Inevitable Indruck @thiswasinevitableid - Tumblr Blog

Propaganda to convince you to make a one shot or maxim or the pragmatic trio (four some?) As parents. (Mainly Alfred molina character at least)

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8sMSGsA/

(If it dosent work let me know)

Here you go, I hope you like it! I ended up going with Comte de Reynaud, since that protagonist in "Insatiable" is one I can see happily being a parent along with him.

This fill is in fact SFW; there was a sex scene I cut since it didn't flow quite right, but if people want it I can write it as its own fill.

Your day has been one of sitting in silence. Sitting in your apartment above the bookstore, taking deep breaths. Sitting in the doctor's office, taking even deeper breaths. And now, sitting at the table in Paul’s dining room, wondering if the urge to vomit is the result of nerves or the thing causing them.

When Paul arrives from work, you greet him in the hallway with a kiss. You intend for it to be brief, but his arms encircle you and his lips linger on yours.

“I’ve waited all day to hold you again.” He smiles down at you, releasing you so he can hang his hat and coat by the door, “shall we have dinner?”

“In a moment.” You lead him by the hand and guide him to his favorite chair by the fire, nudging him to sit down, “there is something I need to tell you.”

Paul sits, face never looking away from yours, “Is something wrong, my love?”

You grip the sides of your skirt to keep your hands from shaking so bad your fingers fly off.

“I’m…pregnant. The doctor confirmed it today.”

Paul’s brows shoot up his forehead and his eyes widen with what you pray is excitement. When he doesn’t speak, you continue your explanation.

“I thought we’d been so careful, I never wanted either of us to be in this position without warning-”

“No, no my darling, don’t apologize.” He pulls you closer, his knees bumping your legs, “I’m startled, not upset, I swear. I cannot see this as anything but a sign to do what I have been too afraid to.” He squeezes your hands, “We’ll get married at once, I already have the ring-” He frowns when you look away, “my love?”

“Is that your solution? I have the child, become a comtess and a mother and nothing else? Give up my business, my work, my life outside these walls?” You roll your eyes at his surprised expression, pull your hands from his “I’ve seen what happens with husbands far less old fashioned than you, Paul. How their wives lives become only in service of housekeeping. I was not born yesterday.”

“You believe I would demand all that of you?” He looks hurt. Were you not on the edge of panic, you might feel worse about it than you do.

“You'd really want your child growing up in my bookshop instead of in here with me acting as some angel of the household?”

He takes your hands once more, gingerly, “I want my child growing up with a mother who's happy. We can hire a nurse. Or, I see no harm in him going to work with you; Anouk grew up in Vianne’s shop and she is none the worse for it. She might like to earn some pocket money watching our child. I can even put a cradle in my office, if need be.”

You look up, meeting his eyes. The thought of him at his desk, scratching away at some letter while a child sleeps nearby makes you smile for the first time all day.

Paul strokes his thumbs over your knuckles, “You must promise me that if you agree to marry me, you do so because it’s what you want. If it is not…I will claim the child as mine regardless.”

You know Paul, know how terribly he fears a fall from grace, fears bringing shame to his title and family name. Yet he’d face all that for your sake and the sake of your child. His love is no fickle, cowardly thing, and neither are his promises.

You clamber into his lap, embracing him as the chair groans under the added weight, “Then my answer is yes, mon cher. I will gladly be your wife.”

A shaky, relieved sound leaves his throat as he kisses you, “It will be an honor and a joy to be your husband,” he pulls one of your hands up to kiss it. Your own breath is unsteady, tears of joy welling up as Paul rests your foreheads together.

“I should fetch the ring, for months I’ve pictured what it will look like on your finger…”

“In a moment” you kiss him once, then twice, then trail your lips down his jawline, “I’m not done celebrating our engagement.”

Your husband-to-be grins before kissing you and sliding his free hand eagerly under your skirt.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m amazed you’re up and about.” Vianne pours you hot chocolate, “is your new husband also awake?”

