#someone probably died waiting in my inbox

[pixlokita]

Aight let’s do this !! Ten more asks ✨

(ㅇㅅㅇ❀) I actually don’t even know what to add to this but I’m definitely jealous you got a fnaf dream like that :v sounds like a fun adventure with your favorite characters ✨

Vanessa:

Gregory: uh-

Vanessa: do I look that old ? You’re almost half my age

Gregory: no- I don’t know why I said that !

Vanessa: eh it’s ok, kiddo… I accidentally called my teacher mom once and I didn’t even like her.

Vanessa: it was so awkward…

Gregory: alright- I’m gonna go now.

Vanessa: ok, son.

Gregory: -inhuman screech-

@rainmelody hi ;w; thank you💖💖💖 bdkdbd just got depressed thinking about CC not having a happy ending and how good friends he would have been with Gregory tbh ( ཀ͝ ∧ ཀ͝ )

@choco-latte-cake Idk who Ro even is 😭 but imagine Gregory not knowing how to roller skate and Cassie trying to teach him but he’s just basically holding on to her the entire time and face planting. They still have fun tho, Cassie just keeps asking him if he wants to try something else but Gregory doesn’t want to give up.

@animationstarlover1983 OOOOO that reminds me of this one comic where Freddy does exactly that :0 it’s Freddy Pays Taxes by @melissarthomson TTwTT I tried to link it but can’t on mobile for some reason >> still def reccomend :’>

@anerol152 (｡･･｡) gonna sound like the dumbest person on the planet but I don’t really read that many books…. Unless it’s horror and mystery stuff and just very simple things. I enjoyed reading some of Sherlock Holmes but idk if that counts >>;

@aki-xx (love your icon btw) hmmm I like to think they’re all connected somehow, mimic has their own story and origin but William coulda possessed it at some point maybe through glitchtrap? Honestly I have no clue but it’s getting more and more confusing the more you think about it xD I’ll leave the theories to people with braincells

It depends ? I doubt William ever did that for him but if he learned it from his mom and did it one day without even thinking about it then yeah probably ;w; though the thought of William giving forehead kisses to his kids is both funny and sad

Vanessa reads him a bed time story and then picks up Freddy’s head so he can smooch Gregory’s forehead xD yeah that sounds more realistic love it 💖

I feel like you’ve been sitting in my inbox for months and I just happened to find your skeleton… I am sorry …..

#pix answers #someone probably died waiting in my inbox #a moment of silence #fnaf #ask cluster

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) 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: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

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

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

[sugurizz]

omg I saw u were looking for requests for jaekyung, maybe he gets mad bc you almost didn’t make it to him before he had to go and fight, almost making him lose the fight

So I found this in my inbox not sure when I received it but DAMN is this a HOT JAEKYUNG THOT

Send MORE JAEKYUNG THOTS guys!

SMUT/NSFW +18 / ROUGH and VIOLENT sex you've been warned!

Damn damn he'll be do damn mad his eyes will be lit with anger cause he doesn't fuck around when it comes to his career and anything that might disturb his success would piss him off like crazy so he'll call you on the night before the match asking you to come over waiting to wreck your pussy to his heart's content but somehow he kept getting left on read the entire evening with no replies whatsoever.

You were probably busy or maybe there was a train delay or smth and he was going NUTS on the other end feeling his blood boil inside his veins. He thought about calling someone else but he somehow couldn't quite bring himself to touch anyone else but you.

Until you somehow made your appearance later that night almost out of breath trying to make it to his place on time. He met you as you came in with his arms crossed upon his chest. Eyeing you up and down as you felt the electrifying rage all over his features.

'I'm so sorry! My phone almost died and I had to-'

He grabbed your poor arm and dragged you to the couch. Unzipped your jeans and pulled them all the way down. His rough fingers pulled your thong to the side and fevershly rubbed your pussyhole.

'S-Sir, please wait! I need to loosen-'

His huge hand forced your head downwards, burying your whole face into the couch

'Zip it.' His heavy fingers locked your head down, pressing on the back of your neck. His other hand squeezed your asscheek so hard you felt your hot tears come out. He rammed into you full speed as all you could hear was the ruthless thrusts and the fury-filled groans. He took all his frustration at your delay on your poor little cunt, blowing your back almost as if he wanted to break it in pieces.

'You fuck around with our agreements again and I'll make it hurt a thousand times worse. Got it?'

He pulled you by the hair and groaned low in your ear, the menacing tone in his voice only adding to the sticky arousal dribbling down your thighs. His hand came up to violently fondle your tits, ripping a few buttons of your shirt in the process.

He took you there for hours till you couldn't feel your legs anymore. But your loud cries and snotty nose sure did a poor job of making him stop anytime soon.

#joo jaekyung x reader #joo jaekyung #jinx manhwa #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk imagines

[cloudcountry]

Hello, feel free to ignore this, but I am experiencing Floyd Leech brainrot. Could I request Floyd with an overstimulated S/O? As in them getting overwhelmed by too much noise or too many people? Thank you, whether you do it or not.

Have a good day/night, drink lots of water, and I’ll probably be kn your inbox more often

SUMMARY: Floyd's little shrimpy is overstimulated.

WARNINGS: None!!

COMMENTS: i based this on how i get when i'm overstimulated ^^ i hope you like it!! C: <3

The Mostro Lounge’s Friday night party is in full swing, and Floyd is in the middle of it all. Azul is having a hard time trying to get him off of the tables as he twirls around, shoes tapping against the tabletop.

Eventually he gets bored, as he always does, and hops off to find you. Azul is still yelling at him but at the end of the day, both of them know there’s nothing he can do to stop Floyd from doing what he wants.

He finds you in a corner, tucked away from the crowds with a drink in your hand. He squeals out a loud “Shrimpy!” and full-on tackles you, intent on squeezing you until—

You’re shaking. Floyd steps back, holding you at arm's length. There’s something in him that’s screaming for him to find the source, whether it be an injury or a person or a simple worry of yours.

“What happened, Shrimpy?” Floyd asks, leaning in close to you, “Did someone hurt you? Tell me what happened.” You don’t say anything, and that only worries him more, so he throws you over his shoulder unceremoniously and carries you outside.

Once the thrumming of the music dies down, Floyd sets you down and grips you by the shoulders again. His eyes are boring into yours as if he’s waiting for something, but you literally can’t answer him.

“Are you going through one of those overstimulating things again?” Floyd drawls, gathering that much from your lack of response. When you don’t move and don’t say anything, he hums thoughtfully.

“Kay Shrimpy. You’re coming to my room where it’s quiet and we’re going to hang out.” Floyd giggles, beaming. His smile is oddly reassuring, even though the lighting makes it look like he’s leering at you.

“Now, you can either walk back, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you.” he taps his chin as if thinking about which he should pick. Then he huffs and lifts you into his arms without doing either.

You look up at him, confused, but he just smiles at you. “Whaaat? I gotta take care of my Shrimpy, don’t I?” He nuzzles your forehead and presses a kiss to your hairline, and you know things will be okay.

