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meiieiri · 2 days

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when do we get to see megumi in your new series ^3^

𝐛𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 ! [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: “you really are your mother’s son,” toji grumbles to megumi as the little brat yet again refuses another kiss from him.

pairing: toji fushiguro x f!reader | art: @/amulin67 on twt/ig | hidden inventory: the lost tapes series masterlist

warnings: n/a | a/n: finally welcoming megumi to this series, yay! 💓💞

“I’m just gonna go nap for a bit. Promise me you’ll wake me up if something happens. But either way, his bottle is over there, just heat it up when he gets hungry and you know where his diapers are—“

You are interrupted by a sweet kiss that still manages to catch you off guard ‘till this day.

“I wasn’t done, you know.” You place your hands on your hips, shooting him a warning glance. “And don’t you go tossing him too high. Need I remind you, our apartment has a literal ceiling fan—“

“—You worry too much,” Toji cuts you off again with another kiss. “Not gonna lie though, seeing you all worked up like that is kinda turning me on.”

“You’re horrible,” you conclude. Honestly, at this point, almost anything and everything you do can be classified as a thirst trap for Toji. You blush when Toji inches closer, his hips pressed against yours, a smirk plastered on his face when he sneakily squeezes your ass causing you to yelp. “Ah! Toji!” you swat his hand away, burying your blushing face in his chest.

Chuckling at you, he plants a soft kiss on your temple as he pulls away. “Alright, mama, go get some rest. I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Thank you.”

No one ever told you that motherhood would be so stressful. Which is why you’re so blessed to have a supportive husband who may have started out a little awkward with caring for your newborn son but gradually became a natural with this whole fatherhood business as time went by. And that’s mostly because when Megumi arrived in this world at half past two in the afternoon of December 22 with nothing more but a small hiccup as he slipped into his papa’s waiting arms, Toji fell in love. And you don’t pretend to not know why. Because whenever you look at Megumi, your heart always just seems to melt at his pudgy rose-colored cheeks and his deep expressive green eyes that fill up with tears regardless if he’s crying or being overcome by a laughing fit whenever you pepper his tiny face with kisses.

Speaking of kisses, today’s latest fiasco is centered exactly on that: kisses.

You see, you have this habit that goes way back to when you and Toji first started dating. Toji remembers it well, you have certain moods when it comes to kisses. Sometimes, you’re the one initiating it which mostly results in Toji becoming an incoherent blushing mess, or most times, Toji gets the party started by slowly kissing up your neck, his breath hot on your earlobe as he presses his hips against yours while you slept fitfully, your hushed dulcet whines ringing in his ear as your lips instinctively find each other. Fun fact: that’s exactly how Megumi came to be.

But there are times too, when you were just not having it and you’d gently nudge Toji’s face away when he tries to kiss you.

It was a typical afternoon. Toji didn’t have work that day which was a huge relief for him because you’ve been suffering from dizziness and lower back pain all day. And being the helicopter partner and soon-to-be papa that he is, Toji keeps a close eye on you as you nap the afternoon away on the couch. He smiles softly as he sees you instinctively put a protective hand over your belly whenever you’d feel the slightest movements from the baby.

“Shhh, you’re alright,” he’d whisper to you as you slept, combing his fingers through your hair, a permanent worried frown on his face when a whimper falling from your pursed lips as the baby kicks you again. “It’s just the overgrown parasite fidgeting around.”

“Don’t call him that.” You brush his hand away, your eyebrows knitting in discomfort.

Toji chuckles, going to press a kiss to your soft lips only for you to place your entire palm on his face, applying gentle force to pry him away. “I mean, what is he then? Other than this thing that competes for your nutrients? He’s—“

“—Our baby boy.”

“—An overgrown parasite.”

Fuming at his words, you decide to hit back with a quick retort of your own. “Yeah? It really does take one to know one, huh?”

“What a cute comeback but maybe not as cute as you,” Toji smirks, his hand gently removing your smaller one from his face, his lips puckered up as he leans in. Teasingly, you place a hand over your lips, still refusing to indulge him with his much-craved kisses. “Come on, I just want one sloppy one~”

“No!” Your laughter-filled voice comes out muffled against your palm.

“Mm, yes,” Toji teases. “Yes. Come on, baby, just one.”

“You and I both know it’s never just one.”

Of course. Why else would you be in this situation if Toji knew how to spell the words: self and control? Still, it’s not like the two of you were complaining. After all, the bond you and Toji share is an unbreakable one that’s only been strengthened by time and the many trials you’ve survived together. And now, the arrival of the very product of your love is only a hair’s breath away. Toji rests his chin on top of your head, plopping down next to you and spooning you from behind. “Guilty as charged.”

And unfortunately, it seemed your son had inherited that troublesome quirk of yours and it’s beginning to break Toji’s infuriated heart because whenever he tries to give Megumi a kiss…

“Mmph—“

There it was.

Toji’s eyes shot open, grimacing as Megumi turns his head away, his eyes trained stubbornly on his dog plushie, and his chubby hands pushing his poor papa’s chin away with all the might a six-month-old like him could muster. And to top things off, he must be imagining things because newborns surely couldn’t scowl right? Their tiny little brains couldn’t possibly have enough electrical energy to charge a snow globe much less, learn how to hate certain people’s kisses.

“You little shit—“

Sure enough, the tiny little baby seems gravely unamused, his eyebrows are knitted, the corner of his lips curled into a disappointed frown as if to say: Go kiss someone else, you even bigger shit.

Toji mirrors the unfriendly scowl on his son’s face, noting how Megumi seems to be glaring at him. Oh, okay. The brat ain’t messing around, his eyes twitches but somehow, Toji is also a picture of a proud father. At least the little shit’s got spunk. And he wonders momentarily who he should blame for that.

Definitely not him, that’s for sure.

Toji doesn’t recall the last time he’s ever had the comforts of a peace like this one. Actually, this might just be the first time that Toji knew what that word meant: “peace”. A freedom from disturbance; tranquility, as per the Merriam Webster Dictionary. But Toji has a better definition for peace: you and Megumi.

But…

“I meant what I said to your mother though,” Toji engages in a one-way conversation with his son. He won’t recall any of this, but it didn’t hurt for Toji to be candid about his feelings every now and then especially when it came to this little one that came accidentally into your lives but brightened it up nonetheless. “The two of you would be better off — maybe even happier — with someone else.” He presses his thumb against Megumi’s cheek. “It’s what you two deserve.”

He’s been gone close to a whole day now and you were probably beginning to worry. Out of all the shitty things Toji has done, this, by far, has to be the shittiest. Standing outside a pachinko den, his back pressed against the wall, and his hand absentmindedly playing with the tokens he just bought. When he left the apartment that day, you knew that could very well be the last time you ever see him. Types like him aren’t keen on the whole picket fence idea of settling down.

“I’m heading out today.”

Your blood runs cold when Toji steps into the kitchen to inform you of his plans. You don’t even bother to look at him, your gaze simply settled on the positive pregnancy test on the table. The right thing to do was to stay, he should have held you in his arms and tell you that everything’s going to be okay not plant seeds of doubt in your mind by taking off and running away like a coward.

But for once, Toji was scared.

He had no business becoming a father when he’s lived in a dysfunctional household for majority of his life. What good would he even impart to his child? His pathetic existence has been a picture of disorder that was only recently resolved when you came into the picture. Well, if he were being completely honest, he still hasn’t figured things out quite as well yet. And as a father, that could be catastrophic for a child that required stability if nothing else.

Frowning, Toji leaves the pachinko den, chucking the tokens in the trash. It was far too early in the day to be hanging around shady places like these anyway. He wanders the streets for a good while, his hands buried in his jacket’s pockets as his mind swirls with thoughts about the all too terrifying future.

A pang of guilt strikes his heart and he wonders what you’re doing now. You must still be in the kitchen, your face buried in your hands as you try to think of something. You were probably assuming he wasn’t coming back. After all, you did say: “I don’t wanna pressure you into staying, Toji. You deserve to live your life the way you want it.”

A life without you? Sounds pretty miserable.

Toji must have been walking on autopilot because for some reason, he unknowingly finds himself in front of a bank. Mizuho Bank, Toji reads the sign, his eyes flicking over to one of the posters plastered on the window about opening a savings account.

He looks at the promotional material, transfixed at the picture of a family of four donning on those typical wide stupid grins in ads, the father is holding a hundred yen bill and is seen dropping it into a piggy bank that was filled with both cash and words like: health insurance, family vacation, utility bills, rent, tax, school, and…happiness.

…

Toji returns to the apartment at around eight in the evening after making a quick stop at the supermarket and the pharmacy. He finds you asleep on the couch, your cheeks stained with dry tears. He crouches on the edge of the couch, worriedly taking in your appearance. You’ve been crying. “Hey…hey, wake up,” he gently shakes you awake and your tired eyes flutter open. “Got you something.”

He holds out a shopping bag, chock full of fresh produce, and from the pharmacy, some camphor oil to relieve your symptoms and those folate supplements the attending pharmacist kept yapping about.

“You didn’t leave,” you said, bewildered. “I thought you—“

“—You thought wrong,” Toji says firmly. He pulls out something from his back pocket and you stare at him, perplexed.

“A bank passbook?” You open it to see that Toji had just made his first deposit amounting to fifty thousand yen earlier today. “You opened a savings account?”

Toji nods, looking a little proud of himself. “Yeah,” he tries to play it off with a shrug of his shoulders. “Every week, we’ll be depositing fifteen thousand yen in that thing. Ten thousand for your maternity needs, and five for the little brat’s schooling one day.”

