him, and he loves the way your warmth cuts through the static.

Sal isn’t super into PDA, but when you're alone, he's clingy. Arms wrapped around your waist from behind, hands ghosting over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Quiet love.

He doodles you in his notebooks. Sometimes it’s you sitting, sleeping, making faces. Once you found a drawing of you wearing his pig tails — he turned red and wouldn’t talk for ten minutes.

Physical touch is soothing for him, but he’s shy about initiating. He’ll link pinkies before holding your hand properly.

Gets weirdly good at doing little things like untangling your necklaces or helping you zip up a stuck hoodie.

Doting is comfort for him. It’s how he keeps his hands busy, how he tells you he loves you without saying it out loud.

He short-circuits when you dote back — gets all stammer-y when you kiss his knuckles or bring him coffee for once. It’s the only time he ever looks away first.

The only time he’ll openly defy his ‘no PDA’ rule is when he’s jealous. Suddenly, he’s right there, slinging his arm around your shoulders or waist, holding your hand like a mini-cage just to prove it.

When it comes to cuddling, Sal's ideal position is facing each other. He loves being able to see you and feel your warmth close to him. Whether you're snuggled up with your head on his chest or he's curled up with his head on yours, it doesn't really matter. He just wants to be tangled up with you.

Larry Johnson:

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He loves touching you. Not in a clingy way, but his hand is always somewhere—looped in your belt loop, thumb brushing your knuckles, knee pressed to yours. Just to know you're real.

“Bea.” It’s his go-to nickname. Soft, easy. Sometimes you’ll get a playful “Babez” when he’s in a good mood, grinning with paint on his hands and dried clay on his jeans.

He doesn’t love people touching his hair. But sometimes, when you’re both lounging around and you ask nicely, he’ll let you gather it up, tie it back, or play with it gently. He pretends to grumble, but he secretly enjoys it.

Larry’s love language is touch, hands down. He’s not always the most eloquent with words, but the way he tugs you into his lap or drapes himself over you? Yeah, that says it all.

His favourite cuddle position? You, lying on top of him, face tucked under his chin. He’ll card his fingers through your hair or rub slow circles into your back until you’re asleep—or he is.

Skincare days are sacred. He acts like it’s “just because you like it,” but he’s always the first to pick out a new mask or slap cucumbers on his eyes. (He looks ridiculous. You love it.)

He lives to dote on you. Whether it’s rubbing your shoulders after a long day or showing up with your favourite snack “just because,” he’s got you.

Larry doesn’t get too flustered when you return the affection. He’ll tease you for it, but you can tell by the soft tilt of his smile and the way he tucks your hair behind your ear—he’s just as smitten.

Jealous? Not often. He trusts you. But if someone really isn’t getting the message? His sarcasm gets sharp. Subtle jabs, low muttered “wow, can’t take a hint, huh?” And he’ll slip an arm around you so fast it’d make your head spin.

Larry’s a painter—and you are his muse. He’s constantly sneaking photos of you: sipping coffee, reading, dancing in the kitchen. He especially loves painting you in the rain—skin slick with water, light catching on your features. He swears you’ve never looked more divine.

PDA? Larry’s got no shame. Kisses on the cheek, hand on your waist, arms slung around your shoulders—he’s not shy about showing you off. Sometimes he even takes it a little too far. You’ll have to nudge him and whisper, “Not here, babe,” and he’ll smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He treats you like his best friend... who he also gets to kiss. You’re his person, his partner-in-crime, and sometimes that means you’ll get a casual “Dude” in between soft forehead kisses.

Romance doesn’t come naturally to him—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. He’s too laid-back for big plans, but every so often he’ll suggest a fast food run and act like it’s your first date all over again. Nervous fidgeting, dressing up just a little, even opening the door for you with a grin that says “I hope I’m doing this right.”

He absolutely reeks of weed. The smell clings to his clothes, his hair, your clothes… you’ve stopped noticing. When he lights up, he always offers you a hit first, grinning like it’s a secret. High Larry is handsy, giggly, and totally obsessed with you—he’ll pull you into his lap and murmur sleepy little compliments between puffs.

Arguments with Larry are rarely serious. Most of the time, they’re over stupid stuff—like who left the window open or who ate the last Pop-Tart. He gets so childish about it too. Expect dramatic gasps, sarcastic “Nu-uh!”s, and him throwing himself dramatically onto the couch like he's in a soap opera. If he knows he's wrong, he'll pretend to sulk until you forgive him.

Ashley Campbell

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Arms linked, always. Whether you're running errands or just out for a walk, Ash keeps your arms locked like it’s second nature. It's casual, it's sweet, and it makes her feel close to you without needing anything flashy.

Her lap is your throne. At home, her favourite thing is having your head resting in her lap. She'll absentmindedly play with your hair or trace lazy shapes on your shoulder while chatting or watching TV.

Spooning supremacy. Ashley doesn’t have a strong preference between big spoon or little spoon—she loves both. Some nights she wraps around you tight, other nights she just melts when your arms are around her.

Hand obsessed. She loves your hands. Holding them, tracing your knuckles, painting your nails—whatever it is, she’ll find an excuse to keep her fingers tangled with yours. Her favourite place for them? Wrapped around her waist.

The surprise hugger. Ash loves sneaking up and wrapping her arms around you from behind, especially in the kitchen or when you're zoning out. Sometimes she rests her chin on your shoulder, other times she just presses her forehead to your back like she's recharging.

Motorbike menace. Ashley lives for trying to convince you to ride her bike—even if you’re clumsy, nervous, or absolutely horrified. She thinks it’s adorable when you’re flustered, stalling the engine or yelling “How do I stop this thing!?”

