was thinking very hard about what I should put on my blog description but I couldn't come up with anything cool, so here's this quick introduction about myself.
Hello everyone! My name is Isha, I'm 20 and have had an on and off fanship for 5sos since... 4th ???? grade. Not an OG but I've been here for a while now apparently. I'm from from the philippines, currently living in califonia, my favorite boy will always been Luke Hemmings but Calum has broken that bias since CALM era. I write fanfiction (hopefully I have by the time I post this) and it ranges from different types of genres and AUs.
Hope you enjoy this blog! Be cringe, be free. Expect circa 2013-2017 type writing and content, my personal blog is @acupofkoupenccino so check that out too
tw! mdni! heavy fan of toxic!cal or college!cal, very much just a sucker for nsfw angst.
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hi thank you to my baby @ily-mgc for this incredible idea :-) i’m gonna make a master list soon guys trust!!! also don’t mind how shit this is, it’s 5am, give me a break
warnings: sending nudes back and forth, cal jerking off, whiny & submissive kinda pervy cal lol.
i go crazy cause here ain’t where i wanna be, and satisfaction feels like a distant memory.
calum had a love–hate relationship with tour.
he loved the fans, screaming his name like he was someone, the way the front row sang every lyric practically louder than the speakers. he loved seeing different cultures, different skies, learning how cities felt at night instead of just how they looked in photos. he loved traveling the world with his brothers; the shared hotel rooms, the dumb inside jokes that never ever died, the late-night food runs where everything tasted better because they were exhausted and laughing too hard. he loved the adrenaline, the ritual of soundcheck, the way a crowd could make a bad day disappear in the span of a single song.
there were perks people never really talked about, too; the quiet moments on planes when everyone was half-asleep and quiet for once, the way music sounded better in foreign headphones, the feeling of being young and invincible and exactly where you were supposed to be. tour made his life feel bigger. louder. infinite.
but what he hated the most—what sat heavy in his chest no matter what city they were in—was being away from his girl.
you.
he knew you understood. god, you were sweet like that. understanding in a way that never made him feel guilty, never made him feel small. you knew the distance wasn’t a choice, that the time zones and missed calls weren’t him pulling away. you told him not to worry when he couldn’t text all the time, told him to focus on the show, on the moment. you always said it like you meant it.
still, it didn’t stop him from thinking about you constantly.
like right now—backstage, pacing the length of his dressing room almost an hour before showtime, bass leaning against the wall, nerves buzzing under his skin. the room smelled like cologne and sweat and anticipation. his phone sat on the couch where he’d left it, screen dark, face-up, like it was waiting for him to give in.
he checked the time. checked it again. different city, same ache.
he could almost picture you—maybe curled up on your bed, maybe half-asleep with your phone in your hand, maybe wearing nothing at all, maybe fresh out the shower, water dripping down your collar bone, sliding in between those perfect—the thought made his chest tighten, rubbing a hand over his face, exhale slowly, then finally grabbed his phone, thumbs hovering over your snapchat name.
calum 💋 is typing…
the notification on your phone made you almost jump out of your skin.
you’d been way too invested in the horror movie playing on your laptop, no thanks to the volume being a little too loud, the lights being off, and the tension coiled tight in your chest. some violins screeched at the exact wrong moment and you physically flinched, clutching the blanket like it could save you. perfect timing, honestly.
your phone buzzed again on the mattress beside you, screen lighting up the dark room.
Snapchat notification
you were curled up in one of calum’s old hoodies, obviously oversized, sleeves swallowing your hands, the fabric worn soft from too many washes and too many nights missing him. hair tucked behind your ears without care, bare legs tucked under you, popcorn abandoned sometime during the opening credits. if calum had seen you like this, all cozy and half-focused and very obviously thinking about him—
yeah. the movie wouldn’t have stood a chance.
you grabbed your phone, heart doing that stupid little skip it always did when his name popped up. it felt ridiculous every time. like your body hadn’t learned distance yet.
you opened the app.
🟥 calum 💋 • 1m
🟥 luke • 5h
🟦 michael • 2w
you tapped calum’s, already smiling.
just black screen. no face. no context. no warning.
and then, in awkward little text, like he’d typed it, deleted it, retyped it again:
calum 💋
hi
you stared at it for a second before laughing under your breath, shoulders relaxing. that was so him. halfway confident, halfway nervous, pretending it was casual when you both knew it wasn’t. all that buildup, all that distance, all those unsent thoughts—reduced to a single, lowercase greeting.
you bit your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
y/n 😘
hello?
calum groaned and threw his head back against the wall, the dull thud echoing through the dressing room. he shut his phone and pressed it to his chest like it had personally betrayed him.
god. he was such an idiot. who the fuck just says hi? no context, no confidence, no charm. just—hi. like he was some guy from your math class and not your boyfriend halfway across the world about to play a show to a thousand something people. smooth, hood. real smooth.
he dragged a hand down his face, pacing once, twice, muttering to himself under his breath. he should’ve said more. should’ve said i can’t sleep without you or if i don’t fuck you rn i’m gonna go crazy. well, maybe not that one. point being, anything but that painfully dry, lowercase greeting now sitting in your inbox like a bad joke.
before he could spiral any further, he cracked and opened the app again.
okay. damage control.
he straightened up, rolled his shoulders back, ran his fingers through his hair until it looked effortless in that practiced, slightly messy way he knew you liked. he tilted his head, adjusted the lighting, then clenched his jaw just enough—subtle, but intentional. he knew you. knew you’d notice. knew you’d say something about it, probably compliment him, probably make his stomach clench.
he snapped the photo.
looked at it for half a second. good enough.
then he typed, thumbs moving faster now, less doubt, more truth spilling through.
miss you. wyd?
simple. honest. very him.
he hit send before he could overthink it again, exhaling hard as he locked his phone and let it fall back into his hand.
you were still on the app, phone warm in your hands, when the notification popped up.