#auburn's requests <3 #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #disney twst x reader #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland x reader #disneys twisted wonderland

[neewtmas]

A Fateful Bus Ride

A/N: I'M BACK! wohoo! Hopefully at least some people are happy about that whoops

I finally somewhat dug myself out of this slump I've been in (writing and otherwise) and this is my reintroduction piece, if you will. It's not my greatest work (when is something ever lol) but I think it's decent and if anyone has any more requests, I'd be happy to write them. This request is from literal months ago (I'm so sorry it took so long, I hope you're still interested) and it's the only one that didn't get deleted with my whole inbox bc I had started writing it already elsewhere. anyways, enjoy &lt;3

pairing: george karim x fem!reader

wordcount: 2.2k

request: Could you make a George Karim x fem or gn reader where they are on their way to a mission and they have to ride a bus and there aren’t enough seats so she sits on his lap and he realizes he likes her and he confesses to her when they get home and he holds her in his arms (sorry if that is very specific It just came to me and it’s so cute) 💜💕 - by @iloveyousomuchhhhhh (it's not 100% exact but I hope you like it anyways :))

taglist: @maraschinomerry @marinalor @oblivious-idiot @lockwood-lover @givemea-dam-break (if you want to be added or removed, just send me an ask)

masterlist

George stood in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea when he heard a commotion in the basement. The door to the staircase was slightly ajar, and he heard the clattering of metal chains against the concrete floor, followed by some curses and then more clattering. After a short silence, in which he contemplated if he should go downstairs to check, he heard the stairs creak as someone stomped upstairs, chains loudly sounding against the metal of the steps. The door got pushed open, and Y/N entered the kitchen, arms full of chains. She was breathing heavily as she unceremoniously dropped them next to the kitchen table on the floor. "What idiot put them into the closet like that? Of course they would just fall out and break my goddamn toes." George cleared his throat. He knew the culprit all too well, but a look at Y/N's face told him it would be wiser to feign ignorance. So he just shrugged. "Maybe Lockwood was feeling lazy last night", he offered and took a sip of tea to hide the small smile that fought its way onto his lips. From the way she glared at him, he was sure that she knew exactly who was responsible for putting the chains away the evening prior.

She left the kitchen and pulled the door closed rather strongly, as she always did when she was irritated. If it had closed, the bang would have probably shaken the pictures on the wall in Lucy's room in the attic, but it didn't. Instead, Lockwood came in, pushing it open again. He seemed to be in a good mood and full of energy, strutting over to the kettle on the stove, lifting the top to check for the tea inside before turning around to George. His gaze fell to the pile of chains. "Why are there chains on the floor?" He didn't even wait for George to answer, instead, he kept talking as he grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured some tea in. "Just got the confirmation call, the case tonight is still on. Have you had a chance to gather some information?"

George filled him in on the findings the morning in the library had brought. It wasn't anything too special, it seemed to be a routine case. "Couldn't find any deaths related to the house or the ground it was built on. The lady on the phone talked about how the haunting started sometime after her great-aunt died. She wasn't living in the house though, so my bet is on some sort of haunted heirloom." Lockwood nodded contemplatively. "Sounds interesting enough."

An hour later, the four of them stood by the door, all packed and ready to go. Lockwood had the telephone by his ear, listening to what the person on the other side was saying. His expression turned from neutral to irritated quickly. He listened for a few more seconds, then said a curt goodbye before hanging up. "Can you believe it? Not a single cab is available in all of London. That guy must be mad!"

"What do we do now?", Lucy asked and Lockwood let out a long drawn sigh. "We take the bus. As the gentleman on the phone let me know, that is just as fine of transportation as a cab." He huffed, clearly of a different opinion. But complaining wouldn't get them to their destination any quicker, so they begrudgingly grabbed their equipment and left the house. Y/N had the straps of the duffle bag containing the chains thrown over her shoulder, and she quickly realised that carrying the heavy bag down the street would be much harder than simply carrying it a few metres to a waiting cab. She had a slight stumble in her step, the weight of the chains throwing her off balance.

"Do you need help with that?" George slowed down until she was next to him and extended his hand. "No it's fine", said Y/N through gritted teeth and attempted to keep walking. It was clearly not fine. George quickly caught up to her. "Just let me help you, Y/N." She sighed, setting down the bag and rubbing her shoulder with a grimace. "Fine. But let me at least carry your bag." George couldn't help but smile at her defiance. He remembered very well how long it took him to convince her to let him help her when she was struggling with something.

When she had started working for Lockwood & Co, she had been friendly but closed off - nothing that George hadn't experienced with Lockwood already. And after all, he himself wasn't known for being the most sociable person either. But something about her had caught his interest from the very first time she had walked through the door of 35 Portland Row. He handed her the much lighter duffle bag he had been carrying and picked up the one with the chains.

At the bus stop, they didn't have to wait too long, but that made their situation only marginally better. The bus that came to a halt in front of them was full, much fuller than one would expect at this time of day. But that's just how it was in the summer months, their work started when it was still light out, and that always meant that much more people were around. They hauled their bags and themselves into the vehicle and past the passengers already sitting inside. It was very apparent that the sight of their filled duffle bags, dark clothing and especially the rapiers that gleamed at their sides made the people around them somewhat uncomfortable. There were only three unoccupied seats left, and when Y/N, who entered the bus last, reached them, they were of course claimed by her colleagues.

It wasn't very comfortable, they had too much stuff with them and the bus was already overfull. "Do you wanna sit down?" George asked her and was already about to get up to let her have his seat, but she shook her head and motioned him to sit back down. "It's fine. I can just sit on the bags." They had stacked the bags to not take up any more space. But before Y/N could find a way to make herself comfortable on them, the bus driver started the engine back up and the bus lurched forward. She stumbled back, losing her grip on the pole she had held onto and landed on George's knees. She immediately started apologizing profusely, embarrassed by their sudden closeness. "It's fine, don't worry", George interrupted her, feeling a little overwhelmed by how flustered he felt all of a sudden.

She didn't try to get up and away from him immediately, and George surprised himself with his boldness as he pulled her closer so that she was on his lap completely. "Just stay here. If that's fine with you", he added hastily, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. Maybe that was a little too forward. He half expected her to jump up and get as far away from him as possible, but instead, she sheepishly nodded and didn't move. George turned his head to look out of the window, and he could feel the stares of both Lucy and Lockwood almost burning holes in the back of his head.

It was quite a long drive to the house they would be working at tonight, and George was happy to notice that Y/N seemed to get more comfortable with every passing minute. Where she was sat straight at the beginning, she was now leaning back against his chest. And again, with a boldness he didn't know he had he wrapped his arms, which had been by his side until now, around her waist and pulled her even closer to him. For a few seconds, his heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest as he held his breath and waited for her reaction. But she just crossed her arms, placing them on top of his.

They spent the rest of the drive like this, and it was only when they reached the final stop, that George reluctantly pulled away his arms from her to let her get up. She didn't look at him, but her cheeks were pink as she grabbed her bag and dragged it off the bus. They were to only ones to get off at this stop, and so they stood alone on the sidewalk as the bus drove off. George prayed that no one would say anything about what had just happened. Luckily, neither Lucy nor Lockwood seemed to be in the mood for any teasing, though he could still feel them looking at him curiously. He chose to ignore them.

The case was just about as uneventful as he had predicted, and the source of the ghost - the great-aunt's necklace - had been found and cleared pretty quickly. Still, when they arrived back at the bus stop, it was dark. It was obvious that Lockwood still wasn't happy with this kind of travelling, but at least they didn't have to wait too long. This time, the bus was empty - no one besides agents was still outside now. The bus driver looked even more unhappy than Lockwood, and it was clear that he too would have preferred for them to have taken a cab.

