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#SORRY I'VE BEEN DEAD Y'ALL

dollypopup · 1 month

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y'all can all cancel me (again) for this, but if there's even a SHRED of 'who should I pick?' from Penelope in season 3, I am tuning out SO fast because like. . .sorry not sorry, there IS no choice. Debling is some crusty OC suitor she barely even knows and Colin is a man who she has been so supposedly in love with to the point where she'd ruin her entire family's reputation to have a potential love story with him. Penelope and Colin have background, years of knowing each other, intimacy that few people in the Ton can boast of having (letters, conversations about purpose, fights and arguments and makeups) and her and Debling have. . .a dance or two at a ball because he's a rebound for Penelope's broken heart. he means nothing. he has no nuance, he has no weight to the story, he is such an afterthought to me. either I wanna see Penelope going 'you know what? I don't even LIKE this dude. he's. . .fine, but I don't care about him even a shred as much as I care about Colin' or the INSTANT Colin's like 'you know what? we should get married' if it's not an immediate 'say less, you're already my husband, try returning me without the receipt, Debling whomst?' then I don't want it!

like. . .it's just so frustrating to see all the 'I hope Debling sweeps her off her feet and she rejects Colin's proposal and she makes him work for it and and and-' nonsense from the fandom and it's always tagged and no matter how many times I block it, it just keeps popping up. I go into the Polin tag for POLIN. I don't give a SHIT about a male love interest other than Colin. Not one. Not a shred. Not an iota.

and also. . .Debling has the 'benefit' of not having depth, or character traits, or HISTORY, so peeps can project onto him however they want, but I'm calling it now, there is NOTHING he could do or be that would make me like him more than Colin. Colin will always hit different, and I will always love him more. and if Pen's not on that same page? lol bye

you want me to believe Penelope and Colin are soulmates and it's romance for her to hem and haw about how difficult a decision it is for her to marry a stranger who knows barely anything about her. . .

when Marina was out here dropping banger lines like 'You were the only man with which I could see myself being happy' and 'I do not care about any of these men, where is Colin?'? like hello??? and she wasn't even fully in love with him!!!! but we'll demonize her until the cows come home in our fandom and make her the villain in Polin's love story for DARING to get in between Polin, yet Debling, a white man, is a darling dear perfect prince for getting in between Polin? existing in our fandom solely so Penelope can be like 'lol, Colin ain't shit, let me entertain any and everyone else'?

if that's the direction it goes then, ten toes down and on my mama, she doesn't deserve Colin and she can move because I'm on my way to court him my damn self

and that's that on that

#you know what? lol it's been a bit since i've posted a controversial opinion #tagging it #polin #sorry not sorry i ship polin. . .so i wanna see. . .polin. . .and i'm getting damn sick and tired #of all the bullshit pen/oc pen/other dude theories and stories in the polin tag #and i don't want polin to lose screentime over a frankly bleh male oc #you can't change my mind #if i don't see at least marina's 'you've seen him with the little bridgertons!' level of squee and 'i only want to talk to colin'#levels of devotion then i don't fucking WANT IT!!!!!#yeah definitely try out the marriage market #realize that NO ONE has a good time on the marriage market #try to get over him w/ whomstever #but then be like 'i don't even LIKE this dude where's colin i miss him' about it!!!!!#because otherwise i am not here #i am asleep #and i am courting colin in your place pen #i'm coming for your man #anti debling #if debling has 100 haters i am one of them if he has 10 haters i'm one of them if he has 1 hater i am the hater if he has 0 haters i'm dead #it's incredibly obvious that 'pebling' is half rooted in a revenge storyline fueled by anger at Colin and his complexity #and half a projection of wanting Penelope to have 'choices' because she is a representation and manifestation of the fans themselves #and so people think an OC that can be 'perfect' for them- whoops I mean Pen (because he doesn't have any real depth or interest)#he's a cardboard cutout we can throw whatever you want onto #so we can make him 'perfect' instead of the much more meaningful storyline of pen and colin both being messy and loving each other more #and part of it is bitterness over Polin not being insta-love #which. . .if it was i wouldn't like them as much as i do #anyways y'all ain't slick #and it's fucking WEIRD to be in a fandom that's like 'i ship this couple but i hope she gets with ANYONE else'#maybe you. . .don't ship the couple??#like. . .to the point of wanting her necklace to be from debling. . .and her wearing it everywhere??? WHAT??

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lab-gr0wn-lambs · 6 months

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My dad: I'm so glad you're watching my fav show. It's really great for about 6 seasons but I think you should stop before a guy called Negan shows up. Too many people start dying, people who didn't even die in the comics, I couldn't deal with it

Me: Yeah right sure, this show's BEEN killing people, that's what it's about! The Walking Dead? Bitch, The Dying Dead. The Dead. I can handle anything! Here's Negan! Oh no Glenn and Abraham! It's cool though I got it, barely even winced! Looks like I'm just too tough t-

CARL

#I got humbled so quick lmao #I'm sorry I doubted you father #thou art not weak. tis I who was but a fool.#I aint gonna stop watching the show though because unlike him I've become Autistic™ about it #Zombie Show has become my personality for anywhere between 3 months and 2 years #(apologies to y'all. This past week has been a warning. go if you must)#the walking dead #the walking dead spoilers #also a bitch is lying. I winced SO HARD at Glenn and Abraham #didn't cry!#but gee golly! that was rancid!

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steviesbicrisis · 1 year

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Ceilings, plaster Can't you just make it move faster? Lovely to be sitting here with you You're kinda cute but it's raining harder My shoes are now full of water Lovely to be rained on with you It's kinda cute but it's so short

The rain is hitting the car ceiling, hard. The sound reverberates, making it hard to talk.

Steve doesn't mind, they've been talking the whole night. Yes, he loves Eddie's voice, but he also loves sitting next to him and just looking at him as he pays attention to the road.

"What are you looking at?" Eddie must've felt his stare.

"You're kinda cute" Steve replies, still staring. Eddie laughs and shakes his head, as if he doesn't believe him.

Steve doesn't like it when Eddie doesn't understand how beautiful and incredible he is. He usually would argue with him about it, but he doesn't want to ruin the bubble they're in. Steve doesn't know why, but he feels on the edge, like Eddie could stop the car and run away at any moment. It makes no sense, they aren't fighting, it was a lovely evening, but the bad feeling doesn't go away.

"my shoes are soaked in water" Steve realizes, scrunching his nose at the feeling "can I borrow a pair of yours when we get home?"

Eddie turns to look at him, a sad smile on his face "I'm taking you to your house, sweetheart."

Steve doesn't understand, they usually go to Eddie's house after a date. Steve doesn't like his place, and Eddie's uncle is out for the night shift, so they can fool around and be as loud as they want to. Steve can almost feel Eddie's sheet against his naked skin, the smell of smoke, weed and artificial air freshener -Eddie insists on spraying it as a chivalry for Steve's nose, even if Steve never complains about the smell. He'd much rather smell that for the rest of his life if it meant that he could sleep at Eddie's instead of his big empty house.

The car stops.

"Time to go, big boy" Eddie's usual cheerful tone falters at the end. He's smiling at Steve, but his eyes are watery.

Steve wants to ask why they're at his house, why the mood is so off, why he's looking at him with those eyes, but the words are stuck in his throat. A small voice in his head keeps telling him to not break the moment.

Eddie leans to kiss him goodbye, like they did a million times before. Steve leans, closing his eyes.

Then it hits him.

He startles awake. He's in Eddie's van, but he's the one driving. The passenger seat is empty.

It hits him.

The heavy rain doesn't stop him from getting out of the van. He has trouble breathing, he looks around feverishly and he knows he won't see Eddie anywhere, but it felt so real, too real to not be true.

His clothes, hair, and shoes are soaked. He can't see that far around but he knows he won't find him.

It hits him.

Because Eddie doesn't exist.

And Steve doesn't remember when was the last time someone actually kissed him. Or held in his arms like he did.

The headache comes, his name goes.

Steve doesn't remember that boy's name. It feels like he has forgotten it before.

A car passes by, the driver looking at him curiously. Steve can't judge him, he must look crazy as he stays under the rain, completely soaked.

He wonders what he's doing under the rain, was he looking for something? it's on the tip of his tongue but he can't pinpoint what it is.

He goes back to his van and closes the door, shrugging.

If it's important, he will remember.

But it's not real And you don't exist And I can't recall the last time I was kissed It hits me in the car And it feels like the end of a movie I've seen before Before

#i'm emotional #I've been crying all day so I wrote this #because i heard this song on tiktok #Eddie was supposed to be dead but I can't kill him even when I'm extremely emotional #so this is kinda like Your Name if you've ever seen that movie #i'll stop rambling now #and go back studying #sorry y'all #steddie #steve and eddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stressed queues #SoundCloud

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isobel-thorm · 6 months

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Getting a "you've got kudos" email for a WIP fic you swear you deleted three years ago

#Helpless was dead to begin with and I've been largely ignored by the recent and past fc5 fandom lately soooo #sorry y'all #ain't gonna happen

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macfrog · 5 months

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sweet child o' mine | pt. ii

hi. this is max's lawyer speaking. please don't get mad at her for this part. she asked me to let you know that she loves you all and hopes that you trust her. sincerely, jimmy mcgill

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you're pregnant with joel miller's kid. he's dating someone else. you deal with it.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy stuff like nausea (none of the v word, y'all are safe with me), ultrasound scene set in a hospital, anxiety and guilt surrounding pregnancy, description of body change/growth, brief and i mean brief discussion of abortion, joel is dating someone who isn't reader, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), reader has no physical description save for hair, cursing, genderless use of buddy when referring to baby, joel kisses someone who is not his partner, mention of alcohol, disturbing & semi-graphic nightmare about being involved in car accident, reader has a panic attack, discussion of dead parents, fluff and the beginnings of angst DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there's ever anything you feel i've missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 9.2k

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

“I know, I know,” Joel holds a palm up, “it’s nine thirty. I know. But I had to lug all this wood over here, and it – You okay?”

