#man.. i wanna write crème de la crème again... so that i can write the bonds and mc trials through junior high.... and also timeskip era...

[baeshijima]

ngl after re-binge-watching hq!! with my mum, i have the urge to pick up my hq!! various x reader series again,,, i still have all the notes and plans and rereading that made me realise it would actually make a good fic 😭

[retrievablememories]

baby! | johnny (m)

title: baby! pairing: johnny x black!reader genre: smut, pwp summary: in which you wanna be johnny’s twinkie instead of his toaster strudel 💀 word count: 1.8k warnings: oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, spitting, impregnation kink/breeding kink (apparently they’re not the same thing? although i don’t know the difference…), creampie a/n: look...breeding kink is the crème de la crème (literally!!) but it’s hard to write it in a way that doesn’t border on corny or creepy...i’ll let y’all be the judge. also this is the 3rd fic i’ve written about this man within the span of a month, PLEASE send help. 🛌🏿

[2:13 a.m.]

It’s boiling hot.

You smooth your hand over Johnny’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach. He plays with the string on your sleep shorts, twisting it around his fingers as he stares off into space, blinking slowly.

You don’t know how or why the AC decided to break at the start of summer, but it would be just your luck that this happened. The repairman won’t be able to come out until Thursday, which is still days away. Until then, there’s no other choice but to keep all the fans on, stand in the refrigerator, and take as many trips to the pool as possible. It’s too late at night for the third option, and you’re currently too lazy to get up and do the second, so you opt for the first. The ceiling fan running above you provides some relief, but not enough.

“Can I ask a question?” he says suddenly. You glance at Johnny, who’s now looking up at you with his chin digging into your stomach.

“What is it?”

“Have you ever thought about having kids?”

You pause at that, your hand stilling on the back of his head.

“Maybe...a few times. Yes. Why?”

“...With me?

You blink a few times, and although it’s already hot in the room, you can’t mistake the sensation of your body getting hotter.

“Well....yeah.” You feel a little embarrassed about it, though you aren’t sure why, and your voice gets softer. Johnny grins like he’s just won a prize. “Maybe one day in the future. But not now…”

“That makes sense,” Johnny says. He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding his disappointment, which even he himself finds silly. Of course neither of you are ready for kids now. “It’s a nice thought to have, though.”

You go back to petting his hair, only more slowly than before. Silence hangs in the room again. You want your thoughts to slow down enough so you can finally go to sleep, but something keeps itching at the back of your mind. The same thing that warmed you when he asked the question. Now that he’s put it out in the air, you figure there is no better time. You can’t resist it.

“But...if we decided, sometime in the future…” Your words catch Johnny’s interest, and he looks up at you again. “How...uh. How would you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, how would you...get me pregnant.”

Johnny is fully engaged now. He props himself up on his elbow. His right hand rests on your abdomen, his fingers skirting across the sliver of brown skin revealed by your tank top. “You mean...how I’d fuck you? Come inside you?”

Your breath catches. “Y...yeah, that.”

“That’s a good question…” Johnny worries his lip as he pretends to think about it in-depth. Meanwhile, his hand slips into your shorts, his fingers rubbing against your clit and your outer lips—you decided to forgo the underwear tonight because of the heat. “I guess I’d have to get you wet enough for it first.”

“No kidding,” you sigh, arching into the movements of his hand.

Johnny shuffles himself farther down your body so he can pull your shorts down and access your pussy. He doesn’t waste any time with sliding his tongue through your lips and sucking your clit, moaning softly into your skin. You slip your hand back into his hair, tilt your head back, and focus on the sensation of his tongue and fingers stretching you open and getting you all slick and hot for him—just as he promised.

You’re almost delirious at how good and surreal this is, like you’ve been wrapped up in a blazing hot fever dream. Johnny licks into you and pulls back the hood of your clit so he can drag his wide tongue over your bundle of nerves. His fingers scissor inside you with practiced movements, motions that have been performed dozens of times before, and he knows that he can pull an orgasm out of you in only a minute or two when he really wants to make it fast and Earth-shattering.

You continue gripping his hair throughout your climax, using that anchor to reality to help you ride his fingers and tongue to ultimate bliss. He could make a game of this if he wanted, drinking more from you until you nearly have to kick him away, but he gives you a break this time by pulling away after the first orgasm.

Johnny gives you a few moments to calm down, rubbing your thighs and watching your chest rise as you breathe and resisting the urge to move his hand down a few inches farther and make you melt in his grip again.

When you seem coherent enough, he asks, “Can we...without the condom?”

You and Johnny have yet to have sex without a condom, although you’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Since the first time you slept together, actually. You’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time fantasizing what it’ll be like the first time he comes in you. And...you’ve been on birth control the entire time, waiting for this opportunity to arise but previously unsure how to approach it. Now, it’s sitting in front of you, and it’s too good to pass up.