But George was convinced that neither of them - neither the bus driver nor Lockwood - was quite as unhappy as he felt when he realised there was absolutely no reason for him and Y/N to repeat the seating arrangement from before. With them being the only four passengers, there were plenty of free seats available. But what somewhat lessened his disappointment, was the fact that Y/N chose the free seat next to him to sit.

Back home in Portland Row, George put on a kettle on the stove. Lockwood and Lucy had excused themselves to bed even though they came back earlier than usual from their case. Y/N on the other hand stayed with him in the kitchen while they waited for the water to boil. She was telling him about something that happened last time she had gone grocery shopping, but while he usually had no problems paying full attention to whatever she was saying, tonight it was different. He couldn't stop thinking about the bus ride. He had known before that he liked her, and that it was very different from how he liked Lockwood and Lucy - but it hadn't been clear to him just how much he liked her. And the way she had reacted to him - it gave him hope that maybe she felt something similar. He filled two cups with the water from the kettle and added the teabags. "Do you wanna sit in the library for a while?", he asked.

Y/N followed him to the library, where he sat down on the couch. She quickly contemplated if she should sit down next to him or if she should opt for the chair next to the couch. After what had happened on the bus, she was entirely unsure about how to act towards George. He smiled at her and she suddenly felt very nervous. Nonetheless, she decided to sit down on the couch, even though that meant they were now sitting very close next to each other. They were silent for a while, both sipping on their tea. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it never was with them, but something was different than before.

Y/N finished her tea first and put the empty cup back onto the table. She was suddenly feeling very tired, but she liked the way she was sitting so close to George on the couch, and she didn't want this moment it end, even if she didn't exactly know what was between them right now. So instead, she leaned closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

George could feel his heartbeat quicken as Y/N leaned against him, and he had to force himself to finish his tea without choking on it. He quickly leaned forward to put his cup on the table as well, but the sudden movement had Y/N sit up straight again. "No no!", he said hastily, cursing himself silently for being so awkward in this moment. "Don't go away. That was nice." He almost bit his tongue. Was that too forward? But Y/N smiled shyly, in a way she had never smiled at him before. She resumed her position, and with his heart beating out of his chest, he slowly put his arm around her shoulder. A part of him was scared that this was too much, but instead of pulling away, she just cuddled closer to him and closed her eyes. "You are right, this is nice", she said quietly smiled as George leaned forward and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

thanks for reading, feedback is appreciated :)

request something

#george karim #george karim x reader #george x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co #lockwood & co x reader

[hogans-heroes]

Just thinking about how Gale had to watch and wait as more boys from the 100th started showing up, and Bucky wasn't with them.

How the first question he probably asked, the only one that mattered to him, was where's Bucky? Then once it becomes clear Bucky went down, he adds on, did he make it? And no one can answer him. Some of the guys say they saw his fort go down but didn't see how many parachutes got out. Then Brady or someone who was with him shows up, and Gale asks his questions again. Brady says Bucky was the last one out, but Bucky still doesn't show up.

Gale wonders what option he prefers: Bucky's out there on the run or he's on the way here. He won't consider the third option, won't even let anyone speak it into existence. But the days go on, and fewer and fewer boys from the 100th show up. Then none of them show up. Yet, Gale still waits at the fence, ready with his questions for any familiar face that walks in.

Until finally, Bucky walks in, looking like death but still alive, miraculously blessedly alive, and part of Buck feels alive again, the part that he hadn't dared acknowledge, that had died when he heard Bucky went down come back to life at the site.

What took you so long? Finally, Buck gets to change his question.

Everyone always talks about how Bucky comes back to life when he sees Buck again, how his first question was about Buck, but when I watch that scene, Buck also looks like he's seen a miracle in action.

Fam you drop this gorgeous, heartwrenching piece in my inbox and expect me to NOT be speechless?? Sorry it too me so long to reply.

The idea of Buck waiting patiently at the gate every day begging for any news of Bucky and struggling not to lose more hope with every passing day shatters me. I can see the other guys staying with him as much as they can, for support and comfort, trying to take care of him. No one knows if Bucky made it and no one wants to think about which option is worse for Gale, if they find out for sure Bucky is dead or if they never find out and Gale keeps going to gate, for how long? They’re already seeing him become a shell of himself.

He really does feel alive again Bucky walks through the gate. He can hardly believe it’s real and maybe it takes a few days and a few nights of holding Bucky close that he can believe it.

We have some good post-reunion fics but I’d love to see more, such a lot of potential right there. 🥺

#buck x bucky #mota #masters of the air #thanks for the ask! #the FEELS

[lipstickchainsaw]

What do you think about the Fury and the respective routes that you can take to her (Tower, Adversary)? In my playthrough I got her through the tower and was subsequently a little disappointed at Adversary's take (probably since I was expecting a little bit of variation due to the absence of godhood)

And, if you have time, what do you think of the Apotheosis?

Well, this one's been waiting in my inbox for a while, so let's get to it.

The thing about the Fury is that she is defined primarily by a great identity crisis, having a certain identity/role established at the end of Chapter 1 and then having it totally denied over the course of Chapter 2. Yes, the Tower and Adversary are very different, and the way you deny them are different, but the result of that is remarkably similar, so let's have a look!

(I'll talk about the Apotheosis in a reblog.)

I, too, got to the Fury via the Tower the first time, so let's start there. The Tower is a Princess defined by your attempt and subsequent absolute failure to slay her. Your perception of her is that of someone impossible to lay a finger on, so why even bother, and the role she grows to fill to meet that perception is of a god.

And your inability to resist her extends even to your choices in the Tower, because she can outright overrule or preempt your choices in a way no other Princess can, even taking control of the Narrator. It's how she defines herself, and being joined by the Broken only further enhances this.

And then you defy her anyway. You go right against what she demands of you, defy her even as you stab yourself at her command to cut her heel, to draw blood. This sullies her image to such an extent that it causes a mental break, because this shouldn't be possible. You should be a broken simp worshipping her at her feet, freeing her from her bonds in the culmination of her being as a god, and instead, here you are, plunging your blade into a god's heart.

So the Fury ends up looking the way she does, her flesh torn, her perfect image clearly sullied and corrupted, her heart open for all to see. At the same time, this incongruence between the two roles your perception might've made her fill (and the tension between the Broken and the Stubborn), the thing that's making her have this mental break, also leaves her tapping into some genuinely incredible power, basically insta-killing you no matter what you try, pissed off as she is.

Taking the Adversary route to get here, the connotations are obviously different. It is, as you mentioned, missing the divine element, but crucially, the Adversary is also defined by one very simple thing: you both fighting to the death and clearly enjoying it.

She outright says, as she dies in Chapter 1, that doing this was 'fun'.

So when you meet her again, her sole purpose in life, the one thing she wants and cares about, is fighting to the death. If you give her this, everything is fine, and she reaches the culmination of her reason for being, and it is glorious.

However, you can turn this desire to ash, either by talking to her and force her to think about her circumstances, or by turning this glorious desire into a horror show as you keep getting up despite your, uh, face being gone (which is fun, I definitely recommend doing this once).

And here, too, the Fury is an identity crisis. All her muscles, all the power you imbued her with in Chapter 2 were useless, so you see her tear her skin off, tearing the chain binding her (to her role, her position with this entire set-up) off along with it. She still wants to fight and kill you, but instead of being glorious, it's now turned bitter and hateful, and she can't even use physical violence to satisfy this urge, so, in her frustration, she just rips you apart with her grander power as she comes unshackled.

