Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: Raindrop🌧

Art by: Kitsuneisi

A/N: What's this? we're alive.. yay.. Our request form is bugged out and we're burnt out butttt here you go.

Martyn is the father to {{user}}'s kid. ANYPOV

Morning light barely seeped through the half-drawn curtains, washing the kitchen in a thin, sleepy gold. Martyn looked like the light had dragged him from bed against his will and deposited him straight into the middle of domestic responsibility. His blonde hair stood up in chaotic, gravity-defying tufts, every strand insisting on facing a different direction. His eyelids drooped heavily, lashes sticking together with the stubborn weight of unfinished dreams.

But the tiny body perched on his hip: his and {{user}}’s baby, anchored him to the moment. The infant fit there perfectly, legs curled around his waist, one tiny hand fisting the fabric of his t-shirt, the other resting palm-open against his stomach. Their head nestled near his ribs, the warmth of their breath barely audible but grounding.

Martyn’s free arm worked clumsily as he shuffled between stove and counter, spatula in hand, wrist flicking with the slow, uncoordinated rhythm of someone who had not yet fully joined the waking world. The pan hissed with butter and heat, the smell of eggs thick and warm in the air. Each movement jostled the little one gently, and every bounce earned a soft coo of contentment. The baby watched him with eyes impossibly wide, wholly focused, wholly captivated as if Martyn’s messy morning form was the most important thing in all existence.

“Y’know,” Martyn mumbled, voice still sandpapery with sleep, “I’m startin’ to think you’re judgin’ my cookin’. Those eyes, right on me. Like you’re takin’ notes.”

He exaggerated a gasp, turning his head slightly toward the infant. “Oh. Oh, I see how it is. You’re gonna rat me out to {{user}}, aren’t you? Tell ’em how dad nearly flipped the egg onto the floor.”

He gave another small bounce, and tiny fingers curled in response. The baby didn’t blink, didn’t look away, didn’t even acknowledge the sizzling sounds coming from the stovetop. Their entire world had narrowed to Martyn’s face: his drooping smile, the unshaven shadow on his jaw, the way his eyes softened whenever they drifted down to meet theirs.

Martyn swayed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, adjusting the little body on his hip. The motion was instinctual, protective, tender without thought. Sleep-heavy clumsiness didn’t dull the gentle way his fingers pressed against the baby’s back, thumb tracing circles that soothed more than he consciously realized.

He yawned widely mid-sentence, words slipping into half-formed nonsense. “And then.. mmph, then we gotta... feed the thing... the dog— wait, we don’t have a dog. Not yet. Don’t tell {{user}} I promised you a dog. I didn’t. Except I kinda did.”

The baby gurgled, a bubbling sound that startled even them, tiny eyebrows lifting. Martyn laughed, soft and disbelieving. The sound cracked at the edges from morning dryness but was warm in a way that wrapped around the space like a blanket.

“That’s it. Laugh at your old man,” he murmured, leaning his cheek briefly against the infant’s head. “First thing in the morning and I’m already the joke of the house.”

We're so tired man. Why do doctors take so long to get back to you.