Tears spring to your eyes upon realizing that Toji was here to stay. “You mean you’re—?” You are cut off by a warm kiss on your lips, and you place a hand over Toji’s chest, your fingertips gripping the fabric of his shirt as his lips move against yours. He pulls away after a while.

“Gonna spite the hell out of the Zenin clan and send my brat to the most expensive preschool in Tokyo? Yes, I am.”

Toji sighs, his thumb rubbing across Megumi’s chubby cheek. “But maybe — just maybe — hear me out and don’t you give me another glare.” Megumi’s not gonna remember any of this. After all, memories begin when the brain can fully register speech. But Toji felt the need to say this so, subconsciously, his son will understand just how much he’s done and he’s willing to do for the both of you.

“…Maybe I deserve the two of you too, you know.”

Megumi looks up at his father, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Toji sticks his tongue out at the little one causing the latter to…hiccup? Nah, Toji was sure that was a giggle.

Smirking, Toji leans down to give his son a kiss, thinking he’s patched things up between them now only for Megumi to curl up again, his feet and hands resisting against Toji, his lip downturned in effort as he pushes him away yet again. Conceding, Toji grumbles, rubbing the spot where Megumi roughly pushed him away.

“You really are your mother’s son.”

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yeyinde · 3 months

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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celestemona · 2 months

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WHEN THEY’RE DADS

and how they deal with their children and domestic life.

pairing: dad & husband! wriothesley, lyney and neuvillette x fem! reader.

cw: original characters, slightly ooc to fit the plot, domesticity, fluff. pregnancy is mentioned to introductions but not too elaborated. not beta read.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

kazuha’s part. | part. ii

Wriothesley

If outsiders had previously felt intimidated just by the Duke's fame, with the announcement of your pregnancy, the mere mention of his name was capable of frightening even the bravest of men. And it was no wonder since now he was often seen patrolling the corridors of the Fortress of Meropide with a frown on his eyes and his fists clenched like he was ready to go into combat — if newest prisoners had already feared the idea of meeting him before, now they did anything to never be caught on his sight.

What they didn't know, however, was that internally Wriothesley was a nervous wreck about the whole situation, and his mask of aloofness was the only one he knew to use to hide the imminent fear that was bubbling in the depths of his soul.

Luckily for him, and for the citizens of the fortress, Wriothesley had a very attentive, convincing and confident wife. It was thanks to you and your assurances that the duke was able to calm down and overcome some of his insecurities and then finally celebrate the arrival of his son.

When this happened, even the guards felt they could breathe a sigh of relief and they thanked you, the duchess, for the sudden change in their boss. You just winked in complicity.

In turn, little Cameron couldn't have come into the world at the worst possible time, which only served to rekindle and feed Wriothesley's fears. You were weak and sick, barely able to move even with all of Sigewinne's treatments. Plus, Fontaine was going through too many abrupt changes for the two of you to keep up with, which only made your recovery more difficult. Wriothesley feared losing both you and the baby, but deep down he knew that his wife was stronger than she let on and that trusting you was the only thing to do.

And fortunately for him, Wriothesley wasn’t mistaken as both you and the baby managed to overcome all the terror that was the birth.

“Please don’t scare me like that anymore. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you both.” he had told you with a trembling voice from the fear still running through his veins.

“You need to start giving me more credit, Wrio”, you respond, kissing his cheek, “Your wife is too stubborn to let herself be overcome by any illness.”

Although Wriothesley initially had doubts about fatherhood, as his own background hadn’t given him a good view of it, he was an incredible father. His gentleness and affection were immeasurable and not just you, but the entire Fortress of Meropide could notice a soft side blooming in him. This didn’t mean that he left his guard completely goes down because the duke still remained adamant about the laws and administration of the prison.

Still, it was comforting (and even funny) to see the cryo user patrolling the production zones or administrative areas with a baby that looked so much like him held in a carrier on his torso — not that they dared mention it to him, much less get closer to the new father.

Cameron was also a very calm baby, rarely getting angry about something; instead, preferring to observe his surroundings. His icy blue eyes always seemed to sparkle with curiosity and Wriothesley found this characteristic particularly fascinating.

When it came to taking care of the baby, you and your husband always took turns so that the care of the child and the Fortress of Meropide was well managed. And to tell the truth, your teamwork was very good because when Wriothesley had to take on his duties as duke, Cameron was happy with your attention, and when you were requested as interrogator, your husband spent hours locked in his office with the mini version of him sitting on his lap as he enjoys a cup of tea as well.

Like every first-time father, Wriothesley faces the negative and positive sides of fatherhood. Some nights he is awakened by his past demons and a sudden dread appears to cloud his thoughts. But as he looks at his son's growth, celebrate the success of his small achievements and admire the honorable young man that Cameron is becoming, he knows he has done a good job and there is nothing to fear.

“Well, since we have nothing to fear, then it’s time for me to announce that I’m pregnant again, right?”

Lyney

Lyney liked to think that even if you didn't meet in this life, you would meet in your next incarnation; even if you belonged to different worlds, your souls would find a way to cross time and space to find each other. It was as if a red string that only the two of you could see connected both of you, and for the magician, it was undeniable to say that destiny itself had written your story or that the stars in the sky had illuminated his path to you.

The love that he had for you was unconditional, and Lyney doubted that there was anything in the entire universe that could contradict that fact.

But, well, that was before you gave him what would be the greatest gifts of his life. His twins babies Quentin and Corinne.

Now, that everyone knew that Lyney was a loving husband was nothing new. Since the beginning of your relationship, the blonde man has always made sure to emphasize your dating then later marital status and he had never hidden his affections towards you, whether they be publicly or not. And with the announcement of your pregnancy, his pride only seemed to intensify as he always had a characteristic smile on his face when you walked together through the streets of Fontaine, showing you off like you were a rare jewel much for you enjoyment.

His affection and gentleness towards you remained the same, although this time there was a greater care that you couldn't help but appreciate. Your husband was always ready to grant your wishes and he was able to understand your feelings even before you had to verbalize them. Lyney was very good at dealing with people so it was no surprise how magnificent of a father he’d be too.

And, well, to say it exceeded your expectations would be an understatement.

You had never seen Lyney cry except for his slight watery look on your wedding day. However, that changed with the arrival of the twins who gave you the vision of the man openly crying while holding the two children in his arms, making it impossible for him not to be moved by this new phase of his life — giving you a beautiful memory to remember for all eternity.

“They look so much like you”, he said after a pause, his voice still breaking, “They are beautiful”.

And in fact the twins had inherited all your genes, allowing from Lyney only the inheritance of his violet-cat-shaped eye. To say that this upset him would be an unforgivable lie because for Lyney there was no one in the world as beautiful as the mother of his children and it made him happy that they look just like you.

That being said, Lyney is a doting dad deeply in love with his children. He quickly adapted to fatherhood even with the ups and downs that come with it — after all, he still had his duties to the House of Hearth and some of his performances required him to travel to another nation, leaving you and the twins behind, but he didn't let it get him down and became stronger through it.

Furthermore, Lyney understood very well the tiredness of motherhood and always having to be available to the children, so in the late hours of the night he was responsible for feeding, changing diapers or paying attention to the two babies.

From an early age, Quentin and Corinne already showed to have personalities as distinct as he and Lynette and it brought a smile to his face when he saw a little of himself reflected in his children. While Quentin always seemed to have a lot of energy, Corinne only demanded her father's attention if it was for her basic needs or a nap in his warm embrace.

Lyney would have no problem showing his children off in the public eye once they got older, but as long as they were defenseless kids he’d prioritize their privacy. Until that day came, he’d keep you and the twins under his wings, teaching them to take care of each other but also to learn to be independent.

As was also to be expected, magic and illusion tricks are two constants in your house and Lyney loves showing little tricks to the twins who always give him the best reactions.

Finally, Lyney is a proud dad and is happy for his children's small achievements. All his love is shown through words and actions, never failing to show every day how much he cares for them. No matter what path Quentin and Corinne decided to take, he’d be the first to support them. And even though deep down he feared that the world might erase the sparkle in their eyes, he’d always protect their innocence, no mattering the means.

Neuvillette

Just as in the beginning it was somewhat sudden for the people of Fontaine to get used to the idea and the sight of their Iudex walking through the streets of the capital at your side, it was equally shocking for them when a few years, after getting married, the image of you and your slightly rounded belly appeared on the cover of The Steambird in an exclusive interview about your career and personal life — in fact, it sales were as abundant as the water that surrounded the hydro nation, not surprising Charlotte a bit who was delighted with the audience received.

After all, if there was one thing the journalist knew very well, it was that fontaineians would always crave good gossip.

Not much was revealed to satisfy the citizens' curiosity, but it served as a trigger to make them create the most absurd theories. You didn't seem to care about them at all, though. In fact, you even fueled some rumors for your own pleasure. Neuvillette, however, didn't appreciate them as much as you did, especially when it involved his name and his supposed “lack of sensitivity”. When these comments reached him, the sunny sky was replaced by a few rain clouds.

The unknown truth was that you and Neuvillette had been planning to start a family for a long time, you just didn't know how to since the Sovereign heritage was little studied and your husband was afraid of risking your health and safety for a selfish dream. It was only after a lot of persuasion, support and even medical advice from Sigewinne that the two of you were able to announce your pregnancy and then welcome little Éveline.

To say that Neuvillette was a helicopter husband during your pregnancy would be an understatement. All his worry and attention suffocated you to the point of almost making you go crazy. Even if his care for the smallest details and his devotion to you were appreciated, it was something that annoyed you when extremes.

But then, after the ordeal of childbirth and with the baby finally sleeping in his arms, you were able to notice a new side awakening in the dragon. A passionate and serene look that only his daughter could bring him.

