#I can’t sleep I’ll reblog my stuff

[bloatedandalone04]

To The One I Love - 3

Series Masterlist

➪in which tyler tries to answer all your questions without pushing you too hard or forcing things, and he realizes just how hard your recovery will be for the both of you.

PSA: strongly suggested to read the warnings before proceeding.

WC; 4.8k | Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡ | THANK YOU AGAIN FOR 5K FOLLOWERS?!!?!?!?!?!?

“I don’t want to force things, baby,” Tyler protested, but you just gave him a look. He fought off a smile, because you were still just as stubborn as you were before. “Okay, well…do you remember our first kiss? Any of the road trips we went on? Any of the fights we had?”

“No,” you answered, “I don’t remember any of it.”

You looked so genuinely confused, it felt like Tyler’s heart had physically cracked open. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, and this time you reached over and grabbed his hand. 

“We’ve been friends since high school, Tyler,” you say in an attempt to make him feel better, and though he loved you for trying, your words really did nothing to make him feel any better. “You won’t lose me.”

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly, lacing his fingers with yours. “You want me to tell you everythin’? We’re not just friends. We were- we are so much more than that. We’re in love…fuck, I’m so in love with you.” His words were barely audible towards the end, and you just squeezed his hand tighter. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, and he could tell how worn out you are from the way you were struggling to keep your eyes open. “I wish I could remember.”

Tyler rubbed his thumb against the back of your hand. “Don’t worry about it. Just try to get some sleep and rest that pretty head of yours,”

You gave him a small smile as you closed your eyes, mumbling, “So weird,”

Tyler laughed quietly, though his heart was still sore.

Since he had only slept for an hour or so since you’ve been in here, it wasn’t a massive surprise when Tyler felt himself growing more and more tired, and soon enough his head was tipped back on the chair as he fell asleep, his hand locked with yours. 

He didn’t know how long he had slept for, and he really didn’t know what time it was since he hadn’t checked his phone in a while. It was dark outside when he opened his eyes, and he looked over to find you awake now, a forlorn look on your face.

Tyler groaned quietly, his neck stiff from how he fell asleep. His fingers were still laced with yours, and he squeezed them as he pulled out his phone with his free hand. “Are you okay?”

You nodded as he checked the time. It was six in the evening, nearly two whole days since you’ve been in here. Somehow it felt longer. 

He put his phone on the table next to your bed after checking his messages, a frown on his face when he noticed that you hadn’t looked over at him, just continued to stare down at the sheets that covered your body. “Lilly’s comin’ by to drop some stuff off,” he told you as he shifted on the uncomfortable chair. 

You lifted your head with a confused look. “Who?”

Tyler sighed, “Right,” and leaned back. “Lilly, She’s a close friend of mine, and yours. We’ve known her for about three years now. She was there when I found you.”

You nodded and slowly pulled your hand from his, flexing your fingers after to relieve the tension from them. Tyler’s hand was a bit tense, too. That’s what happens when you don’t move for however long he was sleeping for. “Where’s my phone? Do I have one?” You asked after placing your hands on your lap. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tyler answered after a few seconds as he tried to think of where your phone was. You didn’t have it on you when he carried you in here, then he remembered you placing it in the glove compartment of his truck before you went to the movies with him and Lilly. “I think it’s in my truck. I’ll go get it for you.”

He wasn’t sure if giving you your phone right now was a good idea, but he was never good at denying you things. “Thank you,”

Tyler smiled at you before standing up, the faint cracking of his body making him groan. He really hated that chair, but he still wouldn’t voice his complaints since he didn’t feel like he had the right to. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said and left the room, stopping by the nurse’s station to ask if you needed to take any medication before walking out into the parking lot. 

After looking around for a minute or so, he spotted his truck close to the back of the lot. He stopped at the driver’s side door and felt around in his pockets before he realized that Lilly was the one who parked his truck here after dropping you and him off at the front doors, and she never gave him back his keys after she left. 

He was about to call her and remind her to bring them, but then he remembered the small compartment he installed on the side of the truck that held the fireworks, and when he checked it, he saw that Lilly had put his keys in there. 

Tyler unlocked the door and reached over to retrieve your phone, and his heart stuttered when he caught sight of your background photo. It was of the two of you after a night out that Lilly took, and you were in each other’s arms with blurry smiles on your faces after having a bit too much to drink. 

The second you saw it the next morning, you immediately made it your wallpaper, and two years later you still hadn’t changed it. 

He looked at it for a few more seconds before locking his truck again and heading back inside. He was entering your room just as a nurse was leaving it, and he saw that you had a new cup of pills on the table next to your bed. “Hey,” he said, making his way over to you and setting his keys down next to the cup. “Found your phone.”

You smiled up at him as you took it, and when you turned it on, your gaze softened as you looked at the picture. “That’s cute,” you whispered to yourself, then looked over at him as you cleared your throat. “Um, thank you for getting it.”

Tyler waved you off as he sat down, then he watched as you stared at the passcode screen with a blank expression. It was obvious you didn’t remember the password, and Tyler bit back a sad smile as you squinted your eyes at the error message you received after a failed attempt. When you looked over at him with a helpless look in your eyes, he shook his head and reached over. “Your password is 1111,” he said as he typed it in, and you squinted even more as you watched your phone unlock. 

“That’s a horrible password,” you mumbled as you stared at the screen. 

“I know,” he agreed as he leaned back. “I’ve tried tellin’ you to change it. You don’t listen.” 

You give him a sheepish smile as you hover your finger over the various random apps you have installed on your phone. “Do my parents know what happened?” You asked as you looked over at him and set your phone down on your lap. 

“I told them,” Tyler answered as he braced his elbows on his knees. “I had to wait for a while after bringin’ you here. I called them and told them what happened. They’re tryin’ to get a flight out here.”

A frown formed on your lips as you leaned back on the pillow. “They don’t live here anymore?” 

“No,” he said quietly, giving you a forced smile. “The storms became too much for them, they moved away about five years ago. They still visit, and we go visit them every few months. They’re in Texas right now, but they said they’ll be here as soon as they can.”

Your frown deepened as you nodded, looking down at your phone that had locked again. “Okay,” you murmured as you set it down on the table. “Can we…talk more? About us?” 

Tyler straightened up a bit at that and nodded, “Of course, babe,”

A blush formed on your face as you pressed your lips together. “So,” you trailed off, looking down at your fingers. “We’ve been together eleven years? Do we live together?” 

“Yeah,” he answered, hating having to explain your own relationship to you. “We live in a place just outside of town. It’ll be four years soon since we moved in.”

You nodded slowly, processing his words as you shifted on the bed. “We’re…in love?” You asked hesitantly and Tyler felt his heart skip a beat at the question. He wanted to be offended by it, but he couldn’t be. It wasn’t fair to you. “I’ve told you I love you?” 

Even though you didn’t directly say it to him, his face still flushed as he smiled. “Yeah. We are,” he confirmed, “Completely in love. And yes, you’ve told me you love me, and I’ve said it back a thousand times.”

You blushed more as you smiled back at him. “So we’re pretty serious?”

Tyler huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I think we’re pretty serious,” he nodded. “We’ve talked about havin’ kids, growin’ old together, all of it.”

“Wow,” you whispered, blowing out a puff of air. “That doesn’t sound like high school Tyler at all.” 

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been high school Tyler for over a decade now,” 

You bit down softly on your lip, fiddling with your fingers as you gave him an embarrassed look. “So, um…we do it on a regular basis now? Senior prom wasn’t a one time thing?”

Tyler felt his own face heat up again as he took in your words. It was so you to start asking questions like that at a time like this, and he wasn’t surprised that your mind went there at all. “I guess that night doesn’t seem all that long ago to you, huh?” He muttered, shaking his head before looking over at you. “Yeah, we ‘do it’ pretty regularly. We’re not lackin’ in that aspect of our relationship. But it’s not just about that. Our connection goes way beyond that.”

You give him another embarrassed smile before looking down at your fingers. “What we had, or have…it’s good?” 

Tyler felt his eyes sting a bit as he nodded. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he answered as if it was the easiest question he’d ever been asked. “You’re my best friend, my love, all in one. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Your expression softened as you sighed. “I believe you,” your voice came out quiet as you looked over at him with a barely-there smile. “You were always a good liar, but never to me.”

Tyler gave you a tight smile as he looked around the room. “You’re pushin’ thirty, by the way,” he said after he realized that you still didn’t know how old you were. 

Your brows pushed together as you scoffed. “Jesus, I was way off,” you muttered. “So what happened after high school? Did we become professional tornado chasers like we planned? Do we still chase storms?”

Your tone had a bit of humor to it, and it brought a small grin to Tyler’s face. “Yeah, we do. It’s not exactly a 9-5 job, but we do it whenever we can. I actually livestream it. We’re pretty popular online,” he didn’t know if he was giving you too much information at once, but he knew he should still stop soon either way. 

This trip down memory lane was taking a toll on him. 

“Wow,” you mumbled. “And my memories? Will they ever come back?”

Tyler’s face fell a bit as he thought of what would happen if you never remember all you’ve forgotten. “They said it’s possible, that it could be temporary or permanent. They don’t know right now,” he murmured. “But I think you will. I promise you, we’ve got too many good memories together to forget, you’ll see.”

You hum, giving him a side eye. “That’s a lot of pressure,” you teased, blinking a few times after. “But I don’t think it was hard to fall in love with you…even if I can’t remember doing it.”

Tyler’s throat closed up a bit as he sat up straighter. Your words were nearly enough to make him start crying right then and there, and he was barely holding on right now. “No pressure,” he managed to say. “Just need you to remember how madly in love with me you are. Piece of cake, right?” 

If Tyler thought he was going to cry before, he definitely was now. Because you were smiling at him the exact same way you did the night of your first date, and the day he picked you up in his truck. 

You didn’t remember either of those times, but Tyler did with vivid detail. “That smile,” he whispered. “It’s the same one you gave me on our first date.” And a few other times, but your first date was the first time he saw it. 

You reach for his hand and he lets you take it and bring it up to your face, where you press the back of it against your cheek. “I wish I could remember it,”

“Me too,” he said back, brushing his knuckles against your cheekbone with a light pressure. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. 

“Be honest with me,” he started, trying to collect his thoughts and string together a question. “You said that it shouldn’t be too hard to fall in love with me. Does it feel like that now? Like you could do that all over again?”

He knew it wasn’t a fair question, but he needed to know. Starting over with you was scary and would be so hard to do, but if you believed you could fall in love with him, then he was all for it. 

“Tyler,” you whispered and he was glad you didn’t call him Owens again. “I feel comfortable around you, like how I did in high school. I feel like I know you still, even if I don’t know the person you’ve become in the last ten or twelve years.”

He felt comforted at your words, and the way you squeezed his hand made him feel a bit warm all over. 

“You said that we’re in love,” you continued, looking at him with a serious expression. “Somehow that doesn’t sound like the craziest thing ever.”

That was a start, and he will be holding onto this conversation for however long it took for you to get there. 

“I’m not gonna give up on you,” he promised, lacing his fingers with yours. “Or us.”

You nodded, giving him a small grin. “Okay. Thank you. For everything,”

“You don’t need to thank me, baby,” he said, resting your joined hands on the bed. “I’m just doin’ what any good boyfriend would do. I’m gonna be by your side, no matter what.”

A quiet, surprised laugh escaped you as you pressed your lips together and looked away. He was glad that you didn’t seem to be in too much pain right now since you were laughing, and it caused him to hold off a smile of his own. 

“What’s so funny?”

You shake your head before covering your mouth with your free hand. “It’s not funny. Um, just…it’s so weird to hear you call yourself my boyfriend,” you murmured. “I know it’s probably second nature to you, but still.”

He didn’t realize how weird it would be for you to hear that he’s your long term boyfriend after not remembering any of your moments together, and now the smile he was giving you was one to hold back a look of hurt. “Yeah it is second nature to me,” he mumbled. “But I can see how weird this would be for you. You just woke up to a world that’s over a decade ahead of what you remember. It’s a lot to take in.”

You look at him for a few seconds with an unreadable expression on your face before you let out another quiet laugh. “We’re seriously together? Like, seriously?”

Instead of feeling even more hurt at your question, Tyler laughed, too. “Yeah, babe. We’re seriously together. Like, seriously, seriously. We’re the real deal,”

Your gaze softened as you squeezed his hand and nodded before placing your hands flat on the bed. “Okay. So what now?”

“Now…now we take it one step at a time,” he answered simply. “The doctor said you need rest, so I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re comfortable. Then we’ll figure things out together, one day at a time.”

You nodded, a relieved sigh leaving your lips. “Okay…you said we live together? So when I’m cleared and can leave, I’ll go back to your house with you?”

“Yeah, well, our house,” he corrected you with a teasing look in his eyes. “I’ll go back there at some point and get things in order for when you’re allowed to go home.” 

You press your lips together and give him a guilty look he’s seen on you many times now, for various different reasons. “It might be kinda weird for me, you know, to see our place. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea or something,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Tyler’s gaze softened as he reached out and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. “I understand. I really do. I know it’ll be weird for you to see our place for the first time, and I promise I won’t get the wrong idea,” he placed his hand next to yours on the bed, his pinky finger locking with yours. “And you won’t hurt me. I know who you are, even if you don’t right now.”

You gave him a small smile and nodded, looking down at his hand. “Okay,”

A few minutes passed before Tyler stood up to stretch again. “Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

“I’m kinda hungry,” you answered, leaning back against the pillow as you tugged the sheet higher over your body. “Is the food here any good?”

“It’s a hospital,” he laughed, cracking his fingers and flexing them. “Nothing here is good, but I’ll find you something edible.”

You laughed quietly, and for a second it felt like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t lost a good portion of your memories and you and he were just joking around like you normally do. 

Tyler left the room after that and looked around the cafeteria for a little while, trying to find something that looked appetizing but might actually taste good as well. He found a salad and a fruit bowl that looked decent, and he grabbed them along with a bland looking sandwich for himself before heading back to your room. 

“Here, babe,” he said as he put the salad and fruit onto the adjustable table that hovered above your bed. “I know it’s not the fanciest thing, but these should be okay.”

You look up at him with a blush, another unreadable expression on your face. Tyler furrowed his brows as he kept eye contact with you while he sat down on the edge of your bed by your knees,

“What? What’s wrong? You don’t want it?”

“No, no,” you smiled bashfully, looking down at the food. “It’s perfect. I just…it’s so different to hear you call me babe or baby.”

Tyler’s lips curved upwards as he laughed, setting his sandwich down on the table as well. “Yeah, I guess it probably is different,” he agreed. To you, everything was so fucking weird right now, but he really couldn’t blame you. He’d probably be weirded out by everything, too, if he swapped places with you. He’d also be thrilled, because he couldn’t remember a time in the last fourteen years where he wasn’t totally in love with you, so to wake up with no memory but still have you as his girlfriend wouldn’t be too bad. “I’ve been calling you those names for so long now, it’s like a reflex for me. I can tone it down, though.”

He hoped he could, anyway. 

But the shake of your head told him that he didn’t need to worry about it, as did your words, “No, I like it. I’m just used to you calling me geek or nerd. I guess you left those ones back in high school, huh?”

A heat took over Tyler’s body as he gave you a nervous smile. “Yeah, totally. I mean, they sometimes slip out every once in a while,” he said, “But it’s different now. You’re still kind of a nerd, but you’re also cute so I say it with good intention.”

Back in high school, you really were a nerd. But you were his nerd, and you still are. He hadn’t called you it in a while, but you were right. All throughout high school, he called you it a lot, but it was never in a mocking way. You were so smart, and he had always been so proud of you. 

It was as if you could read his mind, because your next question was, “So I’m still smart? Even if I can’t remember a damn thing right now?”

Tyler nodded without hesitation. “You’re so smart. I’ve seen firsthand just how smart you are when it comes to meteorology and tracking storms, and a lot of other things. You’ve got an amazin’ brain for weather patterns and climate changes. So yeah, you’re still smart,”

You look down at the cuts and scrapes on your hands and arms, a frown on your face. He knew you would hate them. “I can’t remember any of it,” 

Your words hit him harder than he thought they would, and he reached over the table to take your hand in his. “I know, but that doesn’t mean you’re not smart anymore. You are. And I’m gonna help you remember as best as I can,” he swore, gently squeezing your fingers. “This is just a temporary setback.”

You nod slowly, looking up at him for a few seconds before your gaze drifted to the salad and fruit he got for you. “Thank you for getting that,” you whispered as you reached for a piece of watermelon. He just smiled at you, waving off your words.

After forty five minutes, you had eaten almost everything ten times slower than you normally do, and Tyler had moved back to the chair beside your bed. “You’ve gotten quiet,” he teased softly, leaning back as he felt his eyes get a bit heavy. He was honestly exhausted, but he didn’t want to sleep while you were awake in case you needed anything. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

You were quiet for a few more seconds before you finally spoke, “This must be so hard for you…Having a girlfriend who can’t remember anything about our relationship,”

Hard was an understatement, but he would never tell you that. “It’s tough, yeah, but I’m in this for the long haul,” he stated, giving you the best reassuring smile he could manage. “As long as you want me around, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Your mood lifted a bit and you parted your lips to speak again, but the sound of someone knocking on the door interrupted you. Lilly poked her head in, a hesitant look on her face before she stepped inside the room. “Hey, guys,” she greeted, hovering by the door as she held onto a grocery bag. “How are you feelin’, Y/n/n?”

Tyler looked over at you and saw the way you smiled at Lilly, but he could tell that you had no idea who she was. “Hi,” you trailed off, still as polite as ever. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lilly nodded before looking at Tyler. “Oh, right, she’s…yeah,” she mumbled, walking over to him and holding the bag out. “I brought some stuff, clothes, chargers, your Ipad. I thought maybe you could show her some of the streams when she’s ready. Nice shirt, by the way.”

Tyler looked down at the hideous shirt he forgot he was even wearing with a laugh. “Donation bin,” he tried defending his fashion choice as he took the bag from her. “Thanks, Lill. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” she waved him off before looking back at you. “How’s that head of yours?”

“Um,” you mumble and reach up to brush your fingers against the bandage. “It’s good, I think. Well, not good, but…yeah.”

“I got it,” Lilly laughed, leaning against the foot of your bed. “I know you don’t remember me since I wasn’t lucky enough to have been in your life as long as Tyler has, but I’m Lilly. I drove you here since he was too busy losin’ his mind to focus on anything but you in the backseat.” 

Tyler felt his body tense up at the reminder of just how out of it he had been from the second he saw you lying there with blood on you, and up until he saw for himself that you were okay. He wanted to chew his friend out for bringing it up, but then you reached over and grabbed his hand, and he couldn’t bring himself to be angry if he tried. “You drove me here?” You asked Lilly as he laced his fingers with yours. “Thank you. I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

Lilly smiled at you and shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. Just worry about gettin’ better,”

She stuck around for about an hour after that and kept you company while Tyler showered and changed into his own clothes she brought for him. He was kind of hesitant to show you any past streams he’s done in the truck as he wasn’t sure what kind of reaction it would bring out of you. It could trigger something positive, or negative, and he didn’t want to force things. 

So he decided he’d forget about it until you brought it up, if you ever did. 

When Lilly was gone, you turned on your side to face Tyler, a tired smile on your face. “I like her,”

“Yeah, Lilly’s great,” he agreed, feeling a bit more comfortable after showering and putting on his own shirt. “You two connected pretty much instantly the first time you met, so I’m not surprised it went the same way this time.”

Your smile grew as you cuddled closer to the pillow. “Tell me how we got together,” you softly requested as you got a bit more comfortable. “Did you ask me out? Or did I ask you?”

You got together over eleven years ago, but Tyler remembered it like it was yesterday. “I asked you out,” he answered. “It was during our junior year, after spring break. You and I hung out nearly every day, and then one night I just asked you out, and you said yes.”

“What did we do?” 

“I took you to a carnival that came to town for a week every year. You’d never been but I remember you tellin’ me that you wanted to go, and the timeline added up since the carnival was comin’ to town the next week,” he reminisced, “We went on a Friday night, and you ended up winnin’ damn near every game and showin’ me up. But you were so sweet about it. When the night was over, I drove you back to your place in my dad’s truck, then I walked you to the door and kissed you.”

A faint blush took over your face as you grinned. “That sounds perfect,”

“Yeah, it was pretty damn perfect,” he confirmed, “That was the beginning of us, baby.”

Your eyes closed, and he thought you were going to sleep, but then you sniffled. “I’m sorry I can’t remember it,”

He could tell you were on the verge of tears now, he’s heard that waver in your voice that happens every time you cry too many times now. “Hey, don’t be sorry,” he murmured, reaching over to brush your hair out of your face. “It’s not your fault. You can’t help what happened, but we’ll make new memories together.”

You sighed, blinking away your tears once you opened your eyes again. “But I want the old ones, too,”

“I know,” he whispered as you leaned into his touch. “And maybe one day you’ll get those ones back, but until then I’ll be here to tell you anything you want to know, okay? I promise you that.”

You nodded, holding his hand now and bringing it to your chest. “Okay. Thank you, Tyler,”

He smiled at you before leaning over and pressing the faintest kiss to the top of your head. He hadn’t kissed you in two days, hadn’t held more than your hand, so he was a bit touch starved right now since he was used to kissing you multiple times every day, but he would hold himself back until you decided what you wanted him to do. “Get some sleep, babe,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

-

Thank you all so much for the feedback, comments and reblogs this series has gotten so far and on my first Tyler fic. I appreciate it so much x

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

I Want It All: Part 1

Part 2, Part 3; AO3 Link

Astarion x AsexaulBard!Tav Masterlist

Astarion x Reader, Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Asexual!Reader, Astarion x Bard!Reader

Flirting, Light Angst, Longing

Summary: You and Astarion had been playing this little game of yours for a while; he pretends to care, you pretend not to fall for it. It's easy, even fun at times. The trouble is, what happens the moment you can't pretend anymore?

A/N: This turned into a monstrosity. For my own sanity I need to break it up into three parts. I also apologize in advanced, the stuff in the preview won’t pop up until part 2. And please, REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS! I NEED VALIDATION TO LIVE!!!

Word Count: 4.8K

The day really couldn’t decide whether it was going to be terrible or tolerable. 

On the one hand, it had been pouring rain for hours, leaving you and your party drenched as you searched for some place dry to sleep. On the other hand, you were able to find an inn with more than enough rooms to accommodate all of you. On the other, other hand, rooms cost money, something that was in short supply. 

“How much does that make?” Karlach asked, placing her share into the pile. 

Gale counted out the coins. “Enough for our own rooms, but not much in the way of food.” His brow furrowed slightly. “Hold on, this can’t be right. Who forgot to pitch in?”

All eyes turned suspiciously to Astarion. 

He raised his hands in surrender. “I put down enough for the room. Food is something…you all have to deal with.”

Lae’zel gave him a hard look, the threat obvious on her features. 

“We could always share a room or two,” Shadowheart cut in. “That will at least hold us over until we can find a way to make more coin.”

A devilish smirk formed on the vampire’s lips as his eyes turned to you. “I’m not opposed to the idea. Certainly would make it easier for me to get a little midnight snack.” 

You gave a theatrical sigh. “Not tonight dear. I have a headache.” 

“Teasing minx.” 

“Can the pair of you not for ten seconds?” Wyll complained. 

You bit back a laugh, turning your gaze to the dining area of the tavern. Gods you could smell something delicious cooking over the fireplace. When was the last time you had a proper hot meal? 

It was then you turned your eyes to one of the empty corners. The solution to the issue of food suddenly became obvious. 

“Not to worry everyone,” you announced, swiping the coins from Gale’s hand. “Dinner is on me.” 

Before anyone could speak, you stepped towards the bar, making a point to put on your best smile. 

A elderly halfling woman regarded you as you approached. “What can I get you deary?”

“Actually it’s a matter of what I can do for you,” you said. “I see you have some instruments sitting much too idly.”

The old lady shrugged. “Not really. Night like this you don’t need music to bring people in.”

Your smile faltered a moment, but you pushed on. “That may be, but nothing keeps people drinking longer and deeper than a good song.”

She gave you a disparaging look. “Don’t tell me, bard right?”

“Guilty.”

“If you don’t have money for the rooms, we don’t comp that.”