🟥 calum 💋• 41s
you froze for half a second, like if you moved too fast it might disappear. then you laughed—quiet, breathy, embarrassing in the way only he could pull out of you. like a school girl, like this wasn’t something you’d done a hundred times before and still never got used to.
you opened it.
and honestly? you barely processed the caption at first.
your eyes went straight to him, obviously, how could it not? the sharp line of his jaw clenched just enough to be intentional, the way the low lighting carved shadows into his face like it was doing him favors. grainy tour-quality camera, just blurry enough to feel real. intimate. like it wasn’t meant for anyone else. his hair looked messed up in that careless way you knew wasn’t careless at all.
your thumb moved fast over the screen, muscle memory kicking in before your brain could catch up. you hovered over the reply bar, already smiling, already thinking of something clever, something teasing, something that would make him grin at his phone the way you were doing now.
y/n 😘
babyy u look good 👀
calum 💋
Oh yeah? ;) I bet you do too. Too bad I can’t see you.
you rolled your eyes at his stupid, arrogant confidence, lips twitching despite yourself. like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. like he hadn’t just sent that photo on purpose, fully aware of the effect it’d have on you.
you shifted where you were sitting, straightening up just a little, angling the phone higher like it was casual—like you hadn’t done this before, like you weren’t already calculating what he’d see first. you tilted your chin up, index finger gently tugging your own bottom lip, peering at the camera through your lashes, batting your eyes in that soft, innocent way you knew drove him insane. sweetheart act fully engaged.
calum’s hoodie hung off you, too big in all the right ways, slipping down one shoulder, fabric pooling around your hips. bare thighs on display, unapologetic. comfortable. his. it felt a little like revenge, a little like a reminder.
you snapped the photo before you could second-guess it.
hit send.
and leaned back, satisfied.
🟥 y/n 😘
god, he was shaking like he was thirteen again, knees weak, palms sweaty, brain completely useless.
it was humiliating, honestly. he knew it was. a grown man pacing a dressing room like this over a snapchat notification. but his body didn’t care about pride or dignity—his hormones were absolutely losing their minds, firing off like it was their job. and really, could you blame him? not when distance made everything sharper, not when missing you felt physical.
he exhaled through his nose, tried to steady himself, then opened the snap.
and that was it.
a soft, almost inaudible groan slipped out of his throat before he could stop it, head tipping forward as if the weight of the moment had finally caught up to him. you looked—god. sweet and dangerous all at once. innocent eyes, familiar hoodie, bare skin where it absolutely didn’t belong. like you knew exactly what you were doing and still wanted him to think it was accidental.
he saved it to the chat immediately, thumbs moving on instinct, like his body had taken over. zoomed in. lingered. memorized. his jaw clenched, heartbeat loud in his ears, the room suddenly too quiet.
he dragged a hand over his face, laughing under his breath, equal parts wrecked and gone for you.
then he typed back, honesty bleeding straight through the screen.
calum 💋
Jesus, baby. So unfair. So sexy.
fuck it, he thought to himself. i’m just gonna do it.
calum 💋
Maybe u could send a little more?
you rolled your eyes, again as you reread the message, but honestly? your boyfriend hadn’t been home in months, and god, you were lonely without him; nobody likes playing by themselves. (for too long, that is). with that being said, you’d give almost anything for another glimpse of him, and clearly, he would too.
and yet, he was freaking out now. like, full internal meltdown.
his phone was still warm in his hand, his message sitting there in the chat like a ticking bomb. was that too much? too forward? did it sound gross? did it sound like he was trying too hard? i mean, yeah, he was in desperate need of a chicken choking sensation but did he have to be so obvious? should he follow it up with a joke? or an apology? haha sorry ignore me—no, that’d be worse. oh fuck. why was he like this.
he paced once, then stopped. stared at the screen. locked it. unlocked it again. his brain spiraled in a thousand directions at once, every possible reaction playing out like a bad montage. maybe you’d laugh. maybe you’d tease him. maybe you’d leave him on read and he’d simply pass away on the sticky dressing room floor.
get a grip, he told himself, rubbing the back of his neck. he was being stupid. dramatic. gross, even—god, he hated that word. he didn’t want to be that guy. the one who made things weird. the one who said the wrong thing from thousands of miles away.
and then—
🟥 y/n 😘
the notification popped up like a punch to the chest.
his knees actually buckled.
he had to lean back against the wall, breath leaving him in a sharp, helpless laugh, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. whatever panic had been chewing him alive vanished instantly, replaced with something warm and dizzy and stupidly hopeful.
oh.
oh, okay.
he opened the snap with shaking hands, a grin already pulling at his mouth—then the photo loaded. the groan that tore from his throat this time was louder—undeniable. it echoed faintly off the walls before he could swallow it back, a breathy, wrecked little “shit” slipping out under his breath like a confession.
he leaned his whole body back against the wall, head tipping, eyes squeezing shut for half a second like he could reset himself if he tried hard enough. no such luck. he adjusted his pants—was he really gonna go on stage with a raging hard-on?
calum 💋
Holg shit your fuckig beautiful
he saved the photo to the chat immediately. no hesitation. none. zoomed in like it was instinct, like his fingers already knew what to do without asking permission. he traced the image with his eyes slowly—too slowly—taking in every detail he shouldn’t have lingered on. the photo was of you, hoodie long gone, topless in his bed. he shamelessly zoomed in on your perfect tits, the way the glow of whatever screen you were using painted them to look angelic, surreal, almost. he zoomed in on the way you sat on your knees, thighs spread just barely; he zoomed in on the softness in your expression.
his jaw tightened, chest rising and falling as he dragged in a steadying breath that didn’t do much to help. he unbuttoned his skinny jeans, giving one soft tug downward—not even pushing them—before gently pushing his boxers a little further down, just barely enough to free his cock, already half-hard from a photo of your tits alone. he set the angle up, purposely so that you could see his toned stomach too, confidently clicking send. he quickly opened your snap again, giving his cock one slow stroke at the sight of your tits.
y/n 😘
baby i gotta go, i love you so much, ok? have fun ;)
calum 💋
I love you bye ❤️
calum would've laughed at himself in any other situation. the great, infamous calum hood, hiding in his dressing room, desperately stroking his leaking cock because the girl he loved was sending topless photos. it would've been an amusing thought if it wasn't actively happening.