You realize when he pauses that you’re gaping at him, wide-eyed and frozen in place behind your front door. Your jaw hinges shut, a gulp like carpet burn down your throat. You didn’t hear a word he just said.

How does he know? He can’t possibly. Did he sense it, from two lawns away? Dream about the binding of cells, the furnace left lit in your body from that night? The embers still floating, just waiting to catch to life again?

Did he do the fucking math, the way you probably should’ve? How does he fucking know?

The minute the question leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Joel’s eyebrows drop. “How did I know what, kid? That you need new closets? Like you ain’t been nipping my ear about ‘em for weeks?”

Your eyes unlock from his and shift to the slats of wood leaning against the balustrade. The toolbox hanging from his fist. The worn jeans and the white dust marks on his thighs. He doesn’t fucking know, you idiot.

Joel steps forward. Takes your wrist. One grounding, steady hand around your thrashing pulse. “You’re freaking me out. What the hell’s –?”

“Nothing,” you chirp, remembering. The closet. The deal. The fucking – the deal. You withdraw your arm. Hidden up your sleeve, quickly slipping out of his grasp, is the news that his life is about to change forever.

Maybe. You don’t fucking know.

“No,” you continue, blinking the burn of sunlight from your vision, “I just – I forgot. Sorry. Come in. Sorry.”

“Quit sayin’ sorry,” he mutters, eyeing you suspiciously. He lifts a foot and hovers it over the threshold, hesitating. Like the first step across a minefield; instinct telling him to tread carefully.

And you swear an oath to yourself, swear it on your own life: if he doesn’t put the heel of his boot in your hallway, if he turns around right now whether because his instinct is razor sharp, or because he forgot his lucky screwdriver, or purely because he needs to take a fucking leak before he gets started – you will never tell him. He will never know.

If his intuition is that good, he’ll turn around and never show up on your porch again. If he has any sense, he’ll forget any of this ever happened. Deal off.

“How’s the stomach?” Joel asks, sole still three inches from wood.

“What?” you bleat, your heel knocking against the bottom stair. It’s a little more panicked than you intended.

“Yesterday,” a crease forms between his brows, “you said you had a weird stomach. That any better?”

Oh, you think, and as you open your mouth to reply, his foot hits the ground. No answer needed. He was coming in whether you tried to deter him or not.

“Oh, yeah. It’s – Well, it’s better than it was. I think I worked it out,” you grimace, tongue curling under the tinge of anxiety and – well. “Thanks,” you add, noticing the brisk cut of your replies.

The heavy thud of his footsteps follows you upstairs, blunt on the carpet as you lead him up. Joel sets the toolbox down and casts your room a quick glance, snapping back to you as soon as you notice him.

You tug on the corner of the bedsheets, a heat bubbling beneath your cheeks. Something shy and self-conscious, all of a sudden. The reality that you don’t feel close enough to this man to share the anatomy of your room with him, mixed with the knowledge that the two of you are, now and forever, bound by the anatomy of something a little more significant than dirty laundry and dusty wardrobes.

A little closer than most humans get, let’s say.

“You want a coffee or something?” you ask, crossing your arms and leaning back against the window sill.

“You havin’ one?”

“Sure. Wait – actually –” Can you have coffee whilst pregnant? A woman at work quit it altogether when she fell pregnant with her son. Fuck. “I’m – No. I’m good. But let me go make you one.”

Joel shakes his head, amused. Screwdriver burrowing into a door hinge already. He flashes you a tickled grin. “I’m good just now, kid. Wait until you’re makin’ one. Thanks.”

You lift a shoulder. “Welcome.”

His eyes flit from the twist of silver to your hunched shoulders, your arms crossed protectively over your chest. “You gonna stand there ‘n watch me all day? You my foreman now?”

“Sure,” you reply, and he laughs. You sniff, twisting your foot into the carpet. The plastic test itches against your skin; you can feel the two lines ripping into your wrist like tiny burns. “I can go, if you want.”

His lip turns, musing. A quick flick of his jaw. “You’re good company, all in all.”

Metal clanking against metal; fingers knuckle-deep in the toolbox. You can hear the harsh sound across your body, like the point of screws and bite of rust are actually scoring your skin. The groan of a near-fifty-year-old man rising to rip a decades-old door from its home. The creak of wood as it splits.

Everything so heightened that it’s actually painful.

Joel straightens up and pauses, turning his screwdriver between his fingers. “Are we –? We’re good, right?”

“Good?”

“Yeah. You’d tell me if things were weird?”

“Why would things be weird?”

His answer scrawls itself across his face. Your response scoffs from your lips.

“I just,” Joel sighs, “I feel like something might be off with ya. Maybe you just ain’t feelin’ too hot. But you’re quiet.”

“Quiet,” you whisper, palms locking heavily against your biceps. More defensive than convincing.

“Yeah. You usually annoy the hell outta me.”

Over your shoulder, Alice Brown waddles down her driveway, eyeing her flowerbeds. She pauses when Diane’s station wagon pulls up across the street; stands motionless as she watches the round figure climb out and totter to her own front door.

“Just – not in a very annoying mood, I guess,” you offer, staring at the white head of hair fluttering in the breeze. The glint of a trowel in her hand.

Joel’s chin lifts. He studies you, tongue tracing the ridges of his teeth. And then he’s nearing you, turning until you’re shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes stood against the bright square of blue sky inside your window frame. His arms crossed; his stare fixed.

The words begin to boil in your stomach. Violent bubbles against the wall of your midriff. Rising like steam, fading into nothingness over your tongue, the sting of heat where your voice won’t collect them.

Joel moves from foot to foot. It feels like some kind of merry dance, some choreographed moment between you – like a skit in a comedy show. I know something you don’t know.

“What happened – at the wedding,” he murmurs, addressing the polished gold of your bedframe.

Some small sound passes your lips. An affirmative. You’re on the same page.

“We didn’t use – you know. And with you not feelin’ well, it’s…” A deep breath. Chest full of a ghostly bravery. And then he asks, “Are you –?”

Silence swallows the end of his question whole. You didn’t need it, anyway. The stiffness of his frame, his stare shooting straight ahead. The lack of oxygen between you – both holding your breath for fear that something might tear loose from your lungs. He knows. He knows he knows he knows.

You gulp. “…If I was?”

His head cranes upwards, focusing on the cracked plaster of your ceiling. The realization slowly trickling down over his skin. It hasn’t seeped through, hasn’t bled into his brain yet. “Then,” another breath, “then it’d be a conversation…” His voice is halved, split somewhere between knowing and – what is it? Hoping?

Your eyes slip over to the worn sleeve of his T-shirt, stretched around the swell of his bicep; scaling up to his shoulder, the tight set of his jaw. He’s so much taller, he’s so much older. There’s so much life lived and so many lessons learned behind his eyes that you wonder how much the news I’m pregnant would actually crack him.

Your eyes meet. You whisper, “Then – talk,” and his expression softens.

He blinks away whatever’s left of his trying, his polite attempts to skirt around it. He sheds probably a good three decades – turns back into some doe-eyed boy, wonderstruck and terrified. His voice is quiet, and at the same time, the heaviest with emotion you’ve ever heard it. “Are you?” he asks, and immediately, he blurs behind a wall of tears.

Your sentence gets caught in your teeth. It made no sense to begin with. Tangled between your molars, latching at the back of your tongue. Your hand slowly pulls free from your sleeve, the little white test between your fingers.

Joel’s eyes instantly drop, staring at the pale stick with a fraught expression you understand to mean the message has finally reached his brain. The same words now ringing between his ears: She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant. I got her pregnant.

You hold the test out, quivering in the daylight. He takes it in his thumbs, instantly soothing its tremble. Everything muted, every movement steady and considered. And suddenly the sight of that positive test feels less scary, in his hands. Feels like a smaller problem, if that were ever possible.

And he says nothing, and it’s almost unbearable to watch the shape of his lips thin, the shadow beneath his brows darken. Agonizing to stand here and wonder what the next words over his tongue will be.

He stares at it a moment longer. You count the beats of your pulse in your throat. You wrap your arms tighter around your body, holding your skeleton together.

Joel’s lips part. Your breath freezes. Whatever he says, you don’t want to miss a syllable.

“Are you –” he blinks, “– are you feelin’ okay?”

You stare blankly. His eyes finally lift.

“What?”

“Are you feeling okay?”

Your head jerks. “I’m – I’m fine. I mean, I’m fucking shocked.”

He nods. “How long have you known?”

“Took that right before you showed up,” you say, eyes diving to his hands. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

He’s still switching between you and the test. Checking those two lines are still there, as if they might fade to nothing, and then checking you’re still there – as if you might, too. Might be swept off if he’s not keeping an eye on you.

His face pales. He sinks back against the window ledge. “Jesus,” he breathes, a hand down the scruff of his chin.

And it feels like relief, like a mirror sat before you, presenting the honest truth: you’re fucked, and Joel thinks so, too. It embeds the shock into the cushion of your brain, the weight of it absorbed and laid bare for every particle in your body to pay it a visit. What the fuck do we do now?

“Yeah,” you sniff, “Jesus.”

But then his arm wraps around your shoulder, reminding you you’re still solid. Still whole. He holds you to his side, and when you turn into him, he takes you in the other and pulls you flat against his chest. His lips to your hair. His breathing slowing yours.

“We’re gonna work it out,” he says into your hair. “We’re gonna – Jesus, I did not expect…We are goin’ to be fine, alright? You are goin’ to be fine.”