In short, by forcing either Adversary or Tower to go against her initial nature, you break a bit of the greater system operating behind the scenes, and let her tap into some of the Shifting Mound's power to break you, right before the Shifting Mound claims her.

(Also, I compared the Adversary's lust for violence to sex, and I think you can apply some of this to the Tower, too (literally worshipping the domme 'goddess'), which makes the Fury the result of orgasm denial. You're welcome.)

#slay the princess #ask me #slay the princess spoilers #stp the fury #stp the adversary #stp the tower #stp the apotheosis

[nineteenninety-six]

hiii could you please write chishiya x reader in episode 4? maybe they’d been in the group together before and had some type of fight but of course they have to rely on one another now and reader still doesn’t know whether to trust him or not?

First of all, I apologize for taking so long to do this request (+ the ones I have in my inbox). January was not kind to me, I almost got fired and then I got sick and I still am but hopefully, February is much kinder.

He used them. They hated him.

Weeks, if not months of what you thought was friendship and bonding down the drain because he had used you.

He wanted to get out, and escape this world but so did everyone else, so what gave him the right? If Hatter's theory was correct, Chishiya was high enough up on The Beach hierarchy that he wouldn't have to wait terribly long anyway but that was not the type of person Chishiya was.

Chiyshiya had used you, Arisu and Kuina, all three of you were manipulated and disposed of once Chishiya had all of the cards that Hatter and company had collected.

All that had been for nought as Hatter died, The Beach had turned into a game and the second stage had begun.

The last time you saw Chishiya, you cursed and glared at him before you disappeared from the crowd watching The Beach burn down.

Now here you were, waiting in a prison, waiting for The Jack of Hearts game to begin.

You were a solo player since The Ten of Hearst game at The Beach and it had worked out well for you. You didn't have to worry about any partners you were with, any partnerships you had were short and only for clearing games. nothing long-term. You had learned your lesson.

You had been too caught up on people watching that you hadn't noticed Chishiya Walk in and he had noticed and took the opportunity to get the jump on you.

"Nice to see that you're still alive" Chishiya muttered as he shifted to your side

You whipped around to face him, glare on your face as soon as you heard his voice.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me..."

Chishiya sent you a snarky grin, "Long time no see"

"Fuck off"

You tried to move around him and go to the other side of the room, when the speakers crackled to life, announcing the start of the game. You listened as they explained the rules, trying your hardest to ignore Chishiya right next to you.

Your mood soured as you realised that this game required partnership and you were in no mood to do teamwork in any form. 

You watch everyone as they come to the same conclusion, pairs that had joined the game together were separating themselves from the rest of the players, others getting into pairs or small groups and one large group formed, led by a preppy young woman.

As everyone busied themselves for the next hour, you debated whether or not you should join that large group, by joining them you should be able to get through the next few rounds before the group, like any over large ones, implodes.

“We should probably join that group, at least at first,” Chiyshiya speaks out loud to you, which in itself is annoying but it’s double annoying because you had the same thought process as him.

Deciding to ignore him, you trail behind the large group. You planned to tag along relatively unnoticed just so you could set up a more concrete plan and people-watch. You wanted to find the damn Jack of Hearts and finish this game. 

┆彡

There were only six of you left after Ippei died. He was kind enough to tell you your suit but the stress of the game had got to them and he chose to die though both you and Chishiya had told him his. 

Now you were left with one person you could team up with, the last person you ever wanted but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Everyone else had fallen victim to backstabbing and manipulation that a combination of what these games purposely create along with certain personality types that thrive in the borderland.

Chishiya was one of them. He wasn’t someone who revelled in the depravity of the world but he managed to move within this world and its quirks without a problem.

You were in the cafeteria, snacking on some biscuits, wondering what the hell you were going to do. You knew that Chishiya was your only option but you could not move yourself to ask him for help you did not want to die, not whilst you were so close to the end.

 Your thoughts were interrupted by someone stopping behind you,

“Heart”

Chishiya was behind you, your saving grace.

You turn your head to look at him and he gives you a shrug, “We’re in the same boat.”

He turns around and moves his hair to the side, showing you his suit. The opportunity to get payback on him after what he had done to you was staring right at you but you couldn’t do it, lying would mean his death and you could not have that on your conscience.

“Diamond”

Chishiya nods his head at you in thanks.

“I know who the Jack is. The next round is the last one” Chishiya lingers, “...I’m sorry by the way about what happened at The Beach”

“Forgiven and slightly forgotten”

Chishiya gives you one last smirk before he leaves the cafeteria. 

#alice in borderland #alice in borderland imagines #shuntarou chishiya #chishiya x reader #chishiya shuntaro #aib imagine #Alice in borderland imagine

[phantomrose96]

It's been a really messed up week at work.

I learned on Monday that 3 of my coworkers were being laid off. Two were under different managers, but one was a guy I've known since I started and he's been with the company almost 25 years. The layoffs were unexpected, and came right after a huge crunch-time for product launch, and I've been crazy upset for Ulli. Like how do you give 25 years to a company and then someone who's never seen your face just decides to let you go. Since it's a layoff, the decision came from outside our org and our managers/skip-level had no say in it happening.

One of the other guys, Jason, I didn't know well but he's been here 17 years and he was about to close on a house. Now he's out of a job and the bank won't give him a mortgage so just. Fuck you, no house. And this is after putting down the earnest money which is like, a deposit proving you're serious. If it was the 5% earnest money, that was probably like $30,000-$50,000 he won't get back.

The third person didn't reveal themselves, but like on Monday afternoon we had our usual weekly team watercooler chat and like... I made it known how upset I was and how scummy I found this. And I'm an easy crier (I've gotten better in adulthood, but the last couple months have been hard so my ability to not cry has dipped a lot I guess). But like, there was no one in the room with any power here. Layoffs are a faceless corporate decision.

And it was all extra scummy to me because the company is doing well. And they're projecting all this optimism about the future. But the stock price isn't making shitty wallstreet bros happy enough, so corporate decided to layoff 10,000 people--and that was a slow-drip of layoffs between January and March, which were going to be complete by end of March, and they waited for like practically March 31st to hit us.

So that was all... Monday... Tuesday morning I overslept (cuz I didn't sleep well Monday night) and woke up late so I like, kinda just jumped to my work computer. And there was an email from my skip level titled "Sad news about Alexei".

Since the third person to get laid off hadn't identified themselves, it sounded like Alexei was the third layoff. That didn't sit right with me because Alexei was a super super prolific engineer. Like I cannot overstate how prolific. He had a hand in everything. Even if you hadn't worked with him, you knew him. So I could just feel like something was wrong.

So I clicked the email. He died on Sunday evening. My skip-level only just found out and was informing everyone. I literally have an email in my inbox rescheduling a meeting that Alexei sent Sunday morning.

I didn't personally know Alexei all that well, but so many of my coworkers did, some for 24 years, and it's really really obvious how much this has rattled everyone. My project lead Ransom has been out most of the week, in part for the funeral and in part just taking bereavement time. Ransom is the main person I'm coordinating with, and we were just kicking off planning for next steps, so it feels like everything's in this artificial standstill.

And like... maybe I shouldn't phrase it like that. I did know Alexei. But I didn't "24 years" know him.

And now like, all the activity on Teams is either stuff beyond our org happening in the peripheral, or people within our org contributing thoughts and stories about Alexei.