"oh—shit," he gasped under his breath, imagining what you'd say back to him. something dirty, something filthy, all to get him shaking and whining. his eyes, already heavy returned back to the phone, watching the soft expression on your face and that’s when his fantasies went rampant. he got so lost in his own head, imagining your pretty eyes looking up at him, your lips parting around his name as he pushed into you. he choked on a groan, his hips slowly beginning to jerk against his own hand like he couldn't help himself.
"you—you feel so good," he rasped out to no one in particular, voice wrecked and strained with pleasure. his fingers tightened almost painfully around himself just to keep from losing it right then and there because fuck, if this was what you did to him just by some photos? he wouldn’t survive the rest of this tour alive.
calum’s breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps. his head slumped against the wall, his eyes shut so tightly he was seeing stars behind them. he could picture it so clearly it was almost scary: you on your back, your waist in his hands, your eyes wide and pleading. he panted to himself, your name escaping his throat in a desperate whine.
"can’t—can't take—ah—" he imagined your voice, sweet and soft. the way your face would go pink if he even hinted at what he wanted to put his hands on.
and now, calum was unbelievably lost in his own world of pleasure.
he was completely and utterly lost in the fantasy, rocking his hips desperately into his palm and whimpering all the filthy things he wanted to hear you gasp into his skin. in his mind, you were saying them in that soft voice he loved, words that were half pleading and half begging—begging him to take you, and he would, in a heartbeat. he knew he would.
"shit,," he pleaded weakly, panting like a dog in the heat. "please, please—"
then calum spilled all over himself, his knees buckling to the point where he almost fell down. there was a few moments of stunned silence, mainly because his brain was mush, his mind an absolute blank. calum slumped against the wall, head rolling back against the door as he gasped for air and tried to remember how to form a coherent thought again.
it took a solid moment for his brain to even register the fact that he'd just gotten himself off in his dressing room to a photo of you.
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this one's kinda old so the style's a little different😭. i liked my old style of rendering however i changed it cus the process was tiring and often led to many wips cus the rendering always takes so long that i lose motivation to finish the art😭
based off the best song off everyone’s a star!!! everyone thank my very creative fren @ily-mgc !!!! not really any warnings, just suggestive!
your schoolwork was something you took seriously. actually, you took most things seriously—your deadlines, your notes, the color-coded tabs in your textbooks, the way you organized your desk like it was an altar to productivity.
but nothing mattered more to you than your work.
you were studying to become a psychologist, and the human brain fascinated you in a way nothing else ever had. you wanted to understand people from the inside out—every thought, every impulse, every hidden corner they never said out loud. the messy parts, the beautiful parts, the broken pieces. all of it.
you were the girl who stayed late in the library because you “lost track of time.” the one who read case studies for fun. the one who wrote three drafts of an essay before even submitting the first.
and despite the fact that you were serious, steady, focused—your boyfriend… was not.
luke hemmings, the baby of his band, was immature in every way you weren’t.
he was a walking distraction.
a puppy in skinny jeans.
luke would up to your apartment with his guitar, playing the same riff a hundred times until you finally looked up from your textbook. he’d do this thing where he’d poke your cheek just to see if you’d break concentration.
he’d text you things like:
“do u think birds know they’re birds or are they just doin their best”
meanwhile, you were knee-deep in abnormal psych papers, trying to decode neurological patterns while your boyfriend was putting googly eyes on your houseplants “so they don’t get lonely.”
luke was immature in the way that made you sigh into your hands but also smile despite yourself.
he tripped over his words when he got excited.
he giggled—giggled—when you kissed his nose.
he’d leave half-drunk energy drinks around your apartment like a trail of evidence.
you were studying the human mind with surgical precision.
luke was struggling to remember where he left his shoes in your own place.
and that explains why you were studying-nose buried so deep in your books you barely even registered the sound of your apartment door unlocking. the lamp beside you cast a warm little circle of light over the pages, your highlighters scattered like fallen soldiers around your notebook. you were exhausted, wired, focused...
all at once.
meanwhile, luke had just stumbled in after what he claimed was a long, grueling day of hanging out with his friends-though you knew that meant he probably drank too much iced coffee, played mario kart for three hours, and got dragged into some stupid argument about whether sharks sleep.
you didn't even hear his footsteps until he was already behind you, arms snaking around your waist in that lazy, needy way he always did when he missed you. he pulled you back against his chest, your chair rolling with a little squeak across the floor, which made him giggle like a kid who wasn't supposed to be touching anything.
"babyyy, m'homeee," he whined into your neck, accent thick and dramatic, like he knew it always made you melt. "whatcha doin'? why you always workin', huh?"
he nuzzled his cheek against your shoulder like a cat wanting attention, fingers drumming against your stomach as if that alone would convince you to close the textbook. his day had been mindless and fun; yours had been intense and intellectually draining-yet he always acted like you were the one doing too much.
and somehow, even with the annoyance bubbling in your chest, you could feel the tiny smile pulling at your lips. because this was luke: childish, affectionate, interrupting you at the worst possible moment.
you didn't even bother looking up from your notes when he tightened his arms around you, chin settling on your shoulder.
"luke, i'm trying to finish this chapter," you muttered, tapping your pen against the paragraph you'd already reread three times.
he hummed dramatically, ignoring you completely. "yeah, but your boyfriend's home. shouldn't you be treating that, like... a national holiday or somethin'?"
you snorted. "absolutely not."
"wow. heartless." he pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to your cheek. "you're bein' cruel to me, babe."
"i'm literally just studying."
"exactly! cruel."
you tried to keep your voice steady, professional—like you weren't melting under the weight of him draped over you. noticing this, luke's hands slid over your ribcage, dangerously close to an area in which luke, loved. "luke, seriously. this is due tomorrow."
he sighed against your neck, all warm breath and childish drama. "but i missed you." he stretched the word like it hurt. "missed you soooo much. been thinkin' about this all day."
your pen slowed. "you were with your friends."
"and i wanted you." he buried his face into the crook of your neck, one of his hands sliding up higher, his thumb rubbing soft circles over the underside of your boob. "you smell nice. 's not fair. can't concentrate when you smell nice."
you tried—god, you really tried-to keep your stern, focused persona intact. "luke. i need—"
"—me?" he perked up like a golden retriever.