Neuvillette loves having the little one around and rarely left her side in the first days of her life. Fatherhood, not surprisingly, suits him very well as your husband always knows how to meet your daughter's needs before you even take action — perhaps it was experience from all those centuries caring for the Melusines or perhaps it was just his instincts providing for his offspring. Whatever it was, you couldn't be more grateful for his efforts.

Éveline showed to have your features, but she also inherited all of Neuvillette's draconic traits, including his personality you’d dare to say.

In fact, about this last topic is a detail that you learned to avoid because if your daughter cries, Neuvillette is distressed, and if both father and daughter aren’t happy Fontaine is devastated by a torrential rain.

Furthermore, Neuvillette is expected to be fiercely protective of the baby, allowing only a small and significant number of people to meet her in the first months. After all, loving is caring and he’d never forgive himself if something happened to her.

A curious fact that you’d love to share with your friends but can only record in photos would be that every night, and on his rare days off, Neuvillette would transform into his draconic form so he could snuggle up to Éveline and make her sleep — the difference in size between them completely melting you.

And even though his daughter was a little too old for that, he still loves to share these moments with her.

Overall, Neuvillette is a very attentive and affectionate father, preferring to show his love through gestures rather than words. Physical contact is a constant in your home so Éveline learned to grow up in an environment where hugs and pats on the head are everyday gestures.

Neuvillette, even if he’s busy with all his duties as chief justice of Fontaine, will never fail to be present at every stage of his daughter's life, teaching and guiding her to become a respectable, fair and noble-hearted person.

a/n: i intended to rewrite kazuha's part, delete his solo post and add it here but it'd be very troublesome because some people has read already. even though i wished to let it all together i'll let it like the way it is already. furthermore, i don't know if it's gonna turn into a series since my will to write disappears as fast as it appears. but if so, i'll only write for these four men.

please let me know if there's any mistakes ;)

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kazuha x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #lyney #lyney x reader #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #genshin dads au

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00ops1e · 7 months

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simon riley and fatherhood

When Simon came home from a deployment to find you, his sweet Mrs. Riley, about a month pregnant- he panicked.

He had never given much thought to children. To be frank, there simply was too much on his mind to even consider the possibility. Given his profession and upbringing, he always assumed parenthood just wasn’t for him.

He knew you've always had a secret longing for a baby, keeping it to yourself out of respect for him and his sanity.

So, after the initial shock wore off, he couldn’t deny his excitement. Your giddiness certainly rubbed off on him. He acted a bit nonchalant, but you knew him better than that.

You knew for sure there was nothing to worry about when you caught a glimpse at the open tabs on his computer, pregnancy blogs, lists and lists of names and ideas and tips

The way he obsessively worked on the nursery was a big tell too, having taken time off to enjoy this privilege that he was lucky enough to share with you.

If he hadn’t initially panicked, he definitely started losing sleep when you found out it was a girl that you were having

Now, we all know and love Simon as a girl dad, but before he grows into the role, he’s a mess.

He’s terribly worried he won't be a good dad to her, that she won't be able to connect with him and somehow without that connection, he’d turn into his father.

For Christ’s sake Tommy was never able to give him a niece to prepare:(

Watching you nest, so excited for the arrival of your little girl, (along with a TON of late-night reassurance) He slowly let his worries slip away to enjoy the last couple of months with just the two of you.

If there was any anxieties left, they melted away from him the moment he held your daughter for the first time.

Half sitting on the hospital bed, pressed against you. His arms under yours, supporting your exhausted limbs. The limbs currently cradling your beautiful newborn.

He tears up while taking in the image of his girls, committing it to memory.

On those nights when it seems like sleep is the farthest thing from his daughter’s little mind, he stays up to soothe her.

Not so much because he’d rather you be able to sleep, more because he's completely infatuated with the way those little fingers wrapped around his one, the way babygirl seemed to relax when he spoke.

Simon walks up and down the length of the hall slowly, gently swaying with babygirl in his arms. There's definitely a visible trail formed by the heavy man’s constant, slow pacing.

When you wake up and find him not next to you, you rise and peek out the cracked bedroom door. Simon is lounging in the rocker, humming softly to babygirl. Talking to her as if she can comprehend his words. He is smitten.

To quote some comedian whose name I can't remember, he would take a bullet for you, but goddamn he’d use you as a human shield for this little life bundled in his arms. The love he has for the both of you scares him. He's completely whipped.

Babygirl got your eyes, and lord knows he can't say no to you. This child will be the death of him.

this was supposed to be shorter but gd it was too heartwarming to stop. but moving on, HI GUYS LONG TIME NO SEE! sorry im morbidly depressed. anyway there will be a part two of this because its rotting my brain and i wanna take a look at when babygirl is older!!!! let me know what everyone's thoughts are please!

#simon ghost riley #cod #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #cod fluff #ghost headcanons

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skyahri · 1 month

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Children |Naruto Men X fem!Reader| HC

Characters: Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha, Shikamaru Nara, Kakashi Hatake, and Madara Uchiha.

Summary: How many kids they have and how they are with them.

Warnings: Fem reader. Mentions of pregnancy. Mentions of kids.

- - - - -

Naruto Uzumaki

You already knew Naruto had been dreaming of a family for a long time, so when you got your first positive test, you knew it'd go over well.

He was ecstatic to say the least.

He'd coddle you all throughout the pregnancy and as you healed.

Fatherhood was a dream come true. Nothing could make him happier than his little girl.

Except for the second kid.

And the third.

And fourth.

And at that point, you only stopped reproducing because a fifth kid had quickly become your worst nightmare.

All of his offspring, three girls and a boy, had gotten his energy. You chased everyone around the house every single day, and it was exhausting.

Of course, he helped out when he wasn't busy being hokage, but still.

Four was enough... for you.

Sasuke Uchiha

He'd never really put much thought into how many kids he wanted.

Yeah, he wanted to restore his clan, but he kinda forgot that meant HE had to restore his clan.

Your first child, a daughter, was nearing two years old when you'd gotten pregnant once more.

This sparked a conversation about exactly how big of a family he wanted.

Your first child was an angel, really. Calm, quiet, smart, brave, and so much more. If like would be like this, he'd have a hundred.

But damn that second kid was a 180°. If it weren't for the dark hair and eyes, he would swear he was Naruto's son, not his. So much energy.

After that, he'd decided two was more than enough.

He's content with his tight-knit family. (More so content with the idea of less chaos).

Shikamaru Nara

Definition of one and done.

The pregnancy was planned, and he loves his son, but he was perfectly content with how things were.

He checked in with you every now and then to make sure you were content with only one kid, but you assured him every time that he was more than enough.

Besides, only one kid meant that you could give all of your time and energy to him and his needs without worry.

Kakashi Hatake

One and done as well.

Initially, he never wanted kids, but you were already pregnant despite careful measures, so there wasn't much to be done.

A few months later, a little silver haired girl is born.

The second he saw her it was love at first sight.

He loves his daughter. She's literally his whole entire world, and he spoils her absolutely rotten.

He's super protective. Not really a surprise, but it's definitely worth a mention.

Madara Uchiha

It was normal for people on his clan to have a lot of kids. It was the only way to guarantee a future generation due to the war.

When the time came for him and his wife to start thinking about children, he suddenly realized he didn't have to have a billion children.

The war was over and there was peace, so surely there was no need?

It was a mutual decision to have just one child, so that's what you planned on.

Until you suddenly had twins; two boys.

There goes that idea.

Maybe it was his bodies way of telling him he needed more. Uchiha breeding and what-not.

A while later, you had the urge for another baby, and after a long discussion, he agreed it's what he wanted as well.

But again, you had twins, and again, it was two boys.

He called it quits after that. Fuck whatever hyper fertility nonsense you had going on.

He cares deeply for his sons, but he doesn't want to live in a world where he could potentially have yet another pair of babies to look after.

#naruto uzumaki x reader #naruto x reader #naruto headcanons #naruto shippuden #naruto #shikamaru x you #shikamaru x reader #shikamaru nara #madara uchiha x reader #madara x reader #madara uchiha #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi hatake x you #kakashi hatake #sasuke uchiha x you #sasuke uchiha x reader #sasuke x reader #sasuke uchiha #naruto fluff

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starkwlkr · 9 months

Note

Hey it would be great if you could write Charles and readers initial days as first time parents with ruby and how Charles got separation anxiety when he left his daughter for Singapore gp.

only these words | charles leclerc

title is literally my favorite chris cornell song 🫶🏼 i miss him

Charles fell in love with Ruby the second he laid eyes on her. She was practically his twin. Y/n joked that she had basically given birth to Charles’ twin. His family and friends came to visit in the hospital. It was hard to get Charles to hand over Ruby.

After Y/n was discharged from the hospital, the new family was headed home. Charles knew that Ruby wouldn’t understand anything he was saying, but he didn’t care since he kept explaining any little thing to his daughter as he drove back home.

“Those floaty things are called boats. When you’re older, you can get on one.”

It was like that for several weeks. Y/n saw how in love Charles was with fatherhood. He would change diapers, feed her and even got up in the middle of the night to calm the crying baby. One time, Y/n had listened to Charles talk to baby Ruby through the baby monitor after she had woken up.

“You’re so tiny. You’re my little princess, don’t tell your maman i said that, she might get jealous.” Charles softly spoke

Y/n chuckled. She continued listening.

“No matter what, you will always be my little princess. I guess that makes me a king and your maman would be the queen. A little girl born to a king and a queen. Princess Ruby Jules,” Charles went on. “I love you.”

And of course Charles would say those words to his little princess every night.