Chauffeur girlfriend. Even though she teases you about riding solo, what she really loves is driving you around. It’s her love language: one hand on the throttle, the other holding yours tightly at stoplights.

Photographer’s muse. You are her favourite subject — hands down. She’s constantly snapping pictures of you when you're not looking, especially when you’re lost in thought or laughing at something dumb. She's even got a few of you printed and taped to her mirror. You caught her once. She just shrugged, “What? You’re hot.”

Sassy jealousy. Ashley doesn’t get insecure when she's jealous — she gets pissed. She's not mad at you, but she’ll whine, pout, and side-eye the other person like they keyed her bike. “Tell your little admirer to find someone unavailable, please.” If the person keeps pushing? Grudge. Permanent. Locked in.

No patience for flirting. The second someone starts getting flirty with you, she’s scooting closer, draping herself across your shoulders, and throwing out barbs like, “Wow, didn’t know desperate was a personality type.” Then she'll kiss your hand just to hammer the point home.

Teasing flirt. She’s not above getting cocky about how much you love her. “You’re obsessed with me,” she’ll grin when you grab her hand. “It’s okay. I’d be obsessed with me too.”

Protective streak. Ashley might not be the biggest or strongest, but if someone talks down to you or hurts your feelings, she’s ready to throw hands. Or at least throw looks that could kill. She’ll grip your hand tight and mutter, “They’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

PDA Queen (within reason). She’s not about to start a make-out session in the cereal aisle, but she’s absolutely kissing you goodbye, hugging you from behind in line, locking pinkies while walking. She’s got zero shame showing people she loves you — PG-13 and proud.

Shared showers. Ashley loves sharing a shower or bath with you, but not for the reasons people assume. For her, it’s a peaceful, grounding kind of intimacy — the steam, the closeness, your arms brushing. She leans into you, shampoo in her hair, like, “This is the best part of my day.”

Phone calls & emoticons. If she can’t be with you in person, she’s either calling or texting. Always. She’ll send a “miss you 🖤” in the middle of her shift, or a blurry selfie with a caption like “look how cute I am rn :P.” You’re basically never not on her mind.

Travis Phelps

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Affection doesn't come easy to him—not because he doesn’t crave it, but because it still feels foreign. He stumbles through showing it, but devours every bit you give him like he’s starving for it.

He doesn’t like being touched without warning. Sudden hugs or kisses make him recoil, but it’s not rejection—it’s instinct. If you approach gently, he leans into it like he’s made for you.

He aches to hold your hand, but he never reaches first. You’ll catch him twitching, fingertips hovering toward yours, jaw clenched. If you take his hand, he won’t let go.

PDA is off-limits in public—but behind closed doors? He’s curled into you like he belongs there, tracing your skin, playing with your hair, all without saying a word.

He loves teasing you. Not cruel, just sharp-tongued little jabs that make him smirk. “You always this clingy, or is it just me?” (It’s just you. And he secretly loves it.)

When he wants affection, it shows. He starts stuttering mid-sentence, can’t make eye contact, goes red for no reason. Sometimes he just blurts out, “Come here,” and pulls you in before he loses the nerve.

He short-circuits when you tease him back. One sarcastic comment or a smug little grin and he’s bright red, hiding his face in your shoulder like you just flipped a switch.

When Travis gets jealous, he loses it. He’ll throw hands, yelling at the other guy, and you’ll definitely catch some strays, but his real anger is all directed at the poor guy who dared get too close. Don’t expect him to keep quiet—he’ll make sure the whole world knows just who you belong to.

In bed, he's either small spoon or back-to-back. He likes the comfort of your body against his, but he needs that space to feel like he’s in control of his own comfort. If it’s been a rough day, though, he’ll pull you close, wrap you up, and just let you rest your head on his chest while he holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you play with his hair, he melts. It's one of the few things that makes him forget about being tough for a moment. He won't admit it, but he loves the soothing effect it has on him, especially after a long day of hiding his feelings.

He's incredibly protective. It’s not just jealousy—it’s a core part of who he is. If anyone ever threatened you, even remotely, he'd be the first to step in, no matter the consequences. His overprotectiveness comes out in the smallest things—like wanting to walk you to your car, or always keeping an eye on you when you’re in a crowd.

Travis’s love language is probably quality time with a hint of gift giving. He’ll sit next to you in silence for hours, just existing in your space. It’s less about doing something romantic and more about being present. As for gift-giving, he doesn’t really buy things per se, but he’ll find things. You’ll get little trinkets in your bag, stuff like a cool rock, a lighter with a skull on it, or a ring he says he “just found” (he 100% stole it or bought it in secret).

He’s got a major bodyguard complex. You walk on the inside of the sidewalk. Always. Anyone raise their voice around you? He's at your side before they can blink. He gets this stiff, straight-backed stance, like he's ready to throw down—but he's just hyper-aware of your safety.

He’s terrible at expressing affection in words... but if you pay attention, he’s saying “I love you” all the time. He’ll tug your hood up when it’s cold, pull you back from stepping into the street without looking. He won’t say “I love you” often—but “text me when you get home” is his version. And then you’ll be messaging for hours.

When he finally does say “I love you,” it hits like a truck. It probably slips out during a vulnerable moment—maybe after a fight, or when you’re half-asleep on his chest. He’ll freeze. You’ll freeze. Then he’ll try to act like he didn’t just say the most emotionally vulnerable thing of his life. “...Whatever. Don’t make it weird.”

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