You snicker, “No. I doubt he’ll wake up before noon. Speaking of, I ought to bring him something from you. Get his energy back up.” As she sets the cup in front of you, you rest your hand on her wrist, “thank you again for being my maid of honor.”

Even at its shortest, a Catholic ceremony is a marathon. When you murmured to Paul that it was only your love for him that made you willing to do so much standing and kneeling while pregnant, he simply smiled. Indeed, he never stopped smiling during the entire ceremony.

When the wedding finally gave way to the wedding night. You barely made it to the bed, Paul gleefully, gratefully fucking you with your wedding dress shoved up to your hips and his suit still on. And that was only the start of the fun.

“Your body is a banquet, cherie, and I intend to savor it thoroughly.”

“The whole town is saying it was a beautiful wedding. All the details will give them enough gossip for at least a week ” Vianne laughs, returns to wiping down the prep counters.

“Just wait until the baby is born and someone does the math.” You rub your forehead, “ugh, I feel so nauseous.”

“I’ll send Anouk by later with some of my mint blend. You’ll need it. Now” she sets the copper boiler onto the stove, smiling over her shoulder, “Tell me what you are thinking for names. I’m desperately curious”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

You start noticeably showing around three months; there’s no loose clothing or jokes about having over-indulged at dinner that can hide your growing stomach.

Today, after locking up the shop, you’ve arrived home to a flurry of activity. Leo, a carpenter and regular buyer of mystery novels, is outside the front door.

He tips his cap at you, “Good evening, Madame. Your husband was hoping we’d be gone before you arrived; ruins the surprise a bit if we’re here but some pieces were harder to move upstairs than we thought.”

“Pieces?”

He winks and taps his lips, tilting his head to indicate your should go look.

You head for the nursery. When you left this morning, the only furniture in it was a sturdy rocking chair that has been in Paul’s family for generations. Now there’s a brand new crib, a cushioned bench by the window–which itself now has a windowbox of flowers–a small bookshelf, a toy chest, and rolls of wallpaper leaning in a corner.

In the middle of it all is Paul, talking in hushed tones with the workers. When he sees you, he offers his hands, guiding you over for a chaste kiss.

“What do you think? I put the orders in shortly after our wedding.”

“It’s all perfect. Leo and the others have outdone themselves.”

Paul beams, “I agree. Here, look” he gestures to the crib, “they’ve matched the style to that of the rocking chair. And, and see here” he leads you to the window, “this seat will have a lovely cushion so you or I can sit with him and look out at the town, and these flowers are all sweet, so that when the breeze blows in the evening he’ll smell something pleasant.”

He looks so happy, all you can think to do is kiss him lovingly until the two men leaning the last of the wallpaper rolls quietly tip their hats and close the door behind them.

—-------------------------------------------------

Furnishing the nursery turns out to be indicative of Paul’s preparations for your child. Half the time you return from work to find him putting finishing touches on the nursery, or adjusting the layout or contents of other rooms to be safer for a crawling or toddling child. Baby clothes have begun appearing in the dresser; the number of them is sensible by most measures, but shocking for a man who so rarely spends money on his own wardrobe.

Your favorite addition by far is the mobile he hung above the crib; wooden strawberries, painstakingly painted by his own hands.

The other half of the time you come home….

“I have business with you, Monsieur Comte.” You push Paul back onto the bed, straddling him as he grins up at you.

“A benefit of your condition, cherie” Paul drags his suspenders down, begins undoing his pants, “is that your appetites finally rival my own.”

You laugh; it’s not as if your libido was low to begin with.

“You’re lucky I have some self-control, my love” You roll your hips and he moans, “more than once I’ve woken up so aroused I’ve thought about stroking your cock until you were hard enough to slip inside me. Fuck myself on you as you woke up and kiss you good morning…”

He licks his lips, “I can think of no finer way to wake up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You purr, then yank his shirt open with glee.