Your throat is dry from the exertion of being pleasured in a burning hot room. “W-we can. We should. This is….practice, after all. Isn’t it?”

Johnny smirks and nods. He makes quick work of his shirt and underwear before pulling your legs up, and you think he means to place them on his shoulders, but he keeps bending them until they’re pressed against your chest. You stare at him with wide eyes. “This would be the best position—you know, to make sure it gets in deep enough.” He explains it as casually as he would if he were talking about anything else, and your head spins a little just from the anticipation of feeling him inside. “I’d want you to take every drop…so much that there’s no way you wouldn’t get knocked up.”

You merely nod, too excited and breathless with lust to say much of anything to a statement like that. You’re pretty immobile in this position and will have to let him do most of the work, a thought that makes your spine tingle.

Johnny tilts his head down and you wonder what he’s doing for a moment before you feel his spit hitting your pussy and running down your ass. “Jesus, Johnny…” You’re stuck between deciding whether it’s really sexy or maybe a little gross when he slides into you, giving you the satisfaction of feeling every inch of him at once.

When he enters you in this position, he feels as deep as humanly possible, the tip of his member kissing your cervix, and it’s only compounded by the raw feeling of his bare skin against yours. “God, we should’ve done this sooner,” is all you can mutter. You can feel him throb inside of you in a different kind of way, and it’s a sensation that’s hard to explain verbally, but you can feel it through every nerve in your body.

Johnny seems lost for words for once in his life, his hips stuttering as he pushes and pulls your body and tries to find a rhythm that won’t have him nutting in 5 seconds. “Fuck,” he swears heavily as he watches his cock glide into you and come back out covered in your wetness. “I’m gonna fill you to the brim.”

Johnny fucks you hard and slow, and you can barely catch your breath with how intense it all feels. You’re almost afraid your body will burst apart at the seams. His dick pushes against your cervix on some strokes, and it makes your eyes roll back a little every time. His torment is far from complete, though, as he shifts his hips until he’s rubbing against your g-spot, and now you truly think you must’ve died and entered a new realm.

You hold onto your legs, digging your nails into your skin, because it’s the only thing you can do as Johnny pushes your body into the mattress. “Please, Johnny,” you moan, and you don’t even know what you’re asking him for. More? Less? But there’s no way you want less of this feeling, so you decide it can’t be that.

“Beg for it,” Johnny’s voice is rough, though there’s an unmistakable tremor in it, too. “Beg for my cum. Beg me to give you a baby.” Johnny drags your hips closer to his so he’s practically rutting into you at this point, making your walls clench onto him in an effort to never let him go. His pubic bone stimulates your clit as he fucks you, and you doubt you’ll last much longer now.

You’re not really sure what comes over you—maybe months of pent-up fantasy—but at that moment, there’s nothing more you want than to be filled up and claimed by him, with his seed coating you from the inside out.

“Make me yours, Johnny,” you cry out, slurring your words. “Come in me, please, put a baby in me.”

You come soon after this, your legs shaking as Johnny refuses to let up on fucking you through your climax. You let go of your legs, wanting to move away lest you be completely overwhelmed by the sensation, but Johnny grabs them and keeps you in that position.

“Don’t run. You’re not going anywhere, not until you take all of this dick.”

“John, I-I can’t…” You’re so wet that it’s leaking between your bodies and making everything even messier, and your clit is still hypersensitive and thrumming with pleasure. Johnny seems to revel in this rawness, though, and you honestly don’t remember the last time you’ve seen him this riled up.

He spits on your pussy again and rubs your clit, and with you not even recovered from your second orgasm, you’re over the edge again, shouting his name and a bunch of other words you won’t remember after all this is finished.

Johnny gives you a few more hard thrusts before burying himself deep and finally releasing inside you, his warm cum flooding your walls. His thighs tense and tremble as your body milks him of everything he has to offer. Sweat drips down his neck and trails down his chest, and his arms shake as he holds himself up above you.

Slowly, he pulls out of you and watches as some of his release comes dripping out. He doesn’t get to watch for long, though, as you immediately put your legs down, sprawling across the bed in exhaustion.

“Thanks. Now I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow,” you groan, closing your eyes at the thought of a sore day.

Johnny lies next to you looking tired and happy. He giggles, nudges his nose against yours, and kisses your lips in a gesture that’s a sure contrast to what just transpired. “Did I answer your question, at least?”

“Yes…and then some.”

[randomoranges]

again, when your friend is like hey i might wanna do a pseudo collab on a thing and you’re like hmm this reminds me of a previous convo we had at some point during the summer with another friend so you go ye i got an idea for this why not. and then you write said thing because it’s been playing in your mind for like almost 2 months.

lol.