You’re nodding, the prickle of tears flooding across your eyes again. They’re doing nothing, his words – blunt against your skin and insignificant to the fear swelling around your heart – but it feels better to be afraid with someone. Feels better to hold onto something stronger, something bigger, while you feel yourself beginning to shrink.

“What do we do?” you ask into his shirt.

Joel loosens his grip, pulls away until you’re staring at one another. “What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t…” Your head’s shaking, lips moving quicker than your voice will offer the words over. “I don’t think I want to get rid of it.”

He nods, a hand coming up to hold your cheek. “Alright. Then you don’t have to. You don’t gotta do anythin’ you’re not comfortable with.”

“But,” you sniff, guiltily averting his gaze, “this fucks everything up. Everything’s about to change.”

Joel takes a long, slow breath. “It complicates some things, that’s for sure.” He looks out to the street; Alice Brown now hauling weeds from the edge of her lawn. In his exhale, he breathes a name.

“V…What?”

He looks down. Eyes dance around your damp cheeks. “Vanessa,” he says, clearer now.

“Vanessa?”

A nod. His nose wriggles with an awkward sniff. You push off from his chest.

“Who the hell is Vanessa?”

Joel lets you go; lets you step back. He watches as you brace yourself against the ledge. Runs a hand through his hair while he fixes the right order of words. He’s thinking. Carefully.

Too fucking carefully. He’s taking too long.

“Joel. Who’s Vanessa?”

“She’s…” He sighs. “She’s my ex. From Tommy’s wedding. Vanessa Hart.”

Your jaw slackens. The purple dress. The hair like silk, a halo around her head where the light kissed her perfectly. Her plump lips; the way her head tipped back to laugh. The amount of air you felt her take up the second you laid eyes on her, the second you saw her, arm on top of Joel’s.

“Vanessa,” you whisper, your eyes descending his frame. The memory feels menacing now: her sweet giggle a sneering cackle, and you’ve no idea why. The bulky jewels around her neck, her clawed fingers on his arm.

Joel’s hand sits inches from yours on the wooden sill. Alice is walking back inside.

“We, uh…we swapped numbers the morning after the wedding, at breakfast. I didn’t think much of it, but we’ve seen each other a couple times since.”

This isn’t the time for another it’s a date, it’s not a date argument. What the fuck does he mean by –

“Seen each other?”

“Mhm.” He owes you better than that. He reckons so, too. “Dates,” he clarifies. “We’ve been on a couple dates.”

“Oh.”

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach. Plummets, dragging with it your breath and your nerve and any other words you can think of. Your chest gnaws at the edges of the cavity left behind. It hurts. It stings.

Though you’ve no right for it to hurt or sting: as far as you were concerned, as far as you think Joel was concerned, that night was a one-off. It meant as little as the alcohol draining from your glasses, the vacant buzz of love and hope loose in the air. Equally as intoxicating as each other.

Cataclysmic, for the first little while. So heavily awkward that you would wait to watch Joel head out in the morning, clear of your path, before you’d set off for work. It felt like the aftermath of some natural disaster – the cleanup of debris and mistake.

But oh, it feels like a punch to the gut. Low, unexpected; a foul move by someone who never meant to hurt or not hurt you. Someone ignorant to every move he made, right up to this moment.

Your arms wrap around your body again, as though tending to the bruise left by the sucker punch shaped something like that tall woman named Vanessa.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. “We were…we were seein’ about starting things up again. Me ‘n her.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I got you. That’s – I mean, I’m – I’m sorry, Joel, I –”

“Woah, woah,” he’s stepping forward now, “hey, no. No way. This wasn’t you. Well, shoot – it kinda was you. But it was just as much me, right?”

You smile, your face back in the safe hold of his hands. Tears roll down your cheeks, collecting in the corners of your mouth. His thumbs swipe them away.

“This was just as much me,” he repeats, voice soft and soothing.

“But, you know – if you wanted to – just ‘cause I don’t want to get – so if you didn’t wanna have to – that’d be okay, you know that, right?”

His head snaps back, brows low. It’s the first time he looks like his cool has broken all morning. It’s the first time he looks…downright offended. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, and then, “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I just – I know this ain’t ideal. It’s even worse if you’re tryna make it work with Vanessa. So if you felt like it was too much, then…”

Joel shakes his head. “Shut up,” he says, edged with some kind of groan. “Stop talking, right now. Stop. You gotta take a deep breath, alright? I’m here, ‘n I mean I’m here. We’re in this together. I am not running out on you.”

“Joel –”

What was a mere crack in his cool before, rips through it now like lightning spreading across the sky. He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping between his teeth. “If you think I would leave you right now, to deal with this on your own –”

“I don’t,” you tell him, his vexation powering your sudden animation. You wipe your tears away, shaking your head. “I’m just saying, it’s a fucking lot. I don’t want you to feel trapped. I’m giving you an out, man.”

“I am not interested in taking it. Enough. Conversation over.”

“And what about Vanessa?”

“What about her?” he asks, the question dripping in something akin to anger. He catches himself, draws it back in. “She’ll just – We’ll talk, I’ll explain it. The hell else can we do? One thing at a time, okay?”

“Right,” you nod, “okay. One thing at a time.”

“Let’s just build these damn wardrobes. I sure as hell didn’t lug all that timber over here to not do ‘em.”

“Okay,” you repeat, making for the door.

“Ah.” He clicks, and you turn back. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

“To get the timber.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, pointing to your bed. “Sit down. Relax. You ain’t getting a damn thing.”

Joel calls it a day at six o’clock.

The skeleton of the closet is up: a smooth, tan frame lining one wall of your room. Much bigger, much sturdier than its predecessor.

You’re in the same spot he left you in: lying across your bed, admiring his handiwork. He’s good at what he does. You told him twice, and the two of you almost heaved both times. Compliments aren’t something you’re used to handing one another.

He left, maybe, three hours ago. Said he had to shower; said he’d be back first thing to finish the job. You sat up to see him out, got struck by a wave of nausea so bad that you fell back to the bed with one hand on your stomach and the other over your lips, and Joel had insisted – demanded – that you stay where you were.

I’ll be back later to check on ya, he assured, setting a glass of water at your bedside. And then he told you to call him if you felt even remotely off – sick, or panicked, or had a tickle in your throat that you couldn’t clear – and that’s when the two of you realized that you don’t even have one another’s numbers.

And you laughed, the both of you; laughed at the absurdity of you carrying his child when you don’t even carry his contact details in your phone. Laughed at how quickly everything has turned one hundred and eighty degrees in the few hours since you woke up. It felt like some form of release, the only way to clear the blockage of tension in both your throats. So, you laughed, until you felt sick again, and Joel swept the hair from your shoulders to cool you down.

The attentiveness is…new. It’s interesting. It’s kind, in the same way that being told to say hi to whoever your grandma is talking to in the grocery store, is kind. Sweet, the same way that answering the door on Halloween to a bunch of kids you don’t know from a street you don’t recognize the name of, is sweet.

Whatever. It’s fucking weird, alright?

You’ve never seen this side of Joel. You didn’t know or even think, in your wildest dreams, that he existed. Let’s face it: you two have spent the entirety of your inhabitance next door to one another, antagonizing each other. Your favorite hobby has always been pissing Joel off – teasing him for having backache, seeing how far down his porch you can launch his newspaper and he’ll still go get it. Playing the same kind of music you heard him playing on his guitar that one time, full-volume from your kitchen window just to fuck with him.

And, likewise: his favorite hobby has always been…well, ignoring you. Doing everything he can not to engage. If it weren’t for that fucking cat lady and her jittery green Chevrolet, none of this would’ve ever happened. She was a catalyst where one was neither needed nor wanted. You would’ve gone about your life, pinning your underwear only slightly more carefully to your clothesline, and Joel would’ve gone about his, doing – whatever the fuck he does.

Sure, it’s weird. But it’s nice. It’s nice to have him on your side, turning to check on you rather than snap at you for something. Nice to have him talk – actual, rounded words in place of grumbles and mumbles and groans and sighs. Nice to hang out with him and watch him work and ask questions about screws and power tools and pretend to be interested just to distract from the weight of queasiness in your stomach.

Your hands trail down, cupping around your navel. Your stomach still feels like your stomach: still soft, still spongey under your touch. If not for the two more tests you’d taken this afternoon, perched on the bathroom counter waiting for Joel to unstick his gaze from his watch and announce, That’s three minutes – both also positive, by the way – you’d have no fucking clue.

You hold the bottom half of your tummy, fingers rubbing gently over the skin that will soon enough grow and swell and protect.

“Hey,” you whisper, staring at the stationary ceiling fan overhead. A pause. An awkward inhale. “…hey, little buddy. I don’t – know you very well, yet. I figure you can’t even fucking hear me, but whatever. Just wanted to say hi. I’m – Ew, no. I’m not Mom, yet. What the fuck. I don’t know who I am right now, so just…maybe go easy on me until I figure that part out. And after, too. Alright? Are we…we cool?

“You can’t tell me, I know. I just have to assume we’re cool. Okay. Well. Keep growin’. Keep…doing your thing. You’re doing great. We’re doing – we’re doing alright.

“Good job, kid. Good job.”

Joel tells Vanessa two days later. She takes it…about as well as you might hope.

He says they talked for four hours. Three cups of coffee and a drive to Taco Bell later, she agreed to meet you. Properly. Not across the cluttered dancefloor of Tommy’s wedding.

She –? Is – is that a good idea?

I don’t know, kid. It’s the best I’ve got.

Meet me? Like, come kick my ass for sleeping with her boyfriend?

Joel had sighed and deadened his eyes on yours. Not her boyfriend, he corrected, passing you a sweater folded a little slapdash for your liking, and wasn’t her boyfriend when we slept together.

