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honestsycrets · 1 year

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starved | [miguel o'hara x reader]

❛ pairing | new papi!miguel x new mami!reader

❛ type | oneshot: explicit content

❛ summary | peter says he's sex-starved. he isn't. he's just... adjusting to less time with his wife.

❛ tags | breastfeeding miguel, lactation kink, slight pregnancy kink, touch starved, pissy miguel, spanish is not translated, mention of violence, some cursing, f!reader.

❛ sy’s notes | written as per poll request! thank you everyone who voted.

Miguel likes to work.

Or, he thinks he likes to work.

The fate of the multiverse and all that boring ass bullshit. Peter has heard it all, twice, thrice over. What he knows is what he sees. What he sees is an overworked man running through anomaly files, sending out orders, and not spending time where it really mattered.

“Is that who I think it is?” Peter’s annoying ass house slippers flapped over the ground by Miguel’s feet. Peter’s hands rubbed together, sparking little bursts of heat between his palms. “It is! Mireya!”

Mireya, the newest addition to his small family. She was nestled comfortably in the crook of one of Miguel’s muscular arms as if it were the safest place in the entire world, suckling on what was left of a bottle of breastmilk. Miguel turned to place the empty bottle down on his desk. Peter followed, peeping over Miguel’s arm at her. Despite Miguel’s reservations, her bright brown eyes bored Peter with interest. She cooed at him. “Can I hold her? Let me hold her, it’ll be great! Aw look, she has curls.”

“My daughter isn’t your doll.”

“Look how pretty, she’s just like her mami. All sunshine and dimples and--,” Peter reached forward, easing his scrawny hands under her plush little arms and picking her up. Miguel’s hands fell onto his hips, shifting weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at his feet expectantly. “You know, for a new dad, you’re grumpier than usual.”

“Peter.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he bobbed back and forth, spinning in a circle. She giggled the kind of laugh that was all sugar, making Peter grin even harder. “I mean, wasn’t Mireya your idea? Are you-- y’know?”

“Y’know?”

“Sex starved,” Peter whispered like it was a great, terrible secret. As if in this vast space of silence, someone might catch his words and convict him because of them. Miguel’s half-lidded eyes slid against one another, held for a second, then spread open in an annoyed flick. He fluttered his gloved fingers at Peter to hand Mireya over.

“I’m just saying if you need a night alo--”

“I don’t. I’m not sex-starved.”

He waved him off. His eyes fell on his daughter, boring back up at him with those beautiful eyes he had waited so long to see. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, lulling her back into her late-night slumber, cradled against his chest.

Sex starved, he said. What a shocking joke.

His room was no place for a child. It was perpetually dark, dimmed for his sensitive eyes. So, at the end of the day, Miguel had your room to return to. A real home, one with more than a ratty run-down chair and a lifetime of regrets. A home that he couldn't make alone. Miguel pressed past the bedroom door where he found you overcome by sleep. Just like Mireya in his arms.

He turned his gaze down to Mireya once more, her soft and squishy body a vision of peace. Tiny fists balled up over her belly as she slept in her soft velvet onesie. The whole world in his hands: the start of a happy little family. Only right now, it didn’t feel so happy. Those were the cycles, the push and pull of life.

Tonight would prove to be another silent night with his thoughts. His chest swelled with a rush of air, bunching up his shoulders as he moved to the adjoining room to set Mireya into her warm crib. Torn from his warmth, her palms stretched out, ready to wail. Miguel placed his hand along the wooden rail, his stomach flopping into throbbing anxiety in his stomach. She could wake you up. "Shh," he set his finger in her tiny palm. Mireya’s small hands rested listlessly around her head. The wail never came.

“Mi vida,” your sleepy voice fell over his ears, a gentle caress. He longed to hear it from your lips again. “Is she already asleep?”

“Sí--” he glanced over his shoulder, catching just a sight of one of his favourite little slips. Dusty rose with delicate lace details. He studied the edge of the gown, flowing over your thick thighs as you walked. Shock.

“You look beautiful." You looked down at your soft belly, a mincing smile pulling at your lips. He knew you were nervous, the way your hands obscured your plush belly. Mesmerized, his finger fell away from Mireya's soft grip. Peter's words echoed in his mind, a deep annoyance. It made his skin crawl, this growing annoyance in the acknowledgment that he had no sex in weeks, months. He took a step forward.

“I hope she doesn’t sleep through the night. My breasts are full,” Your fingers skimmed the taut skin. The glint of your wedding band invited him forward as if… you should be his tonight. You were his wife-- and though he didn't expect you to give him relief, he missed you. Miguel dipped his head, stroking the sore muscles of his neck.

Are you, y'know, sex-starved?

“When does she ever..." he couldn't help from saying. He grazed his fingertips over the swollen skin of your breasts, glancing from the skin to your deep, shy eyes. His breath thinned, realizing that you were disengaging, too scared to look him in the eye.

“She does, Miggy,” you breathed. His jaw worked, annoyed. “Lately. You’d know if you came home at night.”

If it was lately, he had no knowledge of it. Every lab screen he pulled up, every status report from Lyla, and every silent night in the lab, obsessing over how his little girl was doing-- he missed it. He should be coming in more often, crossing the threshold of work to family life. His hand cupped the underside of your breast. You winced, embarrassment working on your face. You pushed his hand away, likely feeling exposed by his touch on your tender skin.

“Does it hurt?” He leaned down, mingling his smoky, musky scent with your delicate one. He leaned in to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss along your neck, the warm pulse of your skin against his plump lips.

“Miggy, you’ll wake her up.”

Your fingers laced in his before you pulled him out of the room with a click of the door. He settled his hand on the middle of the door, sliding his hand up your waist, the soft fabric crinkling over the movement. He glimpsed a look at your soft panties cupping your round ass. “Miggy, I… I can’t. I’m tired.”

Of course, you were tired-- He underestimated how much work you took on in her care. He willed the wisps of his desire to snuff out. The distant flicker of hope followed promptly after. Maybe, one day, you would want him again. It wasn't today.

“Ya veo,” he suppressed his frustrated growl, wrinkling his forehead. “Another time.”

It wasn't the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

The anomaly whirled along a cobblestone street, exploding in a cloud of dust and stone. Its many black dipped hands flickered, dulling into little more than a negligible tremor of their limbs. Everyone else noticed the complacency that came with loss of consciousness. Miguel did not.

Miguel sauntered forward, dragged it by its muddy boots out from the crumbly remnants of the wall, and whirled it into another. It wasn't moving. It was done, tired, exhausted. He didn't care, his large hand encompassing its tendril hair and smashing it over the dusty floor. A violent crack, crack, crack of its head scratched his inert need to destroy something, anything, anyone. It fell from his hands with a slump. Miguel spat a bit of blood to the side, his cheek chewed raw under the tension of the moment.

“You need to take Peter up on that offer.”

Miguel stretched his neck one way. Then the other.

“We’ve been over this,” Miguel grumbled, hiking the pummeled body over his shoulder. It gushed blood, streaming into a diluted pink with the downpour of rain. A simple contusion, Miguel said. It was just a contusion. And a concussion. Maybe a gash or two. It would heal if the thing woke up. “I don’t need help.”

“You thrashed it, whatever it was,” Jess said pointedly. Miguel’s finger ran across his watch. The air was stale without an acknowledgment of Miguel’s churning temper, growing into a churning tempest by the passing minute. He stared long and hard through his mask. She drew out the silence as she waited for his response.

“It’s a contusion.”

The portal whirled to life before them in a slurry of vivid color, an unforgiving abyss. Jess slumped her bike with weight on one thigh, hand on her belly. The longer Miguel stared at her, so full and pregnant, the more he was reminded of you. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no use-- he saw visages of you everywhere he looked.

“Doesn’t look like any head contusion I’ve seen,” Gwen slid into the portal. His lip curled, annoyed by the obvious objection to what he was saying. If they would let it go-- he could go on about his life, wait for this obsession with his sex life to abate. Wait for you to come back to him.

“You can’t keep taking out your—“

“I am not sex-starved!”

“Convincing.” Jess sped into the portal.

Miguel soothed the stress out of his forehead, opening and closing his palm, a current of energy coursing through his palms. They picked— and they picked— and they picked at him. At some point, he was bound to explode. He only hoped you wouldn't be in his way when it happened. He whipped the anomaly through the portal and followed after.

On the other side of the portal, there was Peter— again. Cooing with his hands on his daughter— again. His dark mask faded away, his suit wicking water off his frame. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he located you beside Jess and Gwen. You nudged its crumpled body with your shoe. He didn’t often feel ashamed of his actions. Usually, they were necessary. Something was wrong, your face pinched and curled in disgust. He felt the string of your disapproval pulling through his arms, a slight, incriminating tremor flickering through his finger. He willed it away.

“What did you do to this poor thing?” you turned to Jess, a click-click-click off your tongue. He’d hardly call it poor. “It’s overkill.”

“Girl, ask your husband,” Jess folded her arms, reclining on her bike.

“Mi Miggy?” you went to him. You leaned over, pecking his cheek with a terribly insulting kiss, tickling his jawline. He swallowed. Blinked. Then frowned and brushed off your fingers, finding the care misplaced. You could care for an anomaly but didn't care to ask him how he felt. What he needed. Your voice wilted that sunshine quality, dropping almost to a whisper. “¿Qué te pasa, Miggy?”

“Nothing.”

“Miguel--"

“I said nothing!” He knelt down, grasping its ankle and dragging it down the long, drab hall that stored a variety of anomalies. A line of blood soaked the floor, swerving after his rumbling steps. You took a step forward, snatching his wrist between your fingers. He whirled around, a tremble on his lips firmed out into an unforgiving glare. You let up the pressure on his wrist, allowing him to spin his hand free. “Déjame en paz! There is nothing shocking wrong!”

Mireya cried. So did you.

The admittance that Peter was right wasn’t one that Miguel was about to make openly.

Although he showed up that night, as you informally requested, the night proceeded awkwardly. There was no talk over dinner, not as he watched you feed his little girl, swaying by the window of the enormous city below. As you gazed into the sea of twinkling lights, Miguel came up behind you. His palms encompassed your slight shoulders, moist against your exposed shoulders. His naked chest grazed your back.

"Are you going to apologize?"

Why should he have to? If anyone listened to what he was saying-- he wouldn't be in this mess. Still, Miguel steeled his face. He placed a mincing kiss on the top of your head. His voice thinned out, barely a feather on his lips.

"I snapped."

"You did a lot more than that. You scared her."

You let him sit with his regret until you fell asleep. He debated returning to the lab or his room to try again tomorrow. But he knew his wife. You were attentive to everything that he did. You might take it as a sign of his disinterest. After minutes turned to hours, he breached the door and slid into your bed when he was sure you were asleep.

When his eyes coursed over your figure, he realized all he missed. It was too long since he felt the warmth of a real kiss. Not the brief pecks on his lips as he rushed out the door to help Jess or Gwen or any other number of spiders demanding his attention. He missed the warmth in your eyes, the way they turn into crescents with a happy smile or jaunty laugh. He longed for that sensation of your fingers combing through his hair, taking your time and curling his fluffy hair behind his ear, eyes trained on his alone in a sea of spiders. That… sensation of being the only one that you wanted.

Mireya was that for you now. He longed for it every time he came into the room, seeing you sway with his child in your arms, cradled against your breast, feeding her into a restful sleep. What he thought was a mere seed of jealousy turned out to be a terrible beast, tendrils of resentment that you can’t see what he needs. He needs you. And it isn’t his beautiful Mireya’s fault, no. It’s his.

Instead, he lay there with his palm wretched around his cock, soaked in the artificial lubricant, throbbing into his hand. He remembered his words that night. A begrudging -- Mami, give me a baby-- and how well you took him. Your body seemed to know what he wanted, swelling with his child after a few weeks. He buckled into his palm, cranking around the base and swirling up to his leaking tip, bubbling with his need. He circled his finger over the head, swiping the fluid away.

“What are you thinking about?”

