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Though your vacation together was near perfect, the journey home was not. After a six hour delay and an equally long flight, Jean books it up the ramp, desperate to stretch his long legs and get a cell signal. He’s half a head taller than everyone else; he knows you’ll see him and catch up. He parks himself next to a soft pretzel stand, knowing you’ll probably want something to eat sooner rather than later, and waits for his phone to blow up after he takes it off airplane mode. As expected, you buy a snack from the stand as the texts from his mother come flooding in.
Mom: Ok, have a safe flight. I’ll be there to pick you up when you get back.
Mom: What do you two want for dinner?
Mom: Oops your phone is probably off. I’ll make something you like.
Mom: Jeanbo I might be a little late to pick you up. Let me know when you land. Love you.
Jean sighs hard and runs a hand through his hair. He desperately needs a shower, feels greasy all over and achy from his cramped seat on the plane. While he can’t say he’s excited to spend the night at his mom’s house when he’d much rather sleep in his own bed, she lives much closer to the airport than the two of you do, and more hours in transit sounds like a death sentence.
He taps out a response to her last message.
Jean: Hey mom, we’re off the plane. Are you here?
It’s almost ten minutes, your snack reduced to crumbs in your lap where you sit on the linoleum floor next to him, before she answers.
Mom: Will be there in 15.
Jean sighs again, contemplating whether he has time for a nap. He decides against it, opting instead for a good stretch and a small coffee, just enough to wake him up a little but not keep him up all night. The two of you trek down to the baggage claim and find a bench to camp out on once you have all your luggage. He can tell you’re tired too by the way you don’t say much, just absently play with his fingers until he gets up to stretch his legs again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket with another text. “She’s here.” Throwing his carry on over his shoulder, Jean offers you a hand and pulls you up. It was more like twenty-five minutes, he thinks, but it’s nice of her to offer to pick you up in the first place, so he keeps quiet.
Jean spots her white SUV in the pick-up lane. The back hatch is popped open, so he greets her as he hoists your suitcases inside one by one. His mom throws her arms around him like he just came home from war, not a week’s vacation in the tropics.
“Oh Jeanbo, it’s so good to see you. You look good. You look tan! I’m sorry I was running behind.” As if she realizes she’s rambling, she pushes off of him, tuttering.
“Go on, put your bags in the car, I have dinner waiting in the crock pot and I’m sure you’re both hungry. Hi, honey, how was the flight?” She pulls you into a tight hug.
“Hey Heather, not too bad, just long.” You pat her back as she squeezes you, and it’s so unbearably cute Jean has to look away before he melts.
As you both get in the car, he catches her saying, “I told you, you can call me Mom, too.”
Once the bags are in, Jean goes to get in the back seat with you, but you refuse. “Sit up front, babe. I know your legs hurt.” He’d kiss you and tell you he’s never loved you more than in this exact moment if he knew his mom wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, he pecks your cheek and takes the passenger’s seat before his mother pulls away from the curb.
After a few minutes of idle chit chat, Jean tries not to sound too miffed when he asks, “So, what was the holdup?”
“Hm?” His mom raises her eyebrows but doesn’t look away from the road.
“Why were you late picking us up? Everything ok?”
Jean’s mom waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh fine, everything’s fine. You remember that boy Marlow that you went to high school with?”
“Yeah?”
“And I told you he and his wife, this adorable little blonde, moved into the townhouse next door, didn’t I?”
“I remember.”
“Well they had a family emergency to take care of, nothing tragic but someone needed them right away, and they asked if I could watch their little boy until they got back. I couldn’t just say no.”
“Ah.” Jean nods. Yeah, that sounds about right.
His mother hardly stops to breathe as the highway rushes by. “Felix is the cutest thing, except that haircut. Why Hitch cuts his hair in that terrible bowl cut like his father’s, I don’t understand. They’re your age, aren’t they, Jeanbo?”
Jean almost doesn’t want to answer. He knows where this is going. He glances over his shoulder; you’re dozing in the back seat, thank god. “Yeah, we graduated together.”