Tonight was one such evening. You came home to find Paul in his study, and your kisses turned from sweet to heated in a matter of moments. In short order he manhandled you to perch on the desk, fucked you slowly as you pulled him down for kiss after kiss

Now, having carried yourselves and various discarded clothes to the bedroom, you find yourself sighing in front of the mirror. Your beloved nightgown, a playful pile of soft, cornflower blue, near see-through fabric, no longer fits. You’ve been contenting yourself with a hand-me-down maternity nightgown from one of the well meaning women who visits the bookshop. It’s daisy patterned fabric was likely cheerful once. Now it’s just drab.

Paul's reflection appears behind yours, hands brushing over your hair and arranging it around your shoulders, “What troubles you, my love?”

“It’s silly.” You mutter.

“Tell me anyway.” He kisses the back of your head, “if something troubles you I wish to know.”

“I feel so…frumpy. Lately, any time I see my reflection, it’s as if someone hung a poorly ironed sheet over an overstuffed sausage.”

“Then the mirrors must be faulty. I see no such sight.” He kisses down the side of your face, nuzzles your ear, “I see a comtess as beautiful as the day I first met her.”

You snicker, “I was not aware that you were paying attention to my looks when you were complaining to me about the novels I put in the shop window.”

“I was as aware of your charms as I was the salaciousness of your goods.” He kisses your cheek. When you turn to face him, his brows knit into a more serious expression, “have I made you feel undesirable?”

“Never.” You loop your arms around his waist, “it’s simply a path my gloomier thoughts like to follow these days.”

He purses his lips, thoughtful, then takes your hands from his sides, “Come with me.”

Paul nudges you to sit on the bed, then produces a garment box wrapped with blue ribbon, “I intended to wait until our six month anniversary next week, but I believe it’s better given now.”

Opening the box reveals a matching nightgown to your beloved cornflower one, made to fit your pregnant belly.

You hold the fabric to your chest as happy tears–you cry so easily these days–hit your cheeks. Paul lays down on the bed behind you and gently pulls you into his arms, your head resting beneath his chin with the nightgown still in your arms.

“You spoil me so terribly. Them as well” you set his hand on your stomach.

He’s quite a moment, rubbing the blue fabric between his fingers. Then he murmurs, “I was raised in a house of great discipline. Taught to be frugal, responsible, restrained. I value such things even now, and I intend to raise our child to do the same. Yet I do not have it in me to deny you, or him, that would enrich your life or make you smile. I even indulge myself more than I used to.”

“Mmhmm” you cuddle closer, “your appetites are wonderful creatures. I am glad you no longer starve them.”

“As am I.” His hand smooths over your stomach, “Speaking of which; when did you last eat, my darling?”

“Lunchtime, although not as much as I’d have liked. The cafe must have been making something with a great deal of pork fat; the smell turned my stomach.”

“Then I’ll fetch something from the kitchen.” He stands, pulling on his bathrobe. He’s still so elegant, even with his hair tangled from your fingers and sleep gathering at the corners of his eyes. It makes you smile, as does the moment he takes to blow you a kiss before disappearing into the hall.

—------------------------------------------

Reclining in bed, in a haze of pain and exhaustion, the previous hour is a chaotic blur. Your water broke while you were in the shop, and you sent Anne-Marie to call the doctor and then slowly got yourself up the stairs to the apartment, because you had a strong suspicion the baby was not going to wait for you to get to the hospital to be born.

You don’t know who sent for Paul, though as you think on it, you heard him thanking Anouk for her quick feet. Vianne must have sent her to get him. He held your hand for some time, snapped at the doctor to give you something for the pain, somehow he was moved away from you before…before…

“There we are.” The nurse sets a bundle in your arms, “told you it wouldn’t be but a minute.”

Right, you had tearfully asked where they were taking him and were shushed that he needed to be cleaned.

A flurry of footsteps and then Paul is on knees beside the bed, kissing your face and thanking god that you’re alright.