Miguel paused, sweat crept down his thick throat over his broad chest. He shuddered under the weight of your silken words. His hand coiled around his cock in one more jerk, somehow accepting that he had been caught.

“Are you thinking about me? Or is there someone else?”

"Someone else?" he breathed. His lips dropped into a frown, agitation simmering to a boil. It cooled when you looked at him-- but really looked at him. The bed shifted under your weight, ruffling pillows aside. You hoisted your legs over his body, pushing his cock against your soft vulva and his stomach, breasts pushing into his face. So close that Miguel inhaled the uniquely sweet smell of your milk obscured by thin lace.

“Why would I have anyone else?” he asked, his chest distantly aching. His gaze tracked from one breast to the other. He stole a glimpse at your face, stricken with shyness. The slight pout of your lips, eyes refusing contact. “Do you even want me?”

Undoubtedly yes.

“You don’t come to see me. You don't fuck me. You don't even--"

"You're always tired."

"But you could wake me.”

“Could I? To deny me again?” It hadn’t meant to come out so passive-aggressive, but with the natural inflections in his voice, he knew you could read him like a book.

“Oh, papi," not that soft voice. He might hope again. "I always want you.“

Hmpf. Debatable.

“Even when you’re jerking off in my bed. Or couch.” You slid your pink tongue along your lower lip, guiding your body against his. The wet draw of your juices over his dick drew his sharp scarlet eyes to the sight, knocking your stiff clit with his dick. For a moment, his words failed. He should have known you would watch him.

“Is that why you're so... angry? Because of me?" He made a small noise, barely a huff. You drew his hands to your full breasts, obscured by a thin layer of fabric. This time, he smothered a groan in his chest. How pathetic, he thought, to be moaning from something as simple as your firm breasts back in his hands. What was he-- twelve? "Have I been neglecting you, Miguel O’Hara?”

“Yes-- you've neglected me,” he murmured, dragging the lace underneath each breast, knocked together by the straps of the fabric. He melded your breasts again between his hands, massaging the sore skin. His thumps flickered over your nipples, stiffening them into peaks. With a small pinch to your breasts, milk dribbled over his fingertips.

"I won't do it again," he wondered if you missed his touch by the full, grateful hum of your lips, your palms disappearing into his dark hair. You coursed along his dick again, eliciting another piteous noise of longing from his throat. "I promise."

“Hm," was the only agreement. "What a mess,” he teased, not bothering to look at you. It had the desired effect, your shoulders shyly bunching up, the cute pout of your lips, warmth in your cheeks, quivering eyes. He loved it when you looked so fucking shy, so vulnerable, and all for him. "You're leaking all over my hand."

“I’m-- sorry,” you flushed, “It… happens.”

“Mhm, you're full,” Miguel flicked his pink tongue along your stiff, fat nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a suckle. Sweet milk soothed his tongue. He hungrily drank it up, shifting his other hand back to angle his cock at the entrance of your core. A hand left his thick locks and jerked to his broad shoulder, stabilizing your hips down to sink onto him. Blood welled to the surface with your claws scratching piteously along his sunkissed skin. With a bit of resistance, he slid perfectly into your body, just like he always did. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips against your breast. It was somehow different-- the tug and stretch of his cock-- as he fucked the mother of his child. Maybe it was all in his head. “Shock, you’re gorgeous on my dick.”

“Miggy--”

He shifted to the other breast, his hands nearly stapled on your hips, encouraging you to do the work. Your warm milk slid into his mouth, down his starved throat. The pleasure of knowing he was draining you of your milk was tempered with the ever-present fact that soon, you’d have his spunk in your belly again. Your hips flushed, drawing around in quick circles, flushed with his pelvis. Small waves of pleasure grew in your belly. Your stiff clit glided against his skin, again, and again with the undulations of his hips. You felt pinned between his mouth and dick, restricted in movement, but all his, devoured by his need.

“Come here, mi hermosura,” Miguel released your breast from those lush lips, sliding his tongue along his lips to catch the remnants of your sweet milk. He slid down along the pillows, flushing your chest to his, and propped his legs slightly for a better angle. His muscular arms wound around your back, cock pumping into you with renewed vigor. He knocked against your cervix in this position, holding you fast and tight in his arms. You nestled against his sweaty chest, accepting his thrusts so well.

“Miggy-- I’m not-- on anything.”

“You're breastfeeding, close enough,” he mused in your ear as though it were a joke.

You might have argued with him if you weren’t so blinded by that fantastic juddering of his hips. As it were, pleasure rocked all thoughts of birth control out of your mind. Miggy, an ever-present lover, groaned as he held out through your orgasm milking and soaking his swollen dick in your cum. Not a moment later, Miguel forced a long stroke of his dick inside your cunt, reaching his climax buried deep in your tremoring walls. You squeezed him tight, milking him dry of his orgasm until it all faded into fuzzy pleasure. You sighed as his arms loosened, warm and full of Miguel after so long. His soft dick slipped free, cum oozing onto his thighs, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the mess.

He set a kiss on the top of your head, then your forehead, and eventually snatched your lips in a warm kiss. You could taste the sweetness of your milk on his tongue and flushed. Your head dropped down on his chest, listening for the gentle whining of your daughter. It was silent but for the intermingling of your heaving breaths.

After all the issues: the disappointment, the fighting with Peter and Jess, Miguel couldn’t help but chuckle. All it took was jerking off in your bed. He should have known-- you never did like to be left out on his fun. You were always a jealous lover, even at the threat of his own hand.

“Hm? Why are you laughing?”

“Peter said I was sex-starved."

“Well," you glistened a smile, kissing along his jaw. He huffed. "He wasn't wrong."

13K notes · View notes

pedrospatch · 5 months

Text

flutter

Jackson! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner.

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair.

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?”

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten.

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home.

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains.

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

#tw pregnancy #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x pregnant reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller drabble #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #fic: snapshots

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pucksandpower · 2 months

Text

Buns in the Oven

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: six times that someone finds out you and Charles are expecting

Pascale hums to herself as she plates the final dish for lunch — a lovely risotto she spent the morning preparing. Her son will be arriving any minute with his girlfriend. Pascale hopes the meal will help settle the nerves she’s noticed in you lately during your visits.

The doorbell rings and Pascale rushes to greet Charles and you at the door. “Welcome, welcome!” She pulls you both into an embrace. “Lunch is all ready, come to the dining room.”

You follow behind Charles, the aroma of the risotto already making your stomach turn. You try to keep your queasiness hidden as you take your seat at the table. Pascale notices your complexion is pale.

“Are you feeling alright, dear?” She asks with a furrowed brow. “You’re looking a bit green around the gills.”

You force a smile. “I’m okay, just not very hungry I suppose.” Your eyes go wide as Pascale heaps a generous serving onto your plate.

Charles squeezes your hand. “Come on, mon amour, Maman’s risotto is the best. You have to try some.”

You pick up your fork with shaky hands and manage a few bites under Pascale’s watchful gaze. But your stomach is quickly revolting, the rich food making you extremely nauseous.

“If you’ll excuse me ...” You abruptly push back from the table and rush down the hall to the bathroom, hand covering your mouth.

Pascale and Charles exchange a worried look as they hear you retch violently. After a few minutes, you re-emerge looking miserable.

“Oh dear, I knew you weren’t feeling well,” Pascale tuts, rising to her feet. “You just sit tight, I’m going to run out for a little bit. I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, she hurries out of the house. Pascale strides quickly down the street toward the pharmacy on the corner, her mind racing. She grabs a basket and makes a beeline for the family planning aisle, snatching up a few different brands of pregnancy tests. She pays and rushes back home, clutching the tests behind her back as she re-enters the dining room.

You and Charles have pushed your chairs together, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you lean into his chest with your eyes closed. The plates of risotto sit congealed and abandoned.

“You two look awfully cozy,” Pascale quips lightly. You startle upright and blink at her with bleary eyes. “Y/N, I left something for you in the bathroom. Go check it out, won’t you?”

You furrow your brow in confusion but rise and head for the hall bathroom. Pascale settles back at the table and takes a sip of her now-lukewarm tea, the picture of nonchalance. But out of the corner of her eye she watches Charles, who stares intently down the hall from where you disappeared.

Not ten seconds later you come barreling out, nearly bouncing off the doorframe with the pregnancy test boxes in hand.

“Ch-Charles!” You stammer, eyes wild. “Look!”

He flies out of his chair and towards you so fast it clatters to the floor. You both disappear into the bathroom, the door closing firmly behind you. Pascale smiles knowingly to herself and refills her teacup.

Several minutes pass in tense silence, the only sounds an occasional murmured exchange from the bathroom, volumes too hushed for Pascale to make out. Suddenly, a dull thump rings out and Pascale is on her feet in an instant.

“Charles? Y/N?” She calls, heart pounding as she rushes for the bathroom. “Are you both alright in there?”

When she reaches the bathroom, Pascale finds Charles crumpled unconscious on the tile floor. You kneel beside him, face stark white and completely motionless except for the shaking of the positive pregnancy test clutched in your hand.

“Oh my goodness!” Pascale drops to her knees beside you both. “Charles? Charles, wake up chérie!”

She gently taps his cheek until his eyelids flutter open. Charles blinks dazedly up at the two concerned faces hovering above him.

“Wh ... what happened?” He props himself up on his elbows, still looking dazed. His eyes go comically wide as they land on the test in your hand. “Y/N … are you ...”

You finally seem to emerge from your stupor. With trembling fingers, you turn the little plastic stick towards Pascale, revealing the two pink lines clearly indicating pregnancy.

“I … I’m pregnant,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the thundering of Pascale’s heart. A wide smile slowly spreads across her face as tears of joy spring to her eyes.

“My darling girl, come here!” Pascale pulls you both into her arms, squeezing you tightly as happy tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m going to be a grand-mère!”

***

Fred Vasseur strides briskly through the Ferrari motorhome, eyes scanning the room for Charles Leclerc. FP3 is about to begin and he wants to go over the strategy one more time before the session.

He catches sight of you sitting on a plush sofa, your son Jules playing contentedly at your feet with a handful of toy cars. A small smile tugs at Fred’s lips watching the rambunctious two-year-old animatedly providing his own race commentary.

As Fred nears, he notices the oversized bowl in your lap containing an … interesting snack choice. You dunk a dill pickle into the creamy peanut butter, taking an enormous bite and humming with apparent satisfaction. Fred’s brow furrows slightly at the peculiar combination.

“Bonjour Y/N,” he calls out warmly as he approaches. “I was just looking for Charles before FP3 begins. Have you seen him?”

You swallow thickly and look up with a start, as if just noticing Fred’s presence. There’s a brief pause before you seem to find your voice.

“Oh! Fred, hi,” you reply breathlessly. “Charles is — um, he’s down in the garage doing some final prep I believe. With the mechanics.”

“Merci.” Fred nods, eyes straying back to the snack dish with poorly disguised interest. “I don’t mean to pry, but … may I ask what it is exactly you’re eating there?”

A flush rises on your cheeks as you glance down at the pickles and peanut butter. “Just … satisfying a craving, I suppose,” you mutter, almost embarrassed.

Fred throws back his head with a rumbling laugh. “I see, I see. The way to a pregnant woman’s heart, no?”

The words are out in a jovial tease before he can think better of it. But almost as soon as they’ve left his lips, Fred notices the way your entire body tenses, pickle dropping from your slack fingers to the ground with a dull thunk. Jules looks up at the commotion, brow furrowed in childhood confusion.

Realization dawns across your features as your hand moves unconsciously to hover over your abdomen. A look of incredulity and wonder flits through your widened eyes.

Fred feels his heart stutter in his chest. “Y/N? Are you ...” He trails off, suddenly uncertain if he’s overstepped.

Your gaze snaps up to lock with his, mouth working soundlessly for a long moment. Fred waits with bated breath, muscles coiled tight with anxious anticipation.

Finally, you find your voice. “ I… I’m not sure,” you whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t think — but, the cravings ...”

Without warning, you’re on your feet, scooping up Jules and clutching him to your side with one arm. Fred instinctively reaches out to steady you, but you brush him off distractedly.