“That’s what I thought,” his mom tuts. “You know, Felix is already three. Have the two of you talked about when you want to start trying for a baby?”
Jean wipes a hand down his face. “Mom, please. I don’t know.”
“Well, you’ve been married for two years already! It’s only natural I should start to wonder.”
A few years ago, she was doing the same song and dance, asking him when he was going to propose. Foolishly, Jean had thought it would end once the two of you were married. Now she brings up babies every time he speaks to her. And it’s not that he doesn’t want kids, quite the contrary, actually…
“I just thought maybe I’d have grandbabies by now, that’s all.” She’s great at playing the guilt card, but Jean isn’t taking the bait.
“It’ll happen when we’re ready, ok?” He does his best to put it to her gently.
“All I’m saying is that this trip was practically a second honeymoon. It would have been a perfect opportunity to try and conceive.”
“Ok, I’m taking a nap.” Jean never actually falls asleep before you reach his mother’s house, but pretending is better than discussing his sex life any further with the woman that raised him.
He wakes you gently when you arrive, glad you were able to sneak a little snooze in even if he couldn’t. You seem refreshed, definitely more chipper as you help him get your bags inside and unload them in his old bedroom, where the two of you are staying tonight. There’s something about the way you lay out your pajamas on his old double bed that makes his heart swell. He thinks back to the time when he slept here every night, fantasizing about the day when he’d have someone to love, to share his bed and his life with. Back then, he couldn’t have even imagined someone as perfect for him as you.
“What are you doing?” Your giggle wakes him from his daydream, makes him realize he wrapped his arms around you subconsciously. But since he’s already here…
“This.” From behind you, Jean lets his hands rest on your stomach and presses you back against him. Your own hands fall easily over his, fingers linking loosely between his knuckles. You tilt your head back into his embrace, and he captures your lips, stealing heated kisses until his mom calls you down for dinner. Reluctantly, he pulls away, reminded of how much his stomach is growling. One more peck on the lips, and you’re leading him downstairs.
Over Heather’s ‘famous’ barbecue meatballs, the two of you share stories from your trip. Mostly, Jean lets you talk while he eats and agrees, chiming in once in a while when he has something to add or a point of contention to make. While neither of you can agree on exactly what type of phony accent the concierge at the resort had, he does acquiesce that the water was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous, and the cocktails were top notch.
The conversation moves from the dining table to the living room, where Jean sprawls out on the couch and stares at an old movie playing softly on the TV. He’s zoned out a bit, full and content, so it takes him a minute to notice that his mom has cozied up to you on the loveseat.
“Look at this old thing I found the other night,” she tells you. Jean tilts his head over the arm of the couch. Even upside down, he recognizes the faded green binder in her hands.
He rolls over. “Mom, not the baby album.”
He reaches out as if to take it from her, but it’s pointless. You’ve already pulled the album halfway into your lap, chuckling and pointing out pictures to your mother-in-law. “Awww, look at him.”
Jean zooms around the loveseat to look over your shoulder, and he knows immediately which picture you’re talking about. It has to be the one of a very young Jean, under a year old if he had to guess, looking pouty with a bowl of oatmeal overturned on his head. Globs of sticky food are stuck to his face and the little puff of sandy hair that’s not covered by the bowl. He reaches down and covers it with his palm. “Ok, that’s enough memories for one night.”
But of course, you’re too sweet, wrapping your arms around his and squishing your cheek against his bicep. Your eyes are practically sparkling when you look up at him. “Aw, come on. I’ve never seen these ones before.”
He has to look away or he’ll give in on the spot. “It’s embarrassing,” he grumbles.
You just giggle. “Jean. I’m your wife. How could you possibly be embarrassed in front of me?”
“You’d be surprised.” Still, he’s no match for you, his resolve crumbling under your pleading eyes. As he pulls his hand away, he catches his mother’s eye, quietly beaming and patting your knee.
“You know, Jeanbo was such a picky eater when he was little,” she muses. Jean sighs, but you lean forward, hanging on her every word. “I always told him if he didn’t stop eating so many eggs, he was going to turn into one.”