"no," you said, though your laugh betrayed you. "i need you to let me finish this page."
he groaned loudly. "boring. let's do stuff instead,"
"we can do stuff when i'm done."
"noooo," he whined. "i want you noww. i'm starvin', baby. i'm dyin'. literally dying."
you turned your head, raising an eyebrow. "you're nineteen.”
"and?" he muttered, voice low now, uncharacteristically serious. "never too old to love your girlfriend."
and after all his dramatic whining and theatrical clinging, he finally—finally—peeled his arms off your waist.
and the second his warmth disappeared, a cold shiver crawled across your skin. it was pathetic, honestly, how instantly you missed him. the absence of his touch felt sharp, like stepping out of a hot shower into freezing air.
you exhaled, steadying yourself, pretending you didn’t feel the loss.
he was quiet. too quiet.
usually luke filled every silence with noise—humming, tapping, throwing himself across furniture like a bored cat. so the sudden stillness made something in your chest twitch.
don’t look, your brain warned. you’ll feed into it. you’ll never get back to work.
but curiosity tugged harder than discipline ever could, and you twisted in your chair—just a glance, just to check—
and there he was.
on his knees.
actually on his knees.
slowly crawling toward you like some oversized, lovesick puppy, his palms dragging softly across the hardwood as he moved. his blonde hair were a messy halo, his cheeks flushed, his eyes blown wide and pleading in a way that felt too raw to be a joke anymore.
“baby, i—” his voice cracked, breath coming in short little puffs like he’d actually run a marathon to get to you. “i really… yeah. really need ya.” he swallowed hard, gaze locked on you like you were oxygen. “baby, please come to bed.”
his hands found your ankle first, warm and tentative, like he was afraid you’d pull away. he leaned in closer until his chin rested on your thigh, looking up at you with those ridiculous, heartbreaking puppy eyes. needy, adoring, almost overwhelmed.
“luke…” you whispered, trying so hard to sound stern, but your voice had already softened around the edges, heat pooling low in your gut. god, why was this doing something to you?
“just for a bit?” he pleaded, his fingers sliding slowly up your calf, squeezing gently like he needed the reassurance of you under his hands. “please. i’m goin’ crazy, sitting out there without you. feels wrong.”
you swallowed, your book suddenly miles away.
“i’m trying to work,” you murmured.
his brows pinched, and he nudged his cheek against your thigh, eyes fluttering at the contact. “i know, i know… but i’m lonely.” he said it so simply, so honest it almost hurt. “been thinkin’ about you all day and now you’re right here and you’re not even lookin’ at me.”
“i was looking at my assignment.”
“exactly,” he huffed dramatically, pressing another soft nudge of his chin into you. “and not your boyfriend who loves you. i just.. i miss my girl.”
you laughed under your breath, brushing your fingers through his curls before you could stop yourself. he melted instantly, eyes half-lidding, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“god, you’re needy,” you teased.
“mmhm,” he agreed shamelessly. “y’know why?” his hands slid up to rest at your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles. “’cause your attention feels good. makes me feel…” he sighed, smiling in that warm, sleepy-luke way. “good. an’ i wanna make you feel good.”
you felt your resolve crack straight down the middle.
“luke, if i get up now, i’m not getting any work done.”
he beamed. “perfect. c’mon, sweetheart.” he tugged gently on your hips, voice dropping to a soft, hopeful whisper. “lemme take care of you, please?”
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✧ summary: days with an overactive toddler often lead to eventful and desperate nights. like this one.
✧ warnings: fingering, unprotected sex, creampies, parent sex, lil bit of choking, lil bit of baby trapping (but like, not really?) hints of a breeding kink if you squint. fluffy married sex, sickeningly sweet.
✧ word count: 5.6k
✧ title: nights like this — the kid laroi
✧ author’s note: i got a request for this a whileeeee ago and i started writing it but gave up after like a paragraph and crashed out. long story short i scrapped it and moved on. a few days ago i got a notification that somebody liked the post where i replied to this request and i decided to revisit it. anyways now i wanna have a filthier flower bud in concrete moment for luke, but in the meantime have this cutesy lil smut full of parental and married life bliss.
anyways, send ur requests!! send me some calum ones too in celebration of OCO!! also, first blurb with the new @
Luke’s voice carries gently through the baby monitor — a low, sleepy hum as he sings one of his sweet, nonsensical lullabies. The kind that makes no sense to anyone but Eden and somehow works every time. Your little girl is curled around a stuffed bear three times her size, one she refuses to sleep without, her tiny body finally stilled in sleep.
You lie on your bed, propped up on one elbow, head cradled in your palm, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You watch the monitor like it’s your favorite show, heart melting as Luke finishes his made-up song — even though Eden had fallen asleep minutes ago. He stays there a little longer, crouched beside the crib, gently smoothing her curls back from her forehead.
It never fails to hit you, the way he is with her. The patience. The gentleness. The quiet strength when she’s crying. The goofiness when she’s giggling. The complete surrender in every moment he gives her. Watching Luke be a dad is like falling in love with him all over again, every single day.
Eden’s two now. Old enough that you sometimes get a full night’s sleep. Still young enough that “sometimes” is generous. She’s clingy in the most adorable, exhausting way — a velcro baby through and through. If she had it her way, she’d sleep pressed right between the two of you every night, one chubby hand on each of your cheeks like a hostage negotiator.
It’s been ages since you’ve felt Luke touch you in any way that wasn’t a fleeting kiss on the cheek, a sleepy forehead press, or a soft hand at your waist as he passed by in the kitchen. Sweet, yes. Loving, always. But you missed the other kind of touching. The kind that made your toes curl and your thighs ache.
On the monitor, Luke leans down and kisses Eden’s head, slow and reverent. His smile — that bright, easy thing you’ve always loved — is crystal clear on the tiny screen as he rises to his feet.