Tasty

 Edward ends up dozing on the métro and misses his stop. He considers backtracking for a moment, but then thinks against it. It’s not a very big detour and he can get to his destination from here. Plus, the walk might do him good and help clear up his mind a bit. He let’s his feet guide him, lost in his fuzzy thoughts and whether from forgotten habit or out of curiosity, he finds himself going down a street he knows won’t take him to where he’s meant to be heading, but he has time for the detour and he feels a little curious – figures he might find something interesting along the way.

 It’s a nice day out – summer has finally arrived and it’s not too hot out yet. He doesn’t know how he’s managed this infernal heat for all these years and he’s not sure he’s fully adapted, but somehow or other, he’s survived summers in Montreal for the most part. It’s also nice to be out on his own, to know that his mother is finally back in Edmonton and that he can breathe a little and that he’s finally out of the hospital. He still has many questions, his thoughts are still a mess on a good day, but – this is an improvement. He feels a little more like himself and that’s a good start.

 It feels like he’s taking one side street after another before he stops in front of a shop. He frowns, unsure as to why he’s here, but it feels familiar and that in itself is frustrating enough. Sometimes, he wishes he would have forgotten everything or at the very least, not have this eternal feeling of familiarity with a myriad of things that he can’t fully recognise or grasp. If at least he could place why things feel familiar it would at least be that much more progress. But it never is. And he’s left confused, angry and discouraged.

 Yet, this place is an ice cream shop upon further inspection and for some reason; he pushes the door open, hears a bell tingle and ring, and steps in. It’s nice and cool inside and that’s a pleasant change from the heat. He takes a moment to look around, hoping some clue will jump at him, but the place is bare, this early in the day, and nothing screams, “Hey remember me? I was your favourite shop!” He sighs and has a look around. There are Formica tables, chairs, a retro type decor, neon signs on the walls, dozens and dozens of photos on a wall by the door, plants here and there, and the ice cream display. There’s a few hard options, but it seems like mostly a soft serve place. Music plays and just as he’s about to head out and go on about his day, a young-ish person walks out into the room and greets him with a very enthusiastic “bonjour-hi”, before they falter and then their face splits into a wide grin, “Monsieur Édouard!” They exclaim, “Ça faisait un bout!”

 Edward doesn’t know how to react – he can’t say he recognises the attendant, can’t say their face looks familiar, even though anyone would pastel-pink hair would obviously be memorable, and can’t say a name comes to mind either. He tries a smile, but it mustn’t reach his eyes, or something on his face must betray him, for the person frowns ever so and he fears he’s fucked this up as well, “Et puis – le marriage? Comment va Monsieur Étienne?”

 Oh.

 That’s why.

 Edward knows they mean well, but that name sends his mind spinning. He should have known this place is associated with Étienne. He should have known the moment he stepped into this ice cream parlour with confusion as his partner that this has to be from before. It’s obvious now and he feels rather stupid for not figuring it out before. He tries to think of something to say – tries to find the right words to say, “Yeah, that didn’t happen – see, we were in a car accident and then I forgot all about him – all about us. Now I don’t know what I feel for him, I’m sort of seeing this other guy and whenever I see Étienne I feel like either throttling him or slapping him hard across the face. Also, I don’t blame him. Also, I really want to scream at Étienne and I blame him. Also, it feels like there’s a hole in my life. Also, I kind of hate my life. Also, I’m so fucking confused. On a good day. I don’t know what to feel anymore. I might be hiding in another man’s arms just to avoid Étienne. Also, you’ve never seen anything sadder than Étienne’s eyes when he doesn’t think you’re looking at him. Also, sometimes I walk Jacques-Cartier and I think it’s a shame there’s such a high fence.”

 He doesn’t say that, obviously. He doesn’t have enough French words to convey all of that.

 “On n’est plus ensemble.�� He says instead and it sounds so official – so final and it’s slightly over the top and dramatic – he could have broken the news in so many other ways, but he doesn’t want to bother. He doesn’t even know this stranger, but this stranger clearly knows enough about him – enough about them, to gasp and look genuinely saddened by the news.

 “Oh... Monsieur Édouard... je suis vraiment désolé…”

 Edward shrugs. Shit happens. Life goes on. (But does it? Does it? Will it ever go on? Will it ever pick up from where it left off? Will he ever wake up in the morning feeling self-assured that he’s doing the right thing? Will it ever feel a hundred percent right when Christopher spends the night? Will he ever stop dreaming of curly brown hair and loving green-brown eyes? Will he? Will he?)