For the last couple days I've been getting up intending to do work. But then I just kinda aimlessly stare at my remote desktop like it might do something. If I had some mindless tasks, I could do those, but my tasks right now are more like deep investigations and my brain won't turn on enough for those, and Ransom's not around to coordinate with. So I've mostly ended up just like... going and taking a nap and logging a sick day. I've also been so extremely tired.

It's been messed up...

#chrissy speaks

[incorrect-riordanverse]

Hi. Sorry, if this is anyoing. I find Rick Riordan's portray of some of the gods, and goddess interesting, and like le, not all but some. For exemple I really like Hestia, Horus, Seth, Artemis, Nephthys, Thoth, Bess, Tawaret, Anubis, Apollo, and Hermes (I can't really have an openion about how he portrays the Norse gods, because the Magnus series haven't been translated to my language yet, and buying and ordering books in English here costs a lot of money, so I have to wait (there is a gossip that they will publish it, but they say this sainc at least 3, or 4 years)) . And I have to thank Rick Riordan's books that I got into mythology, and started learning it, and that I new want to write stories based on it, and started watching Overly Sarcastic Productions. But there is a need to criticis how he portray some gods, and goddess, and then there is also a something that both him, other writers, and people who talk about mythologys forget.

One problem is Demeter. She didn't tried to kill everyone, so they give her daughter back, the reason why everything almost died was her sadness. The sadness of the mother when they child gets married is a thing (for both sons, and daughters at least I heard it), which is a somewhat common thing, even if the realetionship of the child, and they partner is healthy. I was at my cusins wedding, and my mother said that she will cry aty wedding. This is because they child, is no longer a child, but an adult. Yes I know that in the story can mean something else, because of it's age. But I still think that "Demeter sadness", would be a lot more better then "Demeter tried to kill everyone, so she can get her daughter back because she is an opsesed mother".

Next problem is Hera. I don't want to excuse her actions, by any means. She married Zeus, because he raped her, and out of shame because of it. And this marriage her only source of pride, and probably a way to try to get rid of the shame she feels. Zeus's affers brings her the feeling of shame back. It gives more deapht, portays Hera more humeanly, and is more acuret to mythology (there is just this one version of this myth). And with good write this could be writen in a way that no justify what she does to Zues's other victoms.

Next problem is Zeus's portray. I think the only thing I have to say, is that Zeus is the only gods who doesn't have any version where he don't rape someone. (the only god who don't raped, or kidnaped anyone in any versions is Ares.)

Next problem there is no cannon, and many myths have many defrent version. This is true for Medusa's origin story. In some versions she was a monster from birth, alongside her sisters, in other version she was once a human. We all know this version but it has two version. One where Poseidon rapes Medusa in Athena's temple, then Athena cursed her to punish her. And in the other older version Medusa consented to the act. And there are many more versions of almost every myth, in all mythologys, and I think this can be interesting thing when it cames to writing stories based on mythologys.

Sorry if I sound stupid, or anyoing, and sorry that this is long. I just wanted to write this for so long. And sorry for the grammar, and spelling mistakes English is not my first language.

TW: mentions of SA, rape.

I completely forgot I had an inbox for a while so idk how long this has been here but I’ve finally got around to it! I find this sort of discourse very interesting, and I agree for the most part with what you’re saying!

I heavily dislike interpretations that villainise Demeter in Persephone and Hades’ story too. Lots of modern retellings do this to romanticise Persephone and Hades, and its quite sad (and frustrating). Demeter freezing the crops is such a powerful story about a mother’s love, and its tragic that its been so twisted in modern retellings of the myth. Web comics like ‘Lore Olympus’ and ‘Punderworld’ come to mind for this, but (and maybe this is because of my ass memory of the series… it’s been a while since I read it) I don’t remember Persephone and Demeter’s story being touched on much in the Riordan’s books. I feel like it may have, but I can’t remember explicitly. I remember Hades and Persephone’s relationship being quite rocky though!

I hear what you’re saying about Hera too! She’s been under a lot of fire recently and I know the PJO series plays a large part in that! I can think of ‘Blood of Zeus’ being another factor in this villainising narrative of her, and even though there were some efforts to make the audience view her as sympathetic in that show, it seemed a little backhanded (overemotional woman blinded with rage and taking it out on the wrong people). I agree that it seemed a bit much to portray her as a villain in the series, but I’ll raise two things:

PJO was a series created with children or young teens as the target audience. so the series can’t be that loyal to the original myth, considering how dark it is.

Hera was a good antagonist, and her values and motives in the series were the most accurate to how the Greek gods actually were at the time. They simply did not view mortals as anywhere close to equals, but tools to bring glory to their names. They looked after them as long as they served their interests. A lot of her ‘hate’ stems from the fandom’s misogyny, I believe. It also doesn’t help that the other Greek gods in the series were reduced to caricatures of what they actually were, such as Ares (mean and violent), Aphrodite (shallow and vain), Hades (cold and distant) and Poseidon (cool swag fish dad ig). In all honesty, I understood Hera’s motives the most and I think she was written pretty well. I don’t understand why the fandom hates her so badly unless it’s misogyny or the fact that she was too good of a villain, and felt like a real threat to the characters (the Greek gods were badass, but super scary!).

However, there was that book that Riordan did write about the Greek gods that no doubt contributed to Hera’s ridiculing (that being ‘Percy Jackson and the Greek Gods’ told in the perspective of Percy). He mentioned Zeus ‘tricking’ Hera into marrying him, but disregarded the seriousness of it and continued to make fun of her. I understand its still a kids book so he couldn’t do much, as well as its in character for Percy to ridicule her, but still… I see why some people get upset at that portrayal of her as well. Especially because Hera has had a long-winded past of being villainised and made fun of for her actions, which all stem from deep-rooted misogyny.

Zeus’ portrayal fits hand-in-hand with Hera’s, to be honest. Riordan couldn’t explicitly show how he actually was, so he omitted some stuff, which was fine. It’s funny you make that point about Ares being the only god who never encroached the boundaries of his lovers, because he’s depicted as a misogynist in the series towards his daughter. Which irks me a lot.

Medua’s depictions are also very contested. I believe, and I don’t know if I’m 100% correct, but I’m pretty sure that in the original Greek myth, Medusa had always been a gorgon, and was never human. The myth of Medusa being raped by Poseidon in Athena’s temple is a Roman adaptation, and I think that story is the more popular interpretation currently. I also think that’s the story Riordan was kind of going with, considering he wrote Medusa in the first book to be in love with Poseidon (and in the original myth they had no sexual relationship). Which is… yeah. Disgusting. Again, not saying that Riordan should’ve strictly stuck to that very graphic interpretation, but he didn’t have to portray her like that. And this could’ve been avoided if he did enough research on more interpretations of the myth.

All in all, I don’t think Riordan was genuinely malicious, just ignorant to the implications his portrayals of the gods would have. There’s also the fact that he probably didn’t know how big of a hit Percy Jackson would be, and how much influence it would have over general media surrounding Greek mythology (mostly Greek mythology, but Norse and Egyptian too!). I wasn’t even aware of how problematic it was until this account started gaining a larger following, and so I also had to do research on the topic myself! There’s an assumption that Greek gods don’t have influence over people today, but there are some out there who worship them, and we shouldn’t dismiss that because its a smaller religion.