Sighing, you shift in bed, letting your body melt into the mattress as you roll onto your back. Your eyes trace the ceiling lazily, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time since dinner. That nighttime routine was no joke. Eden had been on one tonight — not a meltdown exactly, just her usual chaos cranked to eleven.
She was particular. Meticulously particular. Luke liked to say she got that from you — always with a teasing smirk and a kiss to your temple, like he didn’t find it completely adorable in both of you.
Dinner had been its own disaster-slash-comedy special. Eden refused her pasta outright until Luke made her laugh so hard she accidentally snorted a bite. Then came the bath — where, midway through rinsing, she got the zoomies and took off through the house naked, squealing with delight as she chased a bewildered Petunia. You’d run after them like some exhausted sitcom mom, while Luke collapsed against the hallway wall laughing too hard to help.
Then came the bedtime stalling. The “just one more story” and “just one more kiss” protests — Eden’s greatest hits. You’d lost count after five kisses. Luke had given her six. Of course he had.
Parenthood wasn’t easy. Your back hurt. Your privacy was a myth. Half your laundry was tiny socks you swear didn’t exist an hour ago. But God, it was worth it. Every bone-deep ache and stolen moment was soothed by a little girl with his dimples and his blue eyes and a giggle that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
And then there was him.
Your husband. The love of your life. The man you’d somehow become wildly, inconveniently feral for in the most domestic circumstances imaginable.
Like when he knelt beside the crib with that sleepy, adoring smile. Or when he’d hoisted Eden onto his hip with one arm and stirred mac and cheese with the other. Or when he stood at the sink washing baby bottles with those long, skilled fingers like he was doing the most sacred task in the world.
No man should look that good covered in banana puree and Goldfish crumbs. It should be illegal. And yet, there you were — staring at him like he was a centerfold in Hot Dads Monthly, wondering how the hell you were supposed to go another night without climbing him like a tree and thanking him for doing the dishes with his shirt half off.
Outside the room, you hear the familiar drag of tired footsteps padding down the hall — heavy, slower than usual, exhaustion stitched into every step. Luke’s making his way toward you like he’s been moving through molasses since bedtime.
The door creaks open a moment later.
He steps in, and even through the low lighting, you catch the way his eyes find yours right away. That sleepy, boyish smile blooms across his face, soft and crooked, as he closes the door behind him and leans his full weight against it like it’s holding him up.
“Hey, handsome,” you grin, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.
Luke rubs his eye with a knuckle, stifling a yawn. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs — voice thick and scratchy with sleep, but tender in the way it always got just for you. It was the voice he used when Eden was napping on his chest, when you whispered secrets in the kitchen after midnight, when he told you he loved you without needing to say the words.
He sighs as he pushes off the door, dragging a hand through those mess of blond curls and shuffling toward the bed like he’s been walking for miles.
“Sometimes I wish I had the stamina she does,” he says with a sleepy laugh. “Imagine the shows I could put on.”
You snort, swinging your legs off the side of the bed just long enough to peel the covers back before slipping underneath them again. “Your stamina is plenty impressive, babe,” you say casually, eyes twinkling. “If it was any more intense, we’d have, like, seven more toddlers wreaking havoc in the living room.”
Luke grins, standing at the edge of the bed as he grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it over his head in one motion.
Your mouth goes dry.
Because, of course, he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. He rarely does — a personal crime you’re convinced is 100% intentional. Your eyes sweep over the soft slope of his stomach, the faint lines of muscle, the sharp cut of his V, and that maddening trail of golden hair leading straight under his sweatpants like a neon “pull here” sign.
Your thighs clench. Reflex.
“I’d love that, y’know,” Luke says as he tosses the hoodie onto a nearby chair. “Seven little yous. Or mes. Or some chaotic mix of both.” And then he flops into bed beside you with a groan, face half-buried in your pillow, long limbs sprawled like a starfish.
You let out a soft giggle, crawling over to him on your hands and knees — slow and playful, your sleep shirt riding up just enough to make him stare. Luke watches you with that look again. The one that’s almost too much to bear. Like you hung the stars. Like he can’t believe you’re his, even now, even after everything. Reverence, pure and radiant, etched across every sleepy line of his face.
His cheek is smushed into the pillow, hair falling messily across his forehead, lashes fluttering as he follows your movements. You lean down and press a kiss to the tip of his nose — he scrunches it a little — then trail another one to his shoulder, and another to the dip of his back, lips brushing over soft, warm skin still humming with the heat of the day.
“Mm,” he hums, low and pleased, voice vibrating under your lips.
You giggle again and plop down beside him, reaching over to flick off your bedside lamp. The room melts into a soft hush, bathed in the faint blue glow from the hallway nightlight.
Luke shifts closer, immediately, instinctively, like he can’t bear not to touch you. His chest meets your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, and his breath is warm against your neck — slow and steady and his.
You settle into his embrace, threading your fingers through his and tugging his arm tighter around you. His hand splays across your stomach, palm warm and grounding. You sigh into the safety of it all.
“I love you,” you whisper, turning your head just enough to brush your lips against his. The kiss is feather-light. Sacred.
You feel him smile into it, soft and sleepy. “I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and full and certain.
You close your eyes again, letting your body go soft in Luke’s arms. The quiet hum of the fan and the low, steady static of the baby monitor blend into a kind of lullaby — one that dulls the ache in your thighs and slows your racing thoughts, just enough to pretend you’re actually going to fall asleep.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Luke’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt — slow, deliberate — the callused pads brushing against the sensitive skin of your waist. Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat stutters.
He keeps going. Tracing your stomach, skimming your ribs, until his hand stills just beneath your breast. A pause. A warning.
Then his thumb moves — just a soft, slow stroke — and your body arches into it before you can stop yourself.
“Luke,” you whisper, sharp and breathless, as he abandons all pretense of subtlety. His hand fully cups your breast, warm and familiar, and then he’s pinching — just enough to pull a quiet whimper from your lips, your hips twitching instinctively against his.
He grins against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of it. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful, “this whole trend of big shirts and tiny shorts around the house…”
You shiver as his teeth graze your skin.
“…is really fucking with my self-control
Your back arches slightly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to catch the moan threatening to escape. Slowly, you press back into Luke, feeling the growing hardness straining against your ass.