 He can tell there’s a million questions running through this poor store clerk’s mind and he feels like he should comfort them – let them know it’s okay – that he’s fine, but he’s in a mood and he doesn’t want to share. He figures if he gets an ice cream it might get them to leave him alone.

 “J’vais prendre deux saveurs – mangue et chocolat noir,” He says, his tone final, trying to convey that he means business. That he’s not here to discuss his fucked up life. It seems to do the trick. The clerk straightens themselves, takes a moment to compose themselves and then nods, a sad, little smile playing on their face.

 “Et pourtant c’était la sorte préférée de Monsieur Étienne,” They look up to him for a moment, before they busy themselves with the order. Edward blinks, taking in a short breath and feels as though he’s been punched in the stomach. A conversation, from long ago, replays in his mind and he wonders when this hell will ever end.

 “Jeez, what does a guy have to do in order to get some decent mango ice cream in this city, honestly?” Étienne complained as they walked by yet another ice cream parlour that didn’t serve his favourite. He linked back his arm with Edward and continued on his little rant, Edward chuckling to himself. It was a nice summer day, it wasn’t too hot – yet, but Étienne wanted ice cream and Edward was never one to say no to ice cream or to Étienne’s requests.

 They’d gone by a few places, but the first two were already out, the other didn’t have that flavour and the last one was still closed (and Étienne had gone on another rant, since Google had said the place opened at 11, it was currently 11h15 and why were they closed and why had Google lied.)

 “Apparently there’s a parlour two street corners from here, we can try?” Edward suggested, looking away from his phone. Étienne sighed, pout present on his lips, but he agreed, saying that at this point, it would be a miracle if he ever even found decent mango ice cream ever again and at this point, he was probably going to starve before that happened. Edward shook his head, far too used to Étienne’s melodramatic tendencies at this point, and instead guided them to the ice cream shop.

 It turned out the place was new, it was its grand opening and Étienne’s mood immediately brightened when he saw the retro decor, the Formica tables, the neon signs on the walls, and the abundance of plants.

 It was mostly a soft serve place, but they had a nice variety, a few hard options, and Étienne gasped and clutched his arm tightly when he spotted a title card with “mangue” written on it.

 “Édouard, I love this place!” He had declared. And Edward had laughed at his antics and stepped forward to wait in line, place their orders and hopefully get to his wallet before Étienne beat him to it.

 “Vous savez... vous veniez souvent avec Monsieur Étienne... vous étiez même parmi nos premiers clients, quand on a ouvert… On a même une photo de vous sur notre mur…” They point at the wall by the door, where the photos are, and Edward walks over. The photos are old, some are new, some are frayed, and others have writing on them with date stamps. He looks and searches, ready to give up, until his own much younger face smiles back at him, happy and delighted, and he looks slightly to the side, to find Étienne’s own much younger face looking back – and he can’t help it, can’t ever help the pang in his chest and the sense of utter loss that hits him every time he sees a photo of Étienne – every time he finds a reminder of his previous happiness.

 There’s a caption underneath, written in what must be Étienne’s scrawl that reads “Meilleure crème glacée à la mangue!,” And Edward nearly steps out of the place. Nearly walks away, too much of a coward to face his past head on. Instead, he wordlessly walks back to the counter where his ice cream waits for him. He goes to reach for his wallet but the clerk shakes their head, let’s him know it’s on the house (and isn’t that ironic – even now he can’t pay for his damned ice cream) and offers him another sad smile as he heads out.

 Edward takes the cup of ice cream and tries to put as much physical distance between himself and the shop – himself and the reminder of Étienne’s happy face – himself and his past. He tries to occupy his time with the ice cream, takes a spoonful and has to stop in his tracks, hit again by a strong wave of nostalgia from a long ago forgotten time.

 The ice cream is creamy, delicious, tasty, and flavourful, yet Edward feels physically ill to his stomach.

 He nearly doubles over as his mind reminds him, in its own way, of how it was before, and Edward wants it to stop – wants to bash his head against the closest lamppost and also never wants it to end.

 There’s Étienne’s laughter, the sensation of him clinging to his arm, a spoon brought to his lips with soft yellow-orange ice cream, a kiss to his cheek, another later, that still tastes faintly of mango and chocolate, and Edward feels like he’s about to throw up.

 He gasps, he heaves, and takes hold of the closest wall for support in trembling, shaky hands. He takes deep breaths, tries to blink through tears and make sense of what is the past and what is the present (and he wishes he was in the past – wishes it didn’t hurt – wishes Étienne were here) and once he has everything under control, once he feels he can take three steps without keeling over, he straightens himself out, takes a deep breath and finds the nearest trashcan to throw the cup of ice cream away.

 He turns the corner and makes his way to where he is meant to go.

FIN