You shook the sweater straight again and fixed his work, muttering to yourself that at least he’s a better builder than he is a folder.

Joel heard you, and let it go. Passed you another – unfolded – sweater to sit in your wardrobe. Let’s just see how it goes, alright?

Alright.

We’re really trying this again. It’s only been a couple weeks.

Okay.

And neither of us have had much luck in that department since we broke it off, y’know?

Joel. I said okay.

He held your gaze a moment too long. Okay.

You’re on your porch when he strolls over, wrist blocking the six o’clock sun from his eyes. Newspaper in his fist, wind licking the corners. “Forget somethin’ today?” he asks, meeting you at the top of the steps.

“Came out to get it,” you brace yourself on the railing, “felt sick. This is me workin’ up to it.”

“You want me to toss it back onto my lawn so you can go fetch me it?”

You smile, eyes screwing shut. “Was coming over to ask what time for tomorrow.”

The reminder snaps him from his happy daydream. He says, “I was comin’ to ask you the same thing. Seven work?”

“Seven’s good. Are we getting food?”

“You wanna get food? I figured maybe you wouldn’t be up for it, what with the, uh…” Joel gestures to your hunched position, your head low between your shoulders, your deep, deliberate breaths.

“Maybe just drinks,” you utter, gulping back the sharp taste of bile.

He nods. “Drinks it is. You okay? You need anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks. See you guys at seven.”

Four minutes early, there’s a knock at your door. You pull it open, and there they are. Picture-perfect, like they might be posing for a holiday card. A bottle in his arm, a bunch of flowers in hers. A timid but genial smile between her cheeks, a twinkle in her eye. That same circle of shining light around her head, brunette tresses curled into bouncing waves.

“Howdy,” Joel says, stepping into the space you create. He dips his head, kisses your cheek, whispers a brief, Y’okay? in your ear. You nod quickly, gently shifting him out of the way.

Vanessa lingers for a moment in the doorway. She glances from Joel to you again, blinking in the porch light. Her pale skin lit in an ethereal glow. She’s prettier up close.

Joel addresses you, hand brushing the small of your back, “…this is Vanessa.”

“Hi,” she says, and pushes the flowers towards you – a small bouquet of gypsophila and eucalyptus. Bright, polite. Each sprig laden with the burden of appearing simpatico, but important. Meaningful, in the airiest sense of the word. “Hi,” again.

“Hi,” you echo, and then feel stupid for having nothing more to offer. You can feel Joel’s eyes on you, hot on your shoulder.

But Vanessa takes the weight from your chest. “It’s nice to meet you – officially. I saw you at Tommy and Maria’s wedding. You looked so beautiful.”

“Thanks,” springs from your tongue sooner than the rest of the sentence. Your brain scrams to find more words. “You looked – you looked great, too. Do you wanna –? I mean – Sorry. Come in. Obviously.”

She clicks over the threshold, her pale dress floating into your hallway like she’s part of a dream. She’s just as beautiful in this light, relaxed form – pastel blue and the glimmer of golden jewelry – as she was in the sleeker, more dramatic form you saw her in before. An aura about her which captures and tends to your attention. Intense, captivating, but not intimidating.

You usher them to the living room, offer them a space on the couch while you take Vanessa’s flowers to the kitchen. Joel follows you through, sets the bottle on the counter.

“Nonalcoholic,” he says, unscrewing the cap.

Your eyebrows jump. “Great. Thanks.”

“She’s nervous,” he murmurs, leaning in. “I know you are, too. Y’all are similar like that.”

You slot the stems into a vase of water one by one, carefully organizing a display. “She seems sweet,” you assure him. “She shouldn’t be nervous.”

“Neither should you.”

“Is this…totally weird for you?”

Joel breathes in deep, filling three glasses. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never lifting from the sparkling peach.

“Sorry.”

He angles his jaw. “Stop sayin’ you're sorry. I’ll kick your ass.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, eyes lifting only to his elbows. “Sorry.”

He scoffs, swiping the glasses and stepping back to let you out first.

“I’m trying not to make it weird,” you offer, slipping by.

“I don’t want you to try anything.” He kicks your ankle lightly and follows you back into the living room.

Vanessa sits forward and clasps her hands around her knee when you sit back down, shifting as though to reach for you before she stops herself. “How are you feeling? Joel said you’re a little…worse for wear, right now.”

“I’ve been better,” you say, smiling. “Just morning sickness. Which lasts – all day.”

She nods sympathetically. “My sister had it rough with her first. I actually…” She twists around, reaches for her purse, fishes out an orange packet. “I brought you some ginger tea. Kate told me it helped her a lot, so.”

She holds it out in almost trembling fingers. Likewise, you steady yours to take it from her, thanking her with a shy nod of the head. “That’s so kind,” you reply quietly, eyes darting to Joel. He’s staring at the pack in your hands, watching as you turn it over to read the back.

“And – listen,” Vanessa continues, the acceptance of her offering clearly fueling her assuredness, “I don’t want anything to be weird – between you and I, between you and Joel. I know this situation is…new. It’s, um…”

“It’s kinda weird,” you say, humoring. “It’s okay. I know.”

She breathes a relieved laugh. “It is. Thank God you said it.” She glances back at Joel, who smiles at her, slips his hand onto her knee. “But I guess,” a deep breath, “I guess it is what it is. And we’re all adults, you know? We can make it work, right?”

Your head switches rapidly between nodding enthusiastically and shaking enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yes. No, absolutely. And, you know, me and Joel – there isn’t – we’re not at all…”

“Oh,” she bats the idea away, “I know. I know that. He told me everything. It’s – You know, it’s just a timing thing.”

Joel’s staring down at his hand locked around her leg. Unblinking. Unmoving. His expression doesn’t shift until the two of you settle back into your seats; until Vanessa asks if he’d mind making you a cup of ginger tea.

You barely notice his absence, the way she takes you up in conversation. Like twirling you off in some kind of dance, each sentence strung safely to the next. There are no lulls, no awkward pauses. She asks about work, asks about your family. She tells you stories about her niece, who’s three now, and compares how you’re feeling to how she remembers her sister feeling.

Then her work, and the IT guy her friend hooked up with, and her class at the gym which she’s trying to convince Joel to come along to, and Kate’s hot yoga class every Thursday night, and the new sushi place which just opened downtown and You gotta try it some day; the nigiri is divine.

And you nod along, and you laugh at her anecdotes and tell your own, and Joel tells her to tell you about the jazz band who were playing at the restaurant they visited a couple weeks ago, and you offer to top her drink up and she says she’ll do it herself and she leaves you and Joel alone for the first time all evening, and – it’s weird.

Because – behind the veil of conversation you’re doing your best to uphold, sits an image of this very night – only, in Joel’s house. In Joel’s house, on Joel’s couch, drinking nonalcoholic wine with Joel’s brother. Joel and Vanessa leant against one another on one couch, Tommy and Maria on the other.

You can’t help it – you’re wondering what Maria thinks of Vanessa. How long they knew each other, if at all, before the breakup. Whether they hung out, whether they discussed sushi and yoga, or the housing market, or their Miller boyfriends and their annoying Miller habits.

Maria would’ve liked her, you think. Would’ve found her as lovely as you do. And the idea, the image of them giggling together at family parties and being Tommy’s Maria and Joel’s Vanessa – presses a firm, bullying finger into the bruise you thought had faded some from the other day.

And once they’re gone, once you’re left alone again – lying in still silence, closed in on yourself by the thick darkness of your room, nothing but you and your thoughts and your unborn child for company – it slips out.

“Fuck her, right?” You hold your hands out, addressing your stomach. “She was so fucking nice. Did you like her? Fuck me, I liked her. I hope they break up.”

And then, realizing who you’re talking to: “No. Sorry, baby, no. I don’t hope they break up. I want your dad to be really happy. But – Goddamn. She was so sweet. I thought she was gonna slap me, and she just – she brought ginger tea! Fuck. They look good together, don’t they?”

It’s just hormones. Just the emotional trip that is being four weeks pregnant. Everybody feels like this when they fall pregnant – sensitive, vulnerable, clingy. Right? Right?

Your words sit stagnant in midair. You swear you can see them, heavy and intruding. Awkwardly lingering someplace they don’t belong. Because none of it even matters – the hormones, the emotions. The weird knot burning a hole in your chest, shaped like a clenched fist, knuckles branded by the heat of longing. It can’t matter.

You’re where you are, he’s where he is. A pillow in your arm, Vanessa in his. Feet apart, bricks and mortar and something like twenty years and two dates too late separating you.

Both staring up at the ceiling, wondering who the other’s thinking of.

“At eight weeks, your baby is roughly the size of a raspberry.”

Your knee bounces, breath coming and going in shaky ripples. The rubber sole of your shoe cries against the sterilized hospital floor. Your chest hums anxiously and your throat catches when you swallow and are the lights too bright? The room too hot? You’re sweating. Why are you sweating? Can you breathe right now?

Joel nudges your arm and your eyes roll to the pamphlet in his hand, his finger tracing the words. “C’mon,” he utters, leaning in, “how can anything the size of a raspberry be scary?”

You squint under fluorescent white. “A raspberry that grows into the size of a watermelon, can break my ribs, make me throw up, make me lose hair, and then tear my vagina apart on its way out? That’s pretty scary.”

He smirks. “Not to me it ain’t. My vagina stays perfectly intact the entire time.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you reply, whacking him.

He laughs, swatting your palm away, keeping ahold of your fingers inside his own. “Speaking of – we gotta talk.” He elbows you, waiting until you’re looking again to speak. “We gotta cut the language.”

“Cut the language?”

“Uhuh. Rein it in. And by we, I mean you.”

“Uh,” you scoff, “I don’t think so. When you do the growing, then you can rein your own swearing in. Leave me alone, asshole.”