You waved the comment away. “The rooms aren’t the issue. However, if you’re willing to part with a cauldron of stew, I’ll consider it payment enough.” 

Her eyes remained wary, but you knew you had her as a twitch came to her lips. “That’ll do.  Thirty minute set. You eat after.” 

She held out a hand which you took, striking the bargain. 

It didn’t take long after to secure the rooms. They were nothing fancy, but a mattress was a mattress and with the guarantee of true privacy for the first time in weeks, none of you were complaining. 

“How’s this about food then?” Karlach asked, taking a seat at one of the few tables large enough to accommodate all seven of you. 

“All taken care of,” you assured. “Just need to pluck out a quick set and we can eat.” 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Astarion said. “I don’t mind it myself, but your songs have a tendency to be a bit, well…destructive. Frankly I’m surprised you didn’t use that cutting mouth of yours to simply insult the woman into feeding you.” 

“As it turns out, I have a little thing called restraint. Unlike some people,” you countered. 

“Oh trust me my dear, I’m well aware of that.” 

You rolled your eyes, deciding to ignore the slight twist of guilt in your stomach. 

He couldn’t seem to help making those kinds of jabs ever since you had declined his offer for a midnight tryst; always alluding to the theme of “untapped passions” or “delayed gratification”. It was starting to wear on you. 

Gods knew you liked him. He had so many qualities you admired; insight, intelligence, charm, the way he could make you laugh. The more you learned, the more you wanted to know and the more you were willing to give for answers. The trouble was his idea of a night of passion and yours were so very, very different.

A part of you knew the honest thing to do would be to spell it out for him.  You understood him well enough to know he’d respect those boundaries. At the same time, you didn’t want to lose this, whatever this was, between you. If suddenly that night of passion was off the table, all those moments, all his attentions would be lost. He’d be a friend, certainly, but nothing more. 

It was selfish. You knew it was. You couldn’t imagine finding the words to explain it to him. It would leave you too exposed, too vulnerable to that insistent burning want that had a way of tearing you apart from the inside out. It was better to leave him to his assumptions of suppression and prudishness. You’d keep your dignity at least. 

Pushing those thoughts away, you took your place in the unobtrusive corner and the spare violin waiting for you. 

A smile spread across your face as you tucked the familiar instrument under your chin. Since this whole adventure of yours began, you had little opportunity to apply your skills. Music had always been a source of comfort to you. It felt right to indulge in it now, some place safe and filled with warm firelight. 

With a flick of your wrist you began, the resonating tone of the strings filling the room. 

You allowed your eyes to close as you slipped into the melody. The sounds of conversation and laughter fell to an idle murmur. It was a simple tune, something easy to match the atmosphere, but one you loved all the same. You always found it best to start with something familiar. If the patrons could see you get lost in the music, they inevitably followed. 

As the first song came to an end, you chanced a quick glance at your audience. 

Most of the patrons still prattled on, but enough turned your direction to encourage you to try something a little more daring. 

Your fingers flew, igniting a livelier rhythm. More eyes found their way to you. A pleasant bubbling sensation filled you. They were falling right into your hands.  

Rising to your feet, you glided across the floor, moving with the music towards the center of the room. 

Patrons shuffled out of the way, transfixed by your performance. Even your companions had stopped their chatter. 

Karlach and Shadowheart’s faces lit up in delight. A smile touched the corner of Gale’s mouth. Even Lae’zel and Wyll looked on with admiration at your skills. As for Astarion…Astarion just stared. 

You couldn’t quite read what was going on behind those scarlet eyes. It was a look you had caught him wearing more than once, always blinked away before you could fully comprehend its meaning. All you knew was how it made that dangerous hope spark in your chest. 

He caught you looking and quickly morphed his expression to its familiar smirk. The bastard even had the audacity to wink. 

You rolled your eyes pretending not to have seen. It was all part of the game after all. He pretended to care, you pretended not to fall for it. 

A lute suddenly joined you from one of the corners, strumming its way into a new song. 

You turned as a cheer rose, encouraging the intrusive lutist forward. He was human by the look of him and certainly skilled in his own right. He took a moment to embellish your solo before taking over with one of his own. Soon enough you joined the conversation again with a counter melody. It wasn’t as clean as you would have liked it. The lad clearly had meant to upstage you, but you made sure to put him in line, allowing the impromptu duet to end in some kind of harmony. 

You transitioned easily to a new song as he took a seat, bowing to you as he did.

Remembering your showmanship, you made a point to bow in return, schooling your expression into a flirtatious grin before pulling away. That earned the man a round of cheers from his friends and a few obvious oohs from the crowd; exactly as you intended. 

You continued on with the remainder of your set. Requests were shouted from the audience, all the pieces of music moving to and from your fingers with practiced grace.  By the end of it, your arms were exhausted, but your face hurt from smiling. Gods you had missed this. 

As you took your bow, applause followed you back to your table as well as a handful of extra coin. 

“That was amazing!” Karlach said, beaming at you. “How’d you learn to play like that?”

“Years of practice,” you said, with pride. “Had to find an honest living somehow.”

“Well, it was beautifully done,” Gale added. “Maybe next time we make camp you could grace us with another performance. Provided we’re not all about to die of course.”

You shot him a grin. “I could be persuaded.” 

The wizard turned his gaze away, his lips turning into a knowing smirk. “You’ve been unnaturally quiet Astarion. Been bewitched have you?”

The vampire blinked as if coming out of deep thought. It was only in those last moments did you realize just how intently he had been looking in your direction.

“Yes,” he said, a little stiffly, “you were quite…good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Be careful there. You wouldn’t want to overwhelm me with praise.”

He regarded you a moment before a sly smile turned at his lips. 

You were almost relieved. That look you understood at least. 

“If it’s praise you crave, you need only ask,” he purred. “You, my dear, are an unparalleled talent. Your beauty and grace alone should have brought you into the presence of kings. A true diamond in the rough.”

You snorted out a laugh.

“No good?” he continued. “How about this one; if I die tomorrow and the gods grant me mercy it will be your song that brings me into the beyond.”

You gave him a slow clap. “Brava.” 

He inclined his head in a little bow. “But seriously, you were good and you didn’t even destroy the furniture. Admittedly though, I wouldn’t have minded if he had met with a little accident.” 

You followed Astarion’s eye line to the lute player chatting with his friends. He perked up as he felt eyes on him. Without the distraction of playing, you could easily tell he was handsome in that sun kissed farmer’s son kind of way. Probably had most of the girls in the village swooning. 

He raised a tankard to you in toast.

You met the gesture in acknowledgment. 

“He wasn’t that bad,” you said, taking a sip of your drink.

“He was the worst part of your performance,” Astarion insisted. 

You knew he wasn’t wrong, but you couldn’t help but have your fun. 

“Oh my darling, don’t tell me you’re jealous,” you said, placing a hand over your heart.

“Certainly I am,” he said, clutching his own chest in turn. “He’s the only person I’ve seen you willing to make sweet music with. And judging from his looks, he would have much preferred it to be a private performance.” 

You didn’t bother looking over to the other table to see if he was telling the truth. It didn’t matter either way. It never did. Your answer was always the same. 

“He’ll have to keep waiting.” You shrugged. “Not my type.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed slightly, leaning in closer. “And what exactly is?”

You didn’t answer, deciding instead to take a long sip of your ale.

He continued to eye you, his lips pursed as if trying to solve a puzzle. After a few moments he let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Fine, keep your secrets, but I will figure it out eventually.”

Your lip twitched up into a half smile. “You may certainly try.” 

It was then one of the staff brought out a truly enormous cauldron of the most delicious smelling stew you had smelled in your life. 

You didn’t think to wait as you greedily poured a ladle full into your empty bowl. Two full days on the road with nothing but a handful of nuts and berries to sustain you had taken its toll. The rest of the group soon followed, each taking their share. You ate yours so quickly that by the time the ladle had made the circle, you were grabbing for seconds.  

“Hungry are we?” Astarion observed. 

You paused mid bite, heat rising in your cheeks. You took a quick look at everyone else. Nobody seemed to have noticed how you inhaled your food. They were content enough in their own bowls and conversation. Carefully you swallowed before self consciously setting down the spoon in your hand.  

           “I am the one who worked for this,” you said, more defensively than you intended. 

Astarion regarded you with a raised eyebrow. “Even so, it’s not going to disappear the second you look away.” 

“Says you.” 

“Clever,” he said, dryly. “Devastating really. What’s next? Are you going to hit me with an “oh yeah” or Gods forbid a “your mother”?”

“I was actually leaning towards, “leave me to eat in peace you pompous jackass”.”

“Oh yes, that’s much better.”

You breathed out a frustrated sigh. Hopefully it would distract from your obvious embarrassment. You had thought you’d tucked those bad habits away. 

Years of living on your own had left you going to bed hungry more times than you cared to remember. There was a time food had disappeared from your plate if you didn’t eat it fast enough. Of course, things got better. You found music and people willing to listen. It gave you fire and shelter and a contented stomach on good nights. Still, there were the bad ones and old instincts took over. It took practice not to be as ravenous as you knew your nature to be. 

“Do I need to worry about your hunger?” you asked, deciding to change the subject. 

“Oh you of all people should know by now. I’m insatiable,” he crooned. 

Your eyes narrowed, unamused. “I’m being serious, when’s the last time you ate?”

He shrugged. “Few days. Last time I fed on you I imagine.” 

Your stomach gave a sudden guilt ridden twist. If that were the case, it had to have been at least three days ago. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because as much as the image of you swooning in my arms is appealing, I’d rather it be over my charms rather than blood loss.” He nodded his head towards the bowl. “From my own experience hunger and restraint don’t mix.” 

You tried to fight it. You really did. Years of instinct and reason told you not to fall for the softness in his eyes and voice. He simply didn’t want to explain a dead body to the rest of the party. It wasn’t out of some concern for your well being. And you absolutely could not allow yourself to believe he recognized the desperation in your actions and not pass judgment. If you believed that, you’d be in much more danger than you already were. 

“Excuse me deary,” an elderly voice asked. “I was wondering if I could have another moment of your time.”

You turned to see the barkeeper at your shoulder. 

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “Of course.” 

You moved to stand, but she gestured you down. It was then you noticed she was carrying a case. It was worn with age, but clearly lovingly maintained as the edges shone with intricate gold inlay. 

“I know you already paid for your meal,” she said. “But I was hoping I could ask for one more performance tonight.”

She opened the case to reveal the most beautiful violin you’d ever laid eyes on. The wood was a carefully polished chestnut interrupted with carvings which matched those on the case. The strings shone like gold and the pegs carved marble. You may not be a trained wizard, but could feel the magic pulsing from every square inch of it. 

“What is this?”

“It was my father’s,” the woman explained. “He was a bard you see, best in these parts from what people told. He had so many stories and songs. Built it himself to help tell them. Try as I might though, I could never get it to play as sweetly. I was hoping you might.”

You looked to your companions. The obvious curiosity played on all their faces. 

With a cautious hand, you plucked one of the strings. 

It was perfectly in tune. The sound echoed, rich and vibrant even with so light a touch. The instrument itself seemed to glow as if happy to be played once again.

Slowly, you lifted it from the case, taking the bow in hand. You placed it on the strings and with an exhale drew the first notes. 

It was the loveliest sound you’d ever heard.  

The vibrations resinated in your fingers, moving through your arm and into your chest. 

You decided to start simple, a handful of scales to get the intonations just right. 

Color danced across the strings, rippling from your fingers like raindrops in a pond. 

“Woah,” Karlach said, her eyes widening in awe. “Are you doing that?”

“No,” you said, pausing your motions, as you let it fall slack in your hands. 

The elderly halfing smiled. “My father always said an artist puts their truth into every stroke of the bow. This here helps one’s heart shine. I saw the way you performed earlier, you’re not afraid to play what’s true.”

Color rose in your cheeks, unsure how to take such praise. “Thank you.”

She just smiled, nodding towards the instrument. “Keep playing. See what happens.”

You were suddenly aware of the rest of the party’s eyes turning expectantly towards you. Some with caution, some with anticipation, and one pair of red eyes with unreadable intentions. 

Knowing there was no way you were getting out of this now, you rose from your seat, placing the violin securely beneath your chin. 

You started slow, picking a tune every beginner memorized in their first lessons. 

The music sparkled in front of your eyes, twirling outward in melodic waves.

The hum of conversation began to die down as you spotted the barkeeper beckon for silence. 

You continued on, moving to something a little more complex, allowing yourself to let the rest of the room blur in the peripheries. 

The sound of boots on cobblestones met your ears. Glancing down you saw stone where hardwood floors had been. 

You took another step. 

The stones followed. 

Around you the room fluctuated between firelight and the brightness of morning. Looking up you could see a clear sky had replaced the hatched ceiling. 

A smile spread across your face as you stepped away from your bench. 

As if waiting for your queue the rest of the bar quickly moved tables and chairs out of the way, clearing the center floor. 

The sun followed as the cobblestones spread out in front of you like a stream. With every flourish, finer details were added. You changed the direction allowing a building to form beside you, then another and another. Images of people faded in and out like memories, coming and going with the flow of the music. 

You never felt anything like this before. The strings sang inside you, drawing out a melody you knew was there, but had always managed to slip from your grasp. 

You surrendered to its current, following it deeper and deeper until all you could see, all you could touch was the music. 

Behind your eyes the streets began to turn and change. Buildings loomed large overhead. You could hardly see the stars. A cold swept through your clothes, the chords of the melody vibrating with the shivers in your hands. The world was so much bigger and you were so much smaller. 

No instrument laid in your hands, but still the music played on as if you had slipped into a dream. 

You continued to walk unsure of where your feet were carrying you until something warm pressed against your back. Light reflected behind you, casting long shadows on the ground. A melody played, soft and soothing against your own. You turned towards it as the voices of long forgotten conversation and laughter accompanied the strings of a quartet.

Your chords and theirs brushed up against each other, a new light shining in the darkness, but just as soon as it began, it moved away, leaving you on your own once again. 

You continued on, brushing against others. Sparks would fly, fire would ignite only for them it fade in front of your eyes. 

Your own melody grew more desperate, moving and shaping itself to match whoever you found next only just able to cling onto the barest sense of itself. 

An ache grew in your chest as you wandered, always searching, never finding. Something warm trailed down your cheeks. You let it flow, unable to stop. You wouldn’t end the story here, even as swirls of blues and blacks surrounded you. They wrapped around your body, filling your vision and squeezing tight around you until you felt the air being pushed out of your lungs. There was nothing else.  Even the music had gone dead. 

For what felt like a moment and eternity you sat there, alone in the dark. 

A voice came to you then, but it didn’t come from the instrument tucked somewhere under your chin.  No melody accompanied it. It was so far away. Something about it was so familiar. It spoke your name like a desperate prayer. You reached out for it.

The air itself moved around you as if you had plucked the very strings of the universe. 

A low hum came next bringing with it two pin pricks of light. A red fire glowed in the darkened space, growing until they sat as two eyes burning in the air. 

You cocked your head to the side. Your own song started again, cautious as it curled around the eyes, examining them from different angles. 

The eyes crinkled at the edges, amused by your persistence. 

With a blur of motion, it turned to the side allowing a profile to form and beginning an enticing melody of its own. 

You and the face took turns, calling and answering in playful antagonism. 

The lines of light continued downward as its counter melody grew in strength against your own, forming the outline of a man.

He stepped towards you, his own head turning to the side as yours had done before, examining you from every angle. 

After a moment, he bowed. You curtseyed. And then you did what only felt natural. You danced.

The heat of his touch burned your skin, but you didn’t dare pull away. You had been cold for so long you hadn’t even known you were cold. Even when it became too much, the fear of the darkness kept you in his light. 

The man in turn held you close, his song teasing against your own. So unlike the duet from before, this was a true conversation, the pair of you giving and taking in equal measure. You didn’t want it to stop, holding the feeling tighter and tighter until you felt the pulse of his fire inside you. 

You looked up to find the embers of his eyes pouring into you.  He moved your hand to his chest. A heart pumped beneath and you knew then it wasn’t his own. Just as you had taken from him, he had taken from you in equal measure. 

His face came into focus, forming a familiar knowing smirk and playful scarlet eyes.

He stepped back from you, his hand holding yours as he bowed, placing a kiss on the back of your hand. 

The song faded away and you were once again in your own body, a violin tucked carefully beneath your chin. 

You blinked your eyes open to find the tavern standing as it had been moments ago.  Patrons surrounded you, their eyes wide and mouths open. You glanced around the room, quickly finding your companions. Horror struck you as you read their expression. 

They’d seen it. All of it. 

Before you could register what was happening a wave of applause erupted from the crowd. People began to cheer. You heard awed whoops and hollers. The adoration was overwhelming and completely miss timed. You needed to lie down. You needed to think. 

Numbly you bowed before making your way to the side of the room where the barkeeper stood. 

You held the instrument out to her, unable to look her directly in the eye. 

“Thank you for letting me play this,” you said. 

To your surprise she didn’t take it, instead pushing your hands away with a shake of her head. 

“Keep it love,” she said. “After seeing all that, feels wrong to take it away from you. You’ve more than earned the right to it.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to scream. You wanted to curse her for ever asking you to touch the damned thing. Somehow you managed to swallow all of that down, mumbling another thank you before slowly turning towards your party. 

There was still a chance to salvage this. Astarion hadn’t seen his own reflection in centuries. He didn’t know what he looked like. You could play this whole thing up to artistic license. You just carried a general feeling of desperate longing. No need for you to clarify its direction. 

Making a point to keep your head down, you put the violin away and slid it over to Gale. 

“Feel free to eat this one if you want,” you said. It was meant to be a joke, but even you could feel it fall flat. 

“I don’t think I can do that,” Gale said, his tone holding nothing but sympathy. 

“It really was lovely,” Wyll said, gently. 

“Beautiful really,” Shadowheart added. 

Your jaw tightened, caught between the urge to scream or weep. Why couldn’t everybody do you the favor of the lifetime and forget they saw anything. 

“Personally I don’t understand your choice in the spawn, but–” Lae’zel started only to be hit hard in the arm by Karlach.

“What?” she snapped. 

Your whole body cringed, knowing exactly what was coming next. 

“That was…me?” 

You were in hell. This was hell. You didn’t have to look up to see Astarion’s self satisfied expression. His tone made it clear enough.

In a flash you stepped back from the table, putting as much distance between you and the party as possible. 

“I need to go,” you managed. “Goodnight.” 

You sprinted out of the tavern, taking two steps of the time to the upper rooms. You didn’t stop until your door was firmly slapped behind you. 

Your breaths came hard as your heart pounded in your chest. Honestly you didn’t know how you locked the door. Your hands were shaking so badly as tears blurred your vision. All the emotions the violin had pulled from you returned, overwhelming you in their intensity. 

The instrument had done as advertised. It had shown the truth of your heart, putting it on display for the whole world to see. Gods you were an idiot. Why did you even pick up that damned thing? 

You kept your ears open, listening as everyone made their way to their rooms. Their murmurs never made it past the walls, but the way they paused as they passed your door made it clear enough they were discussing you. Thankfully they were kind enough to leave you be. 

Counting, you waited until all six doors shut before rising to your feet. 

As you did, you felt a small pull at the back of your mind. A vision of a door number and the feeling of anticipation sat on your tongue. The invitation was clear enough; Astarion was waiting for you. 

You wanted to ignore it, but you knew you couldn’t. There was no use in pretending any longer. The game was over and you would have to face the consequences.

With a steeling breath, you walked out the door. You could only hope Astarion wouldn’t hate you when it was all over.

[sugarushwriting]

ot7 vampire enhypen (part three). you are their personal (human) blood bank

ni-ki is out of his damn mind (sigh)

jungwon feeds on a human (you) for the first time

sfw with some nsfw innuendos and interactions (groping, making out)

please reblog, comment and like! but please do not repost or translate! not proof read.

next two parts may have some nsfw scenes

thank u for the love and support!

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

you, jungwon, and jay arrived at the hotel a little while ago to set your stuff in the rooms, then went straight to dinner in the hotel’s restaurant.

that’s when you learned jays father owned the hotel (and many others). and that him (his father) was rich. and that his father was still alive as an even older vampire.

“order whatever you want.” jay said to you and jungwon.

neither you or jungwon knew jungwon was feeding tonight. jay didn’t want either one of you nervous during dinner, making the conversation awkward.

you and jungwon only knew that ni-ki was out of his mind (your words not jays) and it wasn’t safe for you to be in the home. sunoo stayed back at the house, with jake and heeseung taking turns on watch to make sure he behaves (which they know he will, but they have to be safe). sunghoon had to stay back as an elder to keep an eye on ni-ki, but also, they were upping the antics used on him to quickly get the human lust out of his system. they didn’t want you there just in case you heard anything.

after dinner, you felt you could combust at any moment with how much you ate. jay made sure you ate.

the three of you took the elevator back up to the suite you were in. it had 2 separate bedrooms with an en-suite each, a huge balcony overlooking the city, a kitchen, and a living room. you looked up the price of the room on the hotels website and glad you were close with the CEO’s son. ($5,000 a night).

“i need you both to sit on the couch. i need to discuss something important with you two.” jay announced and it worried you and jungwon.

“what’s wrong?” you asked sitting on the big couch, and jungwon sat close to you. again, jay opted to sit on the coffee table in front of you both loosening his tie. oh fuck he looked good doing that.

“jungwon is going to feed on you tonight.” jay ripped the bandage off.

you and jungwon gasped. “jay, i—,”

“you’re ready.” jay cut off jungwon.

then you added with humor, “is that why you fattened me up?”

jay smiled. “i just made sure you ate well.”

you huffed. “why are you just now telling us? do the other boys know?”

“only sunghoon. we didn’t want you both nervous. and jake can’t keep his mouth shut so we decided against to tell any of the others until afterwards.”

“can i at least shower first?”

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

after your shower, you dressed in another one of jays oversized shirts you took from his dresser. you opted out of boxers or pants, and kept it classy with a thong.

you walked out from jays room to the living room, both boys in a hushed conversation, but when they saw you, their attention turned to you.

“where do you want to be? living room or jungwon’s?” jay asked. “i was also thinking after your feed, you sleep in jungwon’s bed tonight. it’ll test his confidence in his ability to control himself.”

jungwon was shaking his head as if he had disagreed with the plan.

“i can do that.” you stated and looked at jungwon who looked at you surprised. you smiled. you trusted him.

“good. you’ll keep the door unlocked. if anything goes wrong i will be able to sense and hear it and i’ll be by your side in a flash.”

you nodded. “okay.”

all three of you went to jungwon’s room, and you laid down.

“how—how do the other guys typically do it?” jungwon asked.

you smiled, sitting up on your arms trying to ease his mind. “well first, where do you want to feed? jays favorite place is classic, my neck. heeseung prefers my hip or waist, or my sides. sunghoon and jake prefer my upper thighs.” you explained.

you lifted your shirt to show the upper part of your thighs. “sunghoon is pretty possessive over my right thigh, but you can share the left with jake if you want.”

“are you sure jake won’t get possessive?” jay snorted.

“i can handle jake.” you said. “so where do you want to feed jungwon?”

“why do you chose the neck?” jungwon asked and looked to jay.

jay blushed and scratched the back of his head. “uh—it’s more intimate.”

“he does it while we’re having sex.” you said, not embarrassed at all.

here’s the thing, you are their blood bank, you are okay with that. but you’re not their sex toy, and jay made sure to get that through your head. if you wanted to have sex with them, fine, but you didn’t have to.

jay was the only one you’ve had full sex with, as you figured out he likes to feed after your orgasm cause it lessens the pain.

jake and sunghoon have both been between your legs, and it wasn’t just to feed.

jungwon swallowed. “i’ll take the left thigh.”

you smiled, “good choice.”

you laid back down, as jay assisted jungwon in making sure to find a thick part of your thigh. jungwon gave a kiss to your inner thigh, but not as close as jake and sunghoon like to be.

“her body will tell you when you’re done. you need to listen to her, not yourself.” jay stated. “if you get out of control, which i doubt you will, i will force you off of her. you may get upset as you’ll be driven by lust.”

jungwon nodded listening attentively.