Thank you for this ask! You weren’t being annoying at all, I love long asks 🫶🫶

#riordanverse #incorrect riordanverse #rick riordan #ask #medusa #hera #zeus #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #trials of apollo #toa #poseidon #demeter #persephone #hades #ares #aphrodite #hera pjo #ares pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #medusa pjo #demeter pjo #persephone pjo #hades pjo

[littlewriterfullofwords]

Hot Gum (Part2 of In Betweenin')

Pairing: Suguru Niragi x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N regrets loosing the one she loved

Warnings: swearing, and that's probably all

A/N: I'm alive! And I'm back with new writing. The first part is linked in the title of the first part! Let me know if you see any mistakes. Also if you want me to write something for you, go and ask either in private message or in the inbox... I'm open!

The screams. The chaos. The fire. It was everywhere. It was making your head hurt. You couldn't breath. You felt the burning sensation, it was in you, it was eating you alive....

You woke up rapidly, panting, covered in cold sweat. Again the same nightmare. You grabbed the nearest shirt and wiped your face and neck with the material then sighed.

Those nightmares have been haunting you since you had escaped the 'Beach' before it burned down totally. Of course no other than Niragi had helped you disappear into thin air before anyone could have found out about you still being alive. You were grateful that you were still alive, walking and breathing, yet you were worried. Why? Because when you had left the 'Beach', Niragi wasn't with you. You have waited for him on the shore, hoping he would somehow come back to you, but he hadn't.

You got up from the bed in someone's flat you have been occupying for some time, and got out on the balcony. Cold, night breeze touched your skin causing goosebumps on your arms, you flinched. This coldness cleared your mind a bit, got rid of those memories, only for a moment but it was enough, you needed a break from them.

You put your head on your intertwined hands that were lying on the railing and sighed loudly. You felt lonely, have been feeling that way for some time, and even though you've met some other people nothing could feel this weird void inside of you.

"Chishiya, you should have died in there instead of him." you whispered.

"Don't tell me you're crying for me."

This voice.

You lifted your head from your hands and immediately a smile crawled onto your lips. You could bet your eyes were shining while looking at the man you thought you had lost. His hair and half of the face was hidden under the black-and-white shirt you remembered him wearing.

The whole body was covered in bandages, no skin was visible except from the half of the face. It was burnt.

You said nothing more, with a smile on your face and hope in heart you left the flat and ran up to Niragi , tripping over your own legs, to close him in a tight hug.

"Who gave you permission to touch me?" you were a bit shocked because of the harshness in his voice, you haven't heard it for some time, yet you didn't stop hugging him. "Move."

Niragi grabbed your shoulders and moved you away from himself what made you huff with annoyance, you missed him.

"How did you survive?" you asked.

"It's not so easy to kill me." Niragi huffed and smirked then looked you straight in the eyes. "So my bitch was crying because of me. Did you feel grateful?"

"No." you shook your head, but smiled telling him it was only a joke.

"Then you'd better be." the distance between you two got smaller with every step Niragi had taken and finally your bodies were touching.

You felt his breath on your skin, you felt his gaze on your lips, you felt his whole presence and God, you wanted more than just a look.

"Needy, huh?" Niragi chuckled and walked towards the flat you had left to greet him, leaving you in the middle of the street with disappointment on your face.

"You don't know how much" you whispered, but followed him inside. "Where have you been all this time? I've been looking for you."

"Oh, my bitch cares about me. Sweet." Niragi fell on the couch with his all weight but hissed because of the pain. "I had to do some things, talk with people and...why do I even explain myself to you?"

"Because you trust me." you handed him bottle of water, even though he hadn't asked for it, and smiled slightly when Niragi took it from your hand.

"Who told you that?" he laughed and took a big sip from the bottle. "Do you have a fever or what?"

You only sighed and sat on the table, your eyes glued to man's figure and a smile on your lips.

"You look creepy. Stop staring." huffed half-burned bacon (please forgive me for that) and throw an empty bottle at you.

"Ay." you kicked the plastic away and looked at Niragi again. " I missed you and I'll keep staring."

"Listen here, bitch." the man got up from the sofa and came closer to you, standing in between your legs with hands on both your sides. "I don't care if you missed me or not. I don't even wanna know. You're nothing to me. You mean nothing. You're simple a bitch that seeks my approval, every woman does that."

"But I am the only one you helped."

"You are." the way he said that made squirm in place, caused butterflies in your stomach and chills on your back.

But that wasn't all. Niragi grabbed your chin to keep it in place and hungrily pressed his lips against yours. Saying this kiss took away your breath wasn't enough. It took your ability to breath, speak and think, all in one.

"Now shut up and let me be." whispered Niragi with a mischievous smile before he left to go to the next room, the bedroom. "And don't you dare come here and interrupt me. I will kill you if you make a one step into this room."

"Got it!" you nodded with upside down grin on your lips.

Actually you didn't expect this going this way. God, you have never expected Niragi to come back. But here he was, lying in the next room whole and healthy...well, not so whole, some of his skin was missing.

"You know I'm happy you're back!" You yelled from the other room, swinging your legs over the ground.

"I don't care!" Answered Niragi, but after that he mumbled something you didn't hear.

The evening came pretty fast, faster than you expected. You sighed and started putting on some more comfortable clothes.

"Where are you going?" asked Niragi and leaned on the doorframe.

"To play a game." you tied your shoelaces and smiled. "Why?"

"Just asking and hoping you will leave me alone." answered Suguru.

"Maybe today will be your lucky day." your hair were turned into a bun and you nodded.

When ready, you headed to the door, but only grabbed the knob because Niragi stopped you.

"What about a 'goodbye' or 'see you'? Nothing?"

You chuckled and looked at him.

"You don't want to see me again." you repeated his words with a shrug. "I am making it easier for myself."

"Bullshit." growled Suguru, made two steps towards you and kissed you aggressively yet passionately.

Again this day, your breath was take away by the same man as before.

"I saved you because I want you, okay?" whispered black haired. "I want you to myself. I don't care what you think, you are mine now."

You gasped when you heard that. He cared about you? You were his? Your every dreams was coming true.

"Now go and kick some ass." Suguru kissed you again. "Come back in one piece."

#ff writer #ff #spotify #alice in boderland x reader #alice in borderland #alice in borderland ff #alice in borderland s2 #aib #suguru niragi #niragi ff #niragi x y/n #niragi #niragi fanfiction #suguru niragi x reader #Spotify

[fallenclan]

GOD THE BLACK CAT ANON JUST FUCKING. KILLED ME OH MY. GOD???? (IN A GOOD WAY!!)

I was thinking about the silent stalking technique when I wrote my Scorchstar post, the. God. Oughuugohhodxgixyix. And Morning and Sun being friends? THE FAUX HUNTING PATROL THING? My devastation is legitimate. Loosing it over here guys

My interpretation of the two of them is that they were like. Soooo close to being friends. Cheering eachother on, getting closer. And then Morning dies and all the bitterness builds up in everyone in the clan and her memory is tainted forever. Her death causes deaths. She is a ghost in the clans dark corners by no fault of her own and Sun has to live with that guilt until she dies. That could have been her friend. Or someone she could have loved. Does the hypothetical devestate her, or does it even cross her mind after Morning is gone?

Do you think she fought her death? Based on just. Everything with her grief being complicated (black cat anon is TOTALLY right about her autistic swagger btw. Can attest she's just like me fr) anyway. Was there a pause after Scorch pounced? Words exchanged? Vindication, or remorse? Or did Sunwish accept it? Only Scorch knows. Or maybe Starclan saw. Maybe Morningblooms ghost was there to forgive her.