“I have to … I need to tell Charles,” you murmur, half to yourself as you lurch forward, nearly colliding with a chair in your haste.

“Y/N, wait!” Fred catches your elbow gently but firmly, halting your frantic movements. You turn wild eyes on him and he gentles his voice. “Deep breaths, ma chérie. Why don’t you sit back down for just a moment? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

You stare at him for a beat, chest heaving, before seeming to collect yourself somewhat. With visible effort, you force your shoulders to relax incrementally and draw a shuddering breath.

“No, it’s okay, I … I should go find Charles,” you decide, more composed this time though your grip remains vice-like around your son. “He needs to know. We can’t be sure, but ...”

You trail off, gnawing anxiously at your bottom lip. Fred searches your flushed face, wondering if he should say more or simply stay out of his driver’s personal affairs. But before he can decide, you’ve found your determination again.

“Thank you, Fred.” You flash him a tight smile and shift Jules higher onto your hip. “I’ll just … go track him down then.”

With that, you spin on your heel and hurry out of the hospitality tent in the direction of the team garage, leaving a bemused Fred to stare after your retreating form. He shakes his head slowly, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, it seems congratulations may be in order for the Leclercs,” he murmurs under his breath. “Again.”

Fred watches you disappear into the crowded paddock, a tiny part of him hoping you do end up being pregnant. Despite the extra challenges, there’s nothing quite like the look of joy and pride on Charles’ face whenever he speaks about his wife and child. Fred can already envision his star driver beaming like a spotlight if blessed with another baby.

A chuckle rumbles from his chest. Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Somehow, Fred gets the sense Charles might be in need of a fainting couch again this time around.

***

Max lets out a loud whoop as he slams back his fourth — or is it fifth — shot of tequila. The pounding bass and flashing lights of the club have his blood thrumming with adrenaline despite the late hour. Singapore really knows how to rage after a race.

He swivels his head, surveying his surroundings with a lazy grin. Most of the other drivers seem to be just as enthusiastically embracing the raucous celebrations. Lando has his shirt recklessly unbuttoned to an obscene degree as he grinds shamelessly with some random group of club-goers. Pierre is presiding over an intensely competitive beer pong tournament at one of the VIP booths, eyes slightly unfocused.

Only a few meters away, Max spots the familiar silhouettes of Charles and you tucked away in a dimly lit corner. He throws back the dregs of his drink, grimacing at the burn, and stumbles in your direction with a mischievous smirk.

“Well, well!” He crows loudly as he approaches. “If it isn’t the reigning world champion getting cozy with his lady!”

You startle at Max’s boisterous presence, but quickly settle back against Charles with a warm smile tugging at your lips. The Monegasque driver, however, is far too wasted to register much beyond a bemused grunt of acknowledgment.

Max can’t help but snort at the besotted expression scrawled across his former title rival’s face. Charles has his arm wrapped possessively around your waist, head lolled back against the plush booth as he gazes at you with hopelessly unfocused eyes. You rest your hand tenderly upon his cheek, murmuring something inaudible against the throbbing bassline of the club music.

A waiter appears as if on cue, offering a tray laden with fresh cocktails that look suspiciously potent. Max opens his mouth to thank the server, only to impulsively snap it shut again as Charles’ hand darts out with impressive coordination for his state. The world champion snatches the entire tray before you can react, proceeding to methodically down every single glass in quick succession without further preamble.

You roll your eyes fondly, not even bothering to attempt retrieving your confiscated drink. When Charles finally resurfaces, gasping for air and looking totally glazed, you tuck an errant curl back from his forehead.

“Feel better, my darling disaster?” You tease.

Max realizes with some confusion that you haven’t touched a drop, watching on with that same gentle amusement. Charles lets out a indelicate belch and slings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you back against his chest.

“M’gonna need anutha ...” He slurs blearily. You emit a tinkling laugh that causes Max’s brow to furrow even further.

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. His eyes go wide, sweeping over your glowing features with a mixture of surprise and delight. No wonder you’re passing on the booze tonight.

“Wait just a second ...” Max takes a stumbling step closer, throwing out an accusatory finger that has you shying away in alarm. But the wide, delighted grin quickly morphs his features from confrontational to conspiratorial. “We’re gonna have another Leclerc in the mix soon, aren’t we?”

You freeze in Charles’ arms, exchanging a loaded look with your flushed husband. The giggling from earlier falls away as you bite your lip, seeming to hesitate before finally sighing in resignation. You glance back at Max with a sly smile.

“September 1st,” you confirm simply.

Max lets out a raucous bark of laughter, nearly doubling over as he clutches his stomach. September 1st … doing the quick mental calculation informs him the little bundle of joy was likely conceived right around ...

“Oh my god, no way!” He howls, tears of mirth leaking from the corners of his eyes. “The World Championship euphoria must have really gotten to you!”

Charles looks bewildered, mouth hanging slightly ajar. You shake your head despairingly, burying your face against your husband’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to contain your own giggles. Max just wheezes harder, undoubtedly disturbing every single neighboring party-goer with his undignified cackling. He braces his hands on his knees, trying in vain to catch his breath.

“I can’t … I can’t even begin!” He gasps between hysterics. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants for like, five measly minutes after winning in Abu Dhabi!”

Max can only shake his head gleefully, finally recovering enough to straighten and wipe his streaming eyes on his sleeve. Charles tugs you closer against his chest, swaying gently from side to side with a dopey smile.

“S’true though, isn’t it?” He mumbles, resting his cheek atop your head. “Made the mos’ of m’championship … glow.”

You try in vain to suppress your grin, smoothing your palms over the sculpted lines of your husband’s abdomen. Max is genuinely touched at the tender gesture, the undeniable depth of adoration written across both your expressions.

He suddenly feels tremendously sentimental, booze and euphoria swirling together in a giddy vortex of affection for his friends.

“Alright, alright,” Max waves them off in mock dismissal, clearing his throat loudly. “As nauseatingly in love as you two are, someone simply must balance out the team affiliations in this family.”

You and Charles both quirk matching skeptical eyebrows at him.

“Oh yes,” he nods resolutely. “Just as soon as this nephew or niece arrives, I’m going to start spoiling them absolutely rotten.”

The grins bloom across both your faces, Charles tightening his arms around you in a silent display of pride. Max glances down at the tender picture you make, feeling a profound swell of joy at having front row seats to his friend’s happiness.

Somehow, despite the alcohol and chaos swirling around the two of you, the little cocoon of perfect serenity and contentment you’ve so carefully cultivated remains completely untouched. It’s a rare oasis of tranquility in the middle of an otherwise chaotic life, and Max wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well … he wouldn’t exactly mind if a few more boisterous new additions gradually joined your ranks. Good thing he plans on being the very best enabler around. He just hopes the two of you aren’t hoping for more championship babies, because Max certainly won’t make winning any easier.

***

“I still can’t believe how big the kids are getting,” Arthur remarks with a warm smile, watching as Jules and Helene race miniature car models across the living room rug. Little Lucien toddles along in their wake, shrieking with delight whenever he gets close enough to swipe at one of the toys.

“Tell me about it,” Charles groans, slouching further into the plush sofa cushions. You laugh lightly beside him, one hand absently smoothing Lucien’s tousled curls as the toddler momentarily loses interest in the activity and plops down at your feet.

“You’re getting on a bit yourself there, old man,” Arthur teases his older brother. “Half life crisis and all that?”

Charles fires him a withering glare. “I’m only thirty two, you little shi-” He cuts himself off abruptly, clearing his throat as his gaze darts towards the children. You swat his chest in remonstration.

“Language!” You admonish. “We’ve talked about this.”

Chuckling, Arthur leans back and props his feet up on the battered ottoman. “Don’t worry Y/N, I’ll be sure to teach the little ones all the good swears when they get older.”

“You most certainly will not!” You shake your head vehemently. But the mock scowl quickly melts into a warm smile. “Honestly Arthur, what are we going to do with you?”

“Keep me around for the free childcare, obviously.”

The quip draws a bark of laughter from Charles. You roll your eyes fondly, gathering Lucien up into your lap for a cuddle as the toddler makes grabby hands. Arthur observes the scene with a contented smile — it’s so wonderful having his brother’s little family over to visit now that they’re all in Europe again.

“I have to say, you and Charles make some cute kid-”

Arthur’s affectionate teasing is abruptly cut off as a furry brown missile comes barreling through the open doorway. Bruno, Arthur’s three-year-old golden retriever, zips excitedly into the room with his tongue lolling out.

“Bruno, no!” Arthur calls out, but it’s too late.

The pup lets out a joyful bark and leaps straight up onto the sofa cushions. Arthur watches in dismay as Bruno tramples over Charles’ lap, nearly kicking his brother in a very sensitive area. Charles immediately shoves the dog away with a muffled curse.

But Bruno seems singularly uninterested in his distress. He makes a beeline for your side of the sofa and immediately nuzzles his way under your arm to plop his head insistently onto your abdomen. You startle slightly at the sudden weight in your lap, Lucien giggling and patting curiously at Bruno’s silky fur. The pup simply sighs contentedly and closes his eyes, fluffy tail thumping rhythmically against the cushions.

Arthur lets out a low whistle, watching in bewilderment as the usually hyperactive Bruno settles in to nap right against your midsection. The perplexed expressions on both your and Charles’ faces don’t escape his notice either. Charles half-heartedly tries to shove Bruno away once more, but the dog whines pitifully and refuses to be dislodged from his spot curled up in your lap.

“Bruno!” Arthur calls sternly, lurching up from his seat to attempt removing his pet himself. But something gives him pause just before he reaches the sofa.

Dogs are remarkably intuitive, after all. And there’s an old adage about them possessing a sort of sixth sense when it comes to picking up on certain … conditions.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as the pieces click into place in his mind. He settles back on his heels, scrutinizing you with newly narrowed focus.

“You know, they say dogs can sense that kind of thing before anyone else ...” he remarks slowly, gauging for a reaction.

You and Charles both freeze, eyes snapping up to regard Arthur as if he’s grown a second head. A strange, loaded silence seems to fill the room for a long, drawn-out moment. Arthur witnesses an entire conversation pass wordlessly between you with just a single cursory glance.

Jules and Helene remain obliviously absorbed in their game, but Lucien blinks up at his parents with a quizzical frown. You gingerly disentangle your youngest from Bruno’s embrace and deposit him back on the floor before scooting to the edge of the cushion.

“You don’t think ...” You murmur under your breath to Charles, hand drifting reflexively towards your abdomen. Arthur watches as his brother simply shrugs helplessly, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

“I … well, I mean … it would explain ...” Charles looks utterly dumbfounded for once. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen his typically unflappable older brother so flustered.

Your eyes bore intensely into Charles’, searching for any hint of confirmation. As if on cue, the dog in question opens his eyes and blinks placidly around at the three adults regarding him with such rapt scrutiny. Bruno seems unbothered, merely lolling his tongue and nuzzling closer against your belly. For the second time today, Arthur witnesses that fleeting, wordless communication pass between you and Charles in a simple glance.

A slow, radiant smile spreads across both your faces near simultaneously. You look back down at Bruno with new, unbridled adoration, carding tender fingers through his thick fur. Charles releases a disbelieving huff of laughter under his breath as he reaches out to skate reverent palms over the subtle swell of your abdomen that Bruno seems so enamored with.

And just like that, all the wind goes out of Arthur’s sails.

“No way ...” he gapes, eyes darting between you both in awe. “You’re actually ... seriously?”

You and Charles share another loaded look — this time, both your expressions are absolutely lit with unmitigated joy and pride.

“We … haven’t confirmed it yet or anything,” Charles finally replies, voice barely above a rapt murmur. “But we haven’t not been trying.”

Your husband’s words seem to snap Arthur out of his stupor. He leaps up from the ottoman, unable to contain his own delirious grin as he practically bounces with exhilaration. A cheer builds up in his throat, only to be smothered at the last second when he remembers the little ones playing obliviously nearby. Arthur exhales it all on a harsh rush of air, practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s … oh my god, you guys!” He has to resist the urge to reach out and envelop you both in a crushing embrace. “Another baby! I can’t believe it … Bruno, you clever little shi-uh, clever boy!”