“Charming,” Joel says. “You know the baby can hear you? You want it to come out swearin’ like a trooper?”

You grin, tipping your head to him. “If it comes out and says anything, we’re rich. So – yeah. Let it.”

He opens his mouth to reply when a nurse emerges from a nearby room and calls your name.

“You’re up, kid,” Joel says, standing beside you.

You turn back, speaking before your brain settles on words. “I’m scared.”

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand. He squeezes it gently, uses the other to keep you facing him. “This is the easy part, right? We’re just going to meet them.”

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, and wander over to meet the nurse. Joel’s hand a vice grip around yours.

She leads you into a similarly washed-out clinic room, only slightly dimmer with the lights turned out, and yanks a roll of paper across the bed. Tapping it twice, she smiles. “Hop up, darlin’.”

You settle into the crinkly paper, leaning back until you’re blinking up at the speckled ceiling. Another door opens and a woman in a white coat floats in, and you swear that if it weren’t for Joel’s Evenin’, ma’am when she greets the two of you, you’d believe she were a figment of your imagination. Another character in this fucking insane dream.

“Not often I do these past five o’clock,” she says, clicking her mouse and typing on her keyboard and fixing a hair grip back into her bun. Casual. It’s not even a thing to her, introducing parents and children. She does this all fucking day.

Joel tosses half a glance to you and then realizes you’re not currently in the room. He pinches your hand again. It grounds you for all of two seconds.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat, “work commitment. I couldn’t get away any earlier, so we’re havin’ to do this a little late.”

“What do you do?” she asks, staring at her screen. Her glossy brown eyes and rich, dark skin.

“I’m a contractor,” Joel replies, thumb stroking your shoulder.

Something bubbles in your stomach, something akin to jealousy, an urgency to tell her that right now, in this room, he’s mine. No more questions. Something which quickly dissipates when you remind yourself to quit being fucking ridiculous and that right now, in this room, he’s someone else’s, and the thumb on your shoulder is merely to hold you back from fleeing. Nothing more.

The sonographer nods. Her name badge reads Freya. Pretty name. Stop picturing what your kid would look like as a Freya. You are not naming them after the first sonographer you meet.

“Shouldn’t be too long, then y’all can get home for the night. You live nearby?”

“Twenty minutes’ drive. Not far, are we?” Joel asks you.

Your eyes shoot down to his. “No,” you push your cheeks up, telling Freya, “not far.”

She flattens her lips against one another, lending you a sympathetic smile. “You got nothing to worry about, honey. Promise. Gel might be a little cold, that’s about as scary as this gets. We’re just gonna make sure everything’s looking good, check your dates, check your measurements. You’re doing great.”

“You hear that?” Joel murmurs, settling down into the chair by your side. His hand hasn’t left yours. His voice is low, meant just for you, when he repeats, “You’re doin’ great.”

You huff a laugh, some nervous release from your lungs.

Freya smiles, face lit by the faint glow of the screen in front of her. “We ready?”

You roll the hem of your tee up when she motions, bunching it under the wire of your bra. She squeezes a bottle over your stomach, which tenses solid when the frozen bite of gel curls right below your belly button. Freya smiles apologetically when you wince. Told you, she murmurs, and your breath escapes in a slightly more comfortable laugh. Lighter, easier. Scariest part over.

She presses the probe to your skin and spreads the gel, coating the bottom of your tummy in a slippery slick which tickles with each inch she covers. Two buttons pressed, and a dark image appears on a screen opposite you.

A gray fan, speckled like the ceiling above your head. Dark, black shapes growing and shrinking at the turn of Freya’s wrist. She pauses, two blobs onscreen: the larger, black, round, home to a smaller, misshapen one. Flecked with white and silver and moving slowly, gently, but – right there.

“Mom, Dad,” she grins, “meet your baby.”

You and Joel move forward at the same time, drawn closer to the crunchy image as if by some kind of natural magnetism. Eyes never blinking, lips agape. The shapes flutter, the smaller dipping in and out of view.

“You see right here, right in the center?” A white cross appears over the blob’s middle. “That little movement? The kinda – pulsing?”

You each nod. Your nails dig so deep into Joel’s hand that you risk drawing blood.

“That’s the heart. Ticking away.”

“The heart?” you ask, watching the rhythmic flicker in the center of the screen.

“Yep. Perfect, too.”

She hits another key and suddenly the room is filled with a muffled thudding; a steady, energetic pulse in your ears. It matches the movements onscreen, the tiny throb of the baby’s chest, the shape of your womb moving like waves before you.

And suddenly, it's real – all of it: the screen and the room and the sonographer and you, and Joel’s hand encasing yours, holding your knuckles to his lips, and –

And the heartbeat. Right there, right in front of you. Shy, probably as nervous as you are to introduce themselves. Feeling your eyes on them, curled up somewhere safe inside you. Right there.

You turn to Joel, and his illuminated face is staring straight at the screen. Eyes soaked with tears, blinking as they form, cheeks dappled with wet. He draws his eyes from his child only to look back at you, only to mirror your stunned smile, your disbelieving laugh, more tears dripping down into his beard. He sits up, presses his damp lips firmly to your forehead.

Freya mutes the heartbeat, pauses the scan where the image is clearest, and sits back. “I’ll give you guys a moment to yourselves,” she says, wheeling back in her chair. “Take all the time you need. I’m right outside.”

“Thanks,” Joel mumbles for the both of you, sweeping hair from your face.

The door closes on your little bubble – you, Joel, and the grainy image of your baby. The evidence that – yeah, that night happened, and yeah, you’re forever changed because of it. The evidence that you’re about to become a mom, for real, no matter how much the thought makes you feel like your stomach is kicking around at your ankles.

And the evidence that, no matter how scared you might be, how unprepared and unworthy you feel – you fucking adore that little blob already.

Love it as much as Joel does, stood over you, kissing your hair and whispering words you’re only half-listening to. A quiet thank you, a shaky I can’t believe it. Something about showing his brother. And when you look up at him, blinking at one another, inches apart – he takes your jaw in his hands and lowers his lips to yours.

Different. Softer. No want laced through. No urgency. Nothing needed, nor requested, that isn’t already right here in this little bubble of yours.

He kisses you slowly, eyes closed, holding you until you pull away for breath. His nose bumps against yours and you laugh, heads together, eyes low.

“Still scared?” he whispers.

“Terrified,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he says, and kisses you again.

You lean back against the bed, relief settling your bones and soothing your heartbeat. The notion washes over you that, if you could, you’d stay in this room forever. Staring at the screen, holding Joel’s hand. Whispering fears into his mouth and letting him swallow them in a kiss.

He hands you some paper towel and helps you drag it across your stomach, your eyes still fixed on the little shape opposite. He hooks his chin over your head – the fresh, woody smell of his cologne infiltrating your lungs and throwing you under the haze of something you’re not quite sure how to define.

“Duck,” he says, voice vibrating into your skull.

“Huh?”

“Start saying duck. Make the baby think we’re saying that, then you can say –” he lowers his voice, “– fuck, all you want.”

“The hell would I have to say duck for?”

Joel stands upright and shrugs. “I don’t know. Think of somethin’. A nickname, maybe.”

“Duck?”

He nods plainly, glancing over to the screen.

The pillow beneath your head sighs as you turn from Joel back to the ultrasound. “Baby Duck,” you offer, and he smiles.

Smiles in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile. Eyes glistening, cheeks swollen. Something innocent and earnest about it. Something pure.

He agrees. “Baby Duck it is.”

Joel insists that you spend the night at his place.

“It’s been a big day,” he reasons, fixing the bed in his guestroom. “Just – let me run around after you for a little bit.”

You fight your corner as much as you can be bothered – I gotta maintain my independence, I’m gonna be a single mom soon enough, you know – but, truthfully, you’ll take any excuse to have him rush around at your beck and call. Some days you open your mouth and he hears the wet click of saliva between your lips, and grabs a glass of water for you before you’ve even voiced the request.

He orders takeout, settles shoulder-to-shoulder with you on the couch, and lets you pick whichever movie you feel like putting him through until the food’s gone, he’s out of beer, and you’ve abandoned Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles for an argument about the best part of pizza.

You don’t like the crust?

Nope.

What fuckin’ age are you?

If it ain’t stuffed, it’s just not worth it.

At eleven, you bid him goodnight and wander upstairs, falling into a sea of navy-blue sheets to be delivered to sleep by the serene silence of Joel’s home. It takes no time for your eyes to flutter closed, the soft sheen of moonlight painted across the wall, sweeping from your view to be replaced in a whir by –

Lights. Overhead and all around and so bright and so close that you swear they’re etched on the inside of your eyelids.

You’re in the backseat, watching them soar by in blurs of white and red and amber and green, and your pulse is rattling through your veins and throbbing between your temples and you can’t focus on any one object for longer than three seconds, before your eyes roll and your head dizzies.

A word, slung from your lips in a half-wakened attempt to stop it. A word you barely recognize at first, don’t understand the meaning of. It’s been years. Why now? Mom.

You’re not sure why, or who you’re even reaching out to. There are two figures in the front seats, heads facing forward. She’s not turning around. She’s not even fucking moving, not reacting to the speed or the lights or your voice. Mom.

You scream it, the syllable ripping violently from your throat, and your tiny fingers reach for her swirls of hair. You pause, staring at the chipped polish on your stubby, kiddy nails. Mom, I’m scared.

The distorted blast of a horn scoops the car up in one motion, hurtling over itself along the freeway. You’re thrown to the roof of the car, plummet back down to your seat; the seatbelt throttles you, rips a burn deep into the skin of your neck. Back up again; your head hits the spongey roof of the car. Your stomach somersaults.