Thankfully Ruby was born during a break from the races so Charles was home for the first days of fatherhood. Eventually, it was time to leave his girls and return to the track which was something he didn’t want to do. The day before his flight, Charles was in Ruby’s nursery watching her sleep peacefully. He felt guilty for leaving, but Y/n assured him they would be okay since Pascale and Carla would take care of both of them.

“But what if there’s an emergency? You two need me here.” Charles said to Y/n.

“Ferrari needs you too.” Y/n replied.

“My girls are much more important than Ferrari. They can wait.”

When morning came, Charles didn’t even want to wake up. He understood he had a job and he needed to leave, but the thought of leaving his family broke his heart even if it was just for a few days.

“Charles, I will call you every day and night.” Y/n assured him.

“Why if Ruby forgets me?” Charles wondered.

“How could she forget her papa? She’s never going to forget you.”

It took everything to get Charles on the flight to Singapore on time. He kept giving kisses to both of his girls and telling them how much he was going to miss them.

“We’re going to be okay, my love. Ruby and I will be cheering for our favorite red car.” Y/n smiled and pressed a light kiss on Charles’ cheek.

“Mine?”

“No, number fifty five.”

y/nleclerc has added to their story

#formula 1 #inbox <3 #anon #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc one shot #baby leclerc series #charles leclerc imagine

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myfirstbaby · 2 years

Link

Fatherhood initiatives are a way to inspire men to become involved in the day-to-day lives of their children and be more responsible.

#Undeniable Proof That We Need Fatherhood Initiatives

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hauntedrain · 4 months

Text

Part 1: F1 Drivers as Fathers Headcanons

A/N: Not edited.

✧*̥˚ Part one: includes Charles, & Max*̥˚✧

Charles Leclerc ⋆୨୧˚

I think Charles would be such a caring dad. I mean I think the way he cares for his family and how he talks about them shows that, but as a parent, I definitely think that care and love would be over the roof.

I don't think he would necessarily try to get his kid into driving/karting nor would he act disappointed if they chose something different or nothing at all.

However, if his kid did get into karting or driving he would be their number one supporter and would be extremely excited about it. I mean he would do everything for his kids if that was their dream, but that goes for anything they choose.

I feel like before the kid was born/when he initially found out that he was going to be a father I think that he would be very nervous about it. Like what if he cant be there to spend the most important parts of his child's life because he had to race, or was busy with formalities?

But I think overtime, especially after the kid was born, I think his worries would ease a bit and he would just try to enjoy the moments he does have with his family.

I think as his kid got older and was able to walk and do more active things, Charles would literally do anything and everything with his kid. Like he hears his kid wants to go to the park? sure he's already got it planned and ready. Wants to go to one of his races? He has everything prepared and excited. Or even just waking up in the middle of the night to read and sit with his kid because they had a nightmare.

He is the type of parent to agree with his kid that they should totally get a dog out of the blue just because his kid said It was a good idea. (and how can he say no?)

He would try and be the best dad that he could be, and be really caring to his child and their needs.

I also think that he (if he got to choose the name) would name his child after Jules, his dad, or someone really important to him.

Also like he said once (pretty sure unless I'm going crazy) he would like 3 kids.

Definitely a girl dad though.

Max Verstappen ✧.*

Firstly I think he would be the most careful and most attentive father to his children. Like asking them and genuinely caring if they're alright, or if they need anything. Or helping them with anything like their homework or random things they want to do.

I feel like he kinda has a shadow over his shoulder telling him he's like his dad or going to be like him, so for one, he would definitely need reassurance and he himself would be extremely cautious about the way he acts with his kid.

Furthermore, I think those worries would be very evident when he first found out he was going to be a father. I think he definitely questioned if he was ready for it and if that fatherhood was for him. I think it would take him time but at the end of the day I do think that he realizes that he can do it and not to worry about it and that it will be okay.

I think he would try his best to keep his kid away from sports and competitiveness. However, if it did come down to his kid getting into a sport then he would 100% be there every step of the way and ensure that they don't feel pressured or hurt by the sport and the ways of competitiveness.

Like always assuring that they want to do the sport and that they should only do it if they enjoy it and not just to impress him or make them have that "connection" via sports. I also feel that with the sports thing that he would be so scared about them getting injured or hurt, especially if it was an extreme or risky sport.

I think he would also just in general try to be there for his kid throughout the racing season, even if it's hard. But he thinks it's worth it if that means he gets to spend time with his family and connect with them.

I think he would love to do activities with his kids, like playing video games or board games with them or playing tag or football with them. Anything that they enjoy he would do without a second thought.

Like if he woke up and his kid was awake and they wanted to play a video game he would most definitely play with them, even if it's really early in the morning. (them sitting on the couch or something playing rounds on rounds of Mario Kart)

⭒❃.✮:▹A/N: I hope you like it and it's good, I'll do part 2 and more with other drives. (if you have any requests I'd love to hear.) And I'm probably going to do a lot more headcanons as of right now because I'm working on a few multi-chapter fics <3 love you guys.

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flowersforchoso · 6 months

Text

Bi-han as a father.

it takes a while for him to adjust to the concept of fatherhood as a result of the strained relationship he had with his father.

but once he gets the hang of it, he'll be the perfect mix of stern and loving. capable of striking fear in his children's hearts if you threaten to report them, "i'll tell your father" works like a charm to make them act right, but he's welcoming and will never turn his children away or refuse to engage them.

realistically, he would've like 2-3 kids max.

he's a disciplinarian through and through. won't tolerate misbehavior or disrespect, especially if its towards you. he doesn't take kindly to that.

sometimes you feel he's being excessive with it and intervene

"mommy!" your child cries, running to you for protection from their father—a refuge—to which you'd complain that he's being needlessly harsh

"you coddle them too much, that's the problem." he scolds. "no child of mine will be errant"

of course, you get upset at his hard-headedness that barely makes him see from your perspective

and he can tell, because you're no longer receptive to his advances in protest against his behaviour

so he tones down the discipline and tries to be lenient with them. keyword: tries.

nevertheless, he's nurturing and very hands-on. attentive as well. if something is wrong, he notices right away.

will cook for his children because he believes he's the better cook, but they think otherwise, since he just puts lots of vegetables in the food. he wants them to grow healthy and strong

he teaches his children from a tender age to be self-sufficient and trains them to be able to protect themselves and you, if the situation calls for it.

dad time is essential. will take them to exciting places and partake in outdoor activities like gardening, hiking, fishing or simply errands to the marketplace etc. he loves to spend time with them and would crack dad jokes here and there to entertain them. they'll pretend to find it funny.

he's overprotective and strives to be a good role model to his kids.

now if he's a girl dad, there's a slight twist.

his parenting style is much more relaxed due to his mother being the only female presence he had growing up so its a mix of cluelessness and traditional ideals shining through and will mostly take cues from you

training is not mandatory but if they're interested, he would be happy. its not as rigorous and they have the choice to opt out anytime.

he dotes excessively on them that'll make you wonder if this was the same person you married. but it's mainly because he sees them as mini versions of you

at this point, its no surprise he's the preferred parent because of how affectionate he is towards them. and big, strong dad gives the best piggyback rides.

infact, you would have to complain that he's spoiling them too much to which he'd respond

"what's it to you? don't question my parenting" and you leave it at that.

treats them delicately. his paternal instincts go into overdrive everytime and he gets easily worried when it comes to them

when they reach a certain age, he doesn't shy away from topics relating to womanhood. but that doesn't mean he initiates the conversation. he takes on the passive role of listener and further educates himself by asking you questions in private which you tease him for being eager to learn

doesn't joke with his daughters. he's a nightmare of a father nobody would want to deal with because he would raise hell if anyone dares hurt them in any capacity

he's changed so much since having them; has become softened, and is grateful to you for this wonderful gift.

but if he only has sons, its a different story entirely

he's twice as stern and this is because he grew up with brothers so he knows how unruly boys can be

training is mandatory for them, they do not get the luxury to choose. he wants them to be able to protect themselves and you, so he doesn't ever present the opportunity for slacking

in short, he rules with an iron fist. you'd have to remind him that they're his children, not his underlings

struggles with voicing his affection. you'd have to reassure your sons that their father, infact, loves them

and it's only natural they gravitate towards you.

but that doesn't mean he doesn't care for them. because he does. its all about tough love and instilling strong values in them, leaving no room for weakness.

and they constantly want to impress their father. on rare occasions when they do, or bi han is feeling particularly soft, he looks at them with adoration and ruffles their hair or simply utters a "well done" that means the world to them

they look up to their father and are always around him seeking validation

#bi han x reader #bi han x you #bi han sub zero #sub zero x you #mk1 sub zero x reader #subzero x reader #mk1 bi han #bi han mk1 #mortal kombat 1

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peachesofteal · 9 months

Note

The dead disco break up Pregnancy au got me in my feels all day. Literally all day.

And all I can think about is when the guys get home? Find her not at the apartment and they’re both like, “can’t blame her, I get it” and are over come with guilt. Their own relationship getting a little rocky. Maybe Johnny gets frustrated more easily with Simon. Simon withdrawals a little more into himself bc that’s how he handles pain and grief. But they make it through. They always do. Until they find out about darling and the baby. However that happens, be it in a grocery store or whatever. But Simon comes from a very traumatized childhood. He sees the baby and just knows. That’s their kid. And is overcome with so much grief bc now he’s no worse that his dad is he? What’s worse than someone that’s there and beats you? Someone that’s not there at all. Not knowing. And he has always promised himself he’d never be like his father, but than this is just too close to comfort.