“hold my hand.” you said to jungwon and he did. “i’ll let you know.”

jungwon was excited but nervous. his first human feed as a newbie. your blood always smelt so fresh, so sweet, so good to him. he couldn’t explain it. it was a different smell, and as the olders explained, you were a different and better taste too.

jungwon kissed your thigh once more, you squeezed his hand in reassurance, and jungwon’s eyes changed and his fangs dropped. his teeth grazed your skin before it broke through.

you immediately groaned in pain, but soon it felt pleasurable as usual. since jungwon was new, he fed a little harsher, through his lips and teeth.

after a few minutes, jungwon felt your body feel different. it’s done. but his mind was telling him not to stop. to drain you of all your blood. or to turn you into what he was.

“jungwon.” jay warned, but jungwon’s ears weren’t listening.

his body and mind wasn’t either. until he heard you.

“wonie, that’s enough.” you sighed through pleasure and squeezed his hand.

he stopped. he reluctantly removed his teeth, instinctively licking where his teeth once were, and kissed it softly. his forehead soon rested against your thigh.

you ran your hand through his hair. “you did good, jungwon.” you praised. jungwon smiled and chuckled.

he looked up at you. then he looked at jay who looked like a proud dad.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

that night you slept in jungwon’s bed with him comfortably. that was until you woke up to him hovering over you, his eyes had turned red. however, the fangs weren’t out.

“jungwon?” you questioned, and he groaned. he groaned like he was in pain and leaned in closer to inhale your scent from your neck. he kissed your neck then sank his human teeth as he nibbled.

it startled you and you yelped. he leaned up eyes staring right at you, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips.

his hand gripped your thigh—hard. “ouch, jungwon.” you groaned and he smiled.

shit.

before you knew it, he pulled your shirt up, and ripped your thong off, his nose going straight to your inner thigh where he last fed.

jay came through the door, but you held out a hand to stop him, and jay listened.

“wonie, look at me.” you pleaded. jungwon looked at you with his red eyes, before his nose ran up your body has he inhaled you.

jay went to move, but you stopped him again. jungwon’s attention turned to jay, and he literally snarled.

“wonie, look at me!” you repeated and took his head in your hands to make eye contact once again. “wonie, are you hungry or do you just miss my taste?”

jungwon closed his eyes, internally battling with himself. “taste—i miss your taste.” he cried through his teeth. he was fighting himself, literally.

“then taste me.” you said, and brought jungwon’s lips to your own.

the kiss was anything but romantic. jungwon was craving you, craving your taste. he was animalistic with the kisses, dominate, often taking your bottom lip in between his teeth.

all while, he was grinding his lower half into you. well, his hard lower half.

you moaned into the kiss, and jungwon took the opportunity to stick his tongue inside your mouth searching for your own tongue. you whimpered just as he used his hands to grab all over your body. he was harshly gripping your thighs, stomach, hips, ass, breasts, anywhere and everywhere as he grinded against your lower half with his. he had a barrier, you didn’t.

the messy make out session didn’t last much longer, as jungwon started to whimper himself, and he stopped grinding as his mouth moved to your neck, stopping the kissing altogether as he took deep breaths.

“it’s ok wonie.” you patted his back and rubbed it. he shook his head.

“im sorry, im sorry, im sorry.” he kept repeating and sniffled. he was still hard as a rock but didn’t move.

“it’s okay—,” you began but again he shook his head.

“jungwon.” jay stated using his authoritative tone.

jungwon got up, “i’ll go shower.” and he immediately ran to his en suite bathroom.

jay quickly came to your side, checking you out. “why did you stop me? it could’ve gone really south.”

“but it didn’t.” you challenged. “you trusted him for a reason and so did i, jay. he stopped. he didn’t feed further, okay?”

“do you want to come sleep with me?”

you shook your head no. “i’m fine jay, i promise.” you told truthfully. you also didn’t want to hurt jungwon, thinking you didn’t trust him anymore.

jay left, and you turned your back to the bathroom, shutting your eyes once more. jungwon’s shower was quick, redressing in nothing more than pajama pants. he smiled at your sleeping figure still in his bed. he got in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissed the back of your neck.

“thank you.” he whispered and you turned to face him, giving him a quick peck on his cheek.

“didn’t know you were so dominating in bed.” you teased and jungwon laughed with a flush to his cheeks.

he rubbed his hand up and down your arm in a soothing gesture. “i’m sorry about that.”

“what matters is that you stopped.” you moved a fringe of his hair. your hand rested on his cheek as you moved your thumb back and forth. you finally took note of his naked chest and smiled. “nice shoulders.” you complimented.

“sorry about your thong.”

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

the next afternoon you three returned to the house. earlier that morning, the university released a statement stating that the incident with the student was an isolated incident and no further danger was present. classes would resume after the weekend.

“what if ni-ki isn’t better?”

“then we kill him.” sunghoon stated with a straight face. you didn’t find him funny.

“he’ll go to a boarding school for newbies who don’t listen.” jay offered as a solution instead.

“that exist?” you and sunoo both asked at the same time.

jay nodded. “yes, in switzerland. my father is on the board of trustees.”

“wait, if you all are up here,”

“he’s fine by himself for now. we knocked him out with something to shut his ass up while his body detoxes.”

“sunghoon!” you scolded.

“any way,” jake changes the subject, “how was the night away at the fancy hotel?”

“it was good.” you and jungwon both said together, then looked at each other and smiled.

“jungwon fed on her.” jay said. “he did good controlling himself. and she did good keeping him grounded.”

“no way!” jakes thick accent came out as he clapped jungwon on the shoulder. “how was it? where did you feed?”

“her thigh.”

“better not be the right thigh.” sunghoon stated, eyes narrowed.

“and the left is better?” jake questioned. “how come you get a thigh to yourself?”

“i’m an elder.”

“alright old man.” jake teased.

“was it scary” sunoo asked jungwon.

jungwon shook his head. “not like i thought.”

you patted jungwon’s head, “he did good and didn’t hurt me.” you smiled.

then jungwon suddenly remembered, “did yall know jay only feeds when he’s being intimate with her?”

you snorted at jungwon saying intimate like he was scared to say the word sex.

jay and heeseung look surprised. sunoo looked disgusted like it was way tmi. sunghoon wasn’t fazed.

“sadly i did.”

you looked at sunghoon confused. you were never loud.

“baby doll, vampire hearing.”

“well shit.”

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

[fastboatsmojito]

just saw ur scott reblog gRAAAHH WOOF WOOF anyway !!! and it inspired me to request something <3 (love ur writing btw) pls write something with scott and how big he is 😣 a lil suggestive if u know what i mean 🙈

OHH YOU GET IT SO HARD + thank you so much !! 🫶🏼🫶🏼 whenever someone says they like my writing i get so giddy, it’s just the sweetest 😞

Anyways!!! Absolutely, thank you for fueling my obsession with this large man 💓

Just some scattered Scott x reader thoughts really

|CW; somewhat suggestive, he calls you girl once ☝🏼 incredibly obvious size kink from both parties whoops, he’s pretty canon-accurately an asshole, + suggested dom/sub relationship stuff??? Kinda??? Like not really but a little bit??? idk how else to tag that lmao. Obviously there’s a size difference here but it’s not specific, you could really just be shorter than him and it’d work just the same mwah <33

The first time you really notice is a total accident, you got caught up in the sight of the storm in front of you, not even given time to react to his stern “get in.” before he’s picking you up and putting you back in the car.

“What the hell was that?” He snapped, figuratively and literally as you blankly stare at him, still focused on how effortlessly he carried you back to the car.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know, it was just so close-“

“Yeah, no shit it was close. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. You have to pay more attention than that.”

You just nodded, staring at the way his hands flexed as he drove away, suddenly aware of the drastic contrast between the two of you. He picked you up like it was nothing, which was nothing considering the size of him, you just hadn’t thought about it in that way before.

——

He doesn’t think anything of it for a while, chalking your lingering glances up to his over-analytical mind, until you unintentionally piss him off with it.

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” He was right in your face, arms crossed over his chest as he bitterly chewed his gum, working himself up even more when you couldn’t give him a direct answer.

“If you can’t do your job ‘cause you’re too busy staring at me or whatever the fuck, I’ll have to move you to Javi’s team. Got it?” He barked, shaking his head as he stormed off.

As soon as he realizes why you’ve been staring at him, it’s over.

You were at the diner with the rest of the team, smiling as you walked to the table, bumping into some hard, tall, figure in front of you on the way.

He turned to steady you, big hands landing on your waist. “You ever try paying attention to what you’re doing? It’s pretty helpful.” He was a dick, sure. But you still found yourself focusing more on the feeling of his hands and the way your face warmed up at his assertive tone.

“You ever try not being an asshole?” You rolled your eyes at him before you walked away, but he didn’t miss the pause, or the way your breath picked up at his words. He put it together then, having been so caught up in work he didn’t realize just how tolerable you were getting, his hands constantly drifting towards you absentmindedly whenever you were close enough.

——

He usually went to work to get his job done and go home which was made clear, but after a while he got carried away. Comfortable enough being around you to end up reluctantly carrying you out of the car one night.

He tried to wake you up, met with sleepy grunts and you repositioning yourself before falling back to sleep.

He wanted to just leave you in the car, give you a blanket or ‘whatever’ but it was too cold, and you were in some small town he didn’t know well enough. He rolled his eyes as he took you out, large, rough hands a nice juxtaposition to the way he gently lifted you up.

He had to bring you to his room, not sure of where your room key was and not interested in dealing with your mood if he woke you back up.

He laid you down on the bed, throwing the blanket over you before taking off his work shirt and getting ready to begrudgingly sleep on the couch in his own room.

He went to turn off the lights, groaning when he saw you sit up, whining and stretching your arms.

“You know your necks gonna hurt if you sleep on that couch, Scotty. C’mere.” You sleepily muttered, patting the bed next to you.

He knew it was a bad idea, not missing the new nickname as he put his face in his hands, too exhausted to argue and too self-aware to disregard the attitude he’d have if he woke up to you in his bed and a sore neck.

“Jesus Christ. Alright, fine. One time. Don’t make it weird.” He gruffed as he turned the light off before slipping into bed next to you.

You were facing him as he faced the ceiling, his arms crossed firmly along his chest like some grumpy old man, still awake and motionless when you cuddled into him in your sleep.

——

After that he’s basically torturing you until you say it out loud. Putting his hands on your waist all casual to move past you, refusing to acknowledge any of it first.

Both of his hands were on your shoulders as he crouched down to be eye level with you, losing his patience after he caught you staring at his arms when he was trying to talk to you.

“If you want something, you’ll have to use your words like a big girl and ask for it. All this pouty, wordless shit won’t work with me. I need you to listen to me when I talk to you.” He spat condescendingly, minty gum popping in your ears. He grabbed your chin between his thumb and pointer when you shook your head.

“No? I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me what you want. I’m not about to guess.” You squeezed your eyes shut to get away from his intense stare.

“I don’t want to say it here.” You barely whispered, opening your eyes when he sighed.

“Damn it.” He breathed before pausing, standing up tall and scanning over the parking lot you were in.

“Alright, come on.” He said bluntly before grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Scott-“ You pouted as he swept you back to his motel room.

“Just shut up and let me help you out for once, yeah?”

-

I need him so bad

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

End Game 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: this wasn't my planned update but here we go.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your grandmother is where she always is. In her chair reading her book. She doesn’t look up and you don’t bother saying a word. She’s getting exactly what she’s always wanted and she doesn’t even realise it. She’s getting rid of you. Another thing you’ve done for her that she’ll never acknowledge. 

You go into your room and look around. You sit on the bed and examine each wall. You’re not going to miss this place, just your freedom. There is no illusion left around Andy. He’s shown how far he’ll go to make his will your own. You don’t expect him to ‘take care of you’ as he keeps promising, not in the way it sounds. 

You huff and hold your head. You’re not going to sleep. You don’t have time to. You have to figure out what to take with you. What do you tell your grandmother? She won’t care either way, will she. She’ll finally have her empty nest. At least someone will have what they want. 

You don’t have much to your name. Your switch, your headset, controllers; that’s the expensive stuff. Your clothes are mostly used, easily replaceable. You’re not really worried about dressing up. 

You spend the hours going through every little nook and cranny. You’re not sentimental, you don’t have much that it more than material. Only a box of keepsakes from the few years of your life; a friendship bracelet the neighbour girl gave you before she moved away, some meaningless award you won in grade school for attendance, and the only thing left to you by your parents, besides resent; a baby sweater you wore when they thought they could love you. 

You fit everything you’re taking in a single bag. The rest you box up and drag out to the curb. In the early hours, the house is quiet and you try not to make too much noise. Your grandmother’s snores stir from her room. She’s blissfully ignorant just as always. 

You strip the bed and put the sheets and blanket in the wash. Hopefully you can switch it over before you go. You wipe down the furniture with a wet cloth and dust the corners and the empty closet. You’re covered in sweat and breathless by the time you have the entire space barren. You’re so tired you’re dizzy but closing your eyes only brings Andy’s voice to mind. 

There’s a creak and you raise your head as the ripples dissipate. Your grandmother slouches as she clings to the door handle and scowls. She looks around the room and her grey brow twitches. 

“Eh, what’re you doing?” She growls, “making all this noise.” 

“Leaving,” you shrug. 

“Leaving? To where?” 

You’re dumbfounded she’s even asked. You sit up and show your hands, “gotta go back to school soon anyway so I’m going to crash with Kara. I’ll leave money on the table when I go.” 

“Oh.” 

That’s all she says before she goes. She believes you only because she doesn’t care enough to doubt you. You hang your head and sigh. You can’t help but think of what Andy said. You hate to admit it but he’s right. There’s no one else who wants you. It doesn’t make him a better option, just the only. 

Thinking makes your head hurt. Or maybe that’s the lack of sleep. You check your phone and wrap up the charging cord. Morning already. Nearly 7am. You spent hours clearing out your old life; a life that was never really living. 

There’s a message waiting for you. Two. Both from Andy. The first is a good night you never answered and the second from just twenty minutes ago, asking if you’re awake. You send a thumbs up. That’s all you can handle right now. 

The call comes almost as soon as the message sends and the check mark turns blue. You answer without hesitation. Your so numb to the inevitability of it all, there’s no sense in avoiding any of it. You just want this over with even though you know it won’t be. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Andy purrs from the other end. Your throat clenches and your cheeks tug into a frown. “How are you?” 

You go to speak and cough, your mouth dry. You clear your throat and rub your forehead as it throbs with the effort, “awake. Packed.” 

“Oh, honey, you sound tired.” 

“Mm,” you hum flatly. 

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he says, “I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” He pauses, waiting for the lies you won’t give him. “Well, when do you wanna head out? Do you need a little more time?” 

“Ready,” you utter. Not really ready but resigned.  

“Sure, sweetheart, I’ll just get myself together and be over in twenty minutes, how does that sound?” 

Why is he asking you like you have a choice? You garble an agreement and hang up. You put the phone down as you sit on the naked mattress and stare. Your head is swimming with fatigue. As you close your eyes, the fear returns. You’re really doing this. 

You fold over your lap and whimper. It’s over, not that it ever really begun. Not that you were ever really expected much. You just wanted to be your own person, have your own space, make your own way. For once in your life, you just wanted to be you. 

Andy isn’t going to let that happen. You don’t know him but you know he wants you to be something you aren’t. Whether it’s delusion or cruelty, you don’t know, but you know something isn’t right. It can never be right. 

You get up and unlock your phone. You key in a message with the last of your strength; ‘meet me at the corner’. You don’t think she’ll bother herself but you wouldn’t want your grandma to see the truth. You’re not sure she’d even care enough to judge you. 

You come out as she grumbles into a coffee cup. You roll your bag behind you and grab your jacket from the hook by the door; a light canvas one you wear in the mornings when the dew chills the air. She stares at the television as the news blares at her. 

“Here,” you take out the little bit of cash you have left to your name and place it on the table at her elbow, “I’m... going now.” 

“Erm,” she grunts and slurps the coffee. She doesn’t even look at you. Should you tell her you’re not coming back? You leave your keys with the money 

You just turn and pull your bag after you to the door, stopping only to put your shoes on. You open the front door and step out into the soft hues of morning. It would be a beautiful day if the world hadn’t gone gray. 

Your bag wheels scratch the pavement behind you, the whole thing jostling at the end of the long handle. You head down to the corner and park yourself on the curb, waiting as your eyes rove the area. You take it all in; the fences, the hedges, the cracked birdbath, and the few welcome signs on doors. 

The low whir of an engine approaches. You know without looking it’s him. But you do. You have to face it. 

“Hey,” Andy steps out as you stand on the curb. “Let me get this, sweetheart.” 

He reaches back inside the car and hits a switch. The trunk opens on its own. Is it pathetic that you’re kind of impressed by that? You’ve only seen trunks that you open with your hands. He lifts your bag inside easily and taps another button, the hatch closing slowly behind him. 

“Come on, you look beat,” he touches your shoulder and you flinch, curling inward as you shake his hand away. “I brought you a coffee. Not the hotel brew, the good stuff.” 

You numbly follow him around to the other side. He opens the car door and you stare at the interior. You take a breath and grab the trim of the door and haul yourself inside. You drop heavily into the seat and your head bounces against the rest. 

He lingers. You feel his gaze on you. He’s expecting something you can’t give him. Not yet. You don’t know if ever. You let out a murmur as he leans in to kiss your cheek. You fight not to show your disgust. 

“Just relax. I’ll drive, you get some sleep, sweetheart,” he caresses your arm. You don’t react. Not a look, not a flinch. 

He shuts the door and walks along the hood. You watch him through the windshield. He’s wearing one of those suits. Dark navy slacks and white shirt with a black tie. You let your head loll and see the matching jacket folded neatly in the back seat. 

He gets in the car, his weight felt in the axle. He hits the button to wake the engine and buckles his belt. He glances over. 

“Hey, safety first.” 

You huff. He's acting like the dad you never had. You click the seat belt into place and turn your face to the window. He inhales deeply and lets it out slow before he puts the SUV into gear. 

“You say goodbye to grandma?” 

“Mm... mhmm,” you grumble. 

“She’ll miss you, huh?” 

Your lip curls and you hide your face as you focus on the houses rolling slowly by. Why is he playing this game? Did he not throw her apathy in your face to get here? 

“Did you bring your switch? We could play some at the hotel,” he offers. 

You close your eyes and ball your fists. It takes everything you have left not to scream and hit him. It’s like he’s rubbing it in. He won! He won! 

And you lost. Just like always. 

“What about Kara?” You ask crisply. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re hoarse. Try some of the coffee,” he reaches to flick the top of a travel mug. You narrow your eyes as you follow the gesture. The purplish pink metal is topped with a white plastic lid. On the side, the outline of a game controller is patterned on the multicoloured finish. “It’s a good brew. Only a few places I’ve found have it. I’ll take you to the shop back home once you’re settled.” 

You’re not arguing with him. You’ve seen how far that gets you. You take the cup and pop the tab on top. You take a tentative sip as you feel the heat within. 

“I added some sugar,” he says. 

“I don’t like sugar,” you snap the lid shut and put the lid back. 

“Oh, sorry, sweetheart,” he chuckles, “guess we have a lot to learn about each other.” 

“Kara,” you insist again. 

He sighs and taps his fingers on the wheel, “I called last night. They’re holding her so we can pay the bond.” 

We? He’s not subtle. You sniff as your back racks with the sort of achiness that comes from being so tired. 

“I’ll talk to them. Get the charges knocked down. If anything, I can get them piled onto that boy she keeps around. He’s trouble, if I’ve ever seen it--” 

“Seen?” You echo, “have you... seen him?” 

He hesitates and his cheek dimples under his dark beard. He stares at the road ahead as his lips move as if he’s talking silently. Finally, he answers. 

“I only wanted to make sure you were safe. I know better than any that hanging out with the wrong crowd can get you into a lot of trouble--” 

“No, Andy, tell me. Were you watching her too?” You sit up with effort. 

“You should sleep, it’s a long drive,” he girds. 

“Andy, tell me--” 

“I had too. You cut me off and I had to be sure you were okay,” he insists. “And you weren’t. Not really. Sweetheart, things are going to be a lot better. Together. You just can’t see it right now because you never--” 

“Oh, I know what I’ve never had,” you fall back and slump against the door, “you don’t need to keep reminding me.” 

A roiling silence fills the compartment. He exhales again and slows as his blinker clicks noisily. He turns onto the next road as you feel his anxiety. Or maybe it’s your own. 

“I’m sorry. I only want...” he trails of as he measures his words, “I want to take care of you. To give you all that stuff. I don’t want you to feel bad.” 

“I’m tired,” you snip and fold your arms. 

“Right,” he says tensely, “yeah, get some sleep. Easier to talk after.” 

Talk? You’re done talking to him. He only says the same thing over and over again.  

[bwabys-scenarios]

Breeding/Pregnancy sex HCs with Kurapika!!

!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!

warnings: breeding, pregnancy sex, lactation, overstimulation, creampies(like a lot of them), Kurapika drinks your milk, he calls you mommy, cockwarming

taglist: @desiray562 @lovelyxkazuha @ashdownunderscorebeloved @stygianoir

if you would like to be added to the NSFW taglist, comment a ❤️!! make sure you have your AGE in your bio, and that you’re able to be tagged/mentioned!

-Kurapika finally letting it be known he intends on getting you pregnant

-He’s fucking into you, pulling away from your lips to gaze into your eyes. “So pretty, so fucking pretty… gonna fill you up… gonna be so pretty with a baby bump…”

-“F-fuck… gonna be such a good mommy, oh fuck! Taking my cock so good…”

-And he’s panting, so pussy drunk that he just says “mommy, mommy… such a good mommy… “ over and over…

-You swear Kurapika is ovulating when you are, because the entire time he’s just like “GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT!!!”

-He keeps a log of your period and when you go into ovulation. And he just stuffs you full of cum the entire time, and he cannot keep his hands off of you.

-“Pika it’s like you’re in heat or something. I’m the one that’s supposed to be super horny!!”

-You wake up to him sleepily rutting into you while shoving his hand up your shirt.

-“Pika… sleepy…”

-“Shh, shh… gotta… gotta fill you up, okay?”

-And you whine, your tummy is already so full of cum and you’re sore, but he just feel so good inside you, and it helps when he reaches an arm around to rub at your clit.

-“See, angel? Feels good, doesn’t it? I’ll take care of you, don’t worry, okay?”

-And he presses a kiss to your temple, before snuggling into your warmth, his hips plapping against your ass.

-Sometimes he likes to press down on your tummy and watch his cum ooze out. “Aww… looks like I’ll have to fill you up again, sweetheart. You leaked all over the bed…”

-“P-Pika… please, too full…”

-“Angel, there’s plenty of room now. Now come on and stick your tongue out for me.”

-Kurapika sucks on your tongue as he continues pounding into you, his hands massaging your doughy thighs.

-Kurapika has a pretty high stamina, and can go as many rounds as you want.

-One night, he’s been going for nearly three hours, and you’re so so sleepy. You whimper as he cums inside you again, only to feel him continue moving shortly after.

-“Kurapikaaa I’m sleepy…”

-He shushes you with a few kisses. “I know angel, just one more time okay?”

-And you pout. “That’s what you said thirty minutes ago…”

-“I know, I know… I just can’t help myself… you keep sucking me back in angel, you’re just so pretty when you’re all full of my cum.”

-He’ll hold you so gently as he pounds into your cunt, making you whine.

-You’re not getting any sleep anytime soon…

-He can go on for hours, his record being 6. Though he’ll stop if you genuinely want him to, before that he’s going to keep going until you’re stuffed.

-Besides, isn’t it better to have a fresh, warm load of cum fill you up? He just wants to take care of his precious angel!

-He’s the type of mfker who will make you sit with you hips on a pillow while he leaves to grab you a snack and drink. “I’ll be right back angel, try to stay still.”

-And he’s so sweet and doting after you’ve taken so much of his cum. Will feed you snacks and cuddle you as much as you want

-He’s also the type to try and plug you up again with his cock.

-“Shh, shh, I know you’re sleepy. I won’t move, just gotta make sure none gets out, princess.”

-And you’ll try your best to fall asleep while he’s balls deep inside of you, but it’s not exactly easy when he sleepily ruts into you in the middle of the night

-It doesn’t take long for you to get pregnant. And after that the doting just increase tenfold.