“Says you,” you whisper, breath hitching as his hand trails down from your chest, toying with the waistband of your sleep shorts. “Taking off your hoodie like a fucking slut.”
You feel his smile against your neck, smug and shameless. “God, I can’t believe you’re real,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hand slips under your shorts with no hesitation. His fingers tease just above the fabric of your panties, while his hips grind forward, pressing into you with aching need. “My wife. My fucking woman.”
His other hand sneaks back up beneath your shirt, finding your chest again, greedier this time. You gasp — only for it to die into a moan as his fingers rub slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit. It’s just enough friction to make you dizzy.
“Nuh-uh,” he tuts softly, amusement laced through the heat in his voice. “Can’t wake Eden up, remember?”
You squeeze your eyes shut as he keeps going, every brush of his fingers a cruel kind of heaven. You bring your hand to your mouth, trying desperately to smother the breathless whimpers that spill out anyway.
But Luke’s grinning behind you now, nose brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so bad at being quiet, baby.”
And god, you are.
Your thighs are trembling, eyes squeezed shut as Luke keeps working you over, patient and relentless. Every touch feels amplified — sharpened by the risk of being caught, by the thrill of finally being touched like this again.
“Been dreamin’ about having you like this,” Luke breathes, grinding up against you, hard and desperate, like the only thing keeping him from losing it completely is the thin cotton barrier between you. “Dreamin’ about those pretty little moans… how wet you get when you have to be quiet.”
But then—he stops.
You freeze.
For a second, your heart stutters. Maybe he heard something — Eden fussing, a creak of the crib, the soft rustle of sheets. But before you can spiral further, his hand slips down, confident and cruel, sliding your panties aside and dragging one long, slow finger through your slick.
Your eyes roll back. A breathy whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Immediately, Luke clamps a hand over your mouth — warm and rough, wedding band cool against your cheek.
“Oh my god,” he groans into your ear, low and wrecked, as his fingers return to your clit, teasing slow, devastating circles. “You’re soaked. All this for me, baby?”
You nod frantically, muffled moans caught in his palm, the heat of his body burning into your back. He’s pressed up against you, rock hard and trembling with restraint, and the thought of him finally sliding inside sends a full-body shiver down your spine.
Then his fingers dip lower, just barely skimming your entrance — playing, circling, torturing. Not yet. Almost.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whimper, burying your face into the pillow as you try to grind back against him. Luke hisses into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, and your breath stutters hard.
He circles your clit again — barely there — then finally dips down, gathering your wetness before slipping two fingers inside. Your mouth opens in a gasp, but you bite your lip to keep the sound in.
“No, baby, that’s all you,” Luke murmurs against your skin, grinning as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you with slow, deliberate pressure. “When’s the last time you even wore a bra? I swear I’m turning into a full-blown pervert.”
You manage a breathless giggle. “Maybe that was— oh, fuck— the plan all along.”
He hums, low and dangerous. “Shhh, baby,” he laughs softly, licking the shell of your ear while keeping that maddening rhythm. “Let me have my way with you. But I can’t do that if you wake Eden up.”
Your face is nearly buried in the pillow now, thighs trembling with restraint. The wet sounds of Luke working you open are obscene, slick and needy — the kind of sounds that always seem to follow him wherever he touches you.
“Mm, keep doing that,” you groan into the pillow. “And you’ll have another kid to worry about not waking up.”
At that, Luke’s thumb begins to circle your clit again — slow and focused — and your entire body jerks in response. You fist the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, biting your lip to keep from moaning too loud.
“Just like that, baby,” Luke whispers, voice thick with praise. “You’re doing so good for me.”
Then his hand stills.
He slowly withdraws his fingers from your body, and you let out a desperate little whimper, lifting your head to glance back at him, confused and breathless.
“Calm down,” he murmurs, grinning as he tugs at the waistband of your shorts and underwear. “Just wanna get these out of the way. You can be patient for me, yeah, love?”
You lift your hips instinctively, just enough to help him slide the fabric down and off. He tosses them aside, leaving you in nothing but one of his old band tees — worn, oversized, and hitched high around your waist.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hand wrapping around your thigh to coax your legs open again. “Look at you. Such a pretty mess.”
You shift slightly, pressing your ass back against the hard outline of his cock through the soft cotton of his pajama pants. His breath catches — barely audible — and then his fingers are inside you again, slow and deliberate.
You glance down, watching as his fingers slide in and out, slick and glistening. Your breath hitches. It’s obscene. It’s everything.
Your hand reaches back, finding his hair, curling your fingers into the thick mess of it and tugging gently at the roots.
“I missed you so much,” you whisper, voice raw and soft as you turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his.
He doesn’t kiss you — not fully — just breathes against your mouth, forehead resting against yours, his entire body wrapped around you like a secret. The spooning position makes everything feel more intimate. More tender. More desperate.
Like if he could crawl inside you and stay there, he would.
“Missed you more,” Luke murmurs, lips trailing down the curve of your shoulder in slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Fuck, I’ve been so horny lately I got hard just watching you walk up the stairs.”
You let out a breathless laugh, grinding your hips back into him. He whines — an actual, desperate sound — and buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s the only way to survive you.
“Good to know I still have it,” you whisper, smug.
“Shut up,” he mumbles against your skin, and his fingers pick up speed, leaving you gasping. “You gotta keep quiet, my love. Don’t forget.”
His long fingers work you open effortlessly, the occasional swipe of his thumb over your clit sending jolts up your spine. You shiver when he moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through you, skin breaking out in goosebumps.
He’s slow. Intentional. Like he’s savoring this. Like there isn’t a ticking time bomb of a toddler down the hall.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” Luke breathes, his lips brushing your jaw. “Thinking about how my cock’s gonna feel, hmm?”
Your eyes flutter shut. You nod frantically, biting down on your bottom lip to keep the noise trapped in your throat.
Luke shifts behind you just enough to press his cock more firmly against your ass — hot, hard, and barely restrained beneath his pajama pants. The pressure alone makes your mouth water.