You flip the page, perusing the pictures from Jean’s first birthday party—smashed cake plays a large role in several of the polaroids. “Was he a happy baby, though?”
The words hit Jean like a bullet train. His stomach flips when he pictures you sitting with a happy, giggling baby in your lap. A baby with your hair and his eyes, and you smiling back at them so big it almost hurts.
His mom nods and flips the next page in the album. “A very happy baby, most of the time. Look.”
Jean leans his head back against your legs while you poke through the rest of the pictures, cooing over how cute he looks doing just about anything. He lets you. At some point, your hand makes its way to his hair, stroking through his roots until he almost nods off, but he wakes from his half-sleep when his mom rises from the loveseat and turns off the TV.
While he stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders, Jean glances up at you. The photo album is closed in your lap. You don’t realize he’s watching, probably thinking he’s asleep, as one of your hands slides over your stomach. It simply rests there while you gaze off, seemingly deep in thought. A little spark rises in Jean’s chest; do you want the same thing he wants? He has half a mind to ask you right then and there, what do you think about having a baby?, but that’s a conversation for another night, when you’re less tired and alone in your own home.
You both shower—separately, because this is his mom’s house, after all—and change into your pajamas, the second wave of exhaustion finally hitting you too. He’s brushing his teeth when he hears light chatter coming from his room, followed by rustling in the hall closet. Jean rinses his mouth and hurries to join you as you settle into bed. You roll toward him and hum, already curled up under the blankets. He’s just about to turn off the bedside lamp when his mom slips in the door, a knitted quilt folded over her arms.
“Here’s that extra blanket you wanted, dear.” Whether or not you actually asked for another blanket, Jean can’t be sure, but you don’t protest as he gets up to help his mom spread it on top of the bed while you burrow into the flannel sheets and get cozy. One of your hands darts out to pull the extra blanket up to your chin. “This is really soft. Did you make this?”
Jean’s mother shakes her head and chuckles. “No, I didn’t. Actually, this blanket has been in the family for a long time; my mother passed it down to me.”
“Aw, that’s nice.” Your eyes flutter closed as Jean crawls back into bed, sitting up against the pillows and waiting for his mom to leave. He’s an adult, a married adult at that, but something still feels a little weird about getting into bed with a girl in front of her.
His mom leans against the door and shrugs. “You know, she had a name for that blanket. Called it the babymaker.”
Jean’s blood runs cold. Silently, he shoots daggers from his eyes, but his mother merely laughs. “It’s true! I actually had some trouble getting pregnant, but Jean was conceived under this blanket after—”
“Mom.” He firmly interrupts her.
“What! It’s been washed.” She chuckles again, swatting the air with her hand. “Oh well, maybe it’ll be lucky for you too. Anyway, goodnight.”
Both of you are silent when she closes the door, stunned speechless. Jean cannot—absolutely cannot—believe she just said that. What the fuck is he supposed to say now? Slowly, he switches off the light and crawls into the bed carefully, as if touching you will set off a nuclear explosion. You don’t move, don’t say a word as he lies down on his back, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.
It’s quiet for another beat before you roll onto your side and grab his arm. “Oh my god. Did she just say what I think she said?” you whisper.
“Um,” Jean mumbles. There’s no use denying it. “Yeah, I think so.”
It’s dark enough with the blinds drawn that Jean can’t see your face, but he can picture it solely from the sound of your voice. You snort before pulling him close, burying your face in his t-shirt to muffle the sound of laughter against his chest. His arms fall into place around you, pulling you close like he always does, despite how much his face feels like it’s burning.
“The babymaker?” You’re so incredulous he can’t help but laugh along, your head bobbing against his chest.
“I… yeah.” He doesn’t know what else to say. It’s too ridiculous.
“Did you know about this? The legend of the babymaker?” You poke at his chest.
“No, not at all. I’ve never even seen this blanket before. Maybe she’s just pulling our legs.”
“I don’t know, Jean. Doesn’t seem like something your mom would just make up.”