Arthur drops to a crouch in front of the sofa, gently scratching behind Bruno’s ears. The dog thumps his tail happily, clearly preening under the praise for his remarkable intuition. Arthur glances back up at your mirthful expressions.

“I guess dogs really can sense that stuff, huh?” He shakes his head in wonder. “Maybe the two of us can start a betting ring and make some easy money.”

That finally breaks the spell. You both dissolve into peals of laughter, all the giddiness and disbelief seeming to finally crest over in a tidal wave of utter euphoria. Even the children pause their games to glance over curiously at the commotion.

Bruno seems to sense the occasion has reached a lull, lifting his head to give Arthur an expectant look. The dog rises and trots over to rest his chin in Arthur’s lap instead, bestowing an affectionate lick against his cheek as if to say ‘good job, Papa.’

Arthur chuckles, stroking the golden fur fondly.

“You really hit the jackpot this time around, didn’t you boy?” He murmurs just loud enough for Bruno’s keen ears to pick up. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves another little nugget joining the madhouse pretty soon … wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

“How about this one, Maman?” Jules calls out, holding up a slinky crimson gown that looks several sizes too small for you.

Charles shoots his eldest son a quelling look from where he lounges on the plush velour armchair, two-year-old Celine babbling happily on his lap. Jules immediately wilts, grinning sheepishly before returning the dress to the discard pile swiftly accumulating around the dressing room.

You let out a frustrated huff from behind the closed curtain, drawing Charles’ attention back to you. He sees your feet pace restlessly across the tiled floor as more rustling fabric sounds filter through.

“Y/N? Everything alright, mon cœur?” He calls out hesitantly. When you fail to respond, Charles frowns and shifts Celine higher on his knee.

“Perhaps we should try a different-”

The dressing room curtain abruptly whips open, cutting him off mid-sentence. You stand before the full-length mirror in a skintight silver sheath, tugging irritatedly at the fabric stretched taut across your midsection.

“I don’t understand!” You snap, sounding flustered to the point of tears. Your gaze finds Charles in the mirror, eyes pleading beseechingly. “None of these dresses are fitting properly at all. And I know I have the right sizes!”

Helene pipes up from the loveseat where she sits rifling through accessories. “Maybe you got a tummy bug, Maman? My pudge always comes and goes when I’m not feeling good.”

“Gee, thanks Lena,” you mutter dryly, fidgeting with another futile tug at the clinging metallic material.

Charles watches you intently, gaze traversing over your familiar silhouette with a considering frown. It’s certainly nothing to do with weight gain or bloat — if anything, you seem slightly more slender than usual, the ridges of your abdomen clearly defined by the unforgiving silver fabric. Any extra fullness seems concentrated lower, an almost imperceptible bump that Charles is intimately familiar with after four previous pregnancies.

His sharp inhalation draws your eyes back towards the mirror. He can see the question forming on your lips before you even have a chance to voice it. Charles simply holds up a hand, rising smoothly to his feet with Celine balanced on his hip.

The little girl babbles happily, making grabby hands towards the tower of cast-off dresses as Charles weaves through the sizable debris field. You turn to face him fully, fingers unconsciously picking at the shimmering hem in a rare show of self-consciousness.

“I … it doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter as Charles comes to a halt before you. “I checked all the sizing beforehand, like always. I know my body. I’ve been this size for ages, ever since Celine was born. So why won’t anything fit properly?”

He reaches out silently, hands encircling the soft give of your waist. You go rigid under his palms as Charles slowly drags them lower, fingertips skating over the soft swell of your lower abdomen. Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale as your gazes lock meaningfully, his search clearly confirming those silent suspicions.

“How long?” His voice is low, instantly holding your attention.

You furrow your brow, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Then realization seems to dawn, your eyes going comically wide.

“Oh my god ...”

Charles nods slowly, his own mind whirring as it rapidly calculates. If his keen senses are correct — if what he’s feeling under his hands is truly what he suspects ...

“When was your last period, mon cœur?” He murmurs carefully, searching your face intently.

Your expression remains frozen in shock, features slack. Ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, you begin shaking your head in bewilderment.

“Now that you mention it … I ...”

Charles watches the pieces click together as clear as day. The habitual cycle you’ve always tracked so meticulously, your uncanny ability to pinpoint the slightest shifts in your body’s rhythm — it all leads to the inevitable conclusion that he somehow arrived at before you. A conclusion rendered all the more definitive by the stupefied look stealing over your features.

“I don’t remember,” you finally whisper, eyes locked with his. “Oh god, Charles … no, it can’t be-”

“One more surprise,” Charles cuts in, chuckling disbelievingly under his breath. “How is it even possible we missed this? Another Lec-”

“Shhh!” You hastily press a hand over his lips, silencing the exclamation. Celine squirms petulantly against his chest, tangling her chubby fingers in his collar until Charles secures her more firmly in his hold.

Your free hand drifts distractedly between your bodies to rest against the telling protrusion, eyes becoming misty. Charles kisses your palm, feels the tremor racing through you.

“Maman? Papa?” Lucien’s little voice pipes up, high and quizzical. “Why you acting so weird?”

Neither of you seem to fully register the intrusion at first. You inhale a shuddering breath, casting Charles an utterly stricken look before reluctantly tearing your attention towards the children scattered around the boutique.

Helene has her head cocked skeptically, undoubtedly having picked up on the tension crackling through the room. Even Celine senses the shift in mood, falling uncharacteristically silent in the weighty pause. Only Jules seems to remain obliviously absorbed in his mobile game, earbuds firmly in place and shoulders hunched.

You give a tiny shake of your head, tightening your grip over Charles’ hand still splayed protectively across your abdomen. He takes the cue and proceeds to open his mouth — likely to formulate some vague reassurance for the children — only to find himself abruptly interrupted.

“You’re having another baby, aren’t you Maman?”

The words hang heavy in the air as every head whips around to locate the source. It’s Lucien — sweet, quiet little Lucien, staring up at the two of you with eyes far too astute for someone of such tender years.

Your hand slips from Charles’ mouth to muffle a gasp. His own jaw drops open in naked shock, gaze rapidly pinging between you and your preternaturally observant second son.

“Luce?” Helene’s eyes are like saucers as she regards her younger brother. “How did you ...”

But the boy merely shrugs, looking almost defensive as he plants his fists on his hips in an uncanny mirror of Charles’ habitual mannerisms when feeling confrontational.

“S’obvious,” he shrugs. “I remember when Celene was in Maman’s tummy. I know what a new baby belly looks like!”

Then Helene, lovely Helene, shakes off her own shock with an earsplitting shriek of unbridled joy.

“No way! Maman, you’re really — JULES! GET OFF YOUR DUMB PHONE!”

The curtain finally seems to drop from your frozen stupor. You startle hard, blinking rapidly as if reemerging from underwater. Your hand instinctively tightens over Charles’ where it cradles the telling curve, anchoring you both in the whiplash of revelation.

Meanwhile, Helene launches herself off the loveseat like a tiny cannon ball, howling out strings of excited gibberish at maximum volume. Jules’ head jerks up just in time to catch his sister’s barrage, flinching as she swats ineffectually at his earbud.

“Wha-” he sputters, batting away her hands in clear consternation before finally ripping out the headphone. “Hey! What’s gotten into you? And why’s everyone so freaked?”

Helene rounds on him, practically vibrating with glee. “Can’t you hear, loser? Maman’s having another baby!”

Jules does an actual doubletake, head whipping back towards you and Charles in shock. Lucien is nodding emphatically beside him, a serene little smile plastered across his face as his eyes flit between you.

“Told you so,” he murmurs sagely.

It’s the picture of pandemonium. The saleslady who had been assisting you suddenly appears, looking quite put out by the noisy disturbance echoing over her pristine shop floor. Charles can only imagine the picture they all make — you frozen in front of the dressing room mirror, his hand cradling your midriff as your children lose their collective minds around you.

When the woman opens her mouth, likely with the intent to scold them for the ruckus, Jules finally seems to find his voice.

“No way! Maman?” He whirls back to you, features awash with stunned wonder.

“Yes, oui!” Helene all but hollers, bouncing in place like an overstimulated jack russell. “Papa was feeling her tummy and everything!”

The shop girl’s gaze turns even more scandalized at the outburst, color staining her cheeks. Celine giggles, apparently finding the entire scenario terribly amusing. But you remain frozen, gaze drifting between the children and Charles with a silent plea clearly written across your face.

His own stupor finally breaks as he registers your wide-eyed helplessness. He has to smother the sudden, slightly hysterical urge to laugh at the torrential slew of emotions swirling through him.

Charles clears his throat loudly, plastering on his signature press smile as he turns towards the saleslady. “Perhaps we could have a brief moment to ourselves, mademoiselle?”

The woman sniffs dismissively, clearly fighting the urge to protest further. But the flicker of recognition in her eyes saves Charles from having to assert his identity. With a sharp tug at the hem of her blazer, she gives a curt nod and swans away toward the front of the boutique.

Once she’s disappeared from view, Charles strides back toward the curtained changing room, herding the children ahead of him and arranging them all amongst the plush armchairs in the small space. A muffled scuffle ensues as Helene scrambles to sit next to her father, elbowing aside a scowling Jules. Celine just babbles incessantly from her perch atop Charles’ knee.

You follow dazedly, sinking into the armchair opposite them all and emitting a great whoosh of breath. Your hand returns immediately to the subtle swell, fingers cradling the barely-there curve reverently.

Charles feels the unrestrained smile tugging at his lips. His family — complete and whole, yet growing by yet another little life soon to make their world even more vividly bright once again.

He gazes at the stunned expression still dominating your features and laughs, deep and full and utterly delighted. You seem to startle back into the present at the sound, meeting his awestruck eyes with a quickly growing smile of your own.

Soon enough, the storm of excited chatter resumes, with you taking the lead. Jules looks utterly shocked by the turn of events. Helene fires off a barrage of questions and squeals. Little Lucien sits with unshakable poise, absorbing it all with quiet pride.

And Charles can only laugh and wrap his arms around every beaming, noisy inch of you all — his beautiful family bound only to grow larger still over the coming months.

This is exactly where he belongs.

***

Jules can’t wipe the enormous grin from his face as he strolls into the familiar Ferrari garage alongside his race engineer. The potent scents of oil and petrol fill his nostrils, instantly transporting him back to the earliest days of running around this very same hallowed space as a wide-eyed child.

Only now, it’s his turn to climb into the iconic red car. The culmination of a lifelong dream pursued with almost maniacal singularity — one he had witnessed his own father live out with such tremendous passion year after year.

His gaze roams around the bustling team members, searching out the faces of his parents among the throng of mechanics and engineers. Jules finally spots the two of you huddled together towards the far side, his mother enveloped protectively in his father’s embrace as you both wave enthusiastically.

A wide smile splits Jules’ lips once more. He can’t resist the urge to press a quick kiss to his fiancée, Romee’s, cheek where she strolls alongside him, swathed in a scarlet maternity dress and positively glowing with eight months of pregnancy. She flushes prettily, one hand unconsciously drifting down to cradle the swell of her belly.

“Go get ’em, champ,” she murmurs warmly, squeezing his arm. “Baby Leclerc and I will be right here watching.”

Jules just nods, heart swelling fit to burst as he turns to face the gaggle of media crews setting up cameras nearby. His eyes linger on Romee for another loaded moment, committing the transcendent sight of her lovingly cradling their unborn child to memory.

He hardly has time to mentally steel himself before one of the Sky News correspondents is gesturing him over. Jules takes a fortifying breath and moves to join the woman, schooling his features into professionalism even as his stomach does delirious backflips.

“Jules Leclerc, you must be simply bursting with pride today,” the reporter begins without preamble as soon as her cameraman gives the signal. “Would’ve been hard to imagine this moment when following your father’s legendary footsteps around the paddock as a child, no?”