I imagine he surprises not only himself but Johnny and darling the most when he ends up doing something drastic. There were no words he had to defend himself or Johnny. He’d be mature. Whatever it takes, whatever darling needed just let him be in his child’s life, let him be in your life, let him do better. Don’t LET HIM HAVE THIS WEIGHT ON HIS SHOULDERS.

Darling would have more whiplash than Johnny but even Johnny is taken back by the lengths Simon would go? (Getting out the military? Domestic security and law enforcement jobs so he can be home? Idk?) but Simon just comes out of no where, with “I’m here. I’m not going no where. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.” Bc he does love darling and he does love Johnny, but that kid? He’d move heaven and hell for that kid. It was Ryan Reynolds who was like “I love my wife, love her more than anything. Then we had our baby girls and realized I would use my wife as a human shield to protect my kids” As a joke of course but it’s to that extent. Simons 2 priority’s become taking care of that child and mending the relationship between the three of them, not bc he loves them (he totally does, and his devotion to his partners is infallible) BUT BECAUSE that kid needs to know what healthy relationships are based out of love and communication not grief and missed social cues and resentment.

Simon takes fatherhood seriously. Most serious job there is. And he’s not going to let darling’s (low key selfish) feelings of betrayal and self deprecation keep him from taking care of his child and said mother of that child.

———

Johnny however? He’s the one that’s hesitant surprisingly. He’s hurt. Beyond hurt that you wouldn’t tell them something like this. It’s the adult thing to at least say something right? Even if they did leave. This is more than them now. And he goes along with Simons initiative to fix all of this but Johnny needs some serious reassurance and maybe an outlet for all this anger and hurt he has. And there’s so much going on that it’s easy for Simon and darling to kinda miss that a little bit,

Until Johnny doesn’t want to hold the baby. Says he’s scared he’d drop it. But Simon knows better.

Johnny feels lost.

Darling feels lost.

Simon is their beacon of light in the darkness.

It comes down to the sexiest night known to human existence, and a lot of crying and confessions while fucking all those emotions out. Simon has always known how to get these two to let down their walls. Breakfast is for figuring out detail’s schedules ect. But that night? That was them fixing it. Letting go and moving forward. In the sexiest. Way. Possible.

^look what you’ve done to me. I’m serving alcohol at a bar thinking about these characters, THE DISTRACTION IS REAL AND I NEED MORE.

You’re fantastic. I hate you for doing this to my brain. Love ya!

Um… hi? Hello? Come back. Let’s talk about this more, let’s break it down. I am obsessed with this. I love this. 🩵🩵

Simon goes into protective overdrive the second he see’s you. Not sure how or when or where it happens, but Bee is not even two months old, and he doesn’t even need to ask you. She’s so little, cocooned in a linen wrap, cradled to your chest, and he already knows. How could that baby be anyone’s but their own?

He does exactly as you’ve described, drops everything and retires early. Price and Johnny always thought he’d make captain soon, but none of that matters now. His military aspirations have meant less and less every year since he met Johnny, and meeting you only sped his career’s ultimate demise along.

He’s not going to let the cycle repeat. He’s not going to let his child grow up and feel like they’ve been abandoned by him. He’s not going to let Bee grow up without him being there. Loving her. Supporting her. He won’t be his father. He refuses.

You agree to let them see her, and agree to let them take her for nights or days if they’d like. But you won’t let them in. Won’t do much more than co parent with them, won’t engage in anything real with them, won’t give them a single inch. You stonewall them, block them out, give them excuses and refusals at every turn. Sure, they can be in their daughter’s life… but they can’t be in yours.

While Bee is important, you are too. He wouldn’t use you as a shield to save her, he’d save you both. There’s no option. No choice. You’re the love of their lives, the now mother of his child. He’d lay down and die for you.

But none of that matters. You won’t let them in.

It drives Simon insane. He’s understanding, and mature about it, and patient (compared to Johnny, who’s running hot over it… frustrated, agitated, consistently visibly upset, holding onto his anger and resentment over the fact you never came forward and even told them about Bee. Johnny can’t get over that you went through everything alone… can’t understand why you wouldn’t tell them, give them a chance to be there for you.. and it stings. It hurts him, so fucking much, and that hurt melds into anger, it burns into his heart and twists his feelings until they’re a jumbled mess.) but he can’t seem to make you understand that they love you, that they thought about you everyday when they were gone, that they mourned the end of the relationship. It’s not just about the baby, they were coming back for you no matter what. They knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they weren’t meant to live their lives without you. They made a mistake.

But… they fucking abandoned you. And now they come back, and see that you have a baby and just decide they want to be back in your life? No. Absolutely not. They didn’t want you anymore, before Bee… nothing has changed. You won’t let yourself fall back into their grasp, and you’re so adamant about that that you fight them nearly at every turn. Can they take Bee? Sure. But “family trips” to the store? “Family trips” to the park? Not happening. You pack her diaper bag and kiss her goodbye, while Simon watches you with an intense scrutiny, eyes tracking your every step while he holds little Bee is his giant hand. He doesn’t miss a single thing, doesn’t miss the way your hands shake when you press a sweet kiss against her cheek, doesn’t miss the way your body moves sluggishly, like you’re exhausted, even after the nights they’ve had Bee, which means you should have gotten plenty of rest. Johnny just stands in the corner and stares at the floor, hands in his pockets during these exchanges, practically unwilling to engage with you in any way because he’s just so… upset with you, still. He’s better with Bee, loves her dearly, but can’t get past what he’s holding inside of himself, can’t get past how he feels so betrayed you, even though a part of him thinks he has no right to those feelings.

I love your last little bit - about the night Simon breaks you and Johnny apart and then puts you back together. There is something very similar/along those lines in the actual fic outline.

BUT ALSO… let’s imagine: They try to fix it. They try to get you to let them back in, to open up to them, to let them be there for you. As time goes on, Johnny changes, the red hot fire of anger that burns inside of him eventually goes out, lovingly smothered by Simon, and his resentment and feelings of betrayal all melt away. How could he ever have felt those things, when you were the one who was left all alone? Pregnant, with no way to contact them? He lets it all go, fully embracing parenting with you and Simon, trying to get back into your life, trying to love and support you from afar, any way they can. They start to notice a change in you… you seem a little happier, a little lighter on your feet, a little more relaxed and they think it might be working… that you finally might be growing more amenable about letting them in, about building back the relationship.

Until… they show up for Bee’s first birthday party, and there’s a man with his hand splayed on the small of you back in the backyard, holding you, tugging your body into his, while Bee shrieks and giggles on the blanket in the grass. There’s another man, watching their daughter, holding their darling girl close, while they stand in the doorway, shell shocked.

#peaches asks #disco baby au #ghost x soap x reader

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venusjaynie · 1 month

Text

not him

billy hargrove x pregnant!reader

summary: you're 8 months pregnant and billy couldnt be happier. but even though he's excited for your little ball of sunshine to finally make his appearance, he's got some concerns.

warnings: neil hargrove, mentions of past abuse, mentions of child abuse, billy has abandonment issues and nightmares, some swearing, insecurity from both reader and billy hurt/comfort, lots of fluff (of course)

A/N: i think billy would be so worried about being a dad when you have your first kid. he doesn't want to end up like neil, and he doesn't want you to have to leave like his mother did :(

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you first told Billy that the two of you are having a baby, he was freaked as fuck.

You were only 18 at the time, and he had just turned 19. The both of you always said you would wait until marriage to have children, and you didn't really have the money to support a kid at the time. Neither of you were prepared for the pregnancy happen, your being apartment cramped enough as it is with just the two of you, but as scared as you may have been, there was still an overwhelming amount of joy that took over you.

It took a couple of days for Billy to let the news sink in, and when he really thought about it, he was ecstatic. Now the excitement hasn't necessarily subsided for Billy, per say. It's just that, along with all that bubbling anticipation, he's doubting his skills of fatherhood, because he literally doesn't have any. Not yet anyway.

Billy doesn't plan to open up about his concerns, mainly because he's embarrassed, but also because you have more than enough on your plate being pregnant and all, and he doesn't want to burden you with some silly insecurities which he thinks will go away after a few weeks.

He's wrong.

They don't go away: if anything, they get worse. The closer you get to having your baby, the more worried he becomes. He's had to sleep on your couch, or not at all, because he's woken up in cold sweats after nightmares about Neil, or sometimes, he'll dream that he's the one mistreating his kid. Billy doesn't tell you, though. When he has these dreams, he wakes up, kisses your forehead gently, and tip-toes to the living room, where he sits on the couch and calms himself back down, before curling up on the soft seat and trying to get a couple more hours of sleep in before you wake up.

Billy thinks what he's doing is for the best, but what he doesn't realise is that every time you wake up in bed without Billy beside you, the rejections stings like a bee.

Pregnancy has had a real knock on your confidence, and you often worry Billy doesn't see you the way he used to. He had been more than supportive in every way, until the couch crashing started. You had been about 5 months pregnant, your bump very visible, and everything had been fine, until you went to bed. At around 4 in the morning, you had felt nauseous, and woke up to tell Billy you were going to the bathroom, but when you rolled over to face him, he wasn't there. Initially, you panicked, and you got up and left your bedroom to look for him, but as you got closer to the living room, however, you heard the TV quietly playing, and saw Billy fast asleep on the couch. You couldn't help the tears that sprung to your eyes at the sight of him being so content sleeping somewhere else instead of with you, but you just blamed that on your heightened hormone production and emotions. You didn't mention it to him the next day, thinking it was a one off occasion, but soon enough you found him on the couch 3 times a week, and then it was almost every night.

After 3 months of him sleeping on the couch from the early hours of the morning, you decide enough is enough. So you choose to confront him when he comes home from work.