“Baby,” you gasp, fingers digging into his bicep. It flexes as he keeps fucking you with his hand, slow and relentless. “Please. Please, I need you.”
“Need me to what?” Luke asks, all false innocence, voice like sin. “Need me to fuck you stupid, baby?”
His fingers slide out of you, dragging your slick up through your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s teasing again — slow, measured, cruel in the way only Luke can be.
You jolt at the sensation, hips moving on instinct, grinding against his hand with raw, frantic need. The kind that’s been simmering under your skin for days.
“Baby,” you hiss, voice hoarse from the effort of keeping it down. “If you’re not inside me in the next five minutes, I’m divorcing you.”
Luke stills, then lets out a hushed laugh, biting your shoulder to muffle it. “You’re so fucking needy,” he chuckles, wicked and breathless. “Fine. Just because you beg pretty. And because if I tease you any longer, Eden’s definitely waking up.”
His hand slips from between your thighs, and he brings his fingers to your lips, glistening.
“Clean me off first,” he murmurs. “Be a good girl.”
You don’t hesitate. Your lips wrap around his fingers, tongue licking them clean, moaning around the taste of yourself. Luke groans softly behind you — that guttural, broken sound you know means he’s barely holding it together.
“Fuck. That’s so hot.”
His fingers slip from your mouth with an obscene pop that echoes through the quiet room. Behind you, Luke shifts just enough to shove his pajama pants down, freeing himself with a soft grunt.
You feel the heat of him immediately — his cock thick and flushed, grinding slowly against your ass, teasing you both with the drag of it.
His hand slides down your thigh, guiding your leg up and over his hip to open you wider for him. That same hand wraps around his cock, and he groans through gritted teeth as he strokes himself, slow and tight.
Your breathing quickens, chest rising and falling as the anticipation builds — and then you feel him. The head of his cock, hot and slick with precum, rubbing through your folds. You whimper at the contact, and Luke groans in response.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, burying his face in your shoulder and biting down gently to stifle himself.
He teases your entrance, circling it once, twice, before finally starting to press in — slow, unhurried, deliberate.
The stretch is divine — just enough to make you gasp, every nerve lighting up as he pushes deeper. You shift slightly, craning your neck just enough to see his face. His eyes are half-lidded, bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to lose it completely.
A soft moan slips from him. “Shit, baby… you’re so fucking tight,” he pants. “Can feel you sucking me in. Such a greedy girl for me.”
Luke sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, every push setting off a new wave of pleasure that shivers down your spine. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, grounding you. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin as he groans softly — almost like it’s too much. Almost like you’re too much.
When he finally bottoms out, it feels like coming home.
He stills, fully sheathed inside you, twitching each time your walls flutter around him. You’re soaked, throbbing, completely wrapped around him — and Luke can barely breathe.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “I missed being inside you. You’re so fucking wet and tight—I can feel everything.”
“I missed you,” you whisper back, cheek pressed to his. “Missed being stretched out like this. Missed us.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, holding you like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go. The stillness hums between you, thick with want — not rushed, not frantic, but aching. A moment suspended in the kind of intimacy that makes your chest burn and your thighs tremble.
You both just breathe for a second.
Wrapped around each other, finally giving in to the slow, simmering need that had been building for days.
Luke presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, barely more than a brush, before gently tugging your shirt up until it bunches just above your chest. His hand slips beneath, finding your breast again — warm and reverent, his palm cradling you like he needs the contact just to breathe.
Then he starts to move.
Slow, deep strokes that make your whole body shudder. You bite down on your wrist to muffle the moan that threatens to escape, the sound caught in your throat like a secret. Luke isn’t faring much better — soft, breathless whimpers spilling into your skin as he rocks into you, his hips pressing close with every push.
His teeth graze your pulse point, dragging gently. A moment later, his tongue follows, soothing the sting, leaving you trembling.
“You take me so well, love,” he whispers, voice thick and ruined, hips picking up their rhythm. The pleasure builds with each thrust, slow but devastating, until your eyes roll back and you’re forced to bite into the pillow just to stay quiet.
He groans into your neck, almost desperate. “So fucking good for me.”
Luke rolls his hips, settling into a pace that’s just slow enough to draw it out — to keep you aching — but steady enough that you can feel the tremble in his hands from how tightly he’s holding himself back.
“You have no idea what it does to me,” he whispers, voice low and cracked, each word punctuated by a deep, deliberate thrust. “Seeing you with that ring. Wearing my name. Raising our kid.”
“Full—full of you,” you whimper, gasping as he hits that perfect spot. His rhythm never falters, but you feel the way his grip tightens at your waist, like he might lose it at any second. “God, I missed being fucked like this.”
Luke lets go of your breast, shifting just enough to fuck into you harder, the bed starting to creak beneath the motion — soft, rhythmic, dangerous. You both freeze instantly, breath caught in your throat, bodies locked together as you listen with baited breath.
Silence.
No tiny footsteps. No sleepy cries. Just the quiet hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand.
“Luke,” you hiss, desperate, wiggling your hips back against him. “Please—fuck, please don’t stop. You can’t keep doing this to me.”
That does something to him.
Luke brings his fingers to your lips, pushing two into your mouth without warning. Your lips part automatically, sucking them in with a moan. Your back arches as he pulls them out just as quickly, trailing down your stomach before slipping between your legs.
He finds your clit easily, rubbing slow, steady circles in time with the deep roll of his hips.
“Just like that, baby,” he coos, voice gone sweet and filthy. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”
You nod frantically, lip caught between your teeth as your thighs twitch, the pleasure winding tighter with every passing second. His fingers stay lazy on your clit, teasing you through it, never giving too much — just enough to drive you insane.
“I love you so much,” Luke murmurs against your neck. “You look so fucking pretty stuffed full of my cock.”
Your hand reaches back blindly, tangling in Luke’s hair and yanking at the roots. He groans into your neck, hips stuttering before he picks up the pace again — faster now, more desperate — and so do his fingers.
That familiar coil in your belly starts to tighten, fast and sharp. You can feel him everywhere, every inch of him buried deep, every snap of his hips jolting through your spine. Your stomach flutters, your thighs twitch, your whole body buzzing like live wire.
