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macfrog · 3 months

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If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative – which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler �� bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

#chats #anon #fic: sweet child o' mine #joel miller ficlet #joel miller #joel miller x reader

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toabastignika · 2 years

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Monoeye girls 1/?

#monoeye #monster girl #cyclops girl #oc #scratch art #scratch paper #rainbow scratch paper

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anhells · 2 months

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Characters: Arlecchino × kid!Reader (Platonic!)

Summary: The part of parenthood that Arlecchino wasn't ready for

Warnings: none (I hope so...)

SFW, Fluff, gn!Reader

A/N: I'm very, very sorry if something is wrong! This is my first time posting on tumblr, and I hope I haven't fumbled anything.

Arlecchino was not used to children loving her. She usually saw fear in the eyes of her kids, all of them, without exception. It was understandable: she was not a caring and kind Mother, she was a cold and unfeeling Father. She didn't know how to be a good parent, and she suspected she would never know.

After all, her childhood and youth under Crucabena's oppression had affected her personality too much. The kids sensed what kind of person the Fourth Harbinger was, knew about the blood on her hands, and kept their distance.

But you, you were obviously an unusual child. Or rather... In many ways, you were a normal kid for your age. You played with other children, sometimes you were naughty, but in general you followed the rules of the house. Appearing a few years after Mother's death, you caught the "heyday" of the renewed House of the Hearth. Arlecchino had already gained some experience in "raising" her kids, though she was still far from fully understanding child psychology.

So Arlecchino didn't understand what you wanted. At least not at first. It was a mystery to her why you passed by her office so often, pausing periodically for long minutes, as if you wanted to knock and enter.

Was something bothering you? Something so complicated that you wanted to go directly to Father rather than to the governesses or older siblings? Honestly, it worrying Arlecchino.

So when a quiet knock finally sounded in the office, the woman couldn't hold back a quiet sigh of relief. She distinguished the gait of her children and easily recognized you standing at her door again.

"Just a moment, little one."

The Harbinger set aside her papers and walked to the door, opening it.

"Do you need anything?"

Arlecchino tried to sound as soft as possible so as not to scare you off.

You nodded timidly. The woman noticed the wreath of rainbow roses in your scratched fingers and raised an eyebrow slightly.

"So?"

You looked up at her with big, naive eyes, and Arlecchino could have sworn there was something wrong in them.

You said something barely audible. After a moment, the woman realized what you wanted her to say and leaned closer, allowing you to whisper something in her ear.

Instead, however, you kissed her cheek gently, and while Arlecchino slowly realized what had happened, you placed a wreath on her head.

"I love you, Father!"

You said with a smile and, waving goodbye, you ran briskly off down the corridor somewhere.

Arlecchino straightened up, still staring disbelievingly in front of her, and reached up to remove the ridiculous accessory from her head. The woman twirled the wreath in her hands confusedly and noted that all the spikes had been neatly broken off. So that's why your fingers were scratched so badly...

The Harbinger closed the door of her office, still holding the flower ornament in her hand, and then carefully put it away in her desk drawer.

She went back to the papers, and a couple hours later she suddenly froze again for a moment. Thing that seemed wrong in your eyes to her... Fear. Or rather, the lack of fear.

Arlecchino smiled slightly, opening her desk drawer to take another look at the roses. This, of course, was ridiculous for the Harbinger that woman was, but...

Arlecchino carefully returned the wreath to her head. The door to her office was locked anyway, and what kind of Father would disregard child's gift?

After all, she loved you too, as she loved all the children of the House of the Hearth. All her children.

#genshin x you #genshin x reader #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #arlecchino

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baronessvonglitter · 2 months

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Ready When You Are

husband!Marcus Pike x wife!Reader

Word count: 2K

Summary: you and your husband Marcus Pike can't stop thinking about trying for a baby...

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, fluff, established relationship, talk of having a baby, reader wears lingerie, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, playful rough/dirty talk, fingering, unprotected piv (actively trying to get preggo), if I missed anything please let me know!

Author's note: this is for @fluffygoffpanda I hope this scratches that itch! Jesus do you have good taste in men for this particular kink. PS I don't know what pink cloud punch is, but I can tell you that if you pour Sprite over rainbow sherbet it's sooo gooood!

MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

It's one of those "modern" baby showers where men are guests, but inevitably drift to the den where a football game is on. The women mill about the kitchen and dining room, sampling dishes, gossiping, exchanging stories about their own pregnancies.