-And when you’re pregnant he is so sweet. He’s so gentle and will take good care of you. When he’s there you’re always in his lap so he can feel your baby bump and massage your aching back and feet.

-He’ll scold you for still chasing around Killua and Gon, but yell at them even more later for making you do so. Leorio comes over regularly to give you check ups. The boys watch from the hallways anxiously, Kurapika holding your hand as Leorio gives you a clean bill of health.

-Kurapika discovers that if he hits a certain spot when he’s fucking into you while you’re pregnant, you’ll leak milk… makes him go feral.

-he NEEDS to squish and knead your breasts, squirting your milk onto his tongue. It doesn’t take him long to actually latch on, taking your sweet milk from the source.

-he gets hard when he sees you leaking through your shirt… “let me take care of that, angel…”

-he needs to keep you on his cock throughout your pregnancy. lots of cockwarming and cuddling. he’ll read to you and the baby while he keeps you sat on his cock, gently running his hand over your baby bump. honestly this is just how he feels the most connected to you, and it’s so comfy for him.

-He’ll just coo in your ear as he rubs your baby bump, occasionally bouncing you gently. “My beautiful angel, such a good mommy.”

-After your pregnancy honestly you end up feeling a lil empty because you got so used to him just pulling you over to the couch and sitting you on his cock

[rachelsfav-queer]

Late night wenclair thoughts cause I can’t sleep lol

Just like the good old days 👍

So a personal HC that I’ve had for a bit now is that due to the Addams Family curse plus Enid’s werewolf status introducing potential mate stuff, that Wednesday and Enid, after Crackstone’s attack, are literally inseparable to the point that if they aren’t literally clinging onto each other, they both get pretty severe separation anxiety.

It starts off pretty tame, cause Wednesday’s curse and Enid’s wolf instincts take a while to really build up. But by the time that they’re back at Nevermore together, they are very noticeably closer to each other, physically and otherwise. But it’s still subtle enough to be just a product of the events of the last semester to anyone not familiar with the two girls and their genealogies. But anyone that is can easily connect the dots of their newly sprouting connection to each other.

As time goes on, a slow progression leads to Wednesday and Enid getting clingier to each other to the point that they’re both easily engaging in physical contact with each other even in public. Holding hands, leaning against each other at meals, and hugging. So much hugging. The sight of Wednesday Addams is nearly shocking to the whole student body, if it were anyone other than Nevermore’s own bouncing ball of sunshine Enid Sinclair herself. Nobody would dare comment on it, lest they lose a hand, but it was clear that the two girls were each other’s soft spot. Beyond what happened the night of the blood moon, it was clear they had an indescribable connection to each other that was certainly not to be trifled with. Residents of Nevermore honestly could not decide who was scarier when pissed off, especially when it came to the safety of the other.

By the end of the semester, the raven and werewolf duo are nearing the upper limits of their bond, with Wednesday just straight up sitting in Enid’s lap at almost all times and the two wrapping their arms around each other anytime they were walking anywhere. Accommodations had already been arranged months ago when a teacher had quite foolishly tried to separate Wednesday and Enid to opposite sides of the classroom and Enid had nearly fully wolfed out in broad daylight and nowhere near the full moon and Wednesday had almost a full blown meltdown of her own.

Surprisingly enough, it was the rest of their classmates that had given that teacher a verbal lashing that would be spoken of for multiple generations of students at the school. It was clear that Wednesday and Enid had earned a certain reputation amongst the school’s student body and it wasn’t one of fear or shunning, but rather the two girls had sacrificed nearly everything both for each other and the entire school. Just because Wednesday and Enid could more than handle themselves, they had plenty of allies now to stand by them when necessary.

So now, Wednesday and Enid are given accommodations that allow them to remain close at all possible times. And after some not-so-subtle encouragement from some of their friends (Yoko nearly tearing her hair out as she screamed “JUST KISS HER ALREADY YOU OBLIVIOUS, GAY-AS-FUCK GOTH GIRL!”) Wednesday and Enid came together and easily became Nevermore’s most popular couple, much to Wednesday’s chagrin from all the attention. Thankfully their friend group was almost scarily good at ensuring the young couple had plenty of privacy and space from the rest of the school to be together.

And um my brain is empty now so I’ll end it here lol. Hope y’all liked this. I’ll reblog it later so people can see it lol.

[gloxk]

Mommy’s special Remedy.

Kinktober ♡

A/N: this is something quick for kinktober. Gojo and Reader have a kid(s) (I absolutely adore baby daddy Gojo). I was listening to All Night Long by Thuy (listen to it after the cut. yw.) And when the part that says “Ima kiss both pairs of lips” UGHHH NEED. I love men that will get down and eat you like there’s no tomorrow. Enjoy! Like and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Not proofread. F/M.

filthy smut under the cut.

———————————————————

“Baby, do you think I’d look good with a beard?”. He rubbed his stubble while looking in the mirror. It was early in the morning when you both got out of the shower. Your kids still sleeping in the room next to yours. You grabbed a towel and loosely wrapped it around your body. “Of course you would. You’d look good with anything.” You hummed, leaving a light kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t know, I just might need some help growing it out.” He smirked at you, trailing kisses on your neck. His expression was undeniably promiscuous, his lips stretching from ear to ear. “Sure, I’ll pick you up some beard-growing stuff when I go to the store.” You completely supported his decision, a beard wouldn’t be half bad. You didn’t think it was possible but maybe it would make him more attractive.

“We got a beard-growing kit at home though?” He rubbed your shoulders maintaining eye contact in the mirror. “No Satoru, you’re not using MY hair oil for your beard.” You emphasized “my”. That hair oil was too goddamn expensive to be wasted. “I need mommy’s special remedy. I don’t need any oil. You got exactly what I need.” You were confused about what he meant. You didn’t have a remedy. “What are you talking about? What remedy?” You were unsure of what he meant. You turned to face him, your lips unexpectedly clashing together. “Mmhpm!” You were shocked that he kissed you so suddenly. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. His hands gripped your ass and placed you on the bathroom counter. He slowly kissed your neck while undoing your towel.

He got down on his knees and hummed softly at the sight. His hands began to part you like the Red Sea. He stares at your cunt for a while before he licks your lips. “Toru- it’s too early for this.” you moaned in between each lick he gave you. “Are you denying me breakfast? Is it a crime to eat?” His hands held your thighs in place as his tongue went to work. Licking and devouring each drop of the liquid you expelled. Eating you like it was his last meal. His fingers dived into your heat mixing and mingling with your slick, creating a lewd sloshing noise. “Mm..fuck.” You moaned out as his tongue continued to dance over your clit. He had no intention of stopping until you were begging him. Your fingers indulged in his white locs. Pulling and tugging at them as you were on the break of release. Your mind was infatuated with the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t run from his hunger as it somehow found its way to you. It was like being a fish on a hook, no matter how much you tried to pull away he would always reel you back in. His nails dug into your thighs scraping the skin, leaving a brutal red streak. “God I can’t get enough of this.” He growled. Your toes curled as his tongue swirled around your pussy. His fingers thrust in and out of you faster than before.

You were a moaning mess, hollering his name begging for that sweet release. He finally gave you what you craved the most. You threw your head back nearly hitting the glass mirror. His tongue slowed its pace and his fingers slid out of you. He put them in his mouth sucking them slowly in a seductive manner. He made sure your main focus was his tongue wrapping around his middle and ring finger. “You make me fucking insane Toru.” You pulled him closer as you were nearly begging for him to take you right there and fuck you silly. “How do you think I feel about you?” His hand clasped around your breast rubbing his thumb against your nipple. Your hands went to his towel to pull it off while kissing him. “Mhm. Show me how insane you are about me.” Your eyes instantaneously lock together. One thing Satoru knew about you was that your eyes spoke louder than anything. And right now they were screaming “Fuck me.” His hand went straight to your thighs once again, slowly slipping between them.

“Mommy! we’re hungry. Are you gonna make breakfast?” Both of you immediately turned to face the door your child was at. You both shared a look of complete horror. “Oh! Yes, Mommy’s coming. I’ll be right there.” you pushed Satoru away and hurriedly put on your clothes. “Satoru, what do you want to eat?” His eyes were still fixed on your naked body. “I’m full, I’ve had my breakfast.” He winked at you leaving a kiss on your neck. “But if you’re on the menu I wouldn’t mind eating one more time.” His arms wrapped around your waist, trapping you in a long hug. “I hate you,” you mumble under your breath as you put on your panties. “Woah there be careful. last time you said that you got pregnant.” He looked back at the mirror to see your flabbergasted expression. His smug face never changed. He waltz out the door leaving you to soak in what he said.

“The beard better be worth it.” You walked out the door on the way to your kitchen.

——————————————————

I MIGHT make a Part 2. We shall see how well this goes.

[sixhours]

One Day at a Time - Chapter 6 - Transition

Author's note: Good news! The rest of this will probably be posted today, with the exception of an epilogue I haven't had the guts to write. When I do, it will be posted as a separate work, and it's not necessary to wrap up this story. Thank you for reading! Your comments and reblogs are feeding me. <3

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel Miller x f!OFC, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, SMUT, gratuitous smut, dubious consent (drunk sex), unplanned pregnancy, fluff, references to past miscarriages, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, age gap (~21 years), childbirth, fluffy baby stuff, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

After weeks of sleeping on the narrow, lumpy mattress in Ellie’s old room, his back finally gives out.

He’s reaching for the coffee pot and something about how he moves his shoulder causes a domino effect of rippling pain that starts at the nape of his neck and ends by setting his sciatic nerve on fire, every muscle along his spine locking up tighter than a fist.

He barely makes it to the couch, easing himself down to a prone position with a groan that he hopes Charlie can’t hear from the bedroom.

Her footsteps echo on the stairs.

No such luck.

“Did someone just die down here?”

“M’fine,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Just my back.”

“What happened?“

Ellie chooses that moment to come through the front door. “Joel? I need a–”

“He’s on the couch. Think his back gave out,” Charlie says, now standing over him, looking concerned.

Ellie’s face pokes over the back of the couch. “Again, old man?”

“M’fine,” he repeats, trying to roll to his side to try to stand, but that only aggravates the nerve and sends a ripple of spasms up his traitorous spine. “Fuck!”

“Should I go find Maria?” Ellie asks. “Those pills she had worked last time–”

“No, I just…need to rest for a minute,” he grumbles, knowing full well he’s out of commission until someone finds him a muscle relaxant.

“Is he always like this?” Charlie asks.

“Pretty much,” Ellie says, too quickly for Joel’s liking.

“I’ll go find Maria,” Charlie says, surprising them both when she takes Joel’s hand and gives it a tender squeeze. Ellie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself again. I’ll be back,” she addresses Ellie before heading out the door.

When Charlie is gone, Ellie plops into the armchair and leans forward, an almost predatory smirk on her face.

“So…is she your girlfriend yet?”

“S’not like–”

“If you say ‘it’s not like that’ one more time, I’ll take the damn pills myself,” she says.

Joel groans. “Do we have to do this now?”

“Got ya right where I want ya,” she says. “Spill it, dude.”

“No, we’re not…I don’t…I dunno,” he grumbles.

“You ‘don’t know?’”

“S’what I said,” he grits his teeth against another wave of pain, forcing himself to lie absolutely still. “It’s complicated.”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “That’s just what grown-ups say when they don’t want to tell you the truth.”

He winces. “Yeah. Well, the truth is…it’s complicated.”

She sighs. “Are you sleeping together?”

“That’s none of your–”

“Just saying, if you’re fucking her, she’s probably your girlfriend. So it’s not that complicated.”

“Ellie, I’m not havin’ this conversation,” he growls, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Well, you should probably figure it out before the baby gets here.”

He can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t.

“It’s gonna be weird…having a baby around,” she says thoughtfully. “Remember how bad Tommy was after Izzy was born? When he kept putting Maria’s breastmilk in his coffee by accident?”

Joel snorts. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You’re gonna be busy,” she says. “Babies are a lot of work.”

Even in his pain, he picks up on the unspoken question in her voice. He softens. He wants to sit up so he can look at her, but his back protests. Instead, he reaches blindly for her hand.

“C’mere.”

There’s a reluctant pause, and then she’s standing beside him, slipping her fingers into his.

“I know I haven’t been, uh…great…lately. M’sorry.”

She shrugs, biting at her lower lip.

“Truth is…I was just gettin’ used to the idea of bein’ your dad, and now with the baby…”

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s a lot. An’ I know it’s prob’ly a lot for you, too.”

Her voice is too light, like she’s trying to cover something up. “You’ll have a real kid soon.”

He frowns and gives her an experimental pinch between her thumb and index finger. “Dunno. You feel pretty real to me.”

“You know what I mean,” she says softly, and he feels it in his heart, a twinge more powerful than any back spasm. He grips her fingers tighter.

“It’ll be different for a while…and yeah, I’m not gonna get much sleep. Prob’ly be…distracted. But it’s still you and me, kid,” he says. “An’ I’m always gonna be here.”

His back takes that moment to seize up again and he hisses. “Shit, sorry.”

She sighs, but there’s a smile in it. “At this rate, you’re always gonna be here on the couch .”

“What’d you need, anyway?” he groans, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, a hammer.”

“What for?”

“Cat found me this new poster, was gonna hang it in my room.”

“There’s one in my toolbox; s’by the door,” he says. “Just put it back when you’re done.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not gonna hurt yourself again, are you? Your girlfriend’ll have my ass.”

His answering glare has no effect and she leaves him, laughing.

Charlie returns with the pills a few minutes later, and he swallows two of them eagerly before she can fetch a glass of water. Then he hears her rummaging around up in the bedroom. She comes back with a heating pad.

“Found it at the post,” she explains. “Your kid is killing my hips. Lift up.”

Your kid.

He frowns. “I don’t need—“

“Spare me,” she sighs. “Lift up.”

So he does, still grumbling, and she slides the pad under his lower back and plugs the cord into the wall. It’s instantly warm, oozing heat up his spine, and the muscles slowly start to unwind. He can’t hold back a groan of relief.

“It’s the bed, isn’t it?” she sighs, easing herself into the armchair.

“No,” he says too quickly. “Strained it at work. Tommy’s got us workin’ doubles to get the new barns up.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe you should consider moving back into your room.”

“Not kickin’ you out,” he scoffs.

“I’d stay there, too.”

He side-eyes her. “No playin’ house, remember?”

“I think we might have crossed that line already,” she murmurs, quirking her lips.

Then she’s up and doing something in the kitchen, and Joel tries to focus on letting the heat work its magic. He knows the muscle relaxant has kicked in when he can roll over slightly and it doesn’t make his back seize. He tries to sit up, but Charlie is instantly at his side, holding him down by the shoulders.

“Gotta work,” he mutters weakly.

“Nuh-uh. I already told Tommy you’re out of commission,” she says.

“The hell’d you do–”

“You’re not good at letting people take care of you, are you?”

He grunts. “Says you .”

“Yeah, we have that in common. Not so much fun on the other side, huh?” she murmurs.

She plunks down a mug of coffee, a glass of juice, and a plate of eggs and toast on the table next to him, then puts a DVD in the player and hands him the remote.

“Stay,” she commands. “I’m at the post all day, but I’ll bring you lunch on my break. You’d better be horizontal when I get back.”

He wants to complain, but the pills have made him slow, and she’s out the door before he can think of a response.

The coffee is black and strong, just the way he likes it. The juice is awful–it’s green, some combination of things from the garden–but he chokes it down anyway, thinking of Sarah and her vitamins.

And then he passes out because he forgot that taking muscle relaxants on an empty stomach will do that. He wakes a few hours later, mouth dry and tasting of that awful juice, to find a paper bag and a note from Charlie have replaced the food and drinks on the table.

It’s a sandwich. Take another dose if you need it. I’ll be home by 6.

He’s pleasantly surprised to find he can sit up. Sure, the noise he makes in the process is unflattering, and he’s not going to be doing cartwheels anytime soon, but it’s an improvement.

This time, he eats the sandwich before he takes the second dose and manages to stay awake until Charlie gets home, but his head swims and he barely makes it halfway through their nightly movie. He wakes to her tugging gently on his hand.

“Come to bed.”

He’s too tired to protest. He lets her lead him to his bedroom, lets her pull back the covers and tuck him into bed, lets her wrap her body around his.

“You just wanna take advantage of me,” he slurs lightly into her hair.

She snorts a laugh. “Yes, Joel. This was my grand plan. For you to knock me up and throw your back out so I could keep you as my sex slave.”

“Mmmff. Knew it.”

“Go to sleep, old man,” she murmurs, nuzzling into his chest until he can feel her smile against his skin.

Sometimes Charlie is so distant, it’s like she isn’t there at all. She stares into space and he has to say her name four or five times before she hears him. Sometimes he has to physically touch her to bring her back, and then she looks at him as though he’s a stranger.

After the second or third time, he recognizes it as the disassociation of grief. He lost days of his life after Sarah was taken from him, days where he existed in body only, when Tess or Tommy would have to pull him back from the edge of a deep, dark pit. He’d wake up unable to remember how he’d gotten to bed or find himself in the middle of a fight with no idea how he’d gotten there. It might have scared him if he thought he had something to lose.

Those are the nights she needs him.

He knows he should turn her away. He knows he’s using her as much as she’s using him. But she comes alive when they’re together, and he tells himself it helps, and maybe it does.

He takes half as many showers.

Tonight, she arches back into him as he thrusts into her on her side from behind, curled around her body, heady with the feeling of being surrounded by her, all soft skin and warmth. She’s murmuring into his palm, slicking her tongue around his fingers, sucking them into her wet mouth and humming. His other hand rubs flutter-like circles against her clit the way he knows she likes.

She’s three orgasms deep and still hungry, panting and pleading, more, there, so close, please .

And then she comes hard, clenching around him and wrenching a hoarse name from her throat.

Not his name.

It barely registers until she’s scrambling away to sit at the edge of the bed, still trembling from the aftershocks, pulling the sheet across her naked chest.

“Shit, shit, shit, I’m sorry,” she gasps.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, reaching out to pull her back against him, but she jerks away from his touch.

“Fuck,” she grits out, followed by a low, keening sob. “Shit. Fuck.”

Some part of him has always known; the way her eyes clamp shut at the critical moment, the way she positions him and guides him and takes and takes and takes, the way she asks to forget, to pretend. Joel knows it’s foolish to think she needed him and not just the idea of him: a warm body, a working cock and fingers and tongue.

“Charlie, it’s–”

Her muffled sob cracks something in his heart. Then she’s locking herself in the bathroom before he can find his feet.

Shit.

He gets out of bed and pulls on his boxers, goes to the closed door. “Charlie?”

“Go away.”

He rolls his eyes. “Dammit, I’m not…mad.”

Silence.

“I don’t care if you…if you need…if you…fuck,” he hisses. “Just talk t’me.”

Her voice is so faint it barely registers. “I can’t.”

“Okay, you don’t have to, but…can you at least open the door?”

“No.”

He makes a fist against the wall, gritting his teeth. Without a better idea, he turns and slides down the wall, pressing his back to the door.

I’m here , he thinks helplessly. Just tell me what to do.

Silence. And then…rustling, a soft grunt, until they’re back-to-back with the door between them. He hears the hitch of another muffled sob.

“I always…thought it would be him,” she whispers finally, voice thick. “That we’d do this together.”

He feels a familiar shameful flush. What can he say?

I’m sorry it happened the wrong way, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.

I’m sorry I’m not him.

But he’s not sorry at all. He’s a selfish asshole, so he doesn’t say anything.

“We wanted this so much. And sometimes it feels like a…a betrayal. Like I’m moving on…forgetting him.”

He swallows hard, thinking of Sarah, wondering if he might hold this child in his arms and feel that same gnawing guilt, like he doesn’t deserve to be whole again.

“I think he’d want you to be happy,” Joel says softly.

“I tell myself that, I do…but I don’t think I believe it. I don’t–”

More silence. He shifts his weight. The floor is cold and hard, digging into his ass. It can’t be good for her back.

“When we…started…you said…you needed to pretend,” he tries, tipping his head back against the door and closing his eyes. “I knew that goin’ into this. Knew I wasn’t, uh…I’m not–”

“I thought…I wanted…I don’t know,” she hiccups. “I don’t know anymore.”

“We…you don’t need to—”

“It hurts,” she grates out. “It h-hurts and I miss him and it’s not f-f-fucking fair.”

It’s not fucking fair .

What else is there to say?

“I know,” he whispers roughly. “I know.”

They sit like that until his ass is numb and her silence is too unnerving to bear.

“Come back to bed,” he says, defeated and not expecting her to answer. “Please.”

There’s a watery sigh on the other side of the door. Then he hears her moving, the slightest groan as she gets to her feet, and he eases himself off the floor. The door opens. She’s wrapped in a robe, one hand cradling her belly under the terrycloth, the bedsheet pooled at her feet.

Her eyes meet his, red-rimmed and hollow. He cups the back of her neck and pulls her into an embrace.

“S’alright,” he whispers when her tears wet his chest and she shudders against him. He sways like he used to when Sarah was little, rocking her back and forth until she quiets.

“Oh!”

She jumps suddenly, startling in his arms, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Swiping at her eyes, she grabs his hand, guiding it down her body until it’s resting just below her belly button. Her skin is warm and taut and smooth.

“What—“

Then he feels it, the tapping against his fingers, some tiny arm or elbow or foot poking at him from under her skin. She laughs through tears as the insistent little being seems to dance under their hands.

“Never been this strong before,” she whispers thickly.

Joel doesn’t trust himself to speak, pride warring with sadness in his chest. They stay like that for a long time, his hand on her stomach, new life roiling beneath his palm.

The baby should be able to hear them now, so at night, he reads out loud from a tattered copy of The Fellowship of the Ring , sitting up in their shared bed with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. The reading was his idea, the choice of material was hers.

One hand holds the book, the other rests on Charlie’s stomach. She says she likes the sound of his voice, but most of the time, she’s asleep before he gets to the third page. At this rate, the kid will be twenty before they finish the first book in the trilogy.

Tonight, the baby–Coconut, he thinks–is particularly active, rolling and kicking against his hand. A particularly hard jab causes Charlie to jump, hissing a soft ouch under her breath, and he puts the book aside.

“Hey, kid, settle down,” he says, rubbing at the squirming lump. “Let your mama sleep.”

This earns him another pointed jab; the kid is all attitude.

“Mmm,” Charlie mutters. “I know what’d help me sleep.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” she stretches, arching her back, and he can see the outline of one dark nipple through her bra.

“Again?” he murmurs, sliding a hand up to cup her breast and rolling it gently through the fabric. “Already?”

She sighs at the contact. “Mmm. Please?”

He tosses his glasses on the nightstand, more than happy to abandon the book, and curls around her, nuzzling her neck. “‘Fraid I’m not going to be much help with, uh…y’know.”

Not for the first time, he wishes he was about fifteen years younger. Even then, he’s not sure he could keep up with her. He wonders if she was always like this, or if it’s the pregnancy. He wonders if he’ll get to find out.

They don’t talk about this, or what will happen after the baby comes. They go to her midwife appointments together and Joel grinds his teeth through every second, but he stays by her side. Sometimes she holds his hand, and when she kisses him, she does so with the full force of her being. But just like the baby, their relationship doesn’t have a name.

She guides his hand between her legs, under her panties, finding her slick and swollen. She gives a contented little hum of pleasure when his finger traces her seam. “I’m sure you can figure something out.”

He huffs a breath into her nape, kisses the spot where the soft, downy hairs tickle against his nose, and strokes her the way she likes, circling and tapping until she’s arching against him. She comes almost immediately, fluttering and pulsing against his fingertips. A little one.

“More?” he murmurs, gentling his touch as her breathing calms.

“Mmhm, please.”

Her clit is a hard, slick little pebble under his fingers. He draws her orgasm from her more slowly this time, teasing, building her up until her climax is a growl sprung from the depths of her throat and her thighs clench his hand in a vise. He cups her sex gently and trails kisses along her neck, her throat, her shoulder as she rides it out, whispers into the shell of her ear, “More?”

Charlie reaches back and threads her fingers into his hair in answer, pulling him tighter against her, and he breathes her in, sweat and soap and something uniquely her. It drives him crazy, makes him feel feral and protective and alive. She turns her head, seeking his mouth, and he obliges, tongue parting her lips and tasting her as she hums and shivers and writhes against his hand, don’t stop please don’t please don’t stop . 