Mom, please, you wail, swiping for her hand. It’s lying limp by her thigh, dark droplets on her wrist. Mom Mom please Mom I’m scared Mom please I’m so scared I –

“Baby.”

His voice is low, earthy. It chews apart the high-pitched squeal of brakes and screaming. The glass smashing. The metal crunching.

You lift from the bed like it’s ice water, gasping when you finally surface back on Earth. Your chest heaves, it’s not sucking in enough breath; you can’t breathe you can’t breathe you can’t fucking breathe.

Joel whips the cover from your legs and you roll from the mattress, feet planting on the floor. You bend forward to grip onto the sheets, a choking rising up your throat, closer and closer until it tugs on your tongue.

“Icantbreathe,” you pant.

Joel’s body curves around yours. “You’re alright,” he’s telling you – urging you; one hand between your shoulder blades, the other holding your wrist for fear you might collapse. “I’m here, you’re okay. You’re at my place, you’re safe, but, kid – I need you to slow down. You’re hyperventilating.”

You work your breathing to the strokes of his hand up and down your spine: in out in out in and out and in and out and in, and out, and in, and…out…and in…and…out.

“That’s it. Keep doing that. You’re good, baby, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

In – and out. In – and out again.

The room slowly desaturates back into boring, moonlit blue. Feeling sputters back into your hands, clawing at the sheets once the sharpness dissolves. The cotton pets back, smooth under your quivering touch. Your lips stop tingling, your ears stop ringing. One after another, until your blood settles back to a steady stream and you straighten up.

“Can you sit down for me?”

“No,” you whimper, and Joel nods.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I’m gonna get you a drink, that okay?”

You grab his T-shirt. “No. Don’t leave me. Please. Sorry.”

He cups your frozen cheeks. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just downstairs. You can come.”

He settles you at his kitchen table and shuffles over to the cupboards, rubbing his eyes. You feel the heat of embarrassment and guilt, watching as he settles down with a groan minutes later.

“Ginger,” he tells you, voice rounded by his mug, sliding one of your own over to you.

“Sorry,” you mumble, lifting it with two hands. The smell sharp, cutting up the remnants of gasoline and smoke.

“Many times do I gotta say it?” he asks dryly. “Quit sayin’ you’re sorry.”

You gulp nervously. “You got work in the morning. You’re gonna be exhausted.”

“And if I hadn’t let you keep me up watchin’ chick flicks, I’d be rested. That’s something I can deal with later. I got you to worry about right now.”

You shake your head; the ceramic hits the table with a sharp thud. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well,” Joel sniffs, “you’re carrying my child. I’ll always worry about you.”

You sit back, the curve of the chair cradling, your heart beating lamely against the wood. Joel’s jaw rests in the cushion of his palm, staring back at you.

“What time is it?” you ask, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Three. Take a sip.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sip.”

You obey, lifting the tea and swallowing harshly.

He watches every move, every shift reflected in his dark eyes, decorated by a tense, stony expression. “Does this happen a lot?”

“Never,” you say. “This never happens.”

Joel cranes his jaw, cracks his neck. “Alright,” he sighs, “that’s okay. Breathe again. You’re doing fine.”

But you don’t feel fine. The dregs of panic sizzle into something thicker, hotter. Anger. Frustration. “Why the fuck is this happening?” you hiss, fingers prodding into your eye sockets. “What the f–?”

“Easy. I don’t know. Hormones? Stress?”

“You sound like my fucking doctor.”

Joel smiles. Amusement, before concern wipes over it again. “Let’s just give it some time to pass, okay?”

You nod, hanging over your drink, the silhouette of your reflection staring back at you. The steam snakes up, seeping into your skin, bubbling under the surface. Wiping clean any memory of freeway or nail polish, like coating over a bathroom mirror. The shapes still visible behind, but blurred. Gone.

“How’s Vanessa?” you ask, an attempt to distract yourself.

Joel adjusts a little awkwardly in his chair. “She’s good. She loved the scan photo. Showed it to her sister. They’re sure it’s a boy.”

“Ha. Joel Jr.”

“Joel Jr.,” he agrees, and then attempts to distract himself. “So,” he says, “Allandale.”

“Mhm?”

“Wonder if I ever saw your mom or dad. When I was there visitin’ Sam.”

You shrug. “Doubt it. I mean, they always lived right next to the elementary school, if that helps. My mom was a first-grade teacher. The two of us used to walk there ‘n back together, every day.”

“First grade, huh? Best one.”

“Yeah. Yeah, and she was the best of the best. She used to go all out for her kids; used to go to Michaels and get all this crafty stuff so they could spend all afternoon making little houses or zoos, or – whatever she could think of. And she’d always keep some aside, bring some home for me to make one, too. One time, she came home with all this blue tissue paper and little foam fish, and we made an aquarium together.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Joel says.

“Yeah,” you say again, nodding eagerly. “She was so cool. And fun, y’know? I just remember her being so much fun. I always felt safe with her, felt loved. I actually used to think she hung the sun every morning, just for me.” You take a deep breath, replacing it with a broken sigh.

“What about your dad? What was he like?”

You frown. “He was…fine. Real quiet, reserved. A little grumpy, I guess. I always got the idea he couldn’t be bothered with me, young as I was. Always wanted to be left alone. I think my mom overcompensated a lot.”

Something flashes across Joel’s face that seems to say he knows – or, at least, he understands. Almost imperceptible, a quick flicker of annoyance. “You miss her?” he asks, switching back.

“My mom?” You almost laugh, gripping onto your mug. Staring at the slow swirl of ginger. A shrug which presents more like a flinch; an animal swatting a fly away. “I miss those parts, when I think of them. The aquarium, the walking to school. Miss the memories. But I don’t think I knew her well enough or long enough to miss her.

“I’ve lived way longer without her than I ever had her. Done everything without her, like –” gesturing down, “– this. But, sometimes…sometimes, I bundle the sheets up behind my back in bed, and I pretend it’s her. Pretend I have a mom, and she’s cuddling me to sleep. I dunno. Maybe that’s what missing her feels like.”

Joel soaks in every word you say, letting the shape of each one settle on the table between you before he speaks again. Letting them be spoken into the dead of night, collected by no one, and letting them fade into silence. Secrets sweeping off into starlight. Nothing you would admit in the daytime.

“What was her name?” he asks, voice timid and gentle in the dark kitchen.

You almost choke on your tea. “Shoot – I’m sorry. That was a lot. Sorry. She, uh – Her name?”

It brings the first genuine smile to your lips; the memory of your mom now clear behind your eyes. Her round cheeks, her fluttering earrings. The deep, dark curls of her hair, thick ringlets twisting and lighting in the sun. The gap between her front teeth, the purse of her lips as she kissed your cheeks, your hands, your tummy.

Her name like a melody in your head; a safe word, a calming mantra when the world becomes too noisy, too saturated, too sharp to bear. Two syllables. Two little beats, like a piece of her still lives in the sound of her name.

“Sarah,” you tell Joel. “Her name was Sarah.”

#*hits post*#*throws laptop from bridge*#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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yourlocalcorviddad · 4 months

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Ok so some bad guy kidnaps the justice league, has them incapacitated and whatnot.

The rogue starts monologuing about how through magic they can face the people they wronged, how it’s the first torture he will put them al through.

He starts with Batman and says ‘This ritual brings back the first people you failed to save.’

(The ritual summons relms ghosts)

The bad guy was NOT PREPARED for Martha Wayne to come out of the summoning circle and do her best to beat him to death for hurting her baby. (Thomas Wayne is going around freeing the league and providing medical help. His wife has this handled)

I was not aware I had an ask! Sorry this took so long!

But yes! This just, you have so many brain filling cabinets I wanna riffle though, so many

Martha knew, she and Thomas felt the tug and, thanks to recent lessons put out by the yeti at the direction of their king-it took him years to get through the backlog of what was needed, so some things are still being rolled out but it's already so much better-they knew it was a summons and could tell, not clearly as a named summons but as a 'most tied ghost to the place/person' summons es being done.

Which means home, or Bruce, which honestly was the same thing. Bruce and Alfred were their home as much as Gotham was.

After the fog cleared, and she heard the sneering, grandstanding voice of someone clearly trying to harm people, she didn't even waste time.

"You've got this darlin', I've got our boy and his lil friends safe'n hand."

And that reassurance from her also-dead partner was all she needed to go after the summoner.

"So you folks are my lil bat's friends! We've heard lots about all y'all been up to since we died, we're right proud of all of it."

#dpxdc #villain summons the realms ghosts of Martha and Thomas Wayne au #i figure it's been a good few years past Danny phantom setting #so depending on when you'd want this time wise he's at least Dick's age if not Bruce's #Danny made lessons for everybody in the realms to better life and help obsessions being met safely

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king-zacharyy · 2 months

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IF YOU HATE HELLUVA BOSS, HAZBIN HOTEL, AND/OR STOLITZ, DO. NOT. INTERACT. (WITH THIS POST OR MY PAGE)

Okay, I am currently rewatching Helluva Boss, and I just finished S1 Ep7: OZZIE'S, and... How do some people genuinely believe Stolitz is one-sided?

From what I've seen, Blitzø absolutely returns Stolas' feelings, even if he refuses to acknowledge/accept that he does. A lot of people, from what I've seen, have been using Blitzø' words to Stolas in OZZIE'S and his words about Stolas to Fizzarolli in OOPS as arguments for why Blitzø "clearly" doesn't love Stolas back, but my question is, do some of y'all not have basic media literacy?

Sorry if that’s rude, but seriously. There are plenty of clues to how Blitzø is actually feeling during and after these scenes.

1. Blitzø was literally holding back TEARS as he said that in the van scene.

2. He says that Stolas has made it very clear that all it is is Stolas wanting to be fucked. That wording is very distinct and, honestly, says that Blitzø does NOT want it to just be a Fuck Buddies things.