At around 6, the time Billy's shift is over, you go to the kitchen and check on the dinner you've prepared. During your maternity leave you've taken to cooking and baking most days, and you're glad you have. It gives you something to do, and you've gotten pretty good at it, or so Billy says anyway.

Checking on the lasagna that's in the oven, you have to wipe your sweaty palms on your apron. You're honestly quite nervous to confront him. As much as you're ready to get to the root of the situation, you're terrified that he's going to turn around and tell you that he doesn't want this, doesn't want you, anymore.

It's 6:15 when Billy walks through the door, and he's not empty handed. He has a pink bouquet in his clutch, and you don't fail the notice how, even after all the bunches of flowers he's bought you over the years, the gesture still makes your stomach do a flip-flop.

"Hey, sweetheart." He doesn't hesitate to make his way to you and plant a big kiss on your lips, and you smile at him. It doesn't quite reach your eyes, however, and Billy notices. "You okay?" You nod in response. He eyes you wearily.

"I'm okay, babe, just tired." He doesn't believe you at all, but he doesn't push.

"These are for you. I saw them on my way this mornin' and they reminded me of you. Picked them up on the way back."

"Thank you, you're very sweet."

"Only for you." Usually a cheesy line like that would have you blushing and giggling at him, but not today. He doesn't even get so much as a breathy chuckle in return, just a half-hearted smile. And with that, he knows something is wrong. You go to turn back to the food you're preparing, but Billy stops you. "Hey, look at me." You do as he says, and he immediately notices the unshed tears in your eyes. "Baby, what's going on?" He reaches for your hand, and you don't pull away.

"Nothing, nothing. I'm alright, just hormones." You try to smile through your tears, but you think it probably comes out as more of a grimace than anything else.

"I don't believe you one bit. Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart."

"Billy, I'm really fine, just drop it." You say, snapping slightly.

He drops it.

You hand him his dinner plate and he makes his way to the table. You do the same, and Billy starts his usual retelling of his day. As much as you try to listen and engage, you're too busy thinking about what you're going to say to him, and Billy notices.

"Honey? Are you listening?" His concerned voice snaps you back into reality and you realise you haven't been paying attention.

"Sorry, Billy. Yes, I'm listening. Just zoned out for a second." He raises an eyebrow at your response.

"Okay, what's going on? Are you tired? Nauseous?"

"No, no it's not that. It's, uh, I just-" You stop yourself with a sigh, thinking it's best to pull yourself together a bit before you have this conversation. Taking a deep breath, you bite the bullet, "Why don't you sleep in our bed anymore?"

Billy looks shocked, then confused, then guilty, then a whole mix of other emotions that you're too tired to decipher.

"You noticed, huh?"

"Yeah, I noticed! Billy, you haven't slept a full night in our bed for 2 months. What the hell is wrong? Am I that repulsive to you that you can't even bare to sleep in the bed with me?" You know that's just the hormones talking, you didn't mean to say that, but you're curious anyway.

"What? No, of course not. That's not it at all." Billy's quiet when he talks, almost shameful. "Is that really what you think?" You nod. "Oh, god, honey, that's not what I think at all. You're beautiful. You've always been beautiful."

"Then why are you sleeping on the couch every damn night?"

"Baby, I-" He cuts himself off and rakes a hand through his hair, tugging a little out of stress. "C'mere, let's sit on the couch, 'kay?" He reaches for your arm, but you shy away from his touch, preparing yourself to be let down by what he has to say. Instead you walk over to your couch and Billy follows behind you like a kicked puppy.

Once settled on the couch, you don't say anything, waiting for Billy to explain his behaviour. He takes a deep breath, and stares at his hands, before speaking.

"I, uh- ever since we- Jesus Christ." His hand rakes through his hair again, and you can tell this isn't easy for him to say. Something in the back of your mind tells you that you were expecting the worst explanation, and that it isn't true, so you reach up and take his hand, linking your fingers with his and softly stroking your thumb on the back of his hand. He looks up at you, his eyes shining slightly.

"Take your time, it's alright. I'm in no rush." He sends you a small, grateful smile and does his best to blink back any tears threatening to leak from his eyes.

"You know how excited I am for our baby, right?" Billy says, and you nod your head. "Good. I'm so fuckin' stoked for us to have a kid. But for the past few months, I've been... having doubts." You're previously sympathetic looks contorts into one of confusion, and hurt. "Not those kind of doubts. Trust me, I wouldn't leave you to look after our kid all alone. I swear. I'm just seriously doubting my ability to be a dad."

"What's making you doubt yourself so much?"

"Neil." The name on Billy's tongue makes you still for a second. "I haven't been able to sleep lately because I keep having nightmares. And it's so stupid, 'cause I know he can't get me but I- God, I'm just so scared that I'm gonna turn out like him."

"You won't." Is all you say in reply.

"How do you know?" He asks quietly.

"Because I know you. I've known you since we were, what? 6?"

"5, actually."

"Exactly. Baby, I've known you forever, and I know that you're nothing like Neil. You wouldn't hurt a kid, and especially not your kid."

"But what if I get really angry and-" He cuts himself off with a hitch in his throat. "I don't wanna do something stupid, and I don't want my stupid actions to make you leave." He says the last part quietly, and it breaks your heart a little.

"Oh, Billy, is that what you're worried about? Me leaving?" He doesn't look at you, but you can tell by the way his mouth drops into a frown that he's confirming your suspicions. You can't help but wrap your arms around his neck, and he wraps his around your torso in response, gripping onto you like a vice. "I'm not gonna leave, and I'll tell you that as many times as it takes for you to believe me, alright?" Billy hugs you impossibly tighter. "And getting angry is normal. You've been angry at me before, right?" He nods into your neck. "And you've never laid a hand on me, right?" He nods firmly. "So I know you'd never hit our baby." You pull away from him slightly to look at him. His glassy eyes can't meet yours, so you press a kiss to his cheek and whisper, "I love you."

"I love you. So much." Billy's shaking hands make their way to your stomach, and he gently rubs in small circles with his thumbs. "I love you, too, kiddo." He manoeuvres his way to the floor into a crouching position and presses a soft kiss to your belly before standing back up and pulling you up with him. His arms snake around your waist and you lean into him, basking in the quiet of the moment, knowing that in a month there will be 3 of you. The thought makes your smile into Billy's chest, and you feel him kiss your temple lovingly. The guy couldn't hurt a fly, and you'll do everything you can to prove it to him, no matter how long it takes for him to believe you.

--------------------------------------------------------

i haven't even proof read this but here 🤗

#billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #dacre montgomery #stranger things 2 #stranger things #stranger things 3 #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove fanfiction

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where-dreams-dwell · 2 months

Text

*One Day Netflix Spoilers*

You can interpret it however works for you, and I don’t know how it played out in the book, but I loved the scene where Em and Dex got together.

Because Emma *chose* Dexter. When she didn’t have to, when she had other options, knowing all of his baggage, and knowing that they would probably be able to stay friends if she didn’t. And she still chose to start something romantic with him.

Emma was at the highest point of her success: a published author, signed for a second book, sent to live abroad in an exciting new city. And she’d started seeing someone who (from the little we see) is kind, charming, and cares for her. Emma is winning in every sense!

And she initially rejects Dexter. Her reasons make sense; she doesn’t feel he truly *wants* to be with her, just that she’s there and he’s lonely. She is sure of herself and her place in the world, and turns down the man she used to crush on because she wants it to be real. When given this opportunity were not shown a knee jerk, desperate, ‘oh my god, finally, yes!’ moment when he says he wants to be with her. She was NOT waiting on this, and she’s not PINING for him. It actually shows huge strength that when the man she used to like finally wants to be with her, she has the inner strength to say no and stick to what she deserves; a proper relationship with someone who truly wants her, not a placeholder.

Dexter lays his heart on the line, leaves himself competent venerable, and Em says no.

You could interpret Em coming back as unsatisfactory: a woman in her prime, going back to the man she’s been pining over most of her adult life. But it can also be seen as an empowering moment.

Emma knows all of Dexters issues and chooses him anyway. Dexter has literally just laid out his current headspace and issues, and it’s clear she was supporting him as the divorce was announced and agreed upon. And previous episodes show they’ve been close throughout Dexters marriage and fatherhood, with Em stopping in at his job and answering his late night calls. She’s been his best friend again for several years and knows his struggles, so she is going in to any romantic relationship with her eyes open.

Reducing Emma’s choice to being a silly or naive one I think misses huge parts of who she is, things which are key to her characterisation. Throughout the series she’s shown as intelligent, savvy, switched on and determined. Even when she’s unhappy or trying different things, she is sure in her conviction to do *something*. When she’s unhappy at the restaurant and Dex suggests teaching she makes a career change and trains. When she’s at her lowest (post headteacher affair and loosing Dex) she turns rock bottom into a spring board and tries once again to write her novel.

Emma is the embodiment of conviction. Whether it’s knowing what she wants or just knowing what she doesn’t, she is decisive and commits to her path. She’s the perfect foil for Dex who’s lesson across the series is to stop running from difficult feelings, and learn to process unpleasant emotions.

So she didn’t choose Dexter on a whim, and I love that they showed that. Em leaves Dex, turns him down, and goes to dinner with her lover in the city she’s loving living in, while doing the job she always wanted.

And she could have left it like that and they would have likely remaking friends. They did after that kiss at Tilly’s wedding, and after they slept together. So she has nothing to loose by rejecting him.

But Emma *chooses* Dex. She knows herself and what she wants, she knows who she is and what she is now capable of. What she wants, if it’s on the table, is to be with Dexter. So she commits to it.