“You can say that again,” Jules chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “It definitely still hasn’t fully sunk in yet, I’ll admit. But it’s been my dream since before I could even walk, so you better believe I’m going to cherish every single second out on that track.”

He punctuates the statement with a decisive nod and flashes his signature megawatt smile — a move you always say must be hereditary. The reporter visibly softens under its full beam, casting a cursory look up and down before clearing her throat delicately.

“Well you certainly carry yourself with the same confidence as your father,” she lilts with the faintest of eyebrow waggles. “Speaking of family … I noticed your fiancée, Romee Verstappen, cheering you on from the sidelines as well. Must be another incredible source of pride to be starting your Formula 1 career with a new baby so imminently on the way?”

Jules feels the smile stretch even more impossibly wide at the mention of Romee and their child. His chest swells with unbridled joy and pride until he thinks it may crack open entirely.

“Absolutely, my girls are everything to me,” he affirms proudly, allowing his gaze to skate back towards Romee where she stands with his parents. “Having them here with me to experience such a monumental personal milestone … it’s really indescribably specia-”

The words abruptly die on his lips as Jules’ eyes snag on a sudden flurry of movement from your side of the gathered group. Your head is bent low, one hand clutched around your midriff as you make a beeline for the nearest trash can stationed ominously in the corner. His brows furrow in concern, body tensing reflexively even as his father is already darting after you with alarm clear on his features.

Jules doesn’t even realize when he starts moving, propelled by muscle memory to rush towards the commotion unfolding. All he can fixate on is the unmistakable sight of you hunched over the bin, retching violently into the receptacle as his father hovers anxiously behind you. Charles’ hand finds your hair, tenderly gathering the silky strands out of your face as his opposite palm glides questioningly down the length of your abdomen, coming to rest at your lower back.

The gesture is so painfully familiar, one Jules can vividly recall witnessing countless times in his childhood. All he can focus on is the way Charles’ fingers instinctively curve around the base of your stomach, palm gentle and reverent even now as you heave.

Something seems to click into place within Jules’ mind like tumblers in a lock. His breath leaves him in a painful wheeze, everything narrowing to the tunnel vision of you hunched so wretchedly, your distress the only palpable thing in his world.

“M-Maman?” He hears himself stammer out hoarsely.

You startle bodily at his voice, shoulders jolting rigidly. Jules can glimpse the tell-tale sheen of clammy perspiration beading across your brow and hairline as you continue to pant raggedly into the bin.

Just as soon as he arrives at your side, you’re drawing a tremulous breath and attempting to straighten, clearly aiming for nonchalance despite your haggard appearance. Charles’ palm doesn’t budge from where it rests so tellingly at the base of your belly, fingers still reverently curved.

“Jules, mon chou,” your voice wavers. You manage a wan smile even as color bleeds back into your ashen cheeks. “I’m alright, don’t worry-”

But he can’t help himself — his gaze remains riveted to Charles’ possessive palm still splayed across your abdomen. Suddenly, every innocuous little symptom Jules had decidedly overlooked the past few weeks comes slamming back into focus with disorienting clarity.

The perpetual fatigue you always hastened to dismiss over dinner visits. The periods of irritable moodiness that would overtake you without warning, followed swiftly by apologetic tears. And above all, the subtle thickening of your middle that each of his sisters gleefully attributed to too many of Pascale’s famous steak frites during your frequent family meals together.

Jules feels the world tilt dizzily around him, throat constricting with the realization as decades of old memories dredge up unbidden from the deepest recesses of his childhood.

How many times did he watch this exact scene from the outside looking in? His doting father peering down at his pregnant mother with such pride and unshakeable reverence in those early years of Jules’ life? All the subtle similarities, all the subconscious cues his brain must’ve been cataloging without his knowledge, suddenly dragged to the forefront of his mind.

“N-No ...” he sputters, voice scarcely audible even to his own ears over the pounding engulfing his skull. “She … you’re not …“

Charles’ eyes flick immediately to meet Jules’ shellshocked gaze, lips pressed into a grim line that’s nearly a grimace. Something indecipherable passes over his father’s features, though whether it’s disbelief or confirmation Jules can’t bring himself to discern.

Your attention remains mostly fixated on the bin as you try once more to control your breathing. But even from this side-profile view, Jules can make out the subtle disruption of your brow furrowing — the telltale crease of a wince flashing across your delicate mouth for just an instant before smoothing back into neutrality.

And it’s all he needs to see for the realization to cement itself.

Jules shakes his head in dazed incredulity, his equilibrium entirely shattered. All words seem to escape his grasp. He barely even registers the heavy clatter of something hitting the concrete mere inches from his feet.

When he finally wrenches his eyes away from you both, Jules makes out the fuzzy edges of several Sky News crew members hovering anxiously nearby, cameras and microphones trained on the unfolding scene with rapt attention.

One of the correspondents hovers at the outskirts of the scrum, dark eyes agape and face stricken with concern. Her lips move as if to call out to him, but Jules is already swaying dangerously, consciousness slipping rapidly through his fingers.

The muted whirlwind voices of his entire team shouting in alarm rings hollowly in his ears … his mother’s distressed cry an instant before his world pivots sideways and goes completely black.

“Mon bébé, no! Catch him, vite-”

***

Jules blinks slowly, the fluorescent garage lights swimming dizzily back into focus. His mouth feels stuffed full of cotton, pulse pounding an erratic rhythm against his temples. What on earth just happened?

“Jules? Can you hear me, darling?”

His mother’s concerned voice is the first thing to fully permeate the fog clouding his senses. He pries his eyelids open further to find your anxious face hovering inches from his own, deep creases etched around your eyes and mouth.

You lean back slightly as Jules struggles to sit upright, groaning at the persistent vertigo. His limbs feel leaden, but a steadying hand at his nape counters the dead weight bearing down on his neck.

“Easy there,” his father’s low tenor rumbles from behind. “Just take it slow.”

Jules allows Charles to guide him into a slumped sitting position against the wall, fighting against the whirling dizziness consuming his skull. A vaguely familiar face swims into his line of vision next — Romee, her beautiful features distorted with worry.

“Oh thank god,” she murmurs, palm finding his cheek and anchoring him further into the present. “You gave us all a heart attack, you moron!”

Jules blinks sluggishly, vaguely aware of the relief sweeping across Romee’s features as you and Charles crowd in as well. He swallows hard, mouth dry as a bone.

“What … happened?”

His voice comes out in a hoarse croak that doesn’t sound much like him at all. Even the minuscule effort of voicing those two words sends a prickly tremor ricocheting across his tender skull. A fresh wave of nausea assails him.

You crouch beside Romee, smoothing the damp hair back from Jules’ clammy brow without a second thought. But your hands are shaking faintly, he notices, and your cheeks seem unduly flushed.

Snatches of memory slowly begin filtering their way through the fog, sinking cold tendrils of realization into Jules’ gut. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the disorienting sight of the three of you clustered together for just a fraction of a second.

The split second of respite has everything coming rushing back in a torrent when he opens them again. You, hunched over the bin and retching pitifully. Charles fussing with evident concern, hands drifting across the unmistakable swell of your midsection with the deference of old habit.

All at once, the question slams back into Jules with the force of a physical blow, sending his head spinning anew. His eyes snap back open, mouth working in desperation as he tries to force out the words lodged in his throat.

“You ...” he rasps, gaze darting down towards your stomach before ripping back up to your faces. “She’s ...”

You and Charles exchange a loaded look, but Jules barely notices. He’s too busy following the subtle circuit of tension rippling through his parents’ expressions — a direct mirror of his own inner whiplash.

After all these years. With his father now forty-eight years old and you not far behind, and yet … here Jules sits, stunned speechless at the surreal possibility that-

“Y-You’re pregnant?” He finally chokes out in a strangled whisper. He knows he shouldn’t phrase it as a question, not really — the confirmation is basically written across every muted motion passing between you both.

And yet Jules’ brain still refuses to process the knowledge beyond a frantic sort of shock.

You let out a tiny sound at his words, almost involuntary — a helpless little exhale that seems to admit far more than any words could. Your eyes dance between Romee and Charles in a soundless plea.

Charles is the one to finally break the stifling silence, laying a tender palm on your back and meeting Jules’ owlish stare head-on.

“We, ah ...” He falters, clearing his throat gruffly as you drop your head in apparent fatigue. “Well, yes. Your mother is … with child again, it appears.”

The words seem to bypass Jules’ comprehension entirely, landing with all the force of a wispy feather brushing against his brain. He sucks in a sharp breath, cringing slightly at the sting of recycled, dry garage air searing his raw throat.

“But … how?” He sputters weakly, shaking his head as if to rattle his wits into some sort of coherent line. “I mean, when did this even … “

You make a choked sound in the back of your throat, quickly smothered against the sleeve of your jacket. Jules’ eyes flick reflexively to the subtle swell of your abdomen, so glaringly obvious now that the truth has been dragged into the light.

It’s strange, really — how he kept convincing himself it was simply the inevitable effects of middle-age slowing your metabolism over these past few months. Jules had attributed the gradual rounding of your figure to nothing but the natural passage of time.

He can’t even begin to estimate how far along you must be. Surely his keen eyes would’ve noticed the signs sooner otherwise? And yet … no one else seems to have picked up on the possibility at all until this very moment.

As always, Charles picks up on his inner turmoil without Jules needing to give it voice. His father reaches up to card gentle fingertips through Jules’ sweat-damp curls, expression perfectly placid.

“You know your mother and I have never exactly been … modest about our affections,” he murmurs with a wry twist of his lips. “So when a man and a woman love each other …”

Jules feels his cheeks heat furiously at the implication, mind grinding to a screeching halt at that level of transparency from his own father. You, too, look positively mortified — features drained of all color as you steadfastly avoid Romee’s avidly curious gaze.

“Oh god,” Jules chokes out, pitching forward to bury his face in his palms. His entire body thrums with unease, fresh waves of nausea clawing up his throat. “Please, I can’t — I don’t want to think about ...”

His father’s rich laughter cuts through the swell of discomfort rolling through Jules’ gut. He startles when Charles’ hand lands on his neck, solid and grounding.

“Breathe,” he soothes, a smile evident in his voice. “All this shock and outrage is completely unnecessary. Why shouldn’t your poor old man still experience the occasional joy of being a doting husband, hmm?”

“Oh my god, Papa!” Jules groans again, scandalized. But Charles merely chuckles harder, reaching down to haul Jules into a sitting position once more.

You remain hunched nearby, expression hopelessly torn between contrition and sheer amusement at the disastrous state of your firstborn. Even Romee is barely stifling her giggles, having clearly recovered from her earlier alarm to bask in the ridiculous diversion of his freakout.

“This is … I can’t even begin,” Jules wheezes, dropping his pounding head between his knees. “I’m going to have a sibling younger than my own baby! How is that even possible?”

Another ripple of chuckles sounds around him. Charles’ palm rubs comforting circles over his trembling shoulders — mock sympathetic, but still undeniably paternal in its anchoring warmth.

Then it’s Romee’s turn to smother a snort of indelicate laughter into her palm. “Honestly Jules, you’re acting just like a petulant little brat right now. I’d expect behavior like this from my little brothers, not a fully grown man about to become a father himself!”

That seems to finally shatter the tension engulfing the scene. You dissolve into a fit of giggles nearly as shameless as Romee’s, shoulders shaking with relief.

“Leave it to you to be the voice of reason,” the gratitude is clear in your tone. “I hope your child inherits your sensibility rather than-”

“Hey!” Jules protests weakly, raising his head just enough to cast you both an extremely feigned look of affront. “I’ll have you know I handle everything with the utmost sophistication ...”

Romee rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, drawing near enough to nudge his temple with her knee in a wordless reprimand. As she shifts, one hand trails down to cradle her own swollen abdomen — a gesture Jules swiftly mirrors without conscious thought, curving his palm around the slope of her belly.

His new sibling could very well be due soon after his own imminent parenthood. The realization nearly steals what little breath he has left. Jules’ vision blurs slightly, throat contracting as he blinks rapidly against the hot sting gathering in his eyes.