You shift your son in your arms, voice soft as you say, “Frederick, say hello to your papa.”

Paul takes him from you, staring down with tearful awe. His mouth moves but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. You kiss his cheek, and join him in gazing at your future.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

You bolt awake. Sun pours through the windows and the church bells–the source of your sudden rousing–announce three thirty on Sunday afternoon.

Disoriented, you stand and look around. The bassinet is empty, which triggers instant panic until splashing reaches you from downstairs. Paul must have taken it upon himself to give Freddy his bath.

You wander downstairs, your strides not as purposeful as they used to be; your son isn’t the worst sleeper in the world but you (and Paul) find yourselves up and down at all hours. After three months of that, you’re perpetually groggy.

The sleepiness dispels when you enter the kitchen. Freddy is in the sink, Paul cradling his head to keep him above water as he washes him. Initially, you bathed him in the bathroom sink, but since the boy seems to take after his father in size, he’s already outgrown it.

Paul, hearing your steps, glances back at you with a smile, “Did you sleep well, cherie?”

“Like the dead.” You kiss him, then bend and kiss Freddy’s forehead, “I didn’t to mean to fall asleep, one moment I was laying down, thinking I’d rest my eyes a moment before taking my shoes off, then next it’s two hours later.”

He chuckles, “I came in to ask you something and found you with your shoes half slipped off. I tucked them into their usual spot.” He wiggles Freddy’s toes playfully with his free hand, “soon we must find you proper shoes. Yes, we cannot have the next comte in shabby shoes-”

Freddy laughs at the touches, splashing the water with his little hands. Paul and you look at each other with delight.

“His first laugh.” You echo the noise, which makes Freddy do it again.

“Indeed!” Paul beams, tickling his feet, “I cannot remember the last time I made someone laugh who was not you, my love.”

Freddy shrieks with laughter, another whack of the water sending droplets all across Paul’s well-ironed shirt. Your husband, who seldom has even a hair out of place, pays no attention to the mess, content to laugh your son, and himself, silly.

—----------------------------------------------------

Summer always puts Paul in a fine mood. The town is busier, the days bright and beautiful, and it feels as if God is smiling on the whole countryside.

Add to that the fact he’s carrying his son, his greatest blessing, in his arms as he walks the town square, and he wonders if any man could be happier than he is now.

Frederick is just shy of seven months old, and as talkative as a magpie. As they make a circuit of the outdoor market, his son babbles animatedly at the passing sights from his arms.

“What shall we get mama for lunch, hm?”

“Bah!” Frederick waves his hands at the baker stall.

“Bread?”

His son babbles out several sounds.

“Very true, we could make her a sandwich with the leftover roast from last night. A fine idea.”

Frederick giggles, baps his hand into Paul’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” He turns to where the grocer has laid out grapes, “ah yes, something refreshing as well will be perfect. We get everything ready at home, take it to the bookshop, and then it will be lunch time for the both of you.”

He finagles his pocket watch out to check the time; yes, they should be able to pack a basket at home before Frederick becomes hungry and needs to nurse.

Tucking the watch back into place brings the tightness of his waistcoat into focus. He’s heard the endless jokes about how women struggle to be small after bearing children. He’s disregarded them; his wife could get and stay as plump as a partridge and he wouldn’t care. Besides, rather selfishly, he enjoys the roundness that’s lingering on her frame, the way she fills out her blouses and how the curves of her belly and thighs feel beneath his fingers.

What he has not heard are jokes about fathers gaining weight. Yet here he is, larger than he can remember ever being. But he cannot bring himself to be angry at the cause; he’s been careful to eat full meals, rather than go without, because the thought of becoming faint, of stumbling, while holding his son is so terrible he will not risk it.

“EH!” Frederick bops his nose.

He winces at the pain, moves the small hand aside. “A gentleman never raises his fists.” He kisses the boy on the forehead, “but thank you for shepherding my wandering mind. Come, let us finish our shopping.”