They could have made her jump at the option to be with Dex. The writer could have had them get together when Dex was at the height of his fame or Em at the lowest point of her life. And either of those could have easily had a sense of fear on Em’s part: to be equal to Dex, to be good enough for him (in her head), to finally make it. But doing it this way gives her all the power, all the agency. And I *love* that.

From comments later it’s clear their relationship was good, they do work well together and they make one another happy. We’ll never know how Emma’s life could have gone if she stayed with Jean-Pierre. But the life she chose with Dex *was* happy. As Ian said ‘[Dex] made her so so happy’: wether you think she could have done better or deserved more, a life with someone who makes you happy… isn’t an insignificant thing.

We’ll never know if it was *the right* choice to be with Dex. But seeing how happy she was it’s clear it was a *good* choice. And that’s all we can ever hope for.

#spoilers #one day #one day netflix #emma morley #dexter mayhew #the power of choosing #female characters

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treasureofmammon · 2 months

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How about writing demon brothers as dads headcanon?

✨️Him as a dad✨️

I was feeling uninspired, but many of you gave me great ideas when I asked. Here is Anon's adorable idea: the 7 brothers as dads!

👥️Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor + MC (gn!reader) + Second generation (gender neutral as well)

⚠️Warnings: Fluff. "Conceiving" mentioned, so there's obvious hints to s3x. Obviously, the theme is Fatherhood.

🔎These are some headcannons that I have about the 7 brothers as dads, mostly based on my own interpretation of how they act.

📝 Note: I wrote one for Mammon alone some months ago, which you can read here

✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️

✨️ Intro ✨️

You and him have been trying to have a baby for some time now, either that you have been trying to conceive or that you have been waiting for a positive answer from an adoption agency.

Now, the good news come: you are having a baby! What would you and this child/children might expect of him as a father?

💙 Lucifer 💙

• He's already a dad! In fact, he's a dad at heart. Actually, taking care of anyone is something that comes naturally to him; although it's usually quite a displeasure to babysit who he has to babysit (yes, his brothers). So when you let him know that he's gonna be a father, the man is so excited! This is something that he really looks forward to.

• His first reaction is shock. But after a few seconds of letting it sink in, he's so happy! He hugs you tight! And he might cry a little but won't let you know. —Lu-Luci, are you crying?—, he looks away and sniffs, —N-No...—.

• As a provider, Lucifer is excellent. This child has it all from birth to adulthood and even beyond!

• At first, he makes sure that the kid's room is ready to receive them and is constantly changing it as they grow up to suit their needs.

• He tries his best to enroll the child in the best kindergarten, the best elementary school, the best high school, the best college, etc. In fact, in their first years, Luci is making sure that his baby is receiving all the positive stimulation you two can provide.

• Lucifer is an avid reader as well, so he's definitely reading to the child and encouraging them to read once the child knows how.

• He has a busy schedule, but he tries his best to assist to all of the events and activities that the kid has. A school play? Man is there with a camera on! A concert? Man is there with a camera on! A dance performance? Man is there with a camera on!

• Also, at those moments, he's feeling especially proud. With a huge grin in his face and his puffed chest filled with pride, he stands up at the end of the activity and applauds enthusiastically.

• Lucifer might not initiate affectionate contact, meaning he's not going to hug anyone unless asked. Nonetheless, if the kid extends his arms to his father, he for sure is hugging the kid, picking them up, and kissing them if asked.

• The child is probably very loving, though. You have thought them to be like that because you know Luci has some small issues with showing it himself, sometimes. But he's usually happy to receive the love. For instance, Lucifer might not always say "I love you", but if the kid says so, Luci will, of course, answer "me too". Or he might not kiss this kid out of the blue, but if the kid asks or surprises Lucifer with a kiss, Luci is happy to bent down and put his cheek in front of the kid for a little goodbye, goodnight or hello kissy.

• Although he might not be very expressive with his words, he expresses his love with his actions and acts of service. Lucifer is as present as he can. Always delivering to whatever this child needs.

• He's also a jealous father. So, the teenage child or young adult will have a hard time introducing you two to their romantic partner.

💛 Mammon 💛

• Mammon will cry! —Mammon, we will be parents!—, Mammon will be shocked, but then, he'll burst in tears, especially if this is something he's been looking forward to. —Honey, are you crying?— you ask, and answering between sniffs, he will say something tsundere-like: —N-No! I just got somethin' in my eyes! Like happiness or whatever...—. You must hug him very tight!

• Mammon is definitely buying everything in the Devildom to make this kid happy, from clothes, to decor, to toys (some not even appropriate for their age, say a figurine or a remote control car that the baby won't be able to play with until years later).

• He's preparing the kid's room almost on his own (especially if you're pregnant), doing all sorts of DIY projects until he's happy with the results.

• If you're pregnant, Mammon won't leave your side. He's there all the time!, either holding your hand, helping you get up, holding your hair if you are nauseous, etc. He's a supportive partner!

• Although he's messy. Once told he'll be a father, my baby boo is buckling up for real now. He might not stop gambling or his entrepreneur mistakes, but he'll slow down and always have enough money to give to his household.

• Mammon will take every bit of model gigs that he can to provide to this child and you. Although, you're probably the main provider of the household (let's be honest).

• He will play with this kid constantly, making pillow forts, hide and seek, etc.

• Mammon is happy to cook for this kid and then feed them until they have the age to properly feed themselves. For him, doing these domestic tasks is something he truly enjoys but will never let anyone know.

• He definitely cries with every achievement this kid has, even if it's just a symbolic graduation from kindergarten, Mammon is crying. You have to constantly reassure and console him, but it's no issue, right? After all, that just shows how much he loves this kid. Mammon is too cute!

• Mammon is also as present as he can. He records or takes pictures of everything: his baby's firsts steps, his baby's birthdays, his kid's graduations, his child's performances. Everything! And he knows how to do it in a way that looks good and even artistic.

• Mammon will not always help the kid with his homework, as some things might be difficult for him, either because he has a hard time explaining himself or because at some point, the topics will get too complicated for him. But Mammon will do what he can; for example, he'll definitely help if it's something like a solar system model.

• I'm sorry, but Mammon is incapable of punishing this child. That's a you task. Nonetheless, he's always there to nod at your side. He knows you're right.

• He will make original songs for your kid.

• On that note, he'll sing lullabies at night while tucking them up in bed. He won't read them though, because he usually falls asleep before them. It's quite funny actually.

• Though he acts like a tough guy, he has a soft spot for this kid for sure. It's a side that you always knew he had, but his family and friends didn't, so it's a pleasant surprise for everyone. Lucifer is super proud of Dad Mammon but won't tell him.

• Mammon is ready to drive the child to wherever they need to go. He might find it like a drag, but he'll do it for their own safety.

• He always prepares family movie nights, cheap family outings, special dinners and more. He's very creative on this one.

• Mammon will encourage and accept his kid's desires, opinions and decisions. He's a supportive dad all the way!

• He's also a protective and jealous dad! Your teenager kid / young adult child is having a hard time introducing him to their significant other.

🧡 Leviathan 🧡

• The news take him by surprise. He knew this is something that you wanted and he, as usual, is willing to give you whatever you want, but now that it's a reality, he is a mix of nervousness and happiness.

• He has a lot of self doubts of him as a dad the first few months (even years), so you constantly have to reassure him that everything will be okay and that he will/is doing great.

• With time, he's nervousness transforms into excitement! Especially when you brought up the topic of the kid becoming a new player.

• He'll design and sew family t-shirts with "Player N.1", "Player N.2" and "Player N.3" phrases.

• If a newborn baby, the first time he sees them, he's very scared to hold them, but once you teach him how and he calms down, he looks at his child's little face and cries. You stay in silence by his side, and say nothing, letting him have his father-child moment in peace.

• Levi is a very supportive father, constantly backing up his child's decisions and actions.

• His kid is definitely very aware that bullying is wrong, except if directed to uncle Mammon. So Levi is a very proud dad when he realizes that his kid is stepping up to defend someone.

• Leviathan is definitely helping with homework, especially if artistic or crafty. He's also designing all the costumes for the school plays and dance performances.

• He has a hard time coming to parent meetings, so that's a task that you'll have to assume. Sorry. But that doesn't mean he isn't interested in what they had to say; in fact, as soon as you walk in home, he's asking about everything the teacher said.

• Levi will go to school events and activities, but it takes a lot of effort for him to do so. You have convinced him to use his Navy uniform and act as an extroverted anime Admiral. That façade actually helped him in Parents' day, when each kid had to introduce one of his parents and then the parent had to explain their job: —I- I...— *ahem* —I am the Devildom's Grand Admiral, Leviathan, Avatar of Envy...—, suddenly, a very deep and masculine voice that you and your kid have never heard comes out of Levi, explaining his job as an Admiral, part of his act as his alterego character.

• Levi does slow down with his gaming addiction. He has to, because you two need to work as a team to raise this kid well.

• Talking about gaming, Levi is pushing this hobby to his child too. He also watches anime and reads manga to/with his child since a little baby. Either they'll grow up to love it or hate it.

• Once you're able to go back to work, he stays home and takes care of everything on that side. Although he might have escaped from a task once or twice during the day to play videogames, watch anime or read manga. Once an otaku, always an otaku.

• Nonetheless, Leviathan will take decisions and act in ways that not you nor his family and friends expected. As a father, Levi will grow up in a heartbeat, without stop being himself. It's something extraordinary and wonderful to see. This actually happened to my uncle, it was so interesting.

• Finally, Levi is not a jealous father. On the contrary, he will respect his child's decision and encourage them unconditionally always. Always.