“Jules?” Romee murmurs, instantly concerned by his silence. “Schatje, whatever is the matter?”

“I … nothing, I just. ..” He huffs an incredulous breath, gaze darting reflexively back to the contrasting swells of your midsections. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

He’s helpless to do anything but drag you both into his arms, clutching tightly enough to convey the swell of emotion roaring through him.

You enfold him just as greedily, stroking his hair and murmuring soothing nothings. A second pair of arms snakes around his back, Romee asserting her own comforting presence with a gentle squeeze.

“I love you all so damn much,” Jules finally rasps when he can summon his voice once more. “More than you could ever know.”

A soft huff of delighted laughter sounds as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. Your eyes shimmer with unshed tears of your own, but it’s radiant joy that comes across your beautiful features most prominently.

“And we love you, darling,” you murmur, reaching up to swipe the lingering tracks from Jules’ cheekbones with tender pads of your thumbs.

“I really am so happy for you two,” he mumbles fervently into your hair, words nearly swallowed by the chaos of the surrounding garage. “Another little sibling to dote on … I can hardly believe how lucky I am.”

Perhaps it’s not so difficult to accept the greatest shock of all after witnessing the newest miracle taking shape within the growing roundness of your body.

He grins brilliantly, the last of his apprehension finally releasing in a giddy rush. “My baby brother or sister is going to be so spoiled, just you wait.”

2K notes · View notes

jungkookstatts · 10 months

Text

All Over Again

[Summary]: Paternity leave has its effects on Jungkook. After his first day back at work, he can't help but show you how much he doesn't want to go back.

[Theme]: Dad!Jk, CEO!Jk, Married Couple AU, Parent's AU

[Rating]: 18+ for sexual themes. Marking, kissing, nipple play, creampie, unprotected (wrap it up y'all), dom!JK, mentions of another pregnancy, talks of pregnancy and getting pregnant, etc.

[Word Count]: 4,274

[A/N]: This is a pure result of the urge my body suddenly gets to want a child right before my period smh. Anyway, felt cute, might delete later once I am sane.

It’s been a long ass day. Jungkook’s white button-up feels stapled to his skin, his pants folding uncomfortably with every step he makes as he exits his office. A long finger comes up to his neck, digging underneath his striped tie, wiggling it a little to loosen the chokehold it has around his neck. His other hand feels bound to his briefcase, which carries so much importance in his life but yet so much burden at the same time.

It’s his first day back at work after his baby boy was born. The briefcase he holds reminds him of the duty he has to his family — of his passion and his support for you and your baby. But it also reminds him of the time it has ripped away from spending with you. He clutches it with so much strength at the thought of you, pulling his car keys out of his pocket and pressing the unlock button so hard, that he thinks he almost might just break it.

With a deep breath, he takes off his tie and tosses it in the passenger seat along with his briefcase. He’s ready to go home. That picture of you, him, and your son that you insisted on framing and Jungkook bringing to work has been a constant reminder of what he has to look forward to at the end of the day. If only his paternity leave could have been longer. You and his son are all he’s been able to think about. How you were doing, if you needed his help, if Jaemun was being feisty, how the cute crinkle on his nose resembles yours to a T.

It’s late January, and the winter air is unforgiving. He wonders if you have the heat on high enough; if Jaemun had enough blankets, or if the tip of your nose was cold like how it always is in the winter months. He can imagine you holding him close, swaddling him as you sing to him delicately. The thought makes his whole body warm, even though the air is so cold that it feels like glass is cutting against his skin.

He’s convinced he will take more time off. He’s the CEO, after all. He could take months off and it not matter. He wants to be with you always — at all times of the day to hold you and be there for you like he should be. If only the world had been that easy to where passions didn’t have a price. He got lucky, his passion having a heavy penny attached to it. But he wonders where that passion took something more valuable away from him — time. He finds himself now strapped between the choice of time and passion, and he fights the fact that he cannot choose both.

The door to your home is welcoming to his eyes as he pulls up to it. It’s not big by any means. Just homey and enough for the three of you. Even with the snow covering almost every inch of it, the reminder of how warm it is on the inside makes his drive to enter it even greater. He does so with a shiver, coming up to your shared home with a stomp of his boots to shake off the snow just before he enters.

To his surprise, he’s met with hushed music coming from the kitchen as he puts his winter coat on the hook, places his briefcase on the wooden floor, and shimmies out of his shoes. He looks at his watch first, making sure it’s not Jaemun’s nap time, to which he finds out it is. The soft music makes sense now, and he smiles when he makes his way down the hallway to the source of the noise.

The rest of the house is dark except for the kitchen-living room area that you and your baby rest in. Jaemun is peacefully sleeping in his bassinet by the couch, cuddling his dinosaur blanket, while you are by the stove, stirring something.

You look over your shoulder at the sound of familiar footsteps, and your heart immediately softens at the sight of your husband in the doorframe. He smiles back tiredly, running his hand through his hair in an exhausted attempt to pull himself together before he makes his way over to you. He looks relieved, like he’s finally received what he’s wanted all day. You’re happy to see him, knowing all too well that that’s what you’ve been waiting for all day, too.

Big, warm hands slide around your waist, a heavy chin rests on your shoulder as he kisses your cheek softly. He takes a deep breath, breathing in your presence as he releases the tension from work off his shoulders. You tend to have an instant effect on him — he missed you so much.

“You’re stirring water?” he laughs as he stares at the pot of water on the stove, unboiled, as you stir it as if it is.

“I’m trying to get it to boil quicker,” you explain with a defeated sigh. “Doesn’t seem to be working. I feel like I’ve been standing here for 20 minutes.”

He hums from behind you, taking your stirring hand and stopping your motions. You’ve never been a big cooker, but he knows you’ve been trying lately. “Just let it be, love. It’ll get there.”

You do as he says, putting the ladle down on the countertop and turning around in his embrace. You wrap your arms around his neck, staring at the tall man who holds you close against him. You’re met with a tired Jungkook who rests his forehead against yours as you play with the hairs at the back of his head.

“How was work?” you ask gently.

He groans, wrapping his hands around your waist and holding you tighter against him. It causes you to rest your cheek on his shoulder, hugging him in full.

“That bad?” you chuckle.

Your husband just sighs against your neck. “It’s too early to go back, Y/n,” he candors.

You tuck a strand of hair that fell in front of his face behind his ear. “We’re ok, Kook,” you comfort. But he only shakes his head, making the tucked strand fall out of its place again.

“I’m not,” he says. “I want to be here with you. Spend time with Jaemun before he’s suddenly 25.”

You chuckle at that. It does feel like that sometimes. It’s been three months since your son was born, but it feels like it was just yesterday that you were holding him for the first time.

You can only hold his cheek in response, running your thumb slowly against his soft skin. You feel for him, you really do. He’s such a good father. It makes your heartstrings tug and twist and pull every time you see him with your little boy. It’s only a matter of time before you have to go back to work as well. The thought makes your stomach turn, and you can completely sympathize with your husband dreading going back to work and leaving you and Jaemun.

“Your water is boiling,” he breaks you out of your daze.

“Oh,” you turn around. You smile, knowing he was right before. “I’m making pasta if that sounds ok?”

Jungkook kisses your neck in response, a gentle thing that has your tummy flipping for a second.

“You could also probably wake up our son,” you check the time on the microwave. “He’s been a little sleepy today, so I let his nap go for a little longer than usual.”

You add the pasta in and turn the water down, moving over to the greens left on the cutting board. You start chopping until your husband’s lips move lower.

“Our son,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone. The statement makes him jittery. It feels unreal still, even after nine months of waiting, and another three of actually having your little family here with him. You’re his wife, the mother of his kid, and he loves you more than anything in the world. You gave him something he can never find an equivalent to giving back to you. You gave him your heart and a family, and there’s nothing that can replace or overcome what that means to him. His soul lives for yours; it’s overwhelming what you’ve done for him. It’s overwhelming how you make him feel.

He kisses your collarbone softly once again, his heart full. You tilt your head to the side for more, and he gives it to you, kissing up your neck with slow wet kisses.

“Kook,” you exhale gently. You feel him hum against the skin just under your ear. Large palms cup your waist, his body moving closer to yours, trapping your hips against the countertop. Your knife feels loose in your hand when he bites at your skin gently, his tongue brushing over the bite mark afterward.

He stirs something within you. Something that you’ve missed terribly for the past few months. It makes your thighs tremble as he gently caresses your skin under his fingertips.

“The baby—“ you begin, but Jungkook’s motions cut you off yet again when his fingers slowly slide down your front. He’s unsure, his hand hesitating over your skin as his breath stops momentarily in thought.

“Is this okay?” He asks you genuinely. You nearly fall to your knees, dropping your knife onto the board, when his fingers put pressure over your clothed mound. It’s subtle, and much more gentle than what you’re used to with him. You know he’s being cautious, but god did you miss him. “If it’s too much, I’ll pull away.”

You shake your head.

It’s been a long time since the two of you have gotten intimate. Childbirth wasn’t easy, and your doctor just recently gave you two the “ok” for sex. The first time you tried since then wasn’t like what you’re used to with your husband. It was slow and painful, ending with a lot of apologies, embarrassment, and frustration. It’s safe to say that you have to get used to sex all over again.

“No,” you lean against him. “J-Just be gentle. I’m still a little sore.”

“Ok,” he whispers against your neck, kissing it softly. “Just relax for me, baby. I’ll make it feel good, I promise.”

You nod, loosening your nervous shoulders as your husband takes control. He stops swiftly for a second, turning the stove on the lowest setting before looking over his shoulder at his son to ensure he’s still fast asleep. Once he sees that he is, he immediately returns to you.

“So good for me,” he says, slowly circling your clit over your sweats. His other hand squeezes your waist before it moves up, sliding under your shirt and trickling over your breast. You’re wearing a soft bra today—one without an underwire—which makes it easier for him to slide his fingers under.

You whimper when he softly massages your boob, his fingers playing with your nipples gently. Your body, especially your breasts, has become 10x more sensitive since birth. You can feel everything, and everything either hurts or feels really really good. Whenever your husband seems to hold them, you’re a whimpering mess, melting like putty in his arms as he plays with you.

“Sensitive,” Jungkook smiles. His fingers rub harder against you, and you subtly buck your hips against him. His lips graze against your skin, his hair tickling your collarbone as he assaults your neck over and over again.

“You’re so cute when you’re pregnant,” he rasps against your cheek before planting a sweet kiss upon it. “Wanna see you like that all the time. So full of me — carrying our babies.”

“Jungkook, I—” you whine, grasping onto his wrist. You’re unsure what to do with yourself, wanting him to do so much to you, but not knowing where to start.

The man behind you takes his hand away from your mound, and he chuckles when you whine in protest. But his thumbs hook on your pants and underwear, slowly pulling them down.

“Relax, baby,” he asks again. “I told you, I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t worry.”

His hand slides around your waist again, smoothing over your skin until it’s sliding between your folds. The back of your hand comes up to your mouth as your other grips the countertop for support as he plays with you.

“So wet,” he moans, feeling the effect he’s had on you with his fingers. “This all for me? I’ve barely touched you yet.”

You nod, feeling completely at the mercy of the man behind you. His other hand plays with your nipple again, and you feel another wave of euphoria go straight to your pussy.

His fingers gather your slick generously, smoothing it over your clit before circling it gently. He plays infinities over it, making your knees go weak. It’s getting harder to stay quiet, especially when he pinches your nipple gently, making you gasp at the soreness and pleasure it causes.

“K-Kook,” you whine, but he only chuckles, quickening his motions on your clit as he presses further into you. You can feel his dick strained against his work pants, and the thought of him inside you again makes you feel so needy for him. “Want you,” you pant. “Please.”

“Patience,” he shushes you, kissing your neck surely. “I haven’t even made you cum yet.”

“Wanna cum with you,” you whine in protest.

“You will,” he promises.

You gasp as he switches his finger, his thumb trading places with his middle. It circles over you just the same, except this time, it’s joined by his middle finger slowly inserting itself between your folds.