“I got you,” he murmurs against her lips in between kisses, fingers circling and circling until his wrist aches. He can feel the baby roll and kick under his forearm, feels her fingers gripping him there. He loves watching her like this, loves the way her back arches and jaw goes slack with pleasure, the sounds she makes when she comes.

And then she does, coming undone in his arms with a throaty moan, shuddering and keening in a way that makes his cock twitch.

“Better?” he murmurs, finally pulling his hand away and groping for the blanket they’d tossed aside.

“Much,” she sighs, relinquishing herself to his warmth. “You sure you don’t want me to…”

“M’fine,” he says, wrapping an arm around her belly, which has gone mostly still. “Kid calmed down.”

“Yeah. S’the hormones,” she murmurs drowsily. “Oxytocin.”

“They can feel that, huh?”

“Mmhm,” she says. “They can feel everything.”

“...everything?”

“Don’t make it weird,” she murmurs, and he can feel her smirking against his arm. “Read to us?”

Us . They’re slowly bending all the rules, he thinks.

He groans. “Thought you were goin’ to sleep.”

“I am, but I like your voice.”

“Uh huh. Damnit, lost my place,” he grumbles, grabbing for the hefty paperback. “Never find it again, damn book is six-thousand pages long. Thought this’d have dragons, so far they’re just describing’ stuff and yackin’.”

“It’s Tolkien,” she yawns. “It’s a classic.”

“Buncha elves and gnomes and shit,” he mutters. “This Dildo Baggins character sounds like a porn star.”

“They’re hobbits,” Charlie laughs and pokes him in the thigh. “And it’s ‘Bilbo’, you grouch.”

He squints. “Right, need my glasses. Tiny print.”

Charlie snickers, something about old eyes , and burrows deeper into the covers as he finally finds his reading glasses and his place.

He doesn’t make it two pages before he hears her snore.

They’ve kept up the movie night routine even though there’s no good reason for Charlie to stay off her feet. They’ve rented the last of the action flicks from the library, so now they’re working through television shows and sitcoms. Some unlucky soul from the time before left behind a sizeable collection of M*A*S*H episodes on tape, so Charlie often falls asleep to the sounds of Hawkeye’s sarcastic drawl.

They’re on the couch in their usual spots, her with a bowl of homemade strawberry ice cream perched on her belly, him with a beer. The ice cream is the only thing she craves–strawberry preserves mixed with cream and sugar, then frozen and scooped into a bowl. Joel makes a new batch every other night before they go to bed. They’re going through Maria’s summer preserves like crazy, and he’ll be doing work on the community greenhouses for the rest of his fucking life at this rate.

But it’s worth it, he thinks, as she takes another bite of the rich, creamy concoction, licking the spoon clean with her strawberry-pink tongue. She’s a fucking distraction. The laugh track is going off in the background, but with every bite, her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter, and he wants to take that spoon out of her mouth and–

He adjusts himself, forces his eyes back to the screen, takes another sip of his beer. Jesus .

A few minutes later the bowl is licked clean, and a well-placed kick from the baby sends it rocking, tumbling into her lap.

“Apparently we demand more,” Charlie laughs.

“Kid’s gonna come out lookin’ like a strawberry,” Joel mutters.

She smiles. “Baby wants what it wants.”

The phrase triggers a memory, and he chuckles. “With Sarah, it was mangoes.”

Sarah’s mom, sitting at the kitchen table in their tiny one-bedroom, devouring the fruit straight from the rind, sticky juice coating her fingers, running down her chin.

Baby wants what it wants , she’d said, and then he’d kissed her, lips syrupy sweet.

He doesn’t remember if he loved her–there was no room for love to grow, really. Not enough time, not enough money, not enough maturity between the two of them. But they’d made Sarah, and he’d loved his baby girl enough to make up for the rest.

“Who’s Sarah?”

Charlie snaps him out of his reverie. She’s looking at him curiously.

Oh.

He reaches for the remote, pausing the show, and the silence around them has weight, he can feel it pressing against his chest. He coughs, clears his throat, tries to figure out how to start.

“She was, uh…my daughter. Before.”

She blinks at him, wide-eyed, her question a small, breathless whisper. “You had a daughter?”

He ducks his head. “Yeah. She, uh…was killed on Outbreak Day. She’d be about your age now. Little younger, I guess.”

Her eyes are so bright, they almost glow.

“Her mom…my ex…liked mangoes,” he explains. “When she was pregnant. Couldn’t keep enough of ‘em in the house.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Didn’t know you liked mangoes,” he says weakly, trying for a joke. She doesn’t smile.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to hide it. It never felt like a good time, and it’s…I didn’t want you to feel like I was…replacin’ something.”

She looks around then as if seeking some kind of clue, something obvious she might have missed. There are no photos of Sarah on the mantle, no drawings or keepsakes to indicate he’d been a father before Ellie–only the broken watch on his wrist. He holds it out to her, the shattered glass face shimmering in the light of the TV screen.

“She gave me this for my birthday,” he says, and the words stick in his throat. “It’s…all I have.”

“And her name was Sarah?” she says in a small, tight voice.

His smile is sad. “Go figure, huh?”

Her lip quivers. “Joel…”

She sets the bowl aside and starts to get up, the bulk of her belly and gravity working against her.

“Don’t–” he starts, but she makes it to her feet before he can protest.

Then she’s standing between his knees and cradling his face in her hands. There are tears in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She cries at everything now, but that doesn’t explain why he wants to cry, too.

He wants to say something reassuring, to set her at ease, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and it hurts like it does sometimes, like the wound is fresh and raw and new all over again.

“I can’t,” he says thickly, pleading. “Not…right now. Not yet.”

She nods slowly, kisses his forehead with something like love, and cradles him against her. Her warm, full belly presses against his chest, against his heart, and he hates that it soothes the ache. It’s too much like forgetting.

Her whisper at his temple is a balm.

“One day at a time.”

[winchesterwild78]

A Home and a Heart

Master List

Characters: Jack Durfy x Reader

Warnings: Language, Inappropriate propositions, angst, injury

A/N: Just a quick story, not too long. Maybe two or three chapters. I haven’t seen Buddy Games, but I did Google the character. I know he wasn’t in the movie long, but we can always use our imagination.

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life or the movie in any way. 

Please do not take my work, reblogs are appreciated.

Minors DNI 18+

The rain drummed against the roof, echoing through the small, cramped house. You sighed, your heart heavy with worry. You had been trying to keep your head above water, but it seemed the problems just kept piling up. The leaky roof, the faulty stove outlet, and the crumbling front steps were more than you could handle.

You were a single mother to a very active 3 year old boy, Tommy. He was the light of your life, but it was also exhausting doing everything alone. Tommy’s father ditched you the minute he found out you were pregnant, and you haven’t heard from him since. 

Your family and best friend have been an amazing support for him and you. When you had to work late at the hospital, they would watch him and help take care of him. 

Being so fiercely independent, you refused to tell them just how bad the repairs needed really were. Your best friend, Abby, knew. She offered to help you, but you refused. She had just had a baby and she and her husband were trying to build their nest egg. You couldn’t take money from them. 

Desperate, you reached out to local handymen for help. The first one showed up in a fancy new truck. He walked around your home and took notes, he went on the roof and when he came down he handed you a quote for $15,000. Your eyes almost popped out of your head. “Well, thank you so much for coming out. I’ll let you know.” He nodded and got in his truck and left. 

The other quotes were any better. None of the companies were willing to set up payments with you. Even though you had a steady job and amazing credit they said they weren’t willing to make arraignments for such a large amount. 

The last two contractors were far worse. You showed Joe in and he walked around. He started to head towards your bedroom, “Um, excuse me, there isn’t anything in there that needs repairing.” He turned and walked over to you, “Oh not yet, darlin’, but I’m sure you can’t pay so we can work something out.” His hand brushed against your breast. 

“ I think you should leave.” “Ah don’t be like that. I know you’re lonely and need more than just your house worked on.” You were fuming, “Leave, NOW!” 

He grabbed his stuff and left. You were starting to feel hopeless. You called Abby, “Hey Abbs. I don’t know what to do. I’ve called every handyman I can find and they are either too high, won’t do a payment plan, or they try to sleep with me. I need to give Tommy a safe place to live. I don’t want to walk away from this house. It’s mine and it’s something I’m proud of having.”

 Abby offered a sympathetic ear, “I know honey. Maybe you can try and call Jack Durfy. He owns Durfy Construction, he can be a bit of an ass, but I know he’s got a kind heart. When John got laid off a few years ago, Jack had him come work for him so he could make some money.” “I didn’t know that. I’ll give him a call, thanks Abbs.” 

Jack owned Durfy Construction, and though he had a reputation for being gruff, you were willing to give him a chance. You called him up and asked him to come by for a consultation. “Mr Durfy, my friend Abby Smith told me to call you. I own a small home and it’s in need of some urgent repairs. I’m going to be honest with you so I’m not wasting your time, I’m a single mom on a fixed income. I’d be willing to set up a payment plan if you were open to it.” “Well, let me come out there and take a look. I’ll let you know.”

The next morning you saw Jack driving down your driveway in his big truck. Tommy was standing at the door, jumping up and down seeing the truck. “Truck, mommy, truck!” You scooped up the toddler, “Yes baby I see it’s a truck. Mr. Durfy is here to see if he can help fix the house. 

Jack walked up the stairs and noticed how broken they were. You greeted him with a warm smile and an extended hand, “Hello Mr Durfy, thank you for coming by. I really appreciate it.” He shook your hand, “Hello Ms Y/L/N, it’s nice to meet you, and who’s this little guy?” He ruffled Tommy’s hair. Your toddler squealed in delight, “I’m Tommy.” “Well, hello Tommy. Want to show me the house buddy?” Tommy nodded excitedly. You smiled softly.

As Jack inspected the house, he discovered even more problems than you had initially realized.

“So Ms, Y/L/N, besides the roof, front steps, and stove outlet, I unfortunately found some other things that need attention as soon as possible. The foundation is cracked by your bedroom, and the main bathroom has a leak into the walls. That’s going to require a complete demolition of the bathroom, so we can dry out the wall and replace everything.” 

Tears pricked your eyes. “Oh wow. I definitely got screwed over when I bought this place. I never should have bought it.” The tears started to fall. You wiped them away quickly, “I’m sorry Mr. Durfy. How much will all of this cost me? 

“Well, first, please call me Jack, and I can do it all for about $5,000.” You sat and looked at him in disbelief, “I’m sorry, what? $5,000? That’s it? Please Mr. Durfy, I mean Jack, please tell me the full price.” 

“That is the full price. I don’t take advantage of people and I own all of my own equipment and have all the material needed for the repairs already. I tell you what, if you’d agree to do something for me I’d be willing to do the repairs at no cost.”

“You know what, I’m tired of men thinking I’d spread my legs for them to get repairs done.” “Whoa! What? Y/N, I’m not asking you to sleep with me. Jesus. What kind of man do you think I am? Shit!” 

Your face turned red with embarrassment, “Jack I’m so sorry. The last guy I had here tried to get me to sleep with him to do the repairs. I am so sorry. I understand if you want to leave.”

“Let me guess, Joe Collins?” “Yes, how did you know?” “The guy is a douchebag. He tries to jack up his rates and then sleeps with women to get them lower.” “That’s disgusting.” “Yeah it really is.”

“So, like I was saying, I work really late at night, sometimes I just sleep in the office trailer. It’s been years since I’ve had a home cooked meal, and I know you can cook. Abby told me. (he smirked) So if you’d be willing to cook some meals for me, I’d be willing to do the repairs for you. Of course I might need Tommy’s assistance with tools and stuff, if that’s okay with you.”

“Wow, that’s really generous of you. I know Tommy would love to help you with tools. I doubt you’d get the right one you needed, but he’d try. Sure, I’ll cook for you. Are you allergic to anything or have any dietary restrictions?”

“Nope, I’m not a pansy. I like meat and eat junk, so I’m good for anything.” “Having allergies and dietary restrictions don’t make you a pansy.” You chuckled. 

A few days later you were woken up by the sound of walking on the roof. You looked over at the clock and it was a little after 6am. You grumbled and grabbed your robe. Walking outside you stepped into the yard, “Um, since when did we agree to you coming at the crack of dawn to start working?” 

Jack looked down at you and chuckled, “Sorry sweetheart, there is rain coming in later and we wanted to get this roof pulled off and the new one laid before it comes in.” 

“Ugh! Fine. Wait, I just needed a repair, not a whole new roof.” Jack looked down at you, “The repair area was just too big. It makes more sense to just do a new roof.” “Okay, well I’ll be in the house trying to sleep. I have a shift in a few hours.” 

“Sweet dreams” Jack chuckled. You lazily waved and climbed up the stairs and went inside. Abby had taken Tommy to her house for the night, so you grabbed your earphones, turned on some white noise and went back to sleep. 

A few hours later your alarm went off and you got out of bed. Hearing the hammering overhead you figured they were already laying the new roof. Dang they work fast. You went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Waiting for the water to heat up, you went into the kitchen and started your coffee. You made extra for Jack and the guys working with him. 

Jumping in the shower you cleaned yourself and your hair. You finished getting ready for work then went into the kitchen and started cooking something to eat. You figured Jack and the other guys were hungry, so you whipped up something filling for them too. 

You ate quickly and grabbed your cup of coffee. Grabbing your bag you went outside and got Jack’s attention. He climbed down from the roof, “Hey, I hope we were as quiet as we could be.” “Oh I put in my earbuds, I didn’t hear anything but the soothing sounds of the ocean.” Jack chuckled. 

“So I’m heading out to work, I left the front door unlocked for you. I made you guys something to eat and some coffee if you’re hungry. All I ask is you guys stay out of my underwear drawer.” Jack chuckled, “Now where’s the fun in that. You know you learn a lot about someone by the underwear in their drawer.” You looked at Jack unamused. He threw his hands up in defeat, “Sorry, I was just kidding. We don’t go through people’s things. You can trust us. Thanks for cooking, you didn’t have to.” “Yes I did, I thought that was our arrangement.” “Yes, but only for me. I can’t have you spoiling my guys.” 

You smiled and touched his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll save the good stuff for you.” Your fingers lingered on his chest for a few minutes. His chest was so toned and firm. Your breath quickened. Jack’s heart started pounding, he liked your hand on his chest. 

You cleared your throat, “Well have a good evening, Jack. I’ll see you later.” “Yeah, bye, Y/N, have a good shift, and thanks for the food.” You waved and nodded as you climbed in your car. 

Driving to work all you could think about was Jack. His piercing green eyes, his smile, his bowed legs perfectly hugged by his blue jeans, his toned chest, and his whiskey silky voice. You hadn’t realized your face had flushed or that you were biting your lip until you put your car in park at work. 

You took a deep shaky breath before getting out. This attraction to Jack came out of nowhere. You really need to get it under control since he’ll be working at your house. 

A few hours into your shift you walked into a patient's room to check on them before they were discharged. That’s when you heard a familiar voice coming from the room next door. 

“The nurse will be right with you sir. I’m just the triage nurse.” She walked out of the room and handed you the chart, “This one is a little grumpy. He keeps complaining he doesn’t have time for this shit.” 

You snorted, “Okay, thanks for the heads up.” You looked at the chart and softly gasped. Jack Durfy, Male, 46 years old. 

Of course this happens. You took a deep breath and knocked on the door. “Come in” you heard his gruff voice say. 

As soon as Jack saw you his eys softened. “Well, hey sweetheart.” You smiled and blushed a little, “Jack, what happened?” 

“It was stupid, I got distracted and fell off the roof. I think I broke a rib and I sliced my hand pretty good.” 

“Oh my god, Jack! Okay let me see the hand first.” 

You removed the temporary dressing and looked at his hand. Taking his large, calloused hand in yours sent a shiver through your body and straight between your thighs. Your breath quickened. 

Swallowing hard, “You’re going to need stitches. I’m going to clean the wound and get the sutures on it.” Jack just nodded. 

As you cleaned his wound and stitched him up, he watched you, completely mesmerized by you. The way your fingers brushed over his skin, like a delicate dance, only the two of you were invited to. 

You bit your lip as you worked. Your eyes flicked up to his, God he’s got gorgeous green eyes. And his lips look so plump and soft. 

“Okay, all patched up. X-ray will be here to take you in a few minutes. Hopefully nothing is broken.” Your hand lingered on his for a few moments. “Hey, Y/N, thank you.” He touched your hand as you started to walk away. 

You smiled and nodded. A few minutes later they came to take him away to get his x-rays done. 

You sent Abby a text. 

You: Girl, Jack got injured and he’s here right now. I just finished working on him. 

Abby: Mmm is that what it’s called now. 😝 

You: Girl, stop. 😂 

Abby: He’s single, you’re single, he’s hot, you’re hot. 

You: No I’m not, girl stop. There is no way he’d be interested in me, an frompy, single mom. 

Abby: Don’t sell yourself short. You’re amazing, beautiful and a kick ass mom. Anyone would be lucky to have you. 

You: Thanks, Abbs. Well he’s back from x-ray. Gotta go. Give Tommy a kiss for me. 

Abby: Will do, go give Jack a big kiss, make his boo boos all better. 😘 

You: Yeah right. 🙄 

Your face flushed a little with Abby’s texts. You walked back into his room. “So now we wait for the doctor to read the film and he’ll tell us what to do next. Jack, I can’t believe you fell off the room. You could have been killed. I’m so glad you’re okay.” You touched his shoulder. 

His eyes sparkled under the harsh lights of the ER, “Me too, not sure what happened. I was just distracted and lost my footing. It was stupid.” 

The doctor came in a few minutes later, “Mr Durfy, I don’t see broken ribs, they are however bruised really bad. I’m going to have Ms. Y/L/N to wrap it pretty good for you. Keep it on unless you absolutely need to take it off, like to shower. Do you have someone who can help you wrap it tight again?” 

Jack looked up and was about to say no, but you nodded yes. “Um, yeah I guess I do.” “Great, then I’ll let you get wrapped up and we can discharge you. Ms. Y/L/N, wrap him tight and get him ready to go home.” You nodded, “Yes, sir. Mr. Durfy, I’ll be right back with the wrap and your discharge papers.” Jack nodded and you walked out.

Coming back in with the wrap and his papers you took a deep breath. “Okay, Jack I, um, need you to remove your shirt.” Jack took his shirt off and you let out a soft gasp. He was so toned, and being this close to him made you quiver between your thighs.

“This might hurt a bit, but let me know if it’s unbearable.” Jack nodded and you got to work. “Lift your arms slightly for me.” You started to wrap the bandage around his torso. You noticed goosebumps erupt on his skin as you wrapped his ribs. You leaned around him and your chest was flush with his as you reached around to wrap around his back. 

As you stood back up, you stopped and Jack placed his fingers lightly on your chin. “You’re incredible, you know that?” You blushed, “Thank you.” “I mean it, you are amazing at your job, you’re a kick ass mother, and you’re so beautiful.” 

“Jack, I, um, don’t know what to say.” He smiled softly at you, “You don’t have to say anything, darlin’.” Jack’s fingers brushed against your face, you leaned into his touch, instinctively. 

“What would you do if I told you I wanted to kiss you?” You softly chuckled, “I’d ask if you hit your head when you fell.” “I didn’t, and I’m serious. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I met you.” 

You bit your lip and took a deep breath, “Well, then do it.” You couldn’t believe you told him to kiss you. Your heart was pounding in your chest and you felt like you were going to pass out. 

Jack leaned in closer to you, your lips inches from each other. Your breath hitched. Jack softly pressed his lips to yours and you pressed yours to his. 

The kiss was soft and tender, not rushed or needy. As you two pulled back, his hand held onto your arm for a few minutes. 

“That was so good. I can’t wait to do it again.” He smiled at you. “Me either, Jack.” So he leaned in and placed his lips to yours, this time the kiss was deeper. He put his hand in your hair and pulled you between his legs. His tongue swiped across your lips, asking for entrance. You parted your lips and Jack deepened the kiss more. You moaned into his mouth.

The kiss was incredible, sending chills through your body. When the two of you finally pulled apart, you both smiled at each other. “Well, Mr. Durfy, you should head home to rest. I’ll see you later.” He smiled, “Yeah, I’ll see you after your shift. I need to go finish up some stuff before I call it a day. You shook your head, “Jack, please go home and rest. Whatever it is can wait.” 

Jack got off the table and grabbed his shirt, putting it on, “I’ll think about it.” He placed another soft kiss on your lips and smirked. 

“I’m never going to stop kissing you, I hope you know that.” “Good, because I don’t want you too. I’ll see you later, Jack.” “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.” 

With that, Jack grabbed his things and left the ER. You were left finishing your shift, thinking about the shared kiss and what it will mean for your future. You hoped it meant the beginning of something wonderful, but you were still guarded, and not just for your sake, but for Tommy. Only time will tell for sure.

Part 2….Coming Soon

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[irisintheafterglow]

End Game #8 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: you accompany the captain at a party on the gojo estate and he can't be serious for a single second.

wc: 2.1k

cw/tags: swearing, domestic satoru, creepy old men and therefore protective satoru, no specified gender but reader is wearing a dress, passive-aggressive insults because he's never serious ever, a tiny tiny bit of angst but lots of fluff, established relationship (i never get tired of tagging this)

note: there's no volleyball game play in this, just captain!satoru being captain boyfriend!satoru. also i'm literally creating a multiverse of characters in this au cuz there's like the gojo partner but then also the geto partner and soon i wanna make the inumaki partner and yeah i could talk about this for HOURS but ANYWAY hope you enjoy

likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated <3

An infuriatingly obnoxious loop of “Get up, stupid, or I’ll hit you with my car!” invades your sleep and your hand flops aimlessly to turn your phone off. 

You prop yourself on an elbow, checking the clock on the nightstand and groaning when you see the time. “Satoru,” you say softly, but you’re met with a half-asleep grunt from the other occupant of the bed. The entire right side of his face is sunk into the sheets and his arm is still draped over your torso. He’d never looked more handsome, you thought, taking in the messy strands of white hair on the pillows and his limbs entangled with yours. You pat him gently, trying to crawl out from the blankets. “We have to get up now.”

“No, we don’t,” he mutters into bed, pulling you back down beside him onto the mattress effortlessly. With his chest to your back, he sighs deeply onto your neck and you fiddle with his fingers resting near your stomach. His body tended to run warm and the room smelled so much like him that you wanted to lay in it for the rest of time. You flip to face him and aren’t surprised to see him still burrowing into the plush covers. For once, his eyes weren’t the most prominent feature of his face; now, your finger traces the sharp angles under his chin and he smirks, eyelids still shut. “Like what you see?”

“Mhmm, very pretty.” A single finger becomes the rest of your hand as you comb some loose strands from his face, only for them to fall right back onto his forehead. He hums when you continue to run your fingers over his scalp all the way down to the hair on the back of his neck. Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

“Not as pretty as you, though.” A bright blue eye finally winks open and you smile. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Good morning, menace,” you tease and his jaw drops in fake-offense. “Time to get dressed.” 

“But I like when you wear my stuff instead.” His gaze flicks down to your torso, covered by one of his older, softer shirts from a summer intensive camp. “Stay a little longer.  I like looking at you.”

“The last thing we need is for your parents to come looking for you and see us laying in bed together.” His eyes widen and he abruptly shoots out from under the comforter, leaving you laughing on his pillows as he searches around his closet for his formal clothes. “Would you mind getting my–”

“Already on it, sweetheart,” he calls from behind the bathroom door, slinging the garment bag over his shoulder. “You know, honestly, it’s starting to hurt a little bit when you think I can’t read your mind.” 

“Forgive me for not expecting you to be thinking of me all the time, then.” Your eyebrow arches challengingly and he hangs your dress on the top of the mirror before peeling off his shirt. To your horror, you have to stop yourself from drooling. 

“I accept your apology. And, for the record, you’re the only thing on my mind. All the time.” He shoots you your favorite lopsided grin of his and you stare at him like a love-sick idiot. Despite harboring feelings for him for the past three years and finally establishing a relationship, you still felt a level of embarrassment seeing his bare chest. It was different from when he was changing with the rest of the team; now, every inch of lean muscle honed over years and years of training was on display for you and only you. He catches you staring from your gaping silence. “You’re being a hypocrite, my love.” The patronizing note in his voice snaps you out of your adoration. 