—---------------------------------------------------

Time passes so strangely as a parent. It feels like some days last a hundred years (particularly when Freddy is fussy) while one month gives way to another before you even have time to flip the calendar.

Which is to say, December took you by surprise. Now you’re here, Freddy in his travel cradle behind the counter as you deal with the Christmas shoppers.

As you teeter on the edge of harried, Paul appears in the doorway, still in his work suit. He kisses you hello, scoops up Freddy, who’s already reaching for him with a shout of “da!”

(He’s managed “da” for Paul, “ah” for you, and “dat” for more or less everything else).

After getting caught up in another round of sales, you follow Paul's voice to the children’s corner. Freddy is in his lap, slumped against his chest as he reads the children’s version of Chanticleer aloud. Your son’s eyes droop closed; like you, he finds Paul’s voice deeply soothing.

(Unless, of course, Paul is reading you poetry with that mischievous, hungry gleam in his eyes. Then you’re as awake as can be).

Paul pauses his reading to look up at you, “Do not worry about us, my love. We’re quite content to read until dinner. Aren’t we, petit chou?”

Freddy yawns and Paul chuckles, ruffling the dusting of dark hair on Freddy’s head, “Well, perhaps after this your papa will read something he finds diverting while you rest.”

“I did set the newest Wild Frontier novel aside for you.”

He blushes, “Thank you.” He looks down at Freddy, “your mother is a singularly wonderful woman. We are lucky men to have her in our lives.”

You bend, nuzzle his ear before kissing him, “such sweet words, monsieur comte.”

Then you kiss Freddy on his forehead, leaving him to doze while your husband watches you go with a fond, besotted smile.

—--------------------------------------------------

As he grows, Frederick’s favorite spot in town becomes the pond fed by the nearby river. Paul’s evening routine has lately become to leave work, retrieve Frederick from the bookshop, then walk down and around the pond. With each passing month, he has to carry him less and less. Now he mainly holds his hand as his son toddles alongside him.

“Duck!” Frederick points excitedly at the ducks paddling on the pond. Paul can’t be sure, but he suspects his son’s fondness for the birds is due to the stuffed duckling Paul gave him for Christmas.

“Indeed. Can you wave to the duck?” He waves himself and Frederick mimics him, giggling when the ducks quack.

“It seems they’re saying hello to us. Quite polite.” He tips his head as if wishing the waterfowl good evening. Frederick watches him, then does the same.

Paul finds the nearest bench, helping his son into his lap. The boy looks around at the park, pointing and naming various objects, animals, and passersby. He’s so curious already, so cheerful. Paul is glad his own dour nature hasn’t rubbed off on him. He supposes there’s still time, but even still, he will do everything to make sure his son thinks back on his childhood fondly, not with the bittersweetness that Paul himself thinks of his own upbringing.

Frederick bounces in his lap, tries to stand, and Paul quickly hugs him to keep him from stumbling. Not that he blames him for his excitement.

“Hello, my darling one.” The comtess of his heart sits beside him, allowing Frederick to clamber into his lap, and smiles when Paul kisses her, “hello, my love.”

“Frederick and I have missed you terribly.”

She blushes, “You only picked him up an hour ago.”

“Mama, duck!” Frederick points behind her at a pigeon strutting across the grass.

“Close” she bumps her nose against Frederick’s, “a pigeon, not a duck. See, it has grey and pretty colors in its feathers. And a dignified gate, much like papa.”

“I hardly think I strut, cherie.” He teases.

“True. What do you think, my treasure? Is papa a duck? Or a pigeon?”

Frederick cuddles up to Paul’s arm, “Papa.”

Paul’s heart melts for the twentieth time that day, pushes dark hair from his son’s face, “Yes, I’ll always be that to you.”

His wife meets his gaze, smiling, “Shall we go home and have dinner.”

He takes her hand with his own, keeping Frederick cradled between them, “In a moment. I’m quite happy here.”