Marcus seemed more excited about the get-together than you were, and despite having migrated to the other room for the game, he keeps sneaking back to the kitchen, swiping a pinwheel sandwich, or a petits fours. You can tell he's half-listening to the little nuggets of advice being passed around, and watching the presents being opened, yellow and pink and blue tissue paper blanketing the floor.

Your youngest sister looks resplendent in her flowy pink floral maternity dress, her hands continually resting on her bump, protective, almost queenly. "I'm so happy for you," you tell her for the hundredth time, kissing her cheek.

She smiles, sipping a frothy cup of pink cloud punch. "Sister, when's it going to be your turn?"

"For what?" Marcus asks, appearing behind you, enveloping you in his arms.

"For a baby," you answer him, giving him a little smile, a rosiness painting your cheeks. You've been married almost a year, and though you've both talked about eventually starting a family, you haven't chosen a time on when exactly to begin.

"No pressure," you sister says quickly. "It's a serious decision."

You are the last of your siblings to have a child. Even your older brother has twins in elementary school.

"We'll talk about it when you're ready," Marcus says, giving your hand a soft kiss.

You expect him to be the one to bring it up, to possibly goad you into talking about it, or at least planning what names you'd use. But he's seemingly forgotten about it on the drive home after the party, making dinner plans with friends for next weekend, and going to see your favorite band in town when they finally come there on tour.

It's not until the next morning that you bring it up over coffee at your favorite diner.

"Would you want to start trying for a baby?"

Marcus stops, coffee cup halfway to his lips. Then he breaks into a grin, only resuming his poker face for only a moment to say: "I'm ready when you are."

You nod, letting the pieces fall together in your brain. There are unknowable factors, of course, but you wouldn't be alone, and you'd be having a child with the absolute love of your life.

"I'm ready. I want to have a baby with you."

The smile on Marcus's face could light up the entire Eastern Seaboard. He takes your hands across the table, leaning in for a kiss. "I'm so glad, because honestly I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since the baby shower yesterday," he admits a little sheepishly.

His enthusiasm is contagious, lifting your heart and erasing any doubts you had. "Do you think we're ready?" you have to ask.

"Babe," he says. "You're too perfect of a person to not be making the world better by adding a few more of you to it."

You sigh in mock exasperation. "How do you know exactly what to say?"

He chuckles, but his expression softens when he looks at you. "I'm in if you're in. I mean that."

Thinking about it takes up your entire day. You look up baby names, maternity wear, childbirth options, the best OBGYNs in the area. Then you go further, checking out the schools, wondering if you should trust public or go private. Then colleges. Which one is best for which degree?

Marcus thinks it's cute when you call him to tell him what you've been working on all day. "Sounds like you're really, really serious about this," he says.

"You'll be home soon?" you ask, checking your hair in the mirror one last time.

"I'm about five minutes away. Why?"

"I have a surprise for you. Drive safe."

Naturally Marcus has to restrain himself from speeding the next couple blocks to your home. Just as he's about to unlock the front door you open it, wearing a teddy in his favorite shade on you.

"Just in time," you purr, grabbing him inside by the collar.

"What's going on?" he smirks, happily led by you to the bedroom.

"What do you think?" you smirk back. The bed is strewn with rose petals, and you perch yourself in the middle of it, an utter vision to Marcus's eyes. He follows you, led by a primal instinct to take you, to hold you and make you his.

"I didn't take my birth control pill today," you tell him. "In fact, I threw them all out."

His brows rise, heart skips a beat, mouth fills with saliva. "Why'd you do that?" he asks slowly, even though he already knows.

"Because tonight I want you to get me pregnant."

It's as if the air has been squeezed from his lungs. He tries to maintain composure, knowing you wouldn't tease him, nor would you take such a decision lightly. "You're sure, babe?"

You nod as his hand cups your chin, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "I want you to fill me up, over and over again tonight. I want to be dripping with your cum for days."

An image of him fucking you, his seed taking root, your belly swelling with his child, breasts getting fuller and sweet with milk, runs through his brain, tapping into the primal side of him. He whispers your name, grabs hold of you in a kiss, hands wandering under your teddy to caress your body, smoothing over your curves, cup your breasts.

You bring his hand to your cunt, already so moist and ready for him, giving a shuddering sigh as he works two fingers inside, jaw tensing when he feels how wet you are.