“What do you mean?”

“You tell me to get up and then stay in bed to ogle me. It’s not fair, and a bit perverted.” He shrugs, tugging on a white button-up and black slacks. You scoff and throw a pillow at him, indignantly kicking off the blankets and making your way to unzip the garment bag. 

“Your dad is going to kill us both if we’re late and you take longer than I do to get ready. I’d say it’s fair I gave you a head start.” You blow him a kiss before slipping into the bathroom to change. 

As predicted, Satoru ended up taking longer than you did to get dressed. Though he was already in his proper attire while you were still in your lounge clothes, it took the entire time you were in the bathroom for him to decide on a tie. In the end, he forgoes the tie altogether and you self-servingly undo some of the buttons of his shirt while his eyes rake over you in your dress. It was a deep shade of purple with a generous amount of skin exposed, something he picked out with you when he first asked you to be his date. 

“Do you like it?” He asks, even though you left him speechless when you first walked out of the dressing room. He had to bend forward to rest his elbows on his knees just to keep his lungs functioning. 

“Like it? I fucking live for it,” you breathe, spinning around in front of the mirror again and again to watch the fabric billow beneath you. It was incredibly flattering on your figure as well as easy to maneuver in. You looked incredible in it, but your face falls as a realization dawns on you. “Is it too much, you know–” He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Did I tell you that I beat my deadlift PR yesterday?” 

“Baby, what does that have to do with the dress?” His eyes flick to your shoulders and then back to your face, raising his eyebrows expectantly like a teacher waiting for an answer. “Oh.” The smile makes its way back onto your expression and you admire yourself once more, no longer worried about any snide remarks or lingering stares with the foreboding guard at your back. 

“This dress was definitely a good choice,” he whispers in your ear as his hand guides you through the crowded entryway. “But, if anyone starts to agree with me, I’m gonna send them to kingdom come.”

“You always had a flair for drama.”

“That's why you fell for me, isn’t it?” You shake your head in lighthearted exasperation. As more people continue to invade your space, Satoru is behind you like a shadow, mirroring your every movement and never straying too far. “Take a right. I don’t wanna deal with the brass.” You steer clear of the boisterously laughing group of men immediately in front of you, but it’s too late. They spotted Satoru first, making him grimace, and then they spotted you. Before they can surround you further, he’s stepped in front of you to effectively block you from the leering stares of the men twice your age. 

“If it isn’t the crown prince of Jujutsu Volleyball,” one of them, a square-faced man with nauseatingly intense eyes, remarks coldly. “Shall we expect your absence from Nationals for yet another year?” Your temper flares and you’re about ready to rip out the man’s throat, but Satoru continues to appear calm and indifferent to the insults. 

“Hmm, I wasn’t aware they were allowing retirees into the building, let alone those who’ve already picked out their tombstone. Should I have the maid mark the calendar for your Celebration of Life?” Unconsciously, your hand finds his shoulder as if to warn him against any more biting words. He was being particularly ruthless tonight and you couldn’t help but think it was because you were there, too. 

“Watch your tongue, boy. You forget I control your team.” 

“Oh, I didn’t forget.” His hand flexes, curling into a fist and then opening again. He definitely wasn’t kidding about beating his PR deadlift. “I just don’t care.” The men stiffen at the blatant dismissal. Unable to squeeze any shred of entertainment from Satoru, their attention turns to you. 

“And who’s this?”

“None of your business, that’s who,” your boyfriend states casually, but the underlying threat in his voice was evident. His fingers continue to curl and uncurl and you take hold of his wrist, rubbing your thumb into his palm. With your other hand, you snag a glass of punch from a nearby server’s tray. You knew it took everything in Satoru’s body to remain cordial, to not raise his lip in a snarl or slam the man’s head into the tile beneath your shoes. Of course, he had his own way of fighting without violence. His eyes narrow for a nanosecond before he puts on a nauseatingly fake grin of celebration. “Congratulations, by the way, on your new girlfriend.”

“What the hell do you think–”

“Maybe our respective partners can go on a daytrip sometime, seeing as they’re the same age,” he smiles maliciously and you just about choke on your drink. He’s turned to you with exaggerated concern in an instant, unable to keep the smirk from creeping onto his face as he rubs your back. The group of men are stunned and the square-faced one has turned a vibrant shade of red. Satoru, on the other hand, radiates triumphant self-satisfaction while he re-establishes his hand on your back. “Good to see you.” 

You aren’t bothered for the remainder of the evening, most likely from fear of the six-foot, lanky-legged bodyguard attached to your hip. Suguru arrives shortly after your confrontation with the higher-ups and your eyebrows hit the ceiling when you see the student council vice president on his arm. You unabashedly gawk when they enter and direct Satoru’s attention to his best friend. He looks at you in disbelief, back at Suguru, and then back at you. Several times, you accidentally step on his feet while you’re dancing in the middle of the floor. 

“Since when did Suguru have game?” You’re physically unable to wipe the expression of shock from your face. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Satoru whispers back over the sound of classical strings. You both crane your necks to follow the pair’s movement around the room like hawks. The vice-captain must feel your stares on the back of his head and he flips you both the bird when his date isn’t looking. Neither of you are deterred in the slightest. “At least he’s still Suguru.”

“That is not a pair that I saw coming.” 

“To be fair,” he shrugs, “neither are we.”

At 10:00, Satoru’s father announces himself at the top of the staircase in the foyer for several toasts and it takes all of your willpower not to roll your eyes. You cringe inwardly when he gestures to Satoru, whose nose scrunches in disgust at the shallow praise that was, really, all for show. There’s applause and flimsy well-wishes, but by 11:00, you’re confessing that you’re socially drained for the night and you’re back in his clothes half an hour later. 

“We’ve done a lot of stupid things, but I think that party was one of the stupidest,” he declares as he flops onto his bed next to you. You hum in tired agreement and snuggle further into his blankets.

“Stupider than putting a fake cockroach in the changing room and scaring the hell out of everyone?”

“It’s definitely up there. Kinji was truly out of his mind for that one.” You huff a quiet laugh against his chest, relishing in how easily his arms slip around you and pull you flush against his body. “You look hot as shit in that, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear. He nods to the alternate version of the team’s jersey covering your body, a muted shade of purple with black sleeves. It’s the same uniform he’d be wearing in a few days' time when you step into the bright lights of the city stadium, and the same one you hope to wear after he wins every team he plays against. 

“You’re gonna smell like my body wash during Nationals if you don’t wash this, Satoru.”

“That’s kind of the point, dear.” You snort and close your eyes while he presses kisses to your hairline.

“What, are you going to war or something? I’m gonna be right there with you the entire time.” Your mouth widens into a yawn and you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

“I hope you’re right there with me beyond that, too.” His voice is so low, it’s barely audible, but you hear it and make a promise in your heart to fulfill his wish. He was recently contacted for Olympic team tryouts, but the future after your last high school tournament was relatively a mystery. For now, you settle into his chest and inhale him again. 

“You can’t get rid of me now that you’ve got me, Satoru.”

“Promise?”

“On all the red asters I’m gonna grow in our garden.” It’s the last thing you remember saying before drifting back to sleep. 

Sure, he belonged to volleyball, but he belonged to you first.

aLSO CHECK OUT THIS GORGEOUS FUCKIGN ARTWORK FROM @mididoodles

[transhuman-priestess]

A High Place in El-Bariyah

The crew of the Huntington grieves the loss of one of their own, while a malevolent force in a distant corner of the solar system forges its newest weapon.

The highly anticipated continuation of The New Flesh is here.

This story contains graphic violence, sexual content, depictions of surgery, brainwashing, identity death, dismemberment, implied rape, abusive parents, firearms, anti-queer slurs, and healthily moderated but melancholy consumption of alcohol.

As always, this story is for adults 18 years of age or older, it's also the third in an ongoing series. Get caught up before you read it!

Chapter 1: The New Flesh Chapter 2: The Third Law

Remember, if you like it, reblog it, and tell me what you liked! I thrive on feedback and shares. I write this stuff for the joy of sharing it with others. Your reblog puts validation directly into my gay little soul.

January 24, 2253 1800 Earth UTC

The Hildas, 530 million kilometers from Jupiter

7 hours. It had been 7 hours since the Huntington had escaped her assailants, and Chester Silvera, First Mate, hadn’t seen the Captain in 6.

He’d just gotten out of the shower. The entire crew was in shock. Most of them had served with Jenna Powell for years. She was their friend, and despite the frequent clashes between her and Holder, Silvera knew that the crew respected and liked both of them.

Silvera surveyed his quarters, a moderately-sized suite of around 20 square meters, containing a modest bed, a small galley, a lavatory, and the shower he had just vacated. The Huntington’s crew accommodations were far from palatial, but they were home.

Chester walked to his dresser, donned a black band T-shirt (The Carowells, Jovian Tour 2250), khaki shorts, and sneakers. He grabbed his portable radio off the table, clipped the handset to his belt and the remote mic to his collar. It chirped reassuringly as he turned it on.

Keying the mic he said, “This is Silvera, anyone seen the Captain?”

A moment later, Jill Campbell’s voice crackled to life on the speaker. “Door logs say she’s still in her quarters. Her radio’s off, want me to ring her?”

“No, I’ll just walk right over, thank you.”

“No problem.”

He opened the door to the hallway outside. The corridor was well-lit, and lined with short-pile navy blue carpet and fake-wood-grained wall paneling that had probably been quite fashionable 20 years ago, but now gave the ship a hopelessly outdated look. Chester actually quite liked it. The old girl was past her prime, but she had a sense of style, and you had to admire her for that.

Holder’s quarters were 10 meters down the hall, on the same side as Silvera’s, adjacent to the bridge entrance. Between their rooms was a corridor that led to the now-vacated Engineer’s quarters, the mess hall, the rec room, and the crew dormitories. As he passed the hallway, Silvera caught a glimpse of Powell’s door. It was closed, and unadorned. He thought about peering inside, but decided that wasn’t his place, and instead he continued to Holder’s room.

Silvera knocked a syncopated pattern on the Captain’s door, and was greeted with a dull, “Enter.”

He turned the knob and swung the door open to reveal the darkened bedroom beyond. A window faced out towards space, looking aft over the ore holds. The #3 bay was still open, its massive door blocking the view of the engines’ yellow-white exhaust plumes.

The captain was lying in her bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t shaved her face yet today, and her stubble was creeping in. Silvera never liked to say anything, but he always thought it gave Holder a dashing, roguish look. Right now though, she just looked exhausted.

“Can’t sleep?” Silvera asked, casually, as if this were a normal cruise under normal circumstances, and he had not a care in the solar system.

Holder just lay there, still staring at the ceiling. Silvera waited for her response. When none came, he asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“Sure,” was all she said.

He turned the lights on to their lowest setting and closed the door behind him. This was the first time he’d managed to get a good look at the captain’s quarters. She hadn’t yet put up any decorations, but she had managed to situate a small bookshelf, her favorite armchair, and a small table that currently held a laptop terminal.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Silvera joked, “Feels just like home.”

“Chester,” said Holder, without looking at him, “can you fucking not right now?”

Silvera smiled, though Holder didn’t see that. He knew his captain, and he knew he had to get her on her feet to keep her out of trouble. Holder was a problem-solver. She needed dirt on the tires and grease on her hands or she got restless. With the ship moving and no burn scheduled for another 10 days, Silvera had to become that problem.

“Terry, the crew needs to hear something from you,” he said, “They’ve just been through hell. They’ve lost a friend. Now they need a leader.”

“Some fucking leader.” was Holder’s bitter reply.

“You can’t be everywhere at once,” he said, “It’s not your fault Powell didn’t put the tether on.”

“Tell that to the court martial.” the captain said, rolling to face away from him.

“I will,” he said, “and so will the rest of the crew.”

Holder sat up and looked at him, “Are you sure about that? They knew her for years. They met me last month. You don’t have to be a physicist to figure that one out, Chester.”

“The crew will stand by their captain.”

Holder stood now, apparently she’d lay down to sleep in her blue khaki work uniform, “Why? Why will they stand by me? I got Powell killed, Chester. She is dead, because, I fucked up.”

“And how did you do that, hmm?” he asked, “By not breathing down her neck and by treating her like a responsible member of the crew?”

“Chester,” Holder’s voice got louder and she began pacing, “You just told me, right before all of this,” she waved her hands in front of her for emphasis, “that I had to drop my grudge against her. That we’d been butting heads for a month and that I was too hard on her.”

“Terry,” Silvera kept his voice even, “you are not the first Captain to lose a crew member to that crew member’s carelessness.”

“Her carelessness?” Holder said, incredulous, “Chester, I am the Captain, everything on the Huntington is my responsibility, the cargo, the safety of the crew, the integrity of the ship, everything!”

“You are one person.” Silvera could feel his fist clenching

“Who is tasked with maintaining discipline and order,” Holder shot back, “I failed in both. Jenna Powell is dead because I couldn’t control her,” Silvera thought he saw tears in her eyes, “I should have supervised the EVA, I should have checked the suit inventory,” she was shouting now, “I should have turned back and looked for her!”

“And gotten yourself and the rest of the crew killed?”, it was Silvera’s turn to shout now, “With all due respect, shut the fuck up, Theresa!”

Holder was momentarily speechless, incandescent with rage. Finally, she found her voice. “If you ever speak that way to me again, Silvera, I will personally make sure you’re-”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off, tired of the show, “you’ll personally make sure I’m cleaning out waste reprocessors on Io until I’m old and gray, I’ve heard it before.”

“What is your problem?”

“You! This!” was his response, “Your crew just suffered a trauma and you’re sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself like some first-year cadet when you should be out there, tending to your crew as a captain should.” Holder collapsed into a sitting position on the bed and buried her face in her hands, muttering something Silvera couldn’t quite hear.

“What was that?” Silvera asked.

“I said,” Holder brought her hands away from her face, and Silvera could see the tears lining her cheeks, “That they deserve a better captain than me.”

Chester Silvera had been friends with Holder for half a decade. They’d met on a cargo hauler, the Venture, where Silvera had an engine technician. She’d stayed up helping him study for his command examine, and he’d been her first mate ever since he’d gotten his commission.

“Terry,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I have served under,” he counted in his head, “4 captains, including you. Now, maybe it’s just my incredibly wise influence,” he paused briefly, and Holder cracked a tiny smile, “but I would say that you are, by far, the best.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just, like, your opinion, man.” Holder said, bashfully.

“I wasn’t finished,” Silvera continued, “I’ve never had a truly bad captain, but the ones who’ve impressed me the most have never been the ones that put on a stone face and hide behind their command. The best captains are always those who suffer alongside the crew, who laugh and cry with them. You need to be out there. They don’t need you to be their rock, they need you to be beside them in the flotsam while they’re adrift, so that when someone spots land, you can lead them back to it.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Holder grabbed her radio, keyed it, and said, “This is the captain. We’ve had a bad day, probably the worst any of us has ever had. Let’s all meet in the mess hall at 1930. Drinks on me.”

* * *

Time Unknown

Location Unknown

Jenna wasn’t sure if she was in hell yet. She couldn’t possibly be alive in this state. Every signal her body sent was telling her that she should be dead. Her face felt like it was still on fire, her shoulder was in pieces, and she was pretty sure her rib cage was caved in, too. Every breath was agony. She had long since stopped trying to move any part of her body. Even with concerted effort at stillness, though, new pains danced and bloomed throughout her.

Time was behaving strangely, too. She was dizzy, like she’d had too much to drink. Her stomach felt like it was being twisted on an auger. Through the haze of it all, in the back of her engineer’s brain, she knew that if she wasn’t dead yet, she soon would be. She’d taken at least 50 grays of hard fusion radiation. By all accounts, she should have been dead by now.

And yet, she lived. The thing—for that was all that Jenna could call it—that had taken her from the emptiness of space had carried her over its shoulder to some kind of medical facility. It lay her on a cruel-looking steel table and cut her suit off, injecting her with a syringe of some oily substance that filled her mouth with a rusty taste she couldn’t shake. Even now, what had to be hours later, it remained.

She drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. Each time she woke, her head felt slightly clearer. After what felt like half a day, she woke and found that she could move her neck without feeling the crunching of bones beneath it. How long have I been out?

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a wave of intense nausea swept over her. Though the pain had dulled slightly, it still felt as if she might shatter when she reflexively rolled onto her side, and wretched. Nothing came out. She braced herself with her right arm and was surprised to find that she could bear weight on it. She marveled at this only a moment before another convulsion gripped her stomach. This time, she threw up. The room was dimly lit with a warm light, but even the yellow glow could not hide the contents of her stomach as it spilled onto the floor.

Blood. Lots of blood. Some clotted, some not. Some was bright red and some was nearly black. Jenna heaved again. More vomit, more blood. Her engineer’s brain chimed in again. Sodium-24.

The deuterium-tritium fusion that drove the Huntington’s main engines took two hydrogen atoms, one with an extra neutron, the other with two, and smashed them together to form helium and heat. The helium atoms, technically they were alpha particles, were of little harm to the human body normally, though the sheer quantity of them in fusion exhaust posed a danger. The real problem, however, was the neutrons produced as a byproduct. It was them, she knew, that would seal her fate.

It was the sort of thing that had captured her imagination as a young boy in Dublin. A particle so small and nonreactive that it could pass right through solid objects. Except sometimes, it didn’t. Sometimes, the neutron would hit an atom’s nucleus square-on, and stick there. The nucleus would become unstable, rippling like a drop of water falling from a cloud, and then it would break apart. Do this to the right substances, and you could generate power, build a bomb, trace the flow of blood through the human brain. Do it to the wrong substances, the ones that made up your body, and you became a bomb in slow-motion, destroying yourself, unable to prevent your own demise.

Much of the sodium in her body had absorbed neutrons, changing from stable sodium-23 to radioactive sodium-24. While fusion exhaust had neutrons and alpha particles, both of which penetrated relatively little, sodium-24 emitted gamma rays, and those gamma rays could pass through almost anything short of lead, including the human body. As they did, they stripped the ends off her chromosomes, shredding her DNA and leaving her cells unable to replicate themselves properly. The result was that she was dissolving. As the fastest-dividing cells in her body reached the end of their lifespans, they died. Rather than being replaced, her organs were simply shutting down.

But it didn’t make sense. She had taken so much radiation she should have died within an hour. Why hadn’t she? She was pondering that question when the thing that had brought her to this room stepped through the door.

Jenna’s head was clearer now and she was better able to absorb the figure’s appearance. It had a human shape. Bipedal, standing about 180cm tall. The basic outline of it implied that it was, or at least, had been, female. Cybernetic prosthetics were not unheard of but this lay outside the extreme end of that. The thing’s joints were covered in layered segments of metal with a dark oxide coating, tubing ran over its limbs. The only skin that Jenna could see was its face. The face was almost human. Dark lines ran as veins underneath the skin, the lips gunmetal gray, as if the blood inside had rotted. There was hair, a short tangled mess of raven black. One of the eyes was distinctly mechanical, a bright, electric blue. The other was green, and looked natural.

“You are awake,” was all the thing said.

Jenna made a dry croaking sound as she tried to speak. After several seconds of halting attempts, she finally found her voice, “How...how am I alive?” It hurt to speak. She thought she might have burns on her larynx from inhaling fire.

“We have been able to repair your DNA to a degree,” the figure replied, “However the process is not sufficient to ensure survival. Do not be afraid. We will make you one with us.”

“Let me die.” Jenna begged.

“You have been selected to become an assimilator unit for the hive.” was the figure’s flat reply.

“It hurts.” Jenna felt tears running down her face, “Please, let me die.”

“Your body will be modified and augmented to assimilate others into drones for the hive.”

“Like…you? No...no...”

“Do not be afraid. Your body will be altered surgically and mechanically. Due to the extensive mechanical and radiation damage your body has endured, most of it will need to be replaced with a synthetic chassis.”

“No...god, please”

“You will remain conscious during this process.”

Jenna tried to scream but all that came out was a dull rasp

“You are afraid now, but you will enjoy it, soon.”

The figure placed an anesthesia mask over Jenna’s face.

“As your external tissue is so damaged,” it said, in that flat, synthetic voice, “we were unable to administer the nanites in the usual manner. Instead we have given you a 10cc intravenous infusion.”

“Please,” Jenna whimpered, “please kill me”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears, however, “Usually,” the figure continued, “The surgical procedures would have begun immediately, but the nanites needed time to stabilize your biological processes. We will now begin.”

It grabbed Jenna’s wrists with shocking strength and fixed them to cuffs on the table. She struggled and pulled and twisted, trying to break free, but she wouldn’t have been able to, even with all her strength in her. And she was so tired. Her heart had been racing since the thing had come in, and the adrenaline had worn her down. It wasn’t so much that she resigned herself to whatever happened, she just couldn’t keep up the fight anymore.

Jenna heard a hissing sound come from the mask as the figure reached beneath the table and twisted something. A sharp, sweet chemical aroma curled into her nostrils. As she inhaled, she could feel herself relax. For a moment she almost forgot about her troubles, but her engineer’s brain started sounding alarm bells. They’re drugging you. It had to be that.

“Please,” said the figure, its voice friendlier, more familiar now, “do not resist the gas.”

“I...I don’t,” she croaked out, “I don’t want this.”

“You do not know what it is you want.”

Don’t I? Jenna thought to herself, Maybe, maybe it’s right.

It was like falling into the arms of a lover after a long day at work. Warmth, softness. Jenna’s mind wandered to an encounter she’d had with a young naval officer she met at a Titan bar not that long ago. How her consort’s uniform had glided so effortlessly off as soon as Jenna’s quarters door closed. How her soft fingers had wrapped around Jenna’s cock at the same time she’d suckled at Jenna’s tits.

Jenna realized her pain had subsided greatly. She also noticed that she had an erection.

“Subject arousal maximized,” said the figure beside her. Jenna looked over her again. She was female, decidedly. Broad-shouldered, but delicate. An artisan’s body. How had Jenna failed to see the beauty there before? “Initiating neural reroute.”

The pain quickly came roaring back, different than it had been before. Before, it felt like her body was on fire. Now it felt like tiny teeth were chewing up her insides. She tried to scream but even as she opened her mouth, it subsided, a beautiful warmth replacing it. It was like falling into the softest bed after the most filling meal in the coziest house in the world.

The world took on a brighter, sharper appearance. Jenna could hear people talking, but couldn’t make out any words. Next to her, the figure spoke, “See, isn’t that better?” As she spoke, the woman ran a mechanical hand up Jenna’s leg. Jenna couldn’t help but curl her body up in pleasure. She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the pleasure.

Oh, she thought, I guess you know how to treat a girl.

We have much experience in providing pleasure. Jenna’s eyes shot open. She had heard the woman, not with her ears, but in her head.

The neural transceiver is already functioning? The woman said, You are a promising candidate.

Jenna’s engineer brain was working double-time in thick, deep mud. Neural transceiver?

Jenna could hear the voices again, more clearly now, and realized that they, too, were inside of her. Though every rational fiber of her being screamed to pull away, her curiosity overtook her, and she reached out.

It was like stepping through a door into a crowded amphitheater. Sights, sounds, smells, textures, tastes, movement all seemed to stream into her head from everywhere at once, as if she were both infinite and singular. She flew around the ship, it was smaller than the Huntington. She saw dozens of people and yet felt only one presence. Her mind flicked through them all, letters and numbers appearing with each figure before finally slowing to a stop in the room where she was. The assimilation chamber. Sigma-26 stood above her, warmth on her face. The nascent drone on the table, what had it’s name been?

Deep within Jenna’s mind, a part of her began fighting, kicking, screaming that this was wrong, that there were people out there who missed her. Jill and Karl. Iris and Phoebe. Chester Silvera and Jack Thorton. And Theresa, her captain. Holder hadn’t left Jenna out of spite, or anger. She had been doing her job. She had been trying to keep the others safe and alive.

And yet, the drone now in her head thought, she didn’t even try to save you, did she? She could have tried to scoop you into an ore bay, or given you a few more seconds to make it to the airlock. Instead, she left you out there, adrift. The hive found you. The hive took you in. The hive healed you. Shouldn’t your loyalty lie with them?