“Bet no one would believe what a pretty little slut you are for me, hmm?” Luke growls, voice rough and wrecked, the edge bleeding in. “That you’re the most gorgeous fucking cockwhore — mine. Bet if I told you I was close, you’d beg me to stay in, wouldn’t you?”
“Please, baby,” you sob, the words falling out broken. “Wanna be dripping with you for days. Want you to come inside me, please, please—”
Luke’s hand flies up to cover your mouth, silencing your cries as his teeth sink into your neck, biting down just hard enough to sting. You gasp beneath his palm — the pain sharp, the kiss that follows it soft and soothing, a cruel little contradiction that makes you whimper into his skin.
“That’s my good fucking girl,” he pants, fingers circling your clit with perfect pressure, filthy and reverent all at once. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock like the perfect little thing you are?”
You nod frantically beneath his hand, body trembling, seconds from unraveling. Stars begin to bloom at the edges of your vision, your thighs quivering as you squirm back against him, chasing every last bit of friction.
“Yeah, just like that, baby,” Luke grunts, voice thick and desperate. “Come for me — I’ve got you.”
With one final, devastating thrust, your body breaks. You bite down on your wrist, muffling the cry as the dam bursts open. Your back arches into him, muscles locking tight, legs shaking with the sheer intensity of your orgasm. The world narrows to heat, motion, and Luke — still buried inside you, still moving, still whispering in your ear.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he moans, breath ragged. “That feel good, baby? So good for me.”
Your body sags against him, boneless and buzzing, completely undone — and Luke doesn’t waste a second.
Without warning, he pulls out, and before you can even catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your stomach. A sharp gasp escapes you as your cheek hits the pillow, and then his hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down just enough to make your breath hitch again.
A wave of heat pulses through you at the shift — that sudden, dizzying change from softness to raw possession. Your heart skips as the realization sinks in. You’re not done. He’s not done.
And God, that only makes you wetter. You bite down on your lip in anticipation.
“You gonna let me use you now?” Luke pants, hovering over you, his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head for balance. His voice is wrecked, low and hungry. You nod — small, breathless, already trembling — and that’s all he needs.
You feel the thick head of his cock drag through your soaked entrance before he sinks in with one hard, brutal thrust.
You arch beneath him, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it. Luke slaps his hand over your mouth again, groaning into your ear.
“Be quiet,” he tuts, voice tight with restraint. “Don’t need a fussy baby interrupting while I’m busy fucking my wife into the mattress.”
His hand drops from your mouth and curls around your throat again, warm and grounding — claiming. Then his hips pull back and slam into you, fast and unforgiving.
Each thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, sending shockwaves through your body as he finds that perfect spot over and over. You bury your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the sounds clawing up your throat.
Luke is panting, gasping, barely keeping it together. “I’m not gonna last,” he grits out, voice breaking. “This pussy’s too fucking perfect. Perfect — and mine.”
His words dissolve into growls, each one filthier than the last. His hand tightens around your throat just enough to make you dizzy — never enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you belong to. His thrusts get rougher, messier, his control slipping with every desperate snap of his hips.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his forehead falling to your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. Please — let me fill you up, baby. Please.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you flex your leg back just enough to push him deeper, lock him in place.
Luke lets out a broken moan — almost a sob — as he comes, spilling into you with a sharp, shaking groan. A string of curses and your name fall from his lips like a prayer, wrecked and reverent. He exhales hard, thrusting once, twice more before collapsing onto his back beside you, totally spent.
You’re both breathless, the room quiet except for the sound of your hearts pounding. You turn your head just enough to look at him — and, of course, he’s already looking at you. That lazy, fucked-out grin is spread across his face, curls messy, lips kiss-swollen.
“I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs, still panting.
You roll your eyes, resting your cheek on your palm. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease, reaching over to brush a damp curl from his forehead. “You talk a lot for someone who has a mess to clean up.”
Luke’s eyebrows lift, amused, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nudges your thigh and gently rolls you onto your back. He hovers above you for a moment, then starts kissing his way down — slow, deliberate, worshipful. Every inch of exposed skin is met with his lips, his stubble, the heat of his breath.
When he reaches your thighs, he spreads them apart with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“You always look so fucking pretty when I’m dripping out of you,” he says, almost dreamily. His finger drags through the mess between your legs — a light, filthy stroke that makes you shiver — before he leans in and licks into you without another word.
His tongue is warm, slow, unhurried as he laps up every drop he left inside you. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut, sinking into the bed as his mouth works — greedy but soft, careful with your overstimulated body.
He places one last kiss to your clit and your legs twitch instinctively. Luke chuckles, smug, and crawls back up your body, kissing along the way until his mouth finds yours.
The taste is unmistakable — both of you, hot and sweet and earthy on his tongue.
You sigh into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, hands roaming across his broad back. You never want him to move.
“I really fucking love you,” you murmur when he finally pulls away, settling beside you again.
Luke grins, flushed and glowing. “Yeah?”
Instead of answering, you crawl onto your knees, shooting him a sly grin. His cock rests against his stomach, still half-hard, glistening. You lean down and drag your tongue in one slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip.
Luke lets out a filthy little moan, head falling back onto the pillow as you take the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirls along the underside — that sweet spot just beneath the crown — and his legs twitch in response. You can taste yourself on him, and the mix makes your head spin.
“Christ,” he exhales, voice already wrecked. “You’re fucking insatiable—”
He’s cut off by the rustle of sheets and the unmistakable sound of a sniffle, soft and pitiful.
You both freeze.
A glance toward the monitor confirms it: Eden’s sitting up in bed, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest, face crumpled into the world’s saddest pout.
Luke groans. Not the sexy kind. The parental kind.
“Rain check?” you whisper, flashing him a sheepish smile as you reach for your discarded underwear and shorts.
He’s already sitting up, dragging his pants back on with the sort of defeated slouch that only comes from being cockblocked by the literal love of your lives.
“If we can squeeze it in before Eden turns eighteen,” he mutters, deadpan. “Yeah, I’d love that.”
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if u made it here ur awesome!! thank u to anon for this amazing request. i love dad luke.