Jean holds you tight and rolls onto his back, pulling your upper body completely on top of him. You shuffle under the blankets, nuzzling against him. Jean tucks you under his chin, burying his nose in your damp hair and breathing in your coconut shampoo. He can feel your breasts pressing against him through your shirt, your thighs wrapping around one of his own. You feel so good, he can’t help but run his hands up and down your torso, feeling the curves of your hips and your back.
“What do you think?” he asks before he really realizes what he’s saying. “Does my mom really keep a magic blanket in the back of her hall closet?”
You plant a kiss against his neck, making Jean sigh. He shifts underneath you, wiggling his hips to try and get comfortable despite the growing stiffness in his pants. Really, he thinks, right now? With his mom right down the hall? But you’re curled so nicely against him, your back irresistibly arched. His hands slide down your back to cup your ass and pull you even closer.
You hum when he kisses you, tongue dipping languidly into your mouth as he impatiently waits for your answer. “I don’t know,” you whisper after he releases you, your lips dragging against his as you speak. “You are an only child. Maybe she really did need a magic blanket to get pregnant.”
Jean squeezes your ass and gives it a brisk pat, revelling at the way it makes you suck in a breath. Your lips drop back to his neck, but it’s the grinding of your hips, back and forth like the rocking of a boat, that’s getting him half hard already. Jean huffs out a quiet moan as the heat builds under the covers, both your bodies moving together in harmony. Fuck it. He doesn’t care if this is his mom’s house or what blanket is on the bed; he wants you, now.
He traps a deep rumble in his throat, because if this is going to happen, he can at least do his best to keep quiet. But instead of losing himself to the passion, his mind plays the same thought on a loop. Kissing his way up to your ear, Jean has no idea what he’s going to say until he says it. “You think the magic would work for us?”
He’s worried, as it comes out, that you’ll say no, or worse, it’ll upset you. Then you tense your leg muscles around him and let out a breathy moan that’s sinful even at such a low volume, and his cock literally jumps in his pajama bottoms. “It’d be pretty wild if it did, huh?” You dance around the subject, but he can tell by your tone—you’re as terrified and excited as he is, afraid to manifest your desires by speaking them aloud.
Jean grips your hips, dragging your core over his straining cock and making you shudder with delight. This might actually be happening, and the thought alone makes him dizzy. He can’t help but bounce you against his crotch, dry humping you through your little cotton shorts. When you push up onto your hands and throw your head back, Jean can’t stop himself from plunging his hand down the front of those shorts to rub over your damp panties.
“Babymaker,” he mumbles, tracing two fingers up and down your folds before circling your clit the way that makes you twitch. He knows your body like the back of his own hand, knows all your spots without even looking. Stifling a chuckle when you buck up against his fingers, he breathes, “It’s insane, isn’t it?”
“Jean, I want a baby.” Quietly, you blurt it out, and he all but tackles you.
Instead, he plants his lips on your neck and sucks hard before flipping you over in a hurry. You’re panting, trying to kick off your shorts even though your legs are hopelessly tangled in the sheets. Jean throws the blankets clumsily off his shoulders before climbing on top of you. He rests his weight on his elbows before cupping your face and kissing you frantically, mind racing with adrenaline.
“Really?” he whispers between sloppy kisses. “You want to have a baby with me?”
You nod. “Yes. I’m ready.”
A groan builds in Jean’s chest. This feels like a dream, but everything’s happening too quickly to be a dream, where time ebbs and flows too freely. His hands move faster than he knows how to control, fingers shaking as he sits up on his knees to pull his t-shirt off over his head. He tosses it aside while you rid yourself of your panties, legs spreading for him already. He has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the sight of you, even in the dark room.
You sit up and yank at the waistband of his bottoms, and he doesn’t waste the opportunity to tug your shirt off over your head. Your tits look too delicious; he can’t help but lunge to kiss them, mouthing over one nipple and then the other while he dips you back against your pillow. He wrestles his pants and underwear off, cock slapping back against his lower stomach with a tiny splatter of precum before he fists himself.
Kneeling between your open knees, Jean pumps himself with one hand while reaching down to spread your own slick over your hole with the other. You throw your head back again, moaning a little too loud for comfort, but what’s done is done. He leans forward to capture your mouth in his, swallowing your needy sounds when he teases his tip at your entrance.
