desiderium | m. o'hara

twenty-eight

I'd like to dub this chapter 'everyone wants a baby'

I hope y'all were telling the truth about wanting to give Miguel another daughter cause he wants to be a baby daddy so badly

TW: mentions of smut but no scenes (R16 only please), talk of pregnancy, birth

  Miguel presses the patch onto my shoulder. It tingles as it takes effect, sizzling beneath my skin. It's painless - but still, it feels strange. It's like touching electricity without the shock.

  "I can't believe you have a bridge to the moon and birth control still takes six days to become effective," I grumble.

  "It's science, cariño, not magic," Miguel replies as he flattens the edges with a careful thumb. He slides the sleeve of the oversized white shirt I'm wearing back over the patch. His shirt, of course. It's got a weird neckline shaped like lopsided triangle that I'm not crazy about.

  I fold onto the bed unhappily and bury my face into the duvet. "Still."

  Miguel follows after me, crawling to my side with an amused smile. He's more patient now that he's blown a load into my mouth, and though my thighs ache from his bruising grip after he stuck his face between my legs, I'm still upset. I'm a woman with needs, goddammit.

  "Six days will pass in no time." Miguel lies down on his stomach and slides a lock of my hair from my face. "We can set an alarm to remind us."

  "I really don't think I'll need reminding," I grumble, but lift my Gizmo to input an alarm, anyway. The 144 hours mock me.

  Miguel deflates at seeing the physical evidence of how long we have to wait. "It's fine."

  "Your optimism is charming, if not entirely fake," I mutter. He sends me a halfhearted glare.

  "I'm trying my best."

  I turn my eyes to him and find myself briefly struck by how handsome he is, pouting with half of his face buried in the white sheets of his bed. His thick hair curls from his head and sticks up in messy tufts. His naked body splays across his mattress, his beautiful almond-dark skin contrasting against the endless white of his world. The red of his eyes are piercing. The distinct, sharp shape of his face is caressable.

  My Miguel is so pretty.

  "This is all your fault." I shove his shoulder so he'll roll onto his back and clamber on top. I sit on his stomach and glare down at him. "If you weren't so attractive it wouldn't be so hard."

  "As if I don't have the same issue," he says pettily. His hands slide up my bare legs and rests them on my ass. "You really shouldn't be climbing all over me like this if you don't want to be tempting fate."

  I tilt my head. "Please. You'd love it."

  "Seeing you pregnant?" Miguel asks, and then sends me a look as though I'm stupid. "Of course I would. But you don't want another Rosita."

  "I'd have another Rosita if I didn't have to go through nine months of hell," I correct, and bat away the biological reaction within me that wants to provide him exactly with what he wants. "Besides, it probably wouldn't work anyway. We're from different realities."

  Miguel's roving hands stop their ministrations. He frowns with genuine gloom at my words. "You think?"

  My prickliness softens at his downcast expression. "Probably not. I can't even exist here without needing the Gizmo to stabilise me. What would happen to a baby that's from two different realities?"