Anyway!! Rotating them in the brain like in a microwave, black cat anon has never had a bad take and we ARE skipping and holding hands about being Scorch and Sun apologisiningsts. Peace and love in the Fallenclan asks inbox, etc

-🧶 (also! So happy about the new kits! Very sweet babies. Can't wait to see what horrors they get put through <3)

YES!!!!! YES!!!!!!! its like. sunwish probably doesnt make friends easily but THEY COULD HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. THEY COULD HAVE BEEN MORE THAN THAT. WHAT THE FUCKKK

skipping and holding hands with you both. idk how that works with 3 people but we will find a way.

#fallenasks #yarn anon #happy to report Pebble and Ripple have not gone through the horrors yet! unless you count ripple being embarrassed by his dad. that happene #on the topic of sunwish not making friends easily tho i think that makes her friendship with goldenstar soo funny #autistic/adhd solidarity right there. bad with social interactions vs doesnt notice. amazing <3

[rockitmans]

Blaine Anderson Vs Valentine's Day

Summary: Blaine drunk posts on his Instagram asking for a date for Valentine's Day. He gets one.

Notes: Written for the @klaineccfanficlibrary Valentine Challenge. I'm gonna write this daily so chapters will probably be short and sweet. Today's song is Lovely Day by Bill Withers.