“Oh,” you exhale, feeling weak when he pumps it in and out of you slowly.

He lets himself test your reactions, seeing if the insertion is too much — if it hurts or feels uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem to be, and he slowly lets his ring finger join with his middle, causing you to roll your eyes back slightly.

“So good for me, baby,” he encourages. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” you reply almost immediately.

He kisses your neck. His lips leave hot, wet marks all over your skin as he curls his fingers against your g-spot. His other hand quickly comes to your waist, stabilizing you as you whimper against the back of your hand, trying your best to keep quiet.

He circles his thumb faster, his fingers circling and brushing against your g-spot in tandem with his movements. You feel your orgasm looming over you, and with a certain pressure against your clit, you’re coming undone just as he said you would all over his fingers.

“There you are,” he coaxes you. You’re a whimpering mess, and he feels his dick twitch at the sight of you falling apart on his fingers. He helps you ride out your high, his fingers very gently brushing over your clit as you come down.

Once you're calmed down, you reach around you, playing with his belt loop as you rest your head on his shoulder and look up at him. He looks back down, hesitating again knowing what you want but unsure if it’s too much for you to handle yet.

“What,” he smiles teasingly with a kiss to your forehead.

“I want you,” you candor, looking at up him with pleading eyes.

He kisses your nose. “Are you sure? You said it hurt last time.”

You nod. “Please, Koo,” you beg him.

His chest rises, and he takes a deep breath before he nods, kissing you gently as he unbuckles his belt. He places it on the counter before unzipping himself and pulling his pants down. It springs up, pressing itself against your skin gently. But he takes himself in his hands, hesitantly letting it slide down over your folds.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you, okay?” He says, lining himself up to you with a few strokes of his cock. God, was he nervous. The last time sex hurt really bad for you, and that was just a week ago. He wonders if the prep was enough; he hopes it was, he really doesn’t want to hurt you again.

You nod, holding onto the countertop again as his tip rubs against your entrance. Your coat his cock in such slickness, even you’re surprised at how much you leak onto him. You miss your husband. You need this bad, and so does he.

“Oh, and try to stay quiet, yeah?” He says with a push of his hips. The motion has him covering your mouth with his hand, shielding your moans quickly. “The baby is still sleeping.”

His dick slips past your folds so smoothly, it has you gasping for breath at how good it feels. It’s nothing like the last time. He’s gentler, but still so so big, he fills you up just right.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your neck once he sheathes himself fully inside of you. The man behind you stills, completely overwhelmed with the feeling of you. He, too feels like he’s had to relearn sex all over again. How to please you right now that your body has changed, how to make sure that you are comfortable with his pace and size. You two haven’t had sex like this in so long, he feels overwhelmed when you feel almost too good for him to control. A part of him is embarrassed by how quickly he thinks he’s going to last.

“How are you still so tight, hm?” he asks with a firm grip on your hip. “Y-You okay?”

You can only nod, pushing your hips down against him. The motion forces him further into you, to which both of you grunt at the feeling.

Testingly, Jungkook pulls out slowly, before pushing back into you a little quicker than before. You coat him generously, creating a motion that makes it easy for him to repeat.

He develops a pace, fucking you against the kitchen countertop with your juices leaking all over his cock and down your thighs. The stove is on and your baby still sleeps; there are uncut vegetables in front of you and your husband still wears his work shirt. But he fucks you as if none of that matters. As if his only priority is to make sure you feel good, to let yourself go as he fuck you deep and just how you like it.

His hand comes off from your mouth and settles on your hip. His other hand wraps around your front, holding you impossibly close against his body.

You moan softly when he bends you over slightly against the countertop, the new angle making it hard for you to stay quiet. But you push your hips against him anyway, telling him without words to go deeper.

The action causes him to moan, following your request with a snap of his hips.

“You like it that much, hm?” He grunts, cock ramming into you. “Like it when I knock you up good?”

“Y-Yes!” You whisper. “I love it so much, Koo.”

“Y-yeah?” He leans over you. A tattooed hand cups over yours, palm embracing the back of your hand as he intertwines his fingers with yours. “Gonna let me do it again?”

“Mmhm,” you squeeze his fingers. “As many times as y-you want.”

“A-Ah,” he pants, mind going into a frenzy over your words. The fact that he is yours, that you are his. That only he can hear you say that. That only he can make you feel this good. That only he has the privilege of calling you his wife. It makes his heart warm and his cock twitch.

“God, I’m going to ruin you if you say things like that, Y/n,” he warns. But you are relentless, leaning your head back on his shoulder, giving yourself to him further.

“W-Want you to,” you whimper. “I love you.”

Your legs shake, completely weak from your past orgasm and your new one forming at the pit of your stomach. His cock makes you feel so full, like you’re stretched to the max capacity as he fucks you good. You know he’s close when his dick twitches inside of you after your words, which only encourages you to gain some strength and begin fucking yourself back on his cock.

“Mm, fuck,” he grips your hips tightly. “M’ gonna cum.”

He quickly reaches around you again, drawing infinities over your clit with his middle finger. His eyes roll back as your cunt naturally tightens at the feeling. Your hips jolt and the knots in your tummy slowly start to unravel themselves onto his dick as you come undone. Just as he had promised, with a final twitch, he’s cumming inside of you with hot, thick ropes filling you up with whispered exhales of your name on his lips.

He lets the two of you catch your breath, his forehead resting on your shoulder before he’s pulling out, shared cum leaking down your thighs and onto the floor. Quickly, he grabs a paper towel from the roll next to the stove and cleans you up a little.

With gentle hands, he helps you back into your sweats before he helps himself into his boxers. He still lingers behind you when he reaches a hand around you and turns the stove on a higher setting once again.

You turn around, wrapping your hands around his neck as you pull him in for a much-needed kiss. “I love you,” you whisper against him again. His hair falls onto your skin, dark locks intertangling with yours as his fingers come up to hold your face against his. Soft lips sear over yours, telling you things that simply cannot be put into words.

“I love you, too,” he brushes his nose against yours. “Was that okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

You pause, looking up at his dilated pupils. He looks at you like you're his world; like he's given you his heart with the full intent of never receiving it back from you. You nod, kissing him softly again.

“You should probably wake up your son now,” you poke his cheek.

Looking at the time on the microwave, he snaps out of his daze. “Oh fuck,” he says as his fingers leave your side. You watch him leave you with a chuckle, turning back to your pasta wondering how in the world you go so lucky to marry and mother a kid to this man. You’d truly give him anything he wanted.

***

[Bonus]

With gentle hands, so big against his baby’s frame, he picks Jaemun up in his arms, holding him against his chest. His dinosaur blanket swaddles him softly, and Jungkook does his best to make sure he’s correctly supported and held despite the extra fabric over his small frame.

Jaemun stirs, and Jungkook places a soft kiss on his tiny head before he gets the chance to freak out and cry. The baby seems to know exactly who is holding him, and he nearly falls back asleep at the familiarity of his father’s arms. But Jungkook bounces him against his chest softly, slowly waking him up for dinnertime.

He makes his way over to you, making unnecessary airplane noises, from what you assume is Jungkook pretending to be an airplane and his son the passenger.

“You know, babies can’t laugh until they’re about 4 months,” you shake your head with a laugh.

“False,” your husband comes behind you again. “I swear he’s laughed before.”

You chuckle, taking the pan off the stove and pouring the insides into a strainer. Just the noodles are left in the strainer now, and you realize that you haven’t thought past the part of boiling the noodles. You ignore that you have no idea what kind of pasta you’re making when Jungkook rests himself against the kitchen island.

Jaemun catches sight of you, and his arm reaches for you in Jungkook’s hold. You come over, giving him a kiss on the forehead before kissing your husband.

“Were you serious?” your husband asks you suddenly.

“About?” you raise your eyebrow.

“You know,” he gulps, holding Jaemun a little tighter. He rests against Jungkook's shoulder, his eyes tempting to fall back asleep again. “More kids.”

You raise both your eyebrows again, looking at him as if he was serious. His heart beats faster when he realizes what you’re thinking, quickly rephrasing himself.

“N-Not now, of course,” he gulps.

You turn around, opening the fridge for some milk for Jaemun as you listen to him. You take out a pot, take the cased breast milk from earlier, and pour it in, turning on the stove afterward.

“I just mean, like, in the future,” he explains.

There’s a long pause as you wait for the pot to heat up enough. The man behind you is weak, and you don’t know if you want to be mean and give him the blunt answer, or soften the blow. Watching how he cradles your son makes you want to go with the first choice.

“Don’t you worry Jeon,” you start, as you stir the contents in the pot. You can hear him gulp behind you. “I planned on giving you as many babies as you want. But at least wait until Jaemun is in pre-school or something. I don’t think I can handle two infants at once.”

You hear little from him at your answer, leaving you smirking knowing full well that you put the man behind you in a frenzy imagining the future you just laid out for him.

***

[End. Do not copy. Original work of @jungkookstatts , 2023]

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justagalwhowrites · 3 months

Text

Just to be Sure

Your husband Joel is desperate to get you pregnant again.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Breeding kink smut. Joel really really REALLY wants to knock you up. Lots of pregnancy talk. Reader has given birth before and is at the age where she can give birth again so choose your own adventure for age gap but I picture them about the same age with Joel late 30s. Husband!Joel. No outbreak AU. Creampie. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI, 18+ only

Length: 1k

A/N: Forgive me for this. I am completely baked and couldn’t shake the thought of Joel having an insane breeding kink. I think if there was no outbreak and Joel found a woman, he’d be DESPERATE to knock her up over and over. He is all about his family, wants so many kids to look after, he’s always begging her for just one more. This is that Joel. He’s filthy. I love him. Also I wrote this in an hour and a half while on an edible and barely proofread it fuck if we ball also sorry I wrote it half on my phone in bed OK BYE LOVE YOU!

“Fuck, Joel…”

Your voice trailed off, weak and breathless, your hands grasping uselessly at the sheets around you.

You weren’t sure how long he’d had you here like this, sweating and fucked out as your husband slowly worked his cock in and out of you. You just knew you had to be quiet, that your one year old was asleep just a room away, a feat that was damn near impossible as Joel pulled yet another orgasm out of you.

“What, baby?” He panted over you, one hand gripping the headboard as he buried himself inside you yet again.

“You…” You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to focus. “You don’t have to get me pregnant to..to…tonight, you know…”

“Oh I know,” he said, his voice heavy with need and scratchy with exertion. “Wouldn’t mind tryin’ with you for a few months, fucking this pretty pussy full of me every damn night, comin’ so deep in you that you’ve got part of me in you all day every day.”

“Joel,” you whimpered, you couldn’t help it, your pussy drawing tight and hot around him.

“But, see, I’m not sure I can wait that long,” he said, pressing somehow deeper into you and holding himself there for a moment, making your cunt clench around him, your legs scrambling for purchase as your next orgasm built higher and higher. “Need to put another baby in you now, need to see your belly grow, need to fuck you until you’ve got part of me in you for damn near a year.”

“Oh fuck!”

You moaned it louder than you should have, Joel’s large hand going from propping him up to clamped over your mouth as your orgasm took you, the heat of it shooting out from your core and through your entire being, your heart racing, channel throbbing.

“Oh goddamn,” he groaned, fucking into you even harder now. “That’s right little mama, pull another baby out me, that’s it…”

“Joel, Joel, Joel,” you panted over and over again into his hand, mind reduced to nothing but your husband and how damn full he made you feel, especially with his bare cock buried deep inside of you.

It had been a year almost to the day that you’d last fucked without a condom. You’d been right at the end of your pregnancy, desperate for Joel and desperate for something - anything - to kick start your labor. The last time you hadn’t needed a condom, your contractions started 20 minutes after it ended.

Ever since, you’d been taking precautions. Not because you didn’t want another baby - you definitely did - but because you hadn’t gotten the OK from your doctor yet.

Today, that had changed. You’d gone to your check up and your doctor gave you a clean bill of health, including the OK to start trying to get pregnant again.