"Breed me, Marcus," you whisper, your breath tickling his ear. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands up. What am I still doing with my clothes on? he wonders, then is thankful that you've taken the initiative, relieving him of his jacket, his tie, belt, shirt, pants, and everything else.

His cock pulses in your hand, his precum already dribbling over the top. Laying on your back, he scoots between your legs. "What about your work?"

"I'll work from home. Hell, I could even do advisor work until the kids are old enough for school," you say, wrapping your arms around him.

"Kids.. plural?" he grins. "How many?" His lips ghost across your ear, nibbling your lobe.

"Two," you sigh, running your hands down his back. "I don't want an odd number. I didn't like being the middle child."

He kisses your forehead, as if to take those memories away. "One boy and one girl?"

"Perfect," you sigh again, trailing your foot along his calf.

Desire and love fill his senses, make him your servant, all he can see and breathe is you. Imagining you getting big with his child, making a soul with him, creating a little legacy, even for the short amount of time you're both promised on this earth.. Marcus's heart feels like it shouldn't fit in his chest anymore.

You whimper his name. nudging your hips against his. He slips your teddy over your head, revealing your soft skin, the body he's come to worship night after night during the happiest time of his life.

He captures your lips in another passionate kiss, tongue brushing against yours with fervor. Then he pins your arms over your head, spreads your thighs further apart. "You're so eager for it, so eager for me to cum inside you."

You shiver, not bothering to suppress a whimper. "I am, baby. I want it all.."

Fuck, you're not even teasing, not even pretending, not role playing.. Marcus's head is nearly spinning with his new reality. His head drops into your neck as he breathes in your scent, your shampoo and your own natural aroma, and of course the sweet and spicy essence of your pussy. He lifts his head to catch your gaze. "I love you," he utters as he slides into you.

"I love you," you gasp in return, letting yourself be helpless beneath his soft grip. He buries himself in you until his hips meet yours, and you can't tell where he ends and you begin. Your tightness has him reeling, his mind spinning with want.

"You feel so good, babe," he groans in your ear. He withdraws almost completely before pushing forward again, a shiver rolling through him at the sensation. He starts a slow, languid pace.

"Marcus," you moan, your hips undulating against his in the rhythmic dance. He squeezes your hip, loosening slightly on your wrists pinned over your head, but you keep them there, enjoying the illusion of being at his mercy, of being bred.

His mouth trails kisses down your neck as pleasure thrums throughout your body. "You feel like heaven," he mutters, moving leisurely as he takes note of the sounds that leave your mouth with each forward thrust of his.

"More.." you gasp, tilting your hips up to get him deeper, not wanting to miss out on a single inch.

"You want more? You want me to spill all my cum into you, give you a baby?"

Biting your lip you moan his name as he increases the pace, thrusts steady and fast. "Keep moaning my name," he whispers. "Scream for me.. let the neighbors know who's inside you, making you feel this good."

"Christ," you gasp, pressing your hands to the headboard, the sound of it banging against the wall exciting you. "Want everyone to know I'm yours.."

"That's it," he says, hearing your moans and sighs coming faster. "Almost there? I'm gonna cum but I want to get you there first, you gotta cum first, that's what I want." At the sound of your whimper he kisses you deeply, pulling your lower lip between his teeth before pushing his tongue in your mouth, seeking your own. He moans low as heat builds in his lower belly.

He's hitting a place inside you that sends flutters through your cunt, the pleasure rising and rising until it becomes a fever, a fucking force of nature that threatens to claim you.

"Come, darling," he grunts, knowing your body, knowing you're on the edge with him. His hips quicken their work, the sound of your bodies colliding is almost obscene.

You come undone beneath him, squeezing around him rhythmically and his hand moves between you to tease your clit, helping you ride out your orgasm, his own hips slowing as he watches the pleasure wash over you.

"God, you're so beautiful," he says, his forehead against yours, your hot panting breaths fanning across his face.

"Marcus," you beg. "Put a baby in me.."

Aftershocks still wrack your body as he thrusts again, and your still-sensitive body wants to come with him. He rubs your clit again, working you back up, waking your senses again.

He's getting closer and closer to tipping over the edge with you. Mumbling words of love, of adoration, he feels his climax rising in his balls, the pressure building up further and further. Only when he feels you come again, convulsing hard around him, does he give a final, hard thrust before he follows you, coming deep inside you, shaking and shuddering. At last he groans your name, muffled in the crook of your neck as his mind goes blank for a heavenly minute.