Warnings: Drunken decision making, unsolicited dick pics

Read on AO3 or below

~~~~~~~~

The Instagram post is obviously a mistake. But in Blaine's defence he was:

very drunk

unwilling to give up a reservation at Di Fara, a booking he'd made nine months previously to guarantee a table for Valentine's Day, and 

clearly losing his mind because of very justifiable reasons and therefore found the whole thing hilarious. At the time. 

It probably would have been fine except Blaine has, at this point, gathered quite a respectable following with his reels of genre bending interpretations of popular songs. There reaches a point where one becomes an actual Influencer and posting dumb shit on the internet stops being a joke between friends and starts being an example of youth culture going off the rails. Or something. He's not even a youth. He's in his late twenties. 

He winces through his hangover as he looks at the post again. He'd gotten Sam, who is an enabler more than anything, to take it. He's shirtless, posing like a total fuck boy with his hair artfully tousled and giving the camera his best sultry expression. An expression that he would never willingly admit to practising in the mirror. It's so cringey he can barely breathe. 

Which is nothing compared to the caption. 

Wanted: Valentine's Day Date

I have reservations for two at Di Fara, but SEBASTIAN decided he was more interested in fucking some guy from the gym than eating the best Italian food in New York. I thought it was weird that he couldn't even pick me up with all the time he was spending at the gym. Your loss SEBASTIAN, I would hate to waste such an amazing dining experience on a rat face LIAR. 

Offering: This hot body. A fully paid meal comprised of aforementioned excellent Italian food. Salvation from a Valentine's Day evening spent Sad and Alone. 

Seeking: A man that is not Sebastian. 

The comment section is flooded of course. There's well over four hundred, a massive number for him, and probably includes some non followers. If he knew it was this easy to manufacture engagement on his posts, he would have done it a long time ago. A quick skim indicates a range of reactions. From sorrow for his break up with Sebastian - who was once a regular on his feed - to hilarity at the nature of the post, to quite sincere sales pitches as to why they should be the one to get the date. 

sebsational94 my name is sebastian but I am not THE sebastian. I would never play you like that boo. can I still qualify? 😇

boooomers Can't believe this is the way we get to see Blaine Anderson shirtless. I am UNWELL

wlfricbea brooo you really be callin out ur man like this omg. rip king seb u will be missed 

cherycool When you say you are offering your hot body, what are we talking here? 👀

tinbd @ cherycool Right? Is Blaine Anderson a Slut? 

sofee.bailey Alexa, play Lovely Day by Bill Withers. Because it's always a lovely day when people take out the TRASH

musicallymotivatedd … still waiting for this cough syrup cover you keep promising 🙄

Blaine's phone buzzes in his hand and he almost drops it out of pure fear. But it's just a message from Tina laughing at him. And then demanding to know why he didn't just ask her to a fancy dinner. Which is a valid point. Blaine has several single friends he could have a fun evening with. But he was drunk on Peach Schnapps, not making functional decisions. He really is a slutty drunk and he literally never learns.

After a moment to psych himself up, he flips to his DMs, which are much worse. He's not particularly stringent with his privacy settings and his inbox is full of chat requests and a LOT of dick pics. As if he's going to pick a date based on the shape of someone's dick. It's exhausting. 

He taps out a message to Tina. 

Blaine: I've never seen so many dicks in my life

Queen T: Sorry can't relate 

She's useless.

Blaine: This isn't funny. I'm in an ocean of dick

Queen T: A sea of penis. A sea-nis if you will

Blaine: I won't

Queen T: Aw Blainey Days. Are you traumatised? I can come and make you some breakfast 

Blaine: Yes please 🥺

Queen T: OMW

#klaine #kurt hummel x blaine anderson #klaine fic #klaine fanfiction #my fic #fic: BA vs Valentine's Day

[peachymilkandcream]

Can you do a oneshot with Mafia Levi and civilian Evelyn who is in debt with him :)

Payment|Levi and Evelyn AU

(A/N: I'm honestly surprised we haven't done a mafia au yet but I'm glad this request came in. I love the idea of another power imbalance. To the other request in my inbox, you've been moved to my drafts don't worry and I'll try and get the oneshot out later tonight. (I must really like you guys to be working on my day off XD, just kidding, I love all your requests.) If someone requests a part two I probably will do it this was a lot of fun! Hope you enjoy!)

WARNINGS: implied noncon/dubcon, yandere themes/behaviours, misogyny, domestic violence, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, etc.

===============================================

What kind of a stupid fool makes a deal with a mafia boss? She could have just let her business fall flat on its face and she wouldn't be in this situation.

The deal had been that Levi Ackerman, the one man who singlehandedly ran the city from the shadows, would give her a sizable loan to save her business and keep her afloat. It was such a stupid deal to make, but Evelyn was desperate to find a way not to crawl back to her parents as a failure.

In her defense, she didn't know he was a mafia boss, just a generous investor who took pity on her and chose to help her out. So once she had made the deal only then did he reveal his true self and she realized how deep in shit she really was.

Evelyn shook her head to clear her thoughts, no need to get upset, payday was coming and her business did end up making enough to pay him back. Within the week she'd be done with him.

The thought helped her swallow the ramen noodles she'd had to eat for the last week to avoid unnecessary expenses.

================================================

Payday arrived, and with it came the man who haunted her dreams at night for what he'd do to her if she couldn't pay it back. Images of being killed and then dissected to sell her organs constantly filled her mind and made her work harder.

But that was all over today. Today she'd be free of him and hopefully never see his face again. And besides, while scary looking, he wasn't a bad guy to her at least. Even though that meant she still couldn't show fear to him.

"Mr. Ackerman, you look well." She ventures with a friendly smile.

"Levi." He spits out, seeming bored as he looks around. "So I see you made use of my money."

"Yes sir I have," Pride shone through her voice now. "I've worked and saved and scraped together all that I owe you." She slides an envelope towards him.

Without much more than a sideways glance at her Levi takes the envelope and silently counts before looking at her with annoyance.

"This isn't the full amount."

"What do you mean?" Panic rises in her. "I counted it this morning-"

"This covers the loan for the business but not your other expenses."

Evelyn's stomach dropped, looking into the faces of his smug bodyguards, clearly this wasn't the first time they witnessed their boss crushing the hope out of a person. "What expenses-?"

Levi snaps his fingers and is given what seems to be a receipt. "Business loan, paid. Interest, paid. Disposal of persons count one, unpaid. Disposal of persons count two, unpaid."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Wait, disposal of persons?"

"You know, like a hit?"

Her mouth hangs open. "You killed someone? I didn't ask you to kill anyone."

"Of course you did, I have clear record of one of my guys overhearing you reference to two customers that you hoped they fell in a ditch and died."

Evelyn can hardly believe her ears, the two in question was an old highschool bully named Petra who used to torment her, and the other was one of her lackeys who did as she said. The event was the two had come in to harass her and her business since apparently some people don't grow up after graduating.

"It was just a figure of speech- I didn't want them dead-"

"Then you should have clarified, it's not my fault you're unable to explain yourself."

While the idea of Petra being dead didn't exactly upset Evelyn, the idea of causing it was a little unsettling. "Okay fine, how much do I owe you then."

Levi says nothing but writes out a for her to sign, the amount making her eyes widen.

"I could never pay this back-"

"Then it seems we have a problem don't we."

"Look if you just gave me more time-"

"I've given you plenty of time." He nods and before she can react a cloth is placed over her nose and mouth.

Panic sets in and she can't stop her sharp breaths, each one making black edges come into her vision as Levi's leering face fills her unconscious.

================================================

Evelyn awakes handcuffed to a bed pole in a room more luxurious than anything she's ever seen. It was clean and neat and expensive, everything there probably cost more than all her organs combined.

She tugged on the cuffs, but as expected it was useless. She was alone in that room overlooking the city from the huge window. HOw she had gotten there no one knew, and when she'd be set free was just as certain.

The door opens and in walks the man of the hour, shred of his thick wool coat from before and just in a vest and suit. In his hand was a whiskey tumblr and a cigarette laced through his fingers.

"Good morning, although it is more like good evening."

"Look, Levi, please, I'll do whatever you want to pay it off, but please just don't hurt me- I'll work until I'm a hundred years old-"

"The amount of pain you receive is entirely up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well." He sets down the glass and puts out the cigarette before facing her. "If you're good, and do as I say and don't act like a bitch then I guarantee you'll have a great and long life. The best money can buy." As he stalked towards her his hand reached up to loosen his tie.

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't-" He climbs on the bed over her, a sadistic and twisted look in his eye.

"I'll make you wish you were never born."

#break me slowly #levi x oc #attack on titan #levi ackerman #levi aot #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #yandere levi #yandere levi ackerman #yandere levi x reader

[justablah56]

gothweebcleats anon here with some headcanons

scary and linc are both dyslexic. scary likes poetry because it often takes time to parse and understand anyways and sometimes the lines are shorter and clearer

taylor ran track before he started using a cane. i’m thinking either sports injury OR chronic illness manifesting in his bones at 14. this is how he is so popular (either this or marching band 🤔 maybe track then he switched to band?)

normal noticed what was going on with These Three wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy before any of Them noticed. he tried to shout it from the rooftops but all three of them have demand avoidance so it just made the wait longer

linc does not track how much he works out. scary does. scary spots linc when he starts lifting and helps them learn strength training (i’m hashtag projecting here someone be the scary to my linc). linc starts strength training for 1. better soccer 2. Buff. taylor eventually joins bc ftm moment

hermie’s crush on scary DIED as soon as he saw her give a dead bug to taylor as a “courting” (idk what else to call it yk when ur in the “we know we like each other but i’m not gonna say it first” phase w ur frenemy) gift

thank u for letting me raid ur inbox i think of these fools more now and my life is better for it o7 i hope u have a wonderful day buddy

oh these are absolutely DELIGHTFUL thank you !!! okay but the funny thing is my friend cookies has mentioned to me their dyslexic Taylor hc so they're just all dyslexic now , thanks for coming to my Ted talk .

also im officially adopting Taylor in band right this moment I love that , he is some sort of brass player in my heart but idk enough abt brass instruments to have an actual opinion . could also see him in percussion tho . but hhnnhggg him being in track or smthin before and that's why he's popular ! so important to me !

okay and normal noticing and immediately being like hEY YOU LIKE EACH OTHER and immediately all of them NUH UH >:[ and then they take even longer to actually work their shit out bcs Someone Said It So Now We Won't . Fuck You .

them working out together !! and scary probably keeping track for both of them bcs both of them simply cannot keep track of anything while they're doing it sndndm

SCARY GIVING TAYLOR A DEAD BUG !!!!!! LITERALLY SO REAL !!!!! just very vividly imagined her coming up to him looking all grumpy and like she doesn't want to be there , not saying anything , and Taylor's just sitting there like what ? she holds out her hand so he holds out his and she just . drops a dead beetle into his hands before immediately turning around and storming off nsnsnsn Taylor absolutely found smthin to pin it up in and so he just has a single beetle with its own little frame on his wall . the frame is way too fucking big considering the size of the beetle .

my guy I am SO glad to have you talking about The Guys in my inbox , bcs I am now *also* thinking abt them more and it's lovely <33 hope you also have a good day anon !!!

#gothweebcleats anon #gothweebcleats #maybe ill make a little comic based on scary giving taylor the bug sbndjdkkd #this scene is literally so vivid in my brain #anyways

[askstevefromminecraft]

Hey everyone! Sorry for not posting much. I've been really busy with school work and other projects I've been meaning to work on.

I'll probably quit this blog at some point, but I thank everyone who's interacted with this blog.

The reason for this is not only because I've been busy with school work, but because I never really liked how the overall story of Ask Steve from Minecraft's story went.

Here's how the story would've gone if I planned it better: Steve and Herobrine get curious and hack the computer to gain access to information on their player, they discover that the player was actually filming, WITH A FACECAM this entire session (2 months worth of footage dawg) and discover that the player is actually dead. The reason why the computer was still running was because of the players mother, and that the mother was actually the one managing the questions you guys asked and sending them to Steve and Herobrine. Later it's revealed that the player only died because the mother locked them in their bedroom as a punishment of some kind, the only source of happiness to the player was minecraft, but the player was trapped for a really long time in that room and slowly died of starvation, dehydration, and many other ailments, they were also stuck to the chair because of their um, bodily functions yeah. Their mother opens the player's bedroom door, wanting to forgive their child, but realised that her dear baby has died due to her own neglect. But she tells herself that they're still alive. Steve and Herobrine did not know what to do with allat.

But I didn't know what to do with this plot, or how it might develop, as well as what Steve and Herobrine might do afterwards.

There's also that one plot concept where we discover that Steve is actually connected to the world he's in, and that deleting his world would mean deleting him too, but being able to restore himself if his world seed is used once more, but at the cost of his memories being discarded. Basically he reincarnates everytime someone enters his world seed. Herobrine however still lives, even after the World seed gets deleted, and so he repeats every session getting to know Steve again and again, and when Steve gets deleted, he waits in the void, near the spawn point, where Steve would show up, everytime, never ending.

But I'll probably never use that ever.

I actually have a main account but I don't use it as much (rather, I actually don't use tumblr at all)

Main Account is https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dr-john09

I'll probably repurpose Ask Steve from Minecraft into a new blog for a new story, but I don't think it'll be happening any time soon.

Thanks to everyone who has asked on this blog, as well as the ones in my inbox, I've been meaning to answer atleast some of them but couldn't because of lack of motivation.

#minecraft #minecraft art #art #digital art #steve minecraft #herobrine minecraft #ask blog #ask #steve