2.5. May I remind everyone that Stolas literally calls Blitzø his "Impish little plaything" in Truth Seekers? And that that likely just confirmed the insecurities we know he was already feeling? (We know he was feeling insecure about his and Stolas' relationship already because of how he reacted in S1 Ep5 to Striker goading him)

3. Literally ALL of what happens after the van scene. Including all of Episode 8. He goes home and cries himself to sleep, and then goes and self-destructs at a party. Bee said it herself that he wasn't drinking to have fun.

4. In S2 Ep6: OOPS, His face when he said it was nothing more than Stolas being horny gives away how hurt he actually is. He is desperately trying to convince Fizz and remind himself that Stolas doesn't want anything more.

Honorary mention that I'm not sure is really a fifth point is him calling Fizz and Ozzie hypocrites.

Moving on from those scenes and onto Blitzø's insecurities about love and his self-worth issues. Blitzø does not believe he deserves love. He does not believe anyone does or can love him. We can see this in how he acts with the people in his life. He pushes them away. He is obsessed with M&M's relationship because they're the only model of a healthy relationship he's ever had, and he wants that with someone. We also can tell because of how he reacts to what Fizz and Verosika say in OZZIE'S.

Blitzø hates himself. He crosses out his face in the pictures hung up in his apartment. He blames himself for an accident that caused his mother's death, his best friend to lose his limbs, and his sister to hate him.

No one was truly there for him after the accident. Fizz may have been crippled, but he had a support system. Blitzø did not, and no one was there to tell him it wasn't his fault.

Not to mention the fact that up until the accident, he was CONSTANTLY being put down and told Fizzarolli was better than him. Even his own father cared more for Fizz than him. Honestly, I'm surprised there isn't any actual animosity towards Fizz on Blitzø's part.

Speaking of the fire and Fizz, Blitzø was planning to confess romantic feelings to Fizz that night before the accident (We know this because of the letter and flower he was holding before the fire started). That likely made it difficult for him to confess his love to someone because if you think his brain wouldn't connect love confessions to the greatest trauma of his life, you're dead wrong.

Brains make weird ass connections when it comes to trauma/traumatic events.

In conclusion, Blitzø loves Stolas, Stolas loves Blitzø, and they both need to heal and get their shit together. Stolitz forever.

Kloveyoubye ❤️

#haters dni #helluva boss antis dni #Hazbin haters dni #hellaverse #helluva boss #helluvaverse #stolas #blitzø #stolas x blitz #helluva boss blitz #stolas helluva boss #stolitz #rants n rambles #rant post

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bloodreddemons · 4 months

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Hazbin Hotel Episode 5-6 Hot Takes! ~

Lucifer doesn't really seem like a necessarily "good" dad or "bad" dad. He's definitely not the greatest at all but it really does suck that Charlie was pretty much isolated from him. Not completely his fault I'm sure.

I know it's obvious at this point that Lucifer & Alastor don't like each other...but you can definitely tell Alastor HATES him. His face was just stuck on stink the entire time.

To follow that up, I wonder why Alastor doesn't like Lucifer so much. Maybe it has to do with Lilith or Eve?

I like Lucifer's personality despite being the literal Devil he's actually very goofy. I don't think this was even a hot take. Lol.

Alastor saying fuck is the funniest thing in this show so far. It was actually gold. Bless him.

I hate that there was actual discourse surrounding episode 5 regarding Charlastor, and that people who hate the ship took the opportunity to either be pissed about their interactions, or celebrate that the ship is dead.

Hell's Greatest Dad was a nice song I really enjoyed it. Alastor and Lucifer sounded great.

A lot of people have already said this, but I think it's pretty obvious that Alastor was only trying to piss Lucifer off with the daughter comments. I don't think he actually sees him & Charlie as family.

Saying that Charlie can almost call Alastor Daddy was jaw dropping lol. I don't get how the ship is dead. It's definitely revived.

I fucking hate Mimzy. She's just an awful friend. She's literally that fake friend that only hits you up when you need something. I don't get how Alastor has been (hazbin) friends with her for so long. Christ.

I would've just thrown Mimzy to the Lone Sharks.

I wonder who "owns" Alastor? Most likely Lilith, that's what everybody has said. It could also possibly be Eve tho. He's definitely been working with someone.

Alastor's monster eldritch form kinda looks how a lot of us expected.

I don't get how Charlie is going to tell Lucifer, the first fallen angel EVER, and God's actual former favorite, what Heaven would say or think. He's already been there before. He knows how they work.

"More than Anything" was actually a pretty sweet song. It kinda hit close to home. Lucifer really sounded like the Angel he is.

Cherri & Sir Pentious are actually really cute. I kinda saw that one coming. Idk how they'd fuck tho. Ewwww.

Something is weird about Charlie not being on that list when they got to Heaven. Some people have speculated that she's in the wrong place. Hmmmm.

I don't really care for Sera or Emily. Idk I just don't. Sorry y'all.

"Welcome To Heaven" was such a weird gay ass song. 🤣 Why was that white ass twink priest practically moaning lmao...but the song was giving some type of backstreet boys or NSYNC.

I didn't think Lute or any of the exterminators actually had faces. That was a shock.

Even though it was already obvious to so many I was still gagged when the Vaggie Angel theory was finally confirmed. I love the way she met Charlie.

Not a hot take but I fucking hate Lute & Adam for doing Vaggie like that. She definitely didn't deserve it. All she did was spare one fucking child. They're evil.

The blackmailing Vaggie thing was very anticlimactic and dumb as fuck especially since they made Vaggie avoid being questioned. It would've been more interesting if Vaggie did what Adam said and spoke against Charlie at the meeting.

I've come to realize that Heaven is just shit and nobody knows what they're doing. The fact that they have a piece of shit like Adam up there and he himself doesn't know why he's there in the first place is very telling.

I don't think Cherri is a bad friend at all, but it was very off putting for her to constantly peer pressure Angel Dust when he's been trying to have a good streak. I get that she's a party animal and don't give a fuck but she could at least be mindful of her friend that's trying to stop their bad habits.

Angel being protective of Nifty when she was drunk was so cute. I'm happy he saved her from Val even if she didn't need it.

"You didn't know" was meh. It had some good parts I liked the overlapping of "Hell Is Forever" but thats really it.

I feel like Charlie is going to forgive Vaggie pretty quickly. I don't think this dramatic revelation of her past is going to cause that big of a rift in their relationship at all, especially with how quick they made up in episode 3.

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milkpup · 4 months

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｡⋆ʚ♡ like father, like son

›› chapter 5 ›› nsfw 18+ ongoing multi-chapter fic!

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ʚ ao3 ɞ / ʚ kofi ɞ / ʚ fic masterlist ɞ

›› toji fushiguro x reader ›› megumi fushiguro x reader ›› toji x reader x megumi (mfm) ›› 18+ f!reader ›› started: 12/6/23 : updated: 1/29/24 : status: ongoing

‹𝟹 summary: You and Megumi are best friends. You've known eachother for almost your whole life. His home has become your second home. As time passes and life happens, Megumi slowly develops feelings for you, even though he's unaware of it. To complicate things further, you're now living with him and his father, who has also taken a liking to you.

‹𝟹 fandom: jjk, jujutsu kaisen

‹𝟹 genres / warnings: au - no powers, college au, power imbalance, pseudo-incest (they both want y/n, nothing w/ eachother), dubious consent

‹𝟹 tags: good cop bad cop, fluff, smut, angst, toji has a big dick, dilf toji, toji is his own warning, toji tries to be a good parent, toji is an asshole, toji is trying okay?, daddy dom toji, daddy kink, porn with feelings, porn with plot, friends to lovers, spit / spitting, spit kink, spit as lube, breeding, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, double vaginal pen, double pen, anal, making out, making love, love triangles, praise kink, degradation, light masochism, light sadism, emotional sex, cuckolding, jealousy, jealousy kink, smoking, smoking kink, emotional manipulation, manipulation, polyamory?, father and son share you, protective megumi fushiguro, megumi needs a hug, megumi has a big dick, AGED UP CHARACTERS, dead dove: do not eat, finger sucking, large cock, cum swallowing, blow jobs, first time blow jobs, under desk blow jobs, fingerfucking, face sitting, face riding, 69, mutual masturbation, threesome mfm, lots of smut, loss of virginity

‹𝟹 notes: hi, sorry this took so long to update! i've had a lot going on lately, but i finally felt good enough to finish this chap! i tried to go for soft megumi but then eventually i couldn't help myself. sowwy x_x (im not sorry :3!) don't try so hard to imagine the positions, just go with it PLSSSS T_T LOL. for tumblr: i'm gonna start adding a section for tags. if y'all wanna be tagged in future updates on this fic or any of my stuff lmk!

<;33

!! - again, PLEASE READ TAGS BEFORE CONTINUING - !!

! - ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+ - !

Chapter 5: Pink Carnations

“It’s already almost 5 in the afternoon… and there’s a storm forecasted? Why are they not home yet?” Megumi questioned as he anxiously paced back and forth in the living room. He was worried, not really about the guy who he’s supposed to call ‘father’, but about you. He would never admit it, but he counts the hours, minutes, seconds, moments even when you’re not together. He misses you but feels like he’s not allowed to miss your presence.

Yet… he does. He always does. And that’s why when he sees you come bursting through the front door, clothes soaked but laughing, he’s confused. He knows you hate getting your clothes wet, much less completely soaked through. So why are you in such a good mood? He doesn’t mind, and loves hearing your sweet laugh, but he’s confused, nonetheless. That is, until he sees Toji’s massive frame follow right behind you.