Jenna didn’t care. She knew that it wasn’t Holder’s fault. She resisted, trying to pull herself back from the warm light of the Hive. She could feel them working their way into her head. She felt the Hive push into her memories. No, not those!

She was 10, a boy in a flat in Dublin. Her mother has taken her sister, Penny, to the doctor. Her father is asleep, and she’s snuck into Penny’s room. She’s trying on Penny’s dresses when her pa walks in. She’s never seen him so angry.

She was 14, in the boys’ locker room at school. Everyone is showering but she can’t bring herself to take off her shirt. 3 of the other boys corner her. She hides the bruises from her parents.

She was 20, a student at University College Cork, sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor is writing her a prescription for estrogen. He seems uncomfortable, but says nothing.

She was 21, seeing her family for the first time since starting hormones. Her mother opens the door. She’s confused, but polite. Her father sees her and screams to get out of his house, that he won’t have a faggot for a son. She leaves. It’s the last time she sees her family.

She was 27, on shore leave at Olympus Station, orbiting Mars. She’s leaving a bar, alone, again. After a few minutes of walking, someone hits her hard in the back of the head, knocking her to the ground. The man shoves a chrome handgun in her mouth and says if she makes any sound he’ll blow her tranny brains all over the decking. She thinks about her mother.

She was 28, assigned to MV Huntington, her first posting as chief engineer. The crew are kind to her, but none seek her out. She never grows close to any of them.

She was 30, her new captain wears a nickel-plated .45 on her hip. Jenna’s heart races and suddenly she’s back on Olympus. She runs to her quarters and vomits. The new First Mate knocks on her door. She opens it with tears running down her cheeks. He asks her what’s wrong. She cries for 10 minutes before she can say a word. When she finally speaks, she begs him not to tell the captain. He promises he won’t.

She’s 30. Her face is burning, she’s floating through an abyss, abandoned and alone.

Thinking back on all of these things, the last bit of Jenna Powell, the part that was fighting and screaming for her humanity, grew weary. She had never desired power, or money, or the secrets of the universe. The only thing she’d ever wanted was home. She’d never had it.

The last part of her let go of the cliff it clung to. It fell, backwards, through an infinite abyss. And where it had been, only the drone remained.

“I am a drone of the hive.” she said, “Shape me to a razor’s edge.”

* * *

1930 Earth UTC

MV Huntington mess hall

Captain Theresa Holder stood just outside the entrance to the mess hall. The crew was seated in 2 rows at the long table, nine on a side. Chester was sitting on the left side nearest the empty chair at the head.

The Captain had not told the crew to wear anything special. She didn’t like the formality, and the crew, in turn, had donned their ragtag Sunday best. Jill Campbell wore a navy blue polo. Karl Miller had tied his hair, normally past his shoulders, into a tight bun. Iris Owens was actually wearing a dress. A bright, neon-pink dress with a skull printed on the front, but a dress nonetheless.

Holder, for her part, was wearing her blue dress uniform. Deep navy wool with brass toggles, her captain’s pips on her shoulders. The Civil Navy did not award medals to be worn with dress uniforms, and so on her left breast was a patch that simply said “HOLDER” in light grey letters above the embroidered silhouette of a Shinkelobwe-class ship.

As she entered the hall, Silvera stood, “Captain on deck!” he barked. The crew stood with him. Holder stopped half a meter beyond the threshold. Funerals at sea were one of the times that regulation permitted her to wear the pistol strapped to her hip. Despite this, she made a show, while the crew watched, of removing the belt and hanging it on a hook next to the door. She pulled the pistol from its worn leather holster, and racked the slide back. She had not loaded it prior, and so manually locked it open before replacing it in the belt and turning to the crew. “At ease,” she said, and the crew sat.

She walked, not to the head of the table, but to the foot. She remained standing, and spoke.

“We are here, tonight, our number one too few,” she began, “We have lost our colleague and friend, Genevieve Powell.” She paused, she hadn’t written anything down and was struggling to remember the bits she’d thrown together in her mind as she’d shaved and showered.

“Look,” she said, dropping the air of pretense she’d held before, “Nobody comes out here expecting to die. We didn’t join a combat fleet. We didn’t sign up to be shot at or blow up troop depots or raid supply outposts. We’re miners.”

She looked around at the crew a moment before continuing, “And miners die. It’s been happening ever since humans started digging holes in the ground. Tunnel collapses, methane explosions, tidal shifts. But what happened today, that’s not something, I think, that any of us expected.

“Jenna and I didn’t exactly get along. It feels a bit ghoulish to be up here, praising her, to tell you the truth. Like I’m taking credit for something I didn’t earn. But I need you all to hear this. What happened today, it’s my responsibility. You all performed admirably in a situation that none of us was prepared for. This morning, you were asteroid miners. This evening, you’re heroes, all of you. None more so than the woman who should, by all rights, be sitting at the head of this table.”

Holder gestured in the direction of the empty place setting, “Jenna Powell died trying to get you all to safety. When you tell your friends and families about today, don’t sing praises of your captain. Heap your praise on Jenna Powell, whose loyalty and courage cannot be disputed. Chester, the bottle.”

Silvera stood, grabbing a bottle of whiskey that he had placed on the floor next to his chair. He walked towards Holder, and handed her the thick, ornate glass vessel.

Holder broke the seal and uncorked the bottle. She walked around the table, gently pouring a finger of the amber liquid into each crew member’s glass. When all had been served, she poured herself a glass, and holding it in her left hand, raised it. “To Jenna.”

“To Jenna,” the crew replied, smiles and tears all around, and drank.

After downing her glass, Holder placed it on the table and picked up the bottle. She held it high and said, again, “To Jenna.”

“To Jenna!” the crew said once more.

And with that, Captain Theresa Holder silently drained the rest of the bottle out onto the floor of the mess.

Timecode Error: Format Not Recognized

Hive Interdictor K-14

The drone lay on the table, no longer restrained. Her tired flesh would soon be discarded, replaced by metal, composite, and plastics.

Sigma-26 stood above her, “The radiation has severely damaged your body,” she said to the new drone, “your augmentations will be rather more extensive than most.”

The new drone silently confirmed receipt of this information. 26 began hooking life support tubes into the new drone’s neck. The plan was already clear in her mind. She was eager for it, eager to leave behind the flesh that had confined her and become one with the hive. To feel the electricity run through her wires and hear the thrum of motors and pumps.

26 approached, pulling down an armature from the ceiling that held a large band saw. Wordlessly, she turned it on, and began lowering it towards the new drone’s hips. The blade bit into the damaged flesh of her right leg first, right where the femur met the ball of the hip.

The new drone heard the hive through the wire, It is not clear yet how much of your body will need replacing, it said, the process will proceed in stages to ensure stability.

The blade ground through the new drone’s leg, spitting bits of meat out to the side. As it struck bone the motor bogged down slightly, and the drone felt a high-pitched vibration through her entire being. Waves of pleasure overtook her, the ecstasy of death and rebirth. The nanites in her system worked to seal off the femoral artery and other blood vessels, protecting the brain from losing its precious supply of oxygen. The external life support systems were not yet needed, but that time would come soon.

26 removed the severed limb from the table and began amputating the other leg. Another fine mist of gore sprayed out. It felt so good, the new drone felt itself grow hard as the last bit of skin was severed.

In order to assess tissue damage, the hive spoke again, we will need to access your abdominal cavity. The life support systems will take over now.

Wordlessly, 26 plunged a scalpel into the new drone’s abdomen, just above the pubic bone. She worked it around to the right hip, then back and down almost to the table. She turned then and cut upwards, under and around the lower segment of the rib cage. The new drone’s cock was nearly bursting now, and she gave in, releasing herself, firing juices all over her stomach.

When the scalpel had circumnavigated the new drone’s belly, 26 reached in just under the sternum, and peeled the skin back. It pulled and twisted and sucked, a mass of skin, fat, and muscle a few centimeters thick. It, too, was tossed aside. Another drone came in the door and retrieved the severed legs and the skin flap, whisking them away to a reprocessing terminal.

26 examined the new drone’s organs. The new drone could not see them, but could hear the hive as it wordlessly assessed the situation. The radiation damage was too severe. Her body, even with most of the skin and organs removed, was too damaged to remain.

Full submaxillial amputation necessary, the hive declared.

26 grabbed a port with several needles on the end of various bores. She gently cupped the new drone’s head in one hand, lifting it up, before gently pushing the cable in to the base of the skull. Nanites in the port flooded in, connecting themselves to nerves, building microducts to carry oxygenated blood to the brain after the next step.

When the connection was complete, 26 reached into the open abdominal cavity and began paring out organs. She started with the bladder and intestines. The new drone watched as meters of glistening tubes were removed from her. She could feel herself becoming lighter. The stomach came next, along with the pancreas. Each cut was like an orgasm in and of itself. A blast of pleasure that washed over the new drone like fire consuming kindling.

Her liver and lungs were removed. The new drone could feel her brain stem panicking, trying to force her to breathe with lungs that could not draw air. It was driving her mad, she could feel pressure building up behind her genitals again, and once more she fired off, her glistening seed spurting into the now-empty cavity.

At last, all that was left was her beating heart. It was pounding so fast, and her body was so much lighter now, that she actually thought she might be popping off the operating table under the power of its palpitations. The new drone met 26’s eyes as the latter reached for the band saw. 26 switched the tool on, its blade accelerating to full speed almost instantly. In anticipation, the new drone opened her mouth wide.

26 brought the saw down between the new drone’s jaws. It first caught her cheeks, tearing into them and spraying blood inside her mouth and out the side. She could taste it, the hot, metallic taste of her own body, the last thing she would ever taste. As the blade continued downward it met her mandible, the blade shrieking inside the new drone’s head. It passed out the back side of the bone and immediately dug into the drone’s throat. Blood spurted down it. The pleasure of it all was overwhelming. Finally, 26 angled the blade to pass up through the top of the spinal column, just below the brain stem.

As the blade exited at the end, the new drone felt her body disappear. A nuclear bomb of pleasure went off in her, her eyes rolling back in her skull. The few muscles that remained, as well as the stumps of mandible that had not yet been removed thrashed wildly, for 12 minutes and 22 seconds. When the last wave of orgasm subsided, the new drone opened her eyes.

26 was standing above her, smiling. She felt her hivemate grasp her on either side, and lift her up. It was a curious sensation. She felt so light, so free. Wordlessly, 26 strode over to a person-sized case standing in the corner of the room.

Behold, said the hive, your new form.

The mechanical body was slightly taller than the new drone’s old one. It was sturdier too, with a more muscular look. On top of the neck sat a mechanical mandible. There was no skin, that would be artificially grown over it after assembly. 26 carefully placed the new drone atop the stack, and, using a scalpel, cut away the last bits of her original jawbone.

The artificial mandible responded without command, screwing into the joint sockets on her skull and connecting artificial muscles to mechanical ones. Soon, the drone could feel small actuators gripping the blood vessels inside her and making permanent connections. 26 stood back and watched the process. Finally, she reached behind the new drone and removed the life support tube from the plug. The new drone became momentarily dizzy during the changeover, but 26 was quick to connect the body’s hookup to the port on the skull.

Step forward, came the voice of the hive.

The new drone complied. Wordlessly, she turned around, facing herself away from 26, who began fixing armor plates to the back of her skull, covering up the sensitive port. When 26 was finished, the new drone turned back to face her. She stared down at her new hands, sleek and metal. She flexed her fingers, feeling the power of them. A full diagnostic ran automatically, the results appearing in the corner of her vision, confirming all systems were functioning as designed.

“What is your designation?” 26 asked the new drone.

The new drone looked at her, and said, “I am Sigma-38, assimilator unit.”

Welcome, Sigma-38, came the voice of the hive, we will do great things together.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Summer Breeze 6

Warnings: age gap (reader is 22, Andrew is mid 40s), dad’s friend, Andy being Andrew, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You sleep sitting up. Aside from the stiffness in your muscles, your stomach is gurgling from the greasy meal. The night fraught with worry and restlessness leaves your head even more cloudy than before. It’s real, you know it, and yet you just don’t want to accept it. 

The doctor comes after 8am. He checks your father’s vital and makes some notes on his chart. Andy asks about his condition as you can’t bring yourself to speak. He looks ragged and tired, you must not come off any better. 

“We’ll have to wait until he’s stable to make any further determination. We’ll need to test his cognizance along with his physical capabilities. The injury like has caused a TBI, meaning the effects will vary. He’ll need to be monitored well beyond his time here,” the doctor explains as Andy listens intently. You cling to every word but your mind is reeling. “Best to discuss what sort of therapies would be covered by insurance.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Andy says, “thanks, doctor.” 

“Of course. You did a good job getting him here quickly,” the man in the white coat pauses and sends you definitive look, “keeping pressure on him. You both saved his life.” 

Your eyes sting and your nose burns. You can't cry. Not yet. Once you crack, you know that’s it. You won’t be able to stop. Your cheeks tug and you thank him, swallowing down the swell of horror.  

“Andy,” you eke out as the doctor leaves, “I couldn’t get through to my mom. Do you mind if I try again?” 

“Hm, I haven’t charged my phone,” he slides his cell from his pocket, “I’m at twelve percent. Could do the trick.” 

“Oh, maybe I could ask the nurse’s desk. I think I saw a patient phone around here.” 

“Good idea,” he nods. “I texted Jacob but I don’t think he has service up there. We’ll need to go grab some clothes so how about we do that today?” 

“I... I can’t leave my dad,” you insist. 

“Sweetheart, they said he’s going to be out for some time.” 

“He shouldn’t wake up alone,” you argue. 

“Alright,” he shows his palm appeasingly, “I’ll drive up, grab your stuff, and we’ll get everything else sorted when I get back.” 

“I can do this,” you avow, as much to yourself as him, “you’ve done enough.” 

“Right, I know, you’re a strong girl. But what do you do next? Once you talk to mom. You gotta call insurance, right? Do you have what they need? You’ll need the plan number, that’s probably in his wallet, right? You’ll at least need proof of ID. We brought him in in his trunks and nothing else. All that’s up at the cottage,” he shakes his head, “I don’t doubt you can handle it but a little help can’t hurt.” 

Your eyes widen and you sigh. You drag your hands down your cheek, “yeah...” 

“You can’t think of it all right now. That’s expected. You should worry about him. So I’ll deal with the details.” 

“Andy,” you utter, “I...” you look at your dad and get up, shuffling to his bedside. You take his hand, careful not to tug the tubes and tape, “I owe you.” 

“It’s what people do for each other, right? I’m a dad too. I know if anything happened to me, Jacob would be lost.” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” you crackle from your dry throat. 

“Try to rest if you can,” he sniffs and scratches his beard, “I’ll be quick. As quick as possible.” 

“Sure,” you squeeze your dad’s hand, barely hearing Andy. You just want him to wake up, or maybe you can wake up from this nightmare. 

🌅

You force yourself out of the room to ask the nurse about a phone. She points you towards a worn phone down a few halls meant for emergency calls. You punch in your mom’s number and wait for it to dial. It takes six tries for her to answer but you won’t give up this time. 

“Hey, what’s up?” She answers casually. 

You don’t answer right away. You can hear the lightness in her voice and the rustle of unknown movement. She’s busy with something or someone. Probably her latest fling. 

“Mom,” you scratch out, “it’s dad.” 

“What is it now? Tell me he’s not drank himself into the tank again. He’s too old for that.” 

“Mom,” you say firmer than before, “mom, he’s hurt.” 

“Hurt. Well, call the paramedics, I don’t know,” she giggles and you sigh. 

“We’re at the hospital,” you raise your voice, “he’s... he’s not awake. He hit his head. And I... I’m scared.” 

She’s silent. You hear her move around and she excuses herself. A door clicks on her end and she scoffs, “well, what do you want me to do about it? He’s your father.” 

You’re stunned by her callous response. 

“And I’m your daughter,” you insist, “what... you should...” you shake your head and deflate. “Well, mom,” your voice cracks, “I’m sorry I interrupted fun for something so stupid as this.” 

“Honey, please, I’m a bit shocked is all,” she squeaks, “I mean what can I do from so far away. For my ex-husband of all people? You’re an adult. You need to learn how to handle these things.” 

“Gee, thanks, mom,” you sneer and slam the phone on the hook. 

You don’t know why you expected any different. You’re not at her house because she told you plainly that she didn’t want you spoiling her fun. She gave up trying to be a parent the minute you turned eighteen. 

You roll your eyes back against a new wave of tears; these one angry. You guess you just need to grow up. It’s your turn to take care of your dad. 

[seresinhangmanjake]

Signed Away: Part 14

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Fem!Reader Series

Summary: You find out about the contractual marriage your parents arranged with Jake’s when you were a baby. You’re plently angered by it, but Jake doesn’t seem too bothered. He might even be happy.

Notes/Warnings: Smut 18+, cursing, fluff, angst, contract marriage, loss of rights, feelings of being trapped, poor parent/child relationships, typos for sure.

As always, comments can make my bad days worth getting through, so i’ll never not appreciate them. Reblogs and likes make me smile uncontrollably, but no pressure :)

Masterlist

Words: 2353

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Jake stood with his hands braced against the countertop, his tense shoulders raised high to his neck, and his head tilted down as if the weight of the last couple weeks was taking its toll. He'd grown exhausted. His protectiveness had kicked into overdrive, and he hadn't taken a moment to breathe, as if too afraid it could distract him from the threat of your mother. You'd tried to convince him to relax, but you couldn't quite succeed when you yourself were struggling to do the same.   

"Why do you want to talk to her about it?" He asked. His tone was dark, deep, and yet the wobble of anxiety still wove clearly throughout his words. 

You sighed. "Jake…"

"I don't like the idea of you dealing with her," he said, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Who cares if you're broke? I sure as hell don't. Do you care if you're broke?"

He was rambling, the words coming out as fast as his lips could move to make them. The more the two of you had thought about it, the more the revelation made sense, but something in you still wanted proof. You wanted to hear it from your mother's mouth and have her fully admit to trying to ruin you. But Jake didn't want you going near her. He didn't see the point. To him, it was exposing yourself to the beast that had been stalking you from afar, just waiting for the perfect time to pounce. It defied logic.

"No."

"See?" His knitted brows eased. "So that part doesn't matter. If she hired Jason to come between us so that we don't have children all because your family is broke, then she already failed, right? I mean, you're not planning to break my heart by sleeping with your ex, are you?"

"No."

The hand he had raised in your direction smacked back down on the counter. "Exactly! Thank you; I appreciate that. So, what's the point in stirring stuff up with her?" He rounded the counter, approaching you with a restrained speed and resting his hands on your upper arms. "Sweetheart, we are getting married in 8 days. She doesn't matter anymore. We're going to be fine---assuming you actually want to marry me now?"

You chuckled and nodded and his grin spread wide, splitting his face in two. Rough palms cupped your cheeks, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones. He leaned down to give you a soft kiss then rested his forehead against yours.

"Let's just be happy," he whispered, but the plea within his tone was hard to ignore. "We do what we want when we want, and fuck everything else."

With a snort, you said, "There's a piece of paper that says we can't do that."

"There's a piece of paper that says we have to be responsible for an inheritance, but other than that and the marriage, no one gets to make our choices for us." He gave you another quick peck. "Not your parents; not mine."

"Do you honestly believe she's done—that she'll just leave us alone?"

"What else could she do to us that would fix her situation?" 

You didn't want to tell him again that your mother was quicker than he understood, even though he'd faced her head on once before. If you thought you knew what she was thinking, you were dead wrong, and she'd be a full step ahead, waiting to shock you with something you couldn't see coming from ten miles away. And you weren't sure how to fight what you couldn’t see. It left you feeling like a small child swinging her sword around in an attempt to spear an invisible figure—defeated before you even had a chance.

—---

You pulled your car into the parking lot of the diner, turned off the ignition, and stared through the glass window of the worn building where Phoenix sat sipping her coffee. As she smiled at the waitress, you took a few deep breaths, strengthening yourself for a conversation you weren't sure you wanted to have. The pilot was your friend, but you were about to ask for advice, and you could count on one hand the number of times you'd done so before—less, the number of times anyone’s offered advice benefitted you. But you trusted Phoenix. 

"She's your mother. Not his," she said, taking another sip of coffee. The elderly waitress placed a plate of eggs in front of you and you thanked her, giving a slight nod along with the upturn of your lips. "I mean, of course he doesn't want you going to deal with her. Neither do I. I've never met her, and I despise the woman. But no one can stop you from going to talk to her about this if that's what you feel you need."

It sounded so simple coming from her mouth. Simple in a way you couldn't accept. The way Jake looked at you when you mentioned the idea of approaching your mother—the absolute desperation in his eyes for you to forget the idea altogether—was too heavy to answer with such a simplistic response. It felt like disregarding his feelings; ignoring his fears. "He's panicking over it."

"Well, would you want him to walk into a lion's den?" Phoenix quirked a brow. "Can I ask you why you want to talk to her at all?"

"Something just feels…off," you said, shaking your head. "If we're right, and my family doesn't have money outside of the company, then I can't imagine my mother letting it all go just because Jake told her to leave us alone. It's not in her nature."

She paused, watching you carefully, searching for the right words. Knowing her, you could likely guess her final thought on the matter. Whatever she was about to tell you was what she would do if faced with the same situation. But you weren't Phoenix, and you worried your solutions to problems were not the same as hers. "Look, if this is keeping you awake at night, then you should get the information you want, whether Jake agrees or not," she said. "I mean, he won't like it, obviously. His top priorities are marrying you and keeping you safe, and anything that would threaten those things he wants as far from you as possible, but if you'd feel better knowing, then do what you need to do."

The thought of it hit the pit of your stomach the wrong way—how a lie does after you've told one to someone you love. They taste wrong in your mouth and settle uncomfortably in your gut. Phoenix wasn’t suggesting dishonestly, but that’s exactly the choice you would be facing—and neither had a comfortable outcome. Confronting your mother knowing how Jake felt seemed wrong, but doing it behind his back would cross a line. And you couldn't have that. You refused to make that mistake. The two of you were done with secrets.

"I'll think about it," you said.

—---

His thrusts were slow, gentle, with his weight above you and lips kissing and sucking on your neck. A groan rumbled from his chest when your nails began to scrape their way up his sides, leaving thin red lines in their wake. His favorite temporary tattoos, he’d once told you, and from that moment on, you’d made sure to mark him up exactly how you liked. 

"I can't wait until you're my wife," he breathed into your skin. Your whole body was hot, flushed from the thickness of the air, but his breath was hotter—burning, branding you with his confession. 

He suddenly pulled out of you, and you didn't have time to react to the confusion of it before you were flipped onto your side so Jake could settle behind you. His arm wrapped around your front, hand sliding up your torso to your breast and lightly squeezing the flesh as his cock spread you open again. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, echoing in your foggy brain and making you purr delightfully in his embrace. You loved that sound. You loved that brief moment of him shoving himself deep inside you just to pull out and repeat the movement, rewarding you with the noises of your combined pleasure. 

"I'm never gonna get tired of this," he growled, and you clenched around him involuntarily. His pace stuttered as his breath caught in his throat. "Fuck, baby." He dotted kisses over your shoulder and neck. His nose nudged your cheek. "I want you to cum."

"Ja–"

"Please, sweetheart. Just one more. I know you can handle it."

You were so weak for him. Whenever he begged, you lost absolute control of every bit of your body. It was so easy to surrender yourself—to let go—just from his needy coaxing. 

The drag of his cock along your walls, the tip hitting just the right spot in time with his deep grunts, pulled from your lips a chorus of moans and whimpers and curses. You reached one hand behind your head, weaving your fingers into his hair, and the other gripped the disheveled sheet underneath you in a sad attempt to find something to stabilize your body as he pounded into you. 

“Fuck, Jake.”

His fingers moved to your clit and rubbed in little circles that sent sharp jolts of pleasure throughout your body. His movements were intoxicating. Fingertips playing with you. Hips slamming against your ass. You no longer knew up from down, left from right. He made you beautifully dizzy, practically seeing stars as the tightness in your body finally released all at once. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing, milking and greedy for what he had to give. You allowed the feeling to consume you and fade before opening your eyes. His own were slammed shut, his lips parted for shallow exhales.