💚 Satan 💚

• —Satan, we are having a child!—. Very much like some of his brothers, he's shocked to know; but slowly, as the news sink in, he goes from shocked to complete happiness. To said the least, he's thrilled, hugging you tight and kissing you all-over your pretty face, —I love you so much, thank you kitten!—. He might tear a little, but won't even hide it. —Oh! Darling, are you crying?—, —Why, of course! I'm going to be a dad! I'm happy!—.

• Satan is definitely getting serious as soon as the news arrive. He'll get a job, probably as an scholar. And if you're not married yet, he'll marry you for sure: —I read that it's a big deal in the human realm if people have kids without getting married, so I'll propose to you anytime soon! Prepare kitten—, you sigh and answer —Honey, have you been reading human books from the XIX century again?—, —... ... ... That doesn't matter, ok? Let's get married!—. Don't worry, he'll propose to you again and in a very romantic way.

• He's also reading a lot of parenting books, like..., a lot.

• If the child is a baby (biological or not), Satan will go shopping with you to get the nursery room ready. And yes, everything is cat themed; I promise it looks adorable anyway.

• When Satan sees this child for the first time, he feels an instant connection. He'll carefully hold his baby/kid, look at their small face, and cry of happiness, completely full of love for them.

• Once the child is home (if adopted) or big enough (if biological), he's a super dad! He prepares nutritional meals, he plays stimulating games with them, he reads them all the time, and teach them all the important things. It's actually a beautiful sight to witness.

• He'll waste no opportunity to dress his adorable kid in cat themed clothes.

• Satan, as the book lover that he is, will definitely encourage reading. In fact, reading is a must in this household!

• Similar to Lucifer, Satan wants the best education for his child from start to finish. He might be a little pushy with the fact that academical success is important, which might cause tension between him and his child if the latter doesn't enjoy it or has a hard time.

• Nonetheless, Satan is always there to help with homework. He also gives great advice.

• Since Satan has some paternal figure issues, he might doubt himself from time to time, reconsidering his methods as a dad. Even if he read all the parenting books there is, like the rest of his brothers (and the entirety of parents in the world), nothing actually prepared him for parenthood. However, he has you by his side to help, talk, and give him encouragement if needed. And so, likewise, if you feel doubtful, he's there for you too.

• He's 100% in all his kid's events. He won't miss one. He doesn't like to be the one filming or taking pictures. That'd be you. Because he actually prefers to enjoy his kid's performances to the fullest without any interruptions. He feels extremely proud once the event is over.

• He's a very active dad in matters like school meetings, parents' day, festivals, sports, poetry recitals, etc.

• Like Mammon and Lucifer, he's a jealous dad. Yes, this poor child will also have a hard time introducing their partner to Satan.

• Satan would actually be an amazing dad. He will do his best to succeed in this too, trying to find the balance between a loving and a serious dad.

• Now, do you realize that this kid will be the child of Satan? You better raise him in the Devildom to avoid any unnecessary problems in the Human realm.

🩷 Asmodeus 🩷

• Asmo was not into being a dad at first. After all, that'd mean that he can't party as much as he wants. But you managed to convince him. He can't win against you. Besides, he'll give you whatever you want, whenever you want it.

• Although at first he was unsure, after realizing that he'd create something beautiful with you (a family), he was in! Especially if that means conceiving, because... well, he's the Avatar of Lust, after all.

• When you tell him the good news, Asmo is extremely excited! He hugs you and swings you around. —Oh hon! That's fantastic!—. That day turned into one of the best days of his life.

• If you're pregnant, expect Asmo to be around you all the time, making sure that you're alright. He has your back. You can count on him.

• Also, he's definitely designing the most flamboyant kid's room ever! And definitely makes his brothers arrange it for him. It's not that he can't do it himself. It's just that why would he risk damaging his beautiful hands if his brothers are all there?!

• When the kid is finally here, Asmo is excited and happy. He'll definitely cry openly and dramatically because he sincerely feels so. He has been waiting for so long!, and now his child is here, with you two. Immense love fills his chest, and tears can't stop escaping his gorgeous eyes.

• Asmo bought a huge wardrobe with the cutest and most fashionable pieces of clothes for kids!

• You thought that Asmo was not going to change diapers or clean other fluids; but, boy, were you wrong! He does! And he takes the opportunity to dress the baby up every single time, making them look more adorable than they already are. Yes, this kid has around 5 daily outfit changings.

• Obviously, Asmo is in charge of the kid's clothing.

• He's taking pictures and videos of his child ALL THE TIME!! Including selfies. He won't post them on social media, though, because you explained to him how harming that can be. Instead, he is creating an artsy digital album for the family with all these.

• Asmo is not in the school events as a simple viewer, Asmo is the school director of the plays, the choreographer, the music compositor, and/or the costumes' designer. You can bet he's there to make sure his little baby shines!

• As a father, Asmo is very open-minded, loving, and caring. And his child is definitely enjoying all of his attention.

• In fact, Asmo is always hugging your kid tight! This might become a nuisance when they grow older.

• He's also extremely supportive and maybe even a little too laid-back in certain areas. As Mammon, he won't punish this child, and being the "bad guy" will fall on you.

• Asmo is not an overprotective dad. In fact, he encourages his child to live freely, trusting that you and him have made a good job raising them.

❤️ Beelzebub ❤️

• —Beel, I want a baby!—, —Okay—. He won't even dissuade you. He'll give you whatever you want. You want a hamburger?, he'll bring hamburgers to home for you (half eaten by him, sorry). You want a fancy date?, he's taking you on a fancy date. You want a house?, he'll give you a house. You want to murder someone?, he'll do it for you! You want a baby?, he's giving you one in whatever way you want: conceiving, adopting, heck!, even stealing it from their birth parents. Of course, you won't ask him to do something that is clearly wrong. If anything, you're a positive person in his life. That's why he loves you so much.

• For Beel, family is everything, and so is this child. Although he didn't quite realize that he'd be a father until the child arrives. Of course, he's happy when you tell him the good news, but it's until he's holding the baby that it actually sinks.

• Just one look into that kid's face, and he swears that he will protect this child no matter what. Yes, he prepared the kid's room the way you wanted; yes, he saw your belly grow, took care of you and held your hand during childbirth (if you got pregnant); yes, he saw you prepare for everything, but it's until he holds his child that he realizes the precious weight that he has now. —Y/N, I'll protect you and this child with my life—, none a single second to look at another thing or person other than his kid.

• As expected, this kid is very loving with their father because Beel is a gentle giant, a huge teddy bear! They are always hugging him and playing with him.

• And Beel is definitely the type of father to give his child whatever they want.

• Beel is very expressive with his actions. He always does all sorts of things for his kid, from cooking their favorite meal to building them a tree house, from playing with them to helping them do their homework..., everything!

• One of Beel's love languages is quality time, so he'll definitely spend time with his child. Since he's a sports lover, he'll teach the kid some sports (most likely, fangoal).

• Beel is not very expressive with his words, but when needed, Beel will give his kid precious advice. Those are the very few times that your kid will remember his father's wisdom and carry his teachings into adulthood.

• Beel is very open-minded. He will trust his kid's decisions and respect their opinions, hoping you and him have done a good job raising this child.

• Beel is not a jealous father, but if necessary, he'll look into someone if he has a hunch and then talk to you if necessary.

💜 Belphegor 💜

• —Belphie, I want a child!—, an awkward silence fills the attic, a long pause while Belphie looks at you straight in the eyes —... and you chose me to be their dad?!, Nah-ah—. He definitely didn't want to be a dad, that actually didn't even cross his mind. Marry you? Without hesitation. Living together? Obviously, yes! Have pets together? Sure! But him being a dad? Don't you remember the example his dad set?

• But you'll definitely insist on this one (or maybe you'll get pregnant without planning it). Anyway, he will eventually say yes, but only if you let him be (sleep), —... then I guess it's fine. Although it seems like a lot of work but I can't really say no to you if this is something you really want, can I?—, he sighs and lays down in bed, ready to nap for the nth time.

• When the news arrives, Belphie is quite surprised. But he's happy nonetheless. He has never experienced or witnessed firsthand what raising a kid it's like, so he can't help but remember what it was like when Lilith came to life. She was such a refreshing gust of air, wonderfully candid and kind. So suddenly, Belphie is eager to take this step with you.

• If this kid is being born, Belphie suggests naming them Lilith, and you agree.

• Although he doesn't like to do physical efforts, he will prepare the kid's room with a little a lot of help from his twin brother, of course.

• Belphie is a loving father, but since he's lazy, don't expect him to do much around the house. He tries, though. It's just that his sin consumes him most of the time.

• He enjoys peaceful activities, though, like cooking and/or feeding the child, reading them books, playing some games, watching movies, and obviously, sleeping while cuddling.

• Belphie is a stay-at-home dad, so he's quite present in his child's life. But like his brother Leviathan, he'll escape his tasks once or twice a day, although to sleep.

• He might not like going outside to school events, but he always makes a huge effort to go. He watches the whole thing, proud of his kid.

• He cuddles and hugs his kid a lot. He has no reservations in that regard.

• Belphie enjoys family time a lot, especially if you invite Beel to join.

• Belphie doesn't care about anything, as long as his kid is happy, he's fine. So he isn't a jealous dad either.

✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️💖💛✨️

[Notes: The character(s) depicted here belong to the mobile game "Obey me: shall we date" and are owned by Solmare Corporation. The text here was made by me: Treasure of Mammon, meaning this is fan-made. | GN!Reader | English is not my first language, so there might be orthographic and syntax errors. I urge you all to interact kindly with this post].

📌 Masterlist

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