Megumi’s cheeks flare with jealousy, his face flush a crimson red. He stares right at you, loudly asking where you’ve been. He isn’t trying to be mean, but he is mad. “What took you so long in a storm like this? You know it’s dangerous to drive with streets flooded so badly like this.” He finishes, looking straight at Toji, staring daggers into him for even thinking of putting you in a dangerous situation.

“I’m a good driver. You don’t need to worry. And we took a while because we were busy.” Toji smirks slightly at the end of his sentence, moving across the foyer and setting his keys on the table.

You don’t want to feel the uncomfortable sensation of soaked clothes for any longer, so you silently slip out of the room and make your way towards the bathroom.

Toji being Toji, he’s watching every part of you until your silhouette disappears into the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you like a predator stalks his prey. Megumi’s brows furrow as he feels anger and jealousy boiling beneath his skin. He starts walking up to his father, confronting him, “Why are you looking at her like that, and why are you spending so much time with her in general, you old bastard?” Megumi is practically in Toji’s face, eyes fierce and cheeks flared with anger.

Toji only smirks as he’s leaned against the wall, looking down at Megumi. “I mean, why wouldn’t I? She’s fucking hot, and so obedient. I would be a fool to not want her for myself.” His response almost sends Megumi into a blind rage. Megumi understands Toji most likely takes what he wants from you, sometimes aggressively, and he wants to protect you from that.

“You’re disgusting.” Megumi retorts, words laced with venom. “You make me sick.”

“You can’t deny it though. I’m right. And you know I’m right.” Toji responds before pushing off the wall and away from Megumi towards his own bathroom. Megumi rolls his eyes as Toji walks away, but somewhere deep down inside him- that he’s blind to and wouldn’t even admit to- agrees with Toji. And that’s what pisses him off the most. He feels as if he’s been thrown into a competition to “win” you, one that he is already losing at. Megumi is disgusted with himself at the idea of you being described in terms of a prize, but he also can’t resolve the fact that he wants you. It’s wrong and unfair how someone like Toji could get to you first; Toji doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t value you like I do. And thus, Megumi resolves to make you happy in a way no one else can.

A few days pass, and nothing really happens between anyone except sneaking glances and private thoughts.

Eventually, Megumi can’t take it anymore. He chooses a night where Toji is out working overnight “hustling’ or whatever the fuck he called it. He ordered your favorite food and went to pick it up, hoping you’d spend some time with him. Even a little bit. On the way home, he picked up a small bouquet of pink carnations- flowers that mean missing someone.

You get back home from your afternoon class shortly before Megumi pulls up in the driveway. You are just barely sitting on the couch before Megumi opens the door and enters, the sight of flowers and bags of food warming your heart. He makes his way towards the table, setting down the food, flowers still in hand, as you hastily get up and hug him.

“It smells amazing, Megs.” You say, holding him tightly. He thinks you’re talking about the food, but you’re most certainly talking about the intoxicating scent of him and his cologne. He smelled like what rainwater personified would smell like, comforting and refreshing.

“It’s gonna get cold, ___. And these are for you.” He finishes as he sheepishly hands you the flowers. You sit at the table, placing the flowers aside as Megumi looks for plates and silverware for you both.

“Thank you, Gumi.” You gently say as you’re taking containers out of bags and unpacking them. “It smells so good!! I can’t believe you remembered what kind of pasta I like.”

Megumi returns to the table, placing silverware and plates down. “You’re welcome. Of course I’d remember. How could I forget?” He’s sure he could see a faint blush creep on your cheeks, but you’re ultimately distracted by your craving for noodles. He chuckles at how you’re practically inhaling the food.

You both talk for a while about how classes have been, what stuff you’ve been watching, just mundane stuff that still shows how deeply interested he is. You know he remembers every detail, no matter how boring it may seem. He never forgets.

After finishing the wonderful food and cleaning up together, you’re both relaxing on the couch looking for something to watch together. Usually, you gravitate toward thriller or horror movies, but Megumi picks out some almost cringey – but still cute – romance anime about two people who meet at a convention for a game and fall for each other. It’s not your first choice, but it’s still cute.

Your legs are resting on Megumi’s lap, not moving as you both watch. Megumi is slow, almost cautious when he places a hand on your leg, just rubbing you. He wants to make sure any touch in general is fine as he takes his time, slowly moving up your legs and eventually reaching your thighs. You’re acutely aware of his agonizingly slow touch, but the wait almost makes it better. He’s not even watching whatever he put on, and you’re too caught in the sensations of his soft hands rubbing your inner thighs to even begin to pay attention to the show.

Megumi’s hands continue its ascent up your inner thighs, going painfully slow. He’s looking for any and all reactions he can get out of you, and the way your breath hitches as he gets closer – it drives him insane. The way you try to hide your blush across your cheeks with your arms, trying to look at anything else to save you some embarrassment…. He loves it.

His hand moves to the waistband of your shorts, tugging at them to show he wants to take them off. He hooks his fingers around the waistband and gently pulls them completely off before tossing them to the floor. Megumi’s eyes instantly lock on to your panties. “Fuck, ___... do you always get that wet?” He’s teasing you but also shocked, the underwear was soaked from just a little teasing. You must have really wanted him.

His fingers play with you, rubbing the outside of your underwear as he draws sweet moans from your mouth. He absolutely loves the taking his time, hearing every soft moan you squeak out every time he moves his finger. He pulls your panties to the side, not even bothering to take them off as his long, slender finger slips past your folds. Just as quickly as it appeared, he pulled his finger back to his mouth, tasting a bit of your slick. “You taste so good, baby. Oh my god.” He purrs as he brings another finger back to your cunt, this time pushing into you.

“Fuck, Gumi…”

He fucks you with a single finger as he expertly rearranges you on the couch, one leg hanging off with him in between. He slips another finger inside your tight hole as he brings his mouth to your cunt, flicking his tongue around your clit. The whimpers and pants you make only serve to make Megumi feel like a man starved. Eventually he slips his fingers out, much to your annoyance, and replaces it with his tongue. He’s eating you like a man having his last meal. He wastes no time in tasting every part he can reaching, fucking your cunt with his tongue. His hand creeps back up to your clit, thumb gently circling it as he continues eating you out.

He comes back up for air and inserts his fingers again, fucking you in a rhythm matching his thumb on your clit. You can feel yourself approaching that edge, the knot in your stomach tightening as Megumi stretches your cunt with just his fingers. He adds another finger, stuffing you full of his fingers as his thumb continues its assault on your clit. “You’re such a good girl for me, huh? Did you miss me, baby?”

Your eyes widen as he praises you, feeling yourself reach your limit and cum over his fingers. You make quite the mess over his arms and the couch. “I guess that’s a yes, isn’t it princess?”

He pulls his fingers out of you and reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down. There’s a noticeable small wet spot on his boxers, he was definitely hard and leaking at just teasing you. As much as he loves your mouth, he absolutely wants your already fucked out hole.

He picks you up and turns you over so you’re on your knees, hands on the back of the couch. Megumi aligns himself behind you, gently pushing his throbbing cock into your soaked hole. Your panties are still pushed to the side, creating a lewd sight Megumi hadn’t even anticipated as he watched your cunt swallow his cock.

Your upper body was pushed against the side of the couch, with your knees spread apart and ass in the air. Megumi bottomed out his cock inside your tight hole, pushing against you fully. “You’re such a good girl. Holy fuck.” Megumi wasted no time in picking up speed, developing a comfortable pace. You moan in tandem with his thrusts, turning him on even more. He wants to be gentle with you, but you were taking his dick like a bitch in heat, and he couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

He spanks your ass as he slams his thick cock into you, and you tighten around him in response. He doesn’t realize it now, but soon will understand how masochistic you really are. He slaps your ass, creating red marks all over it to mark his presence. “You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you? You like being fucked like a whore?” He asks as he thrusts into you, hitting your g-spot. “Answer me, princess. Are you a disgusting whore?”

He gives you almost no time to respond as his hand snakes up your back, reaching your head and grabbing fistfuls of hair to pull you back with. “Yes sir, I am” You barely manage to squeak out as you feel yourself being fucked silly, close to cumming again.

“You’re what? Answer me clearly, darling.” He coos as he tugs at your hair, pulling you back against him.

“I’m a dirty whore-ah” You yelp out as he pulls on your hair. You can feel the warmth of his body on your back, as you feel another hand make its way around your neck.

“Good girl.” Megumi purrs out. He is picking up the pace now, as his grip around your neck gently tightens. He’s thrusting into you with ferocity he didn’t know existed, abusing your tight cunt.

You feel yourself getting dizzy while Megumi keeps drilling into your cunt. He releases his grip on your throat, allowing you to gasp for air as he pushes you down against the couch. His hands grip you at your waist, giving him a better holding on you to fuck you harder. He groans as he feels himself getting close.

His cock slams into your g-spot again, as he nears his edge. “I’m close, baby. Be a good girl and come with me, yeah?” You can feel his cock starting to twitch inside your cunt as he continues his relentless assault on your sensitive spot, feeling that knot snap in your belly as you tighten around his cock. The moment you cum, it sends Megumi over the edge, and you feel his warm cum filling your womb. He slips his cock out as he pulls your panties back over your cunt. “Keep this on for a while, sweetheart.” He says as you start to roll over. He leans down and kisses your forehead, while caressing your cheek.

“That was amazing, ____. You were amazing.” He praises as he sits on the couch, pulling you into an embrace as you sit on his lap. Your head rests in the crook of his neck and you can smell that familiar, fresh scent. It smells like home.

“Thank you, Gumi.”

‹𝟹 notes: i don't think there are going to be many more chaps for this fic soon. maybe 2 more at most idk. i dont rly know what i wanna do going forward, so i gotta keep it cookin in my brain for a lil more i guess lol. if y'all have suggestions i am ALWAYYYYYYS open for them! getting comments on my fic literally gives me so much serotonin u dont even understand lol

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