It's several minutes before either of you speaks, the moment too precious, too beautiful to break with mere words. He slides off you, keeping you close, not wanting to lose your warmth right away.

"I love you," you murmur at last. "Maybe we made some magic tonight."

"Maybe," he chuckles, his heart overflowing with love for you. "If not, we can always keep trying." He cups your beautiful face in his hands. "I want a family with you if that's what's meant for us."

"I want that. A little family.."

He smirks, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Give me a few minutes, we can give it another try. Just to make sure."

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

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dreamlessimp · 1 year

Text

— poster

itoshi rin x reader | 0.9k

you go to his game, and he gets mad

your notifications for football games had gone from a necessity, to a minor inconvenience. at first, they allowed you to watch many of rin’s games. it was a way to get closer, and worked well enough.

when he left though, the alerts began to sting in a way that was ever so dull.

still, eventually, you were the fortunate receiver of a welcome surprise—rin would be playing near your house.

disappointing as it was that he hadn’t told you, you were already used to it. you’d begun to speak less and less as time quickly passed, so it served no surprise. still, you tried to cling to the hope that you’d grow closer yet again.

not long after receiving the game notice, you decided to make a sign, a poster of sorts. something to cheer his name, and remind him of yours.

after acquiring poster paper, you pulled open a marker and began the meticulous job of outlining his given name.

resisting the urge to add heats, stars, anything to take up space, you elected to simply adorn the still-white paper with words of wished luck and victory.

though, you quickly fell to the urges and the once crisp white paper was turned into a rainbow you weren’t exactly proud of, but were happy to look at.

the day of his game, you happily grabbed your poster and made your way into the stadium. your seat was close enough to the field that you hoped your probably-just-friend would be able to spare you a glance.

the minutes after his game proved a bigger surprise than you could have possibly considered. not only did rin exclusively seek you out—but he was mad. at you.

you blinked back your shock. “what?”

rin’s eyes widened and he scowled. “i asked why the hell you came.” his voice was far too cold for comfort.

“i’ve come to so many of your games rin.” you choked out.

“so? i’m asking you why.” he spat.

you were dejected. there was no sense or reason in his anger. it was so nonsensical that there was truly no point in clapping back.

“dammit rin.” you spoke quietly before turning around to leave, eyes as blank as rin’s were cold.

on the way back to your home, you throw away the sign. it’s just a coincidence that you chose the garbage bin outside of the home of itoshi rin.

hours later, rin texts you. ‘i’m sorry.’ he says. you’d have been shocked to find how much he meant it.

he hated his performance in the game. sure, he had scored, but it wasn’t the kind of goal that he wanted to score, the conditions were all wrong and it wasn’t right.

though, he despised his stupid anger at you even more. you had attended his game—which he’d never even told you about—with a sign. one that was obviously homemade no less, so clearly made by you and you alone unlike the so many printed signs he’d seen even that game alone.

he was, horribly stupid.

‘i’m sorry.’ you read from your phone. scoffing, you shut off the phone to sit on your bed, once again staring at the ceiling as you’d been doing for who knows how long.

whether you blamed yourself or rin, whether he had the right to be mad or you did, your mind was too thick to determine. what you knew though, was that you missed the rin you used to know so well.

soon, rin had a vague thought that he needed to stop his lonely pity party, and gathered up his garbage to throw away.

he absolutely did not expect to see that damned sign you made inside of his own garbage bin.

at the sight, the outside of his eyes filled with an unexpected liquid prompting him to instinctively reach up to scratch the pointless sensation.

in a haze, he threw in his trash and carefully picked up the largely undamaged sign. with it held carefully in his undeserving hands, he took it home.

rin took it into his room, where he propped it up on his dresser. from his position at his desk, he could just see it fall from the corner of his eye.

he walked back to once again prop it up, and stood as it wavered, and then fell once again.

realizing it would not stand on his own, with a glance at your large writing proclaiming his own name, he walked over to the side of his bed and propped up your colorful sign with the soft plushie of a character he did not recognize, that you had once given to him.

it truly made sense that the few sources of color in his room came from you.

allowing himself to dramatically fall back onto his bed, he gazed at his boring ceiling and waited for the minutes to tick by and for the dread to dissipate from his tired body.

you were wondering for possibly the thousandth time whether or not to respond to rin, when, yet again, you received another call.

letting it ring out, you finally decided to turn off your phone.

with your phone off, you missed the text he instantly regretted sending, but was entirely set on carrying out; ‘i’m coming over.’

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