You’d figured Joel would want to get started trying that night. You just hadn’t counted on him pulling endless orgasms as a part of trying.

“Think you got one more in you, baby?” He asked, freeing your mouth to run his hand over your hair. You just whimpered. “M’close, wanna come with you. Come on, you can give me one more, know you can.”

You couldn’t find the words as he moved to suck your neck, so you just moaned and nodded and clawed his body closer and tighter to yours.

You could feel him smile against you then, the pace of his pounding cock picking up, the tip of him hitting the spot inside you he’d long ago claimed as his own perfectly with each stroke.

“Come on little mama,” he panted. “Takes better if you come with me, need you to fucking come baby, need to feel you fucking come when I make you pregnant.”

You weren’t sure Joel was fully aware of what he was saying but then, you felt like you were moving of your own accord, too, your hips rolling up against his, frantically pawing at him in a desperate attempt to pull him so close that it was like his whole being was inside you.

This orgasm claimed you quickly, going from starting to build to taking over you in a matter of seconds. You barely had a chance to warn Joel before it hit you.

"I'm gonna come," you managed just half a second before your channel started to fluffer around him. "Fuck, I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Fuck, that's it," he said fucking into you with two more deep, devastating strokes before you could feel his cock throbbing heavily inside, the warm spread of his spend in your most intimate place drawing your orgasm out. "That's it, fuck, come while I put my baby in you."

His cock gave one final, heavy pulse before he collapsed on you, panting for breath as you went limp below him. Even as he lay there, damn near exhausted, he still managed to fuck his cock into you a few more times, driving his come even deeper.

When he was satisfied, he sat up from you and watched between your legs as he slowly, gently pulled his softening length from your aching, swollen sex.

“So damn pretty like this,” he said almost reverently. You felt the comforting warmth of his come drip out of you and then Joel’s finger was there, scooping it up and gently pushing it back inside your spent hole as it struggled to close after being opened by his thick cock for so long. “Gotta keep me deep inside her baby, s’where I belong.”

You just whimpered a little, still not positive you could form words as Joel lay beside you, his hand skimming slowly over your stomach down to the place that had grown your first daughter with Joel.

“Think our baby’s in there?” He asked softly, thumb brushing your skin in a gentle rhythm.

“I hope so,” you smiled at him.

“Don’t sound like you’re sure,” he smirked a little back. “Might just need to leave more of me in you, just to be sure.”

Your smile grew as his hand slipped lower.

“Just to be sure.”

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #smut fic #breeding kink fic #husband!joel miller

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phefics · 10 months

Text

veritaserum

ship: fred weasley x reader x george weasley summary: fred and george dose the reader with a truth serum, which leads to her admitting a sexual fantasy including both brothers. warnings: dubious consent (truth potion is used to make the reader admit her sexual fantasies which then play out), pseudo-inc3st (the twins don't do anything sexual to each other but are both involved in the same sexual scenario), gender-neutral!reader (reader has a vagina but no pronouns are used) word count: 1.9k

Being friends with the Weasley twins was a constant rollercoaster.

There was never a dull moment, always an adventure to go on, a prank to pull, or witty banter bouncing between you and the brothers. Sometimes, you were helping Fred and George pull off their next big joke, but other times, you were their target. Sure, it could be frustrating, but it was also fun for you, and you always found ways to get them back.

You had been friends with the twins since your first year at Hogwarts, and that friendship had continued past Hogwarts and followed you into early-adulthood. You visited them at the flat over their shop in Diagon Alley often, where they showed you prototypes for new products and made you laugh until you cried with their antics.

It was a cold evening when you appeared in their fireplace, a bit dusty from the ashes, and were greeted with excited shouts from Fred and George before being pulled into a group hug.

As you looked up at their grinning faces, you couldn’t believe that there were people who still got the twins confused.

Fred had more freckles on his face, while George’s shoulders and arms had an abundance of them. When Fred laughed, he threw his head back, cackling loudly, while George usually gave more reserved chuckles, laughing down at his lap. And, well, George was fully missing an ear now, and Fred had a large scar on his temple from the Battle, where a piece of castle wall had crashed down on top of him.

“Finally,” Fred said, man-handling you onto the couch. “We’ve been waiting ages!”

“I’m only a few minutes late,” you replied, glancing at their clock, which wasn’t even working—it read 3:15, but it was well past 7:00 judging by the darkness outside.

“And are our few minutes not important to you?” George asked, sitting by your side. “We could have been using that time to come up with more brilliant inventions.”

“Or planned a clever scheme to spill a bucket of water on your head when you arrived,” Fred added.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m terribly sorry to have wasted your precious time,” you said, tone thick with sarcasm.

It was nice catching up with them. They updated you on each member of the Weasley family, such as Fleur’s pregnancy with her and Bill’s first child, or Percy’s upcoming wedding. You updated them on your own life as well, and it wasn’t long until they had pushed a glass of Firewhiskey into your hands.

“So, Y/N,” Fred said, leaning against the back of the couch. You immediately recognized the glint of mischief in his brown eyes, and braced yourself for whatever ridiculous question he was about to pose.

“Which of us do you think is the better looking twin?”

You opened your mouth, intending to say something like ‘neither of you’ or ‘you’re identical—what kind of stupid question is that?’ but the sentence that spilled from your lips instead was, “Well, you look pretty much the same, so I’d say you guys are equally attractive. I think the scar makes you look pretty hot, Fred, but George can really pull off the whole missing ear thing.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, face burning.

The twins both erupted into giggles.

“Oh, you’re too kind!” George said. “I’m glad you find my lack of an ear sexy.”

“And my scar is flattered,” Fred added.

“What did you two do?” you asked, scowling.

“We might have stumbled upon a vial of Veritaserum…” George said, trying and failing to look guilty. “And put it in your drink. Just a drop, though! It’ll wear off soon.”

You wanted to insult them, yell at them, call them every insult and curse under the sun, but no words would leave your tongue. It was like the truth serum wouldn’t even let you pretend to be pissed off. Sure, this was an invasion of your privacy and totally sketchy, but you had known Fred and George for so long, you were sort of used to their antics by now. You should have been way angrier than you were, but it was just so typical of them, you couldn’t muster much more than annoyance.

What you did manage to say was, “Why?”

Both twins shrugged.

“For fun,” Fred said.

“And because we were curious about something,” George replied.

“About what?”

“About which of us you like better.”

You blinked at them. “Are you serious? We aren’t eleven anymore. Is it really a contest between you two to be the better twin?”

“Not really, no,” Fred said. “Even though we all know that it's me.”

George reached over you to playfully shove his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not about proving anything. We’re just curious. So, Y/N, who do you like better: me or Freddie?”

“I like you equally,” you said. “You are both hilarious, intelligent, and my best friends. I find it easier to connect with George on serious things, but Fred always knows the right thing to say when I need cheering up.”

Your face was flushing deeper, embarrassed at the cheesy, sentimental words that left your mouth. Fred and George had grown up in an incredibly loving, affectionate family and had never shied away from making their love known, but it was awkward to voice your own feelings out loud like that.

Both twins seemed rather touched, though

“Wow, I was expecting you to have to pick,” Fred said. “But that’s oddly sweet.”

You groaned. “Okay, okay, yes, I love you both, can we knock this off now?”

“No, we have more questions!”

“Such as…?”

“Would you fuck either of us?” George asked.

Fred was normally the more vulgar of the two, and the question coming from George’s lips instead took you even more off guard.

“Yes,” you said, unable to stop yourself. “Either of you. Or both of you.”

“At the same time?”

“Yes.”

Fred and George also showed their emotions differently. Fred was better at keeping his feelings to himself, but when he was flustered, his ears would turn pink. His ears had flushed slightly, and his eyes were wide as he licked his lips, clearly intrigued by your answer. George was also flushed, but the color went to his face, and he brushed his thumbs repeatedly over his thighs, a nervous tick he’d always had.

“Have you thought about this a lot?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell us how you’d want it.”

You couldn’t help but answer. “I would let you strip off my clothes, groping me. One of you is behind me, kissing my neck as you take off my shirt. The other is at my feet, pulling my pants down. Neither of you shut up the whole time, talking about me like I’m not even there. Commenting to each other about how pretty I am, how wet my pussy is for you. Whoever is between my legs starts to go down on me, while the other holds my body still so I can’t move away from how good it feels. I cum on your tongue, and the other wants a turn, too…”

The twins were both clearly aroused as you spoke.

“Do you want that? Now?” Fred asked, his voice low.

“Yes,” you breathed.

They waste no time switching their positions on the couch, George pulling your back against his chest while Fred positions himself between your legs, his hands eagerly moving to the waistband of your pants, tugging at it.

George took his time, hands sliding up your shirt, touching softly as he felt you up, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, lips teasing the skin there.

You couldn’t help but whine under their touches, loving every moment of it. You had truly dreamt of this for years, always too afraid to ruin the friendship. Sure, you had kissed both twins for dares back at school, but this was real and intimate and beautiful.

Fred made quick work of getting your bottom half undressed, and he kissed his ways along your thighs, cupping your ass with one hand, squeezing hard.

“So fuckin’ hot,” George breathed.

“I know, right?” Fred replied. “So good for us, too. Are we making your fantasy come true, love?”

You nodded, whimpering softly.

“So needy, too. You want to cum for us?”

You nodded again. “Yes, yes please.”

George chuckled, nipping at your ear as Fred’s mouth finally reached your pussy, his tongue licking tentatively at you before he found your clit, which he immediately focused his attention on.

Your noises only grew louder, more desperate.

“Already? You’re not very good at this whole build-up thing, Freddie,” George said.

“I think we’ve waited long enough for this,” Fred replied before returning to his task.

“You don’t want to be patient, do you, darling?” George asked, hugging you tightly from behind. “You’ve wanted this for so long, you just want to be good for us, take everything we’ve got?”

“Fuck yes,” you moan.

Fred was clearly just as eager as you are, apparently trying to make you cum as quickly as possible, like he was placing bets in his head.

“You like that, hm? Is he good at it? Making you feel good?” George said.

“Feels so fucking good.”

“Good. You gonna cum for him?”

“Yes, yes, I’m—”

It didn’t take long at all. Fred’s tongue was good for more than just witty comments, and your legs trembled as he sat up, lips shining with your slick and a smug smile on his face.

“I think this is the part where we switch jobs, Georgie.”

Your pussy was already so wet, so sensitive, you knew that George would be able to make you cum fast, too. It was almost embarrassing how easy you were, how turned on they made you.

The twins switched positions, and Fred wrapped his arms around your middle sweetly, dragging his fingers over your waist and making goosebumps spread over your abdomen, squirming in his grasp.

“Don’t try and get away, sweet thing,” Fred said. “Otherwise George won’t be able to have his turn. Just be good for us, okay? Be a good little slut.”

You whined, face hot as George’s lips found your inner thighs and kissed the skin there, slowly, teasingly. He was the more patient, more methodical of the two. He wasn’t going to go straight for your clit, he was going to keep you wanting. Maybe until you begged.

Fred began sucking a hickey into your throat, leaving you a moaning mess as the twins both worshiped your body like it was something sacred.

Finally, George’s tongue found your pussy, teasing your hole and folds before even bothering to touch your clit.

“Should he put his fingers inside you?” Fred asked.

You nodded fervently, thrusting your hips.

George complied immediately, sliding one finger inside which was quickly followed by a second, pumping slowly before curling into that special spot, which he had found surprisingly easily.

Your second orgasm came just as quickly as the first, your hands balling into fists and your toes curling. Once your body was able to relax, you looked up through teary eyes to see George licking your taste off of his fingers.

“Was that everything you dreamed?” Fred asked.

You opened your mouth, expecting the answer to roll off your tongue, but it didn’t. You realized that the potion had worn off, and smirked.

“It could have been better,” you said, thrilled with your ability to lie again.

Obviously, Fred and George had to remedy that immediately.

#fred weasley x reader #george weasley x reader #weasley twins x reader #fred weasley smut #george weasley smut #weasley twins smut #hp fic #ophelia's fics

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