Before he pushes in, he pauses to pant, “You sure about this? We can talk about it first if you want to.”
You lock your fingers behind his neck and look him in the eye. “I’m sure. Want you to fill me up.”
“Oh, baby.” Jean muffles himself with your mouth as he pushes forward and the head of his cock pops past your first ring of tight muscle. You feel hotter than usual, better somehow with the thoughts currently clouding his head. You, he thinks as he slides inside you, round and glowing. You, holding a newborn, feeding them, kissing their little head. You, with a toddler on your hip, another tiny human growing inside you. Every image sends pulses of hot blood straight to his cock until he bottoms out inside you.
He stills, looking down at you, your knees already half pulled up to your chest. You huff for breath as you adjust to him, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the dewy muscles there. Jean shifts his weight so he can grab the backs of your thighs and push your legs farther down toward your head. Folded up like this, your hair still wet and eyes rolling back in your head as he starts to move, you look more beautiful than he’s ever seen you.
Biting the corner of his lip, Jean finds his rhythm. He watches you bounce against the mattress, your ass slapping back against his balls with every thrust. Your mouth drops open when he swivels his hips, pausing to grind against your gummy walls before falling back into pace. You squeeze him so well, fit him so perfectly, it’s like your pussy was made for him to breed.
Your hands ball up in the sheets as you attempt to anchor yourself, hips twisting to take him even deeper each time your bodies meet with a wet slap. Jean’s shoulders roll and he lets out another soft moan, almost a whine. Your perfect cunt massages every ridge of his cock as he pounds into you. You feel so good that it gets the better of him, makes him ramble out whatever pops into his foggy head. “I love you so much, baby. Can’t wait to make you a mommy. Just wanna fill up that pretty cunt, hmm?”
Your jaw hangs open, face twisted in pleasure when Jean presses his weight forward to kiss over your chest. Your legs are forced up over his shoulders, and he whines when he feels your ankles cross behind his neck. You’re all his, your body the greatest gift he’s ever received a thousand times over. His thrusts are getting sloppier, his knees sliding against the sheets from the force and the speed of his hips. The orgasm twists in his balls, so eager to release inside you, but he can’t–doesn’t want to–finish alone.
Lips smashed against your breast, Jean slurs, “Come with me. Please, I don’t want to until you do.” You gasp and pulse sharply around him, the squeeze pulling him closer to the edge of ecstasy. You’re so tight, you’re shaking under him, and your hands fly up to fist in his hair instead of the blankets.
“Want your cum so bad,” you whisper weakly, pulling his face to yours for a kiss. Jean has to shut his eyes to keep himself from breaking. He shoves a hand between your bodies, searching for your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your legs twitch. Only a few seconds more, and you’re clamping down on his throbbing cock, whimpering his own name in his ear over and over as you shatter.
Jean bites your shoulder and lets you pull him over with you, groaning into your soft flesh like a prayer as he pumps thick ropes of cum into you. His hips twitch and stutter with each wave of his orgasm, your fluttering cunt milking him until he softens.
All at once he realizes how hot and sweaty he is, how sore your legs must be, how lightheaded he feels. Slowly, Jean pulls out, keeping his hand pressed against your pussy. His cum leaks out of you, coating his fingers, but he holds it there, pressing his middle finger against your hole like a plug and collapsing on the bed beside you.
You stretch your legs while he catches his breath. Eventually, he removes his hand so he can crawl up to the pillows and pull you to his chest, cradling you and covering your face in feather-light kisses. “I love you so much.”
“I love you.” You not-so-subtly cross your legs, making Jean’s chest tingle. If he weren’t so damn tired from the flight, he’d fuck you again, but sleep is quickly taking him over.
Before he nods off, you mumble, “Babymaker ended up on the floor. You think it’ll still work?”
Jean sighs. “Hope so, but don’t tell mom. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Roughly nine months later, when Jean holds his daughter for the first time, eyes brimming with tears, he makes a mental note to thank her for that stupid blanket.