“Jake…” you whispered. His eyelids unsealed and he looked down at you. Green irises were nearly swallowed whole by blown pupils. He was gone—so far gone—and you wanted him to come back to you. “Kiss me,” you said, tipping your head back further so your mouths could meet. He kissed you sweetly. There was a neediness there, but no desire to rush tasting one another. It was soft, delicate, in direct contrast to the pace of his thrusts. He kissed you until he couldn’t breathe and had to break the connection. “Now come for me.”

Blond eyebrows knitted. HIs jawline sharpened from his clenched teeth. Your name and a curse blended into a new word as his whole body stalled, fingernails digging into your flesh while ropes of his cum filled you. His hips jutted twice more, then he began to pull out, making your abused hole sting the slightest in protest. When he rose to get a towel to clean you up you latched onto his hand and pulled him back down. 

“Not now,” you said, turning over to face him.

Snickering, he kissed your hairline and whispered, “Ok, beautiful.”

You laid wrapped together—for how long, you didn’t know—but the sunlit glow that painted your room had begun to fade by the time either of you cared to break the blissful silence. 

"Stay."

"Sweetheart, you have no idea how badly I want to," he replied quickly, as if the same thought had been dancing around his mind. "But I made a pact with Coyote, Bob, and Rooster."

"When you were seventeen."

"It's a very serious pact, sweetheart,” he chuckled, brushing stray strands of hair from your face. “We have to spend our last night as single men together. We shook on it."

You hummed in consideration. "Well, it's good to know you're loyal,” you said, and were instantly rewarded with his bright grin. 

"You, more than anyone, will always be sure of that."

—---

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart," Jake whispered against your lips after brushing Rooster and Coyote's tugging hands off his arms so he could give you another kiss goodbye. 

Every time his lips met yours, the world around you fell apart. It melted away while you and Jake stood safe and sound in your own little bubble. You liked your bubble. You could've stayed there for ages had Rooster not interrupted you with his chuckles before pulling Jake from your arms. 

"You've got the rest of your lives, lovebirds," the brunet said. They each wished you a good night and then they left, the door slamming behind them. 

With him gone, you itched for Phoenix to arrive sooner. You needed the distraction to tame your nerves. As much as you would have liked to find the night calming, there was too much on your mind. The fact that you never confronted your mother was a dark ugly cloud above your head, but you couldn't help caving for Jake. In your own worry, you hadn't thought much about what he was going through since learning of the children clause of the contract—how stressful it could be having your potential child already unwanted by one of their grandmothers, a woman with no boundaries; a woman who would hurt her own child without hesitation. Though he never spoke it aloud, you felt like a fool for not factoring that into his panic, and when it all hit you, it confirmed that you couldn't go behind his back. You made that sacrifice for him, and you would just have to sit and pray the threat that was your mother wouldn't come after you again. 

The knocking snapped you from your thoughts, and you yanked your jagged fingernail out from between your teeth. Your knee ceased its bouncing and you quickly stood, rushing down the hall. Phoenix had perfect timing. Another few minutes and your anxiety might have begun to wrap its spindly fingers around your neck. But when you opened the door, the hair on your arms immediately stood on end. Your heartbeat raced, thudding violently in your ears, and you swallowed hard to unsuccessfully ease the sudden dryness of your throat. 

"What do you want?" you choked out.

"Can't a mother come see her daughter the night before her wedding?"

A/N: Instant foreshadowing, huh? Anyway, I tried. Hope you liked it :)

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[probssomethingorother]

Next of Kin: A TLOU fanfic

This is really long and hopefully kinda sad. Don't look too close cause I got tired of editing and didn't get a beta.

Pre-Tlou, Sarah's birth story, big sad, canon compliant-ish

Sarah, Joel, Claire (OC)

Rating: Teen

“This is on you, boy. So you march back in there, you take the reins, and you do right by that child. You hear?” He only manages to nod his head, but Mr. Johnson finds it’s enough, and he is released with a final shove. In the silence that follows, a lifetime passes. He stops being a kid, walks back in, and tends to his child. ------- The day Joel becomes a dad and how he deals. Slight canon divergence where his wife dies instead of leaving.

ONE SHOT - Words: 15,929

Live laugh love, comment subscribe reblog - that's how it goes right??

Read on AO3 here or down below ⤵️

He becomes a dad on one of the worst days of his life.

July 20, 1989.

*** ʚїɞ ***

It’s a slow morning until it isn’t.

Soft light pours into their tiny bedroom through sheer polyester pom-pom studded blue curtains, relentlessly shining onto his face until finally, Joel cracks open his eyes. He inhales deeply, sucking in air against his pillow as he withdraws his arms from underneath and stretches until he takes up the entirety of the bed. It’s just a full - it’s not hard to fill the space, but usually, there is someone else keeping both his arms from hitting the sides.

Claire.

Head popping up as he blinks away the fuzziness of sleep, he catches the time on their bedside clock, and then promptly flops back down.

8:47 AM, Thursday - class.

She is halfway through some advanced design course right now, stuck in an architecture studio with a bunch of kids who don’t know how to hold a hammer.

“You’re voluntarily going to summer school?” he had teased, a mock frown puckering his forehead.

“You’re not going to be able to build ‘em, if I can’t design ‘em, buddy,” she shot back with a grin.

They don’t have many concrete plans, but they do have a little dream to start up their own building company - her designs with his construction, in-house everything from start to finish.

Several months ago, it looked like that dream was gone. He came home to her sobbing on the floor of his bathroom, clutching three positive pregnancy tests, blubbering about how it wasn’t supposed to happen, how her parents would be so upset, how her life was over, and how she didn’t think she could be a mom.

After the shock abated—the overwhelming drumming in his ears subsiding to a disconcerting tapping and his heart slowing to a crawl—he descended to the bathroom floor to be beside her. With a deep breath, he slid down the putrid yellow wall, intertwined his hand in hers, and exhaled every ounce of air in his lungs. Then, with a sweet peck to the top of her hand, breathlessly he told her, “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout kids….but I do know… if one’s gettin’ you for a mom - they’re goin’ to be pretty amazin’.”

Much to his chagrin, his words only brought on a fresh wave of tears and sobs. He didn’t know what part of what he just said was wrong, but he couldn’t handle seeing her cry. As he frantically scurried on the tile floor to sit in front of her, he missed the subtle shift in the way her shoulders shook, angst turning to something lighter.

Tenderly, he nestled her head in his hands, and hastily sputtered:

“No no no, please don’t - I didn’t mean - we can do this is all. Ain’t the end of the world. You’ll be a good mom - and I think maybe... I’ll be a good dad - teach him all sorts of stuff about buildin’, and football, and my abuela’s tamales...And he’ll... and I know we don’t got much right now, but that’s just right now - we can have ‘em -“

And then Claire let out a snot-soaked chuckle, mouth twitching up at the sides as she wiped her wet face against his arm, leaving a shiny residue.

“Him? What makes you so sure were havin’ a boy?”

With a sigh of relief, he sat back as her tears came to a trickle; and with a curt nod and a smile, he dropped his hands away from her face.

“Well yeah,” he drawled, “Miller’s only have boys - me, Tommy, all the primos- not a girl in the bunch.”

Two days later Claire met with her counselor, rearranged her course schedule, and made a plan to enroll in the summer semester, freeing up her fall for the arrival of the baby. At the start of term, she crossed her fingers and prayed to God that the little nugget would stay inside long enough for her to make it through to finals.

It’s her last week. So far the plan has worked.

Normally, he’s navigating the morning rush to drop her off at UT Austin before he heads to the relentless buzz of the construction site, but this morning he’s on the late crew. He has nowhere to be til noon, and the extra hours of sleep are nice, but he also would rather be working.

He had asked for more shifts to make extra money before the baby comes, but Asshole Andy didn’t take too kindly to the request and did the exact opposite - slashed his hours by six each week, snarkily advising him he could “probably use more time at home prepping from the arrival of the rugrat.”

He had brooded over the whole ordeal for a couple of weeks, but now it irks him less, especially since Claire has given him a laundry list of things to complete before the little man comes home - assembling the crib, buying a bottle warmer, installing his car seat, cleaning the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the floors, and the couch, and pretty much every surface in their dinky 700 square foot apartment.

The list starts its relentless nag on his mind right as the last dredges of sleep scurry away, and the morning light, now too bright for any more excuses, floods their matchbox of a bedroom. It leaves Joel with no choice but to begrudgingly abandon the comforts of their bed, and rolling to its edge, with a small groan he begins his day.

Shuffling out of their room, his feet catch and peel away from the warped parquet floor with a faint, sticky noise that echoes in the quiet morning. It's one of the many quirks of their aging apartment that they've come to accept- its "charm," as Claire loves to say. Their living space is a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture, DIY fixes, and cheap decor. They have tried to make it look better, but even with all of Claire’s design knowledge only so much can be done to distract from the place's age and size.

He flicks on the TV - an old set, the screen slightly too blue- and flips to Sport’s Center to catch the Astros’ game highlights.

Taking a few moments to himself, he plops down at the tiny table wedged in the corner of their kitchenette with a hefty bowl of frosted flakes before the day's duties demand his attention.

His spoon pauses mid-air, startled, as the front door swings open and bounces against the wall. He’s halfway through breakfast, but wasn’t keeping track of the time.

Claire comes barreling through, her presence like a sudden storm, backpack haphazardly dropping with a thud as she crosses the threshold. She’s always been a bit of a tornado, bouncy brown curls trailing her like a dust cloud as she whips up small messes in her wake.

“Need to pee!” She announces as she hurries past Joel, her movement more of a rapid wattle, one hand cradling her swollen belly. She’s three weeks out from her due date and feeling and looking like “Veruca J, Veruca!” - as she likes to lament to him at least once a week.

Despite the urgency, she tosses him a small smile as she slips inside the bathroom and shuts the door. With a small smile of his own, he gives his head a little shake and returns to his cereal.

“You eat?” He calls with a full mouth, attention on the screen in the far opposite corner, a little too enthralled watching the Astros get smashed by the Mets. The question is thrown casually over his shoulder, a formality really because he knows the answer. She never eats before class, opting to take the extra few minutes of sleep over fixing up something, but still, he has to go through the routine: he asks, she grumbles, he says the baby needs food, and then there is a slight pause before she crosses her arms and says he’s right.

But when its usual pattern unfolds with no reply, he lobs another question towards the bathroom, “Wan’me to pour you a bowl of this?”

And that’s when everything speeds up.

She emerges from the bathroom with stark panic etched across her face, its complexion losing color by the second. Her deep brown eyes, wide and unblinking, lock onto Joel's like a silent scream.

Her shorts are off, her underwear is red, and blood spreads down the tops of her inner thighs.

He’s on his feet in a fraction of a second. As he darts up, the table jostles violently, sending his breakfast airborne in a chaotic slew of cereal and milk, and the bowl slips off, splintering against the tile of the kitchen floor. The high-pitched clatter of it all is nothing compared to the sudden ringing now filling his head.

Tears begin to pucker her waterline as he rushes to Claire, his footsteps quick, his hands hovering before they gently, firmly, grasp her shoulders.

A thousand words are interchanged between them, but none break from either of their lips.

With a shared nod, they split—Joel to the chaos of their bedroom for clothes, Claire to the phone.

“Mom?… Momma? Can you n’Pop meet us at the hospital?” Her voice is shallow and cracky, but Joel can hear it as clear as day as he rushes to throw on a t-shirt and wriggle into a pair of jeans.

“No St. David’s ..” she chokes out, as he stumbles over his own feet as they enter his pant legs, leaving him to careen into the closet door. As he pops back up, he catches her trembling voice ending the call: “Okay, love you, see you soon.”

The phone crashes to the laminate countertop with a sharp clatter, clearly not rehooked, as he snatches his wallet from the dresser and scrambles to find his keys.

If he wasn’t fighting to suppress the panic quickly growing inside him, frustration over the search for the pesky things would have been all-consuming. He rummaged through three pairs of pants, and checked under the bed, in the couch cushion, in the kitchen, the bathroom, and pretty much every other inch of their apartment, before finally lifting Claire’s backpack strewn in the entry to see the car keys discarded beneath.

Within seconds of his eyes landing on them, they are out the door, and the worst and best day of Joel’s life begins.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“Joel?”

“Right here, baby, right here.”

“I - I- please, don’t let - we need to - now-”

“I know, I gotcha.”

Her fragmented pleas, broken by sharp intakes of breath and muffled by cascades of tears, repeat incessantly in his head—louder and more urgent with each echo. Joel can’t get it to stop - much like his leg moving in an equally incessant rhythm, bouncing up and down as he sits in the rigid chair. The compulsive movement is matched by his hand - right anxiously twisting his watch band back and forth, rubbing it deeper and deeper into the rawing skin of his left.

“There’s so much blood.”

“Just focus on breathe’n now, we’ll be there soon, alright?”

Dried remnants of it cling stubbornly to the crevices of his knuckles and dirty the spaces in between his fingers, staining them a brownish crimson. He could clean it off, but it’s a piece of her - and if he can’t see her, at least he can still look at this bit, no matter how gruesome.

Almost an hour has passed since he’s last seen her.

By the time they reached the ER, she was too dizzy to walk. She’s not much smaller than him, but Joel had scooped her up with urgency anyway and charged through the sliding doors. The muted blue walls of the hospital corridor blurred in his periphery as he zeroed in on the signs leading them there. As he burst through the doors, they rebounded off the walls with a loud slap, and the collective gaze of the waiting room pivoted toward them.

His arms burned from her weight, but he dug his grip in more, fingertips pushing into her thigh hard enough to bruise.

"Something’s wrong with her," he blurted out to the quiet room, his blown-wide eyes locking onto the woman’s at the admittance desk.

It took no time for the nurses to descend on them, ushering Joel out of the waiting room and back toward a bed he could finally let her down on.

Claire was barely coherent, face ashy, breathing labored.

“What’s her name, son?” A sweet older woman with box-dyed red hair asked, gently moving him aside to better attend to Claire.

“Claire,” She took his name officially a few months back, but he’s known her longer as - “Claire Johnson,” - it just flows right.

“Okay Claire, we’re going to take good care of you. How many weeks are you, hun?”

When her head lolled to the side, lips moving but no words coming out, he felt like someone was squeezing the air out of his lungs while simultaneously filling his head with cement.

He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. His eyes bounced from her to the monitors, from the nurses to doctors, from the needle being pushed into her arm to the cross on the wall, from the strap being secured around her belly to her beautiful curls getting crunched beneath the oxygen mask, and then finally, to a calendar hanging crookedly above the corner sink -

His gaze had lingered there for a long moment.

Claire had put a magnet on the fridge to track the weeks, a little pink and blue calendar. He thought watching the time tick by was a little silly at first, but this week, when she flipped it to “3 weeks from baby!” he got a little flutter of something in his chest.

“37,” he muttered, brain distantly doing the mental math as a nurse dispensed a healthy glob of ultrasound jelly onto Claire, bottle squelching with the brute force of the squeeze.

Only 37 seconds later, a decision was made: she needed surgery immediately. Her bed rails snapped up, she was disconnected from the machines that beeped and blinked with a detached urgency, and wheeled away swiftly. Someone tried to explain something about the placenta and an “abruption” and that she was losing more blood than her body could handle, but all Joel could focus on was keeping pace with the gurney so her hand wouldn’t slip from his.

But eventually, it did - had to.

She was pushed behind a set of doors he was not allowed to go, held back by a physician’s firm hand. “Take a seat, someone will come talk to you,” they said.

That was 37 minutes ago, and nobody has come to talk to him.

The flickering of the fluorescent light overhead is now the only thing keeping him sane. It mixes with some sun strips crossing the blue tile floor, and when everything hits right, it looks like beams of light dancing at the bottom of a swimming pool. He finds himself fixating on it, forcing himself to take a breath every time a glowy strip appears. Everything else around him just fades into the background, the ring of the hustle and bustle of the hospital becoming muted as if caught beneath the waterline.

Claire once told him blue is used to evoke calm, but surrounded by the hospital’s blue walls and blue floors, it only makes him feel more and more like he’s drowning underwater.

Claire loves the water.

She’s lived in a landlocked city her entire life, but give the girl a chance and she will talk about the ocean. She’s only been a handful of times to the coast- just Padre Island, yet, you would think she’s dipped her toe in each of the seven seas. Sand and sunshine, blue skies and blue sea - she could never get enough.

They had almost escaped there for the Fourth.

“Come on, J, one last hurrah,” she had pleaded, her eyes alight with the prospect, her voice threaded with excitement as she bounced around their small living room. “It’s called a babymoon - everyone’s doing it now,” she had tried to explain, doing her best to convince him to sit in the sand and watch fireworks explode in dazzling arrays over the Gulf.

But he had to say no. There was no time, no money, and his old car, which creaked and groaned even on short drives, would probably not survive a four-hour trek in the boiling Texas heat.

It’s a little silly - especially now - but all he can think about is her and him, and how they really should have just taken the goddam trip.

*** ʚїɞ ***

There is little to say to her parents when they arrive and find him waiting, his hands slick with sweat as they approach. He gulps hard and clears his throat, scrambling for words that refuse to form. But before he can try to speak, Mrs. Johnson pulls him in for a hug.

Her hand gently brushes the back of his head, and the precipice of any words dissolves into a shaky exhale into the crook of her neck. She smells like a blend of lavender and vanilla—just like his mom used to. When she breathes, "Oh honey," her voice cracks with maternal warmth, and for a moment, Claire’s mom is his mom, and he doesn’t want to let go. Arms, heavy and trembling, slowly rise around her, his body deflates, and for a flash of a second, he doesn’t feel like he’s stuck underwater.

But he only gets in one breath before he slips back under.

Claire’s father, a big burly man - an old-fashioned Texas rancher- interrupts the moment, hand going firmly to his wife’s shoulder. He tugs her back, guiding her to a nearby chair with a look of the eye and a twitch of the head.

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes, already weary and tinted red, spare Joel one final sympathetic look before taking her seat and turning to the ground.

Mr. Johnson takes his wife’s spot, leaning in close. His breath is hot and has the stench of musky cigars as it puffs into his face. “Nurse at the front told us what’s goin’ on,” he gruffs with a dagger-like glare, a look that Joel has only seen once before when he caught them one late night junior year fooling around in the back of his Tio’s truck.

If it hadn’t been for Claire coming between them—literally—Joel’s pretty sure Mr. Johnson would have killed him on the spot.

Unfortunately, he’s lacking her protection now.

On shaky knees, he sinks back down in his seat as Mr. Johnson takes his own next to his wife, who has already brought out her Rosary and begun the Litany.

For a long while, he watches her fingers glide across the beads. Her umber tone makes the milky cream of the tiny glass orbs and the gold-plated cross shine in her grip. Head bowed, her voice is hushed, a whispered prayer—delicate, but intentional.

He’s never taken much to religion, but it was important to his mother, so he never missed a Sunday. It was just a hollow obligation then, but in this moment, he can see why people are drawn to it.

There is a comfort in knowing what to do, what to pray, who to ask for help.

He follows along in his own head, punctuating her efforts with his own hard “Amens”. He pushes his anxiety into each prayer, hoping the Mary up there will take pity on them, see herself in Claire, and protect their son.

They only make it three decades deep.

Perhaps if they had finished it, things would be different.

He barely registers the doctor’s approach. When he slowly looks up, he can’t miss the hollow defeat that hangs heavily in the woman’s eyes as she comes into focus behind the Johnsons.

Time stops.

He goes rigid, fidgety anxiousness leaving his body as dread pushes in.

Seeing the change in Joel's expression, the Johnsons twist to face the doctor, their bodies stiffening as they stand. He tries to rise, but his legs betray him, and he remains half-seated, peering through the narrow gap between their shoulders. The doctor, flanked by the nurse from before with the coppery hair - “Judy” he remembers off a name tag - looks exhausted, face drawn tight, almost like a different person then who she was in the ER.

"I'm sorry," the physician offers, each word measured but heavy, carrying a weight that squeezes out all the little remaining air from the waiting area. "We did everything we could, but..."

The words that follow blend into the sterile air. Something about complications, a clot to the brain, a loss too great, a life gone as a new one gasped its first breath.

His knees buckle and he’s back in the uncomfortable seat once more. His fingers find the sides and wrap around, knuckles going white as he holds onto the plastic like it’s a preserver in rough waters. Every hair on his body stands to attention as a wave of goosebumps runs from his head to his toes. Saliva pools in his mouth and his throat constricts tight and his lungs feel like they are vacuumed sealed shut.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. What they don’t tell you is that it happens just the same when they die.

Claire.

She’s eleven years old, escorted into their church camp room, and placed in a seat next to him. He was dared by Freddy Bower to yank her ponytail so he gave the new girl a gentle tug. In return, she picked her nose and wiped it on his arm. Everyone teased him the rest of summer that she had given him her cooties.

She’s in his homeroom when school starts in the fall and the rivalry is instantaneous, competition whittling down to their days of birth - and of course, she’s three days ahead.

And then she’s thirteen and leaning across the circle, the tip of the soda bottle pointing towards him. Even though she unabashedly wiped him off her lips, he didn’t mind the way her strawberry chapstick lingered on his. He wanted to remember his first kiss with a girl, even if it was with her. At the same party the following year, they are stuffed in a closet for seven minutes in heaven, but they stay several inches apart - “Miller if you think I’m goi-” - “Oh, like I would even want you to.”

And then they are freshmen, and she’s not in any of his classes or clubs and he kind of misses her, but convinces himself it's just the competition that he craves, and has nothing to do with how she’s bubbly, and witty, and pretty, and fun.

And then it’s the summer and they are stuck in the back of a hardware store together, wearing neon green vests, racing to stock shelves, tallying who knows the most paint codes, and the competition is back and now he doesn’t want to let it go. So he doesn’t.

He makes her start to hate him less, and they get paired together in home-ec, and when they both get dragged to church by their parents they go to the pew in the back and fold all the hymnal pages into geometric patterns. They get close enough for his mom to start packing her a tamale in his lunch, teasing “para su amiga,” with a wiggle of her brow, and for Claire’s older brother to start snagging him packs of Marlboro Reds from the corner store on Park before away games, because “since you she fights with our Pops less.”

And even though she laughs in his face when he asks her to Junior year homecoming, it’s official - they are together - and they stay together.

She cries with him when his mom dies and he holds her tight when her brother meets the same fate five months later. She gets accepted to NYU, but decides to stay in Austin for school - “I’m not doing this for you - me and Tommy are buds now, can’t leave him.”

And although she lives in the dorms freshman year and he takes the couch at his Tio’s, they still make it work. When he saves enough to rent a place of his own, one night a week becomes several, and then she’s with him full-time. And she decorates the place with seashells and butterflies and they laugh and dance in the living room, and burn things on the stove, and watch marathons of shitty movies, and flood the bathroom trying to fix the sink. And he pops the question one silly night under the sheets, and puts a peach ring on her finger, and he’s in love, and they are making plans, and having dreams, and having a -

"Hun?" The gentle intrusion startles him as it slices through his life with her. Judy’s auburn hair flashes infront of his eyes before her kind gaze takes its place. He nods mechanically.

“Why don’t you go see your baby girl?” She chirps soft and smooth, as one of her wrinkly hands comes to his elbow while the other wiggles her fingers under his and unlocks his grip from the edge of the seat.

With another shaky nod, he forces himself to his feet, each step hesitant as he follows the Johnsons out of the waiting area.

Only once he’s at their backs do her words hit his brain, but by then he’s not sure he’s hearing anything right - hoping he’s not hearing anything right.

*** ʚїɞ ***

Things go a little hazy for a while, like wandering through a dream that both makes absolute sense and none at all.

Despite being behind the doctor, her parents set the pace- a quick stride, nipping at the physician’s heels, pushing her to lead them down the winding corridor at a speed Joel finds wholly unmanageable. He can’t quite put his finger on the feeling, but his brain is telling him that it’s strange to be rushing - inappropriate- to be speeding this along.

With every five tiles, he falls a step behind, his pace slowing incrementally until the echoes of their footsteps fade and he’s alone with nothing but the empty stretch of corridor to navigate.

Distance.

Minutes ago, he had wanted the space between them to disappear; now, he wishes the hallway would stretch a little longer, the doorway be a bit further - hell, if he could move her room to the other end of the hospital, that would be best.

Space is time, and he needs time before this moment finally catches up with the next. The next that’s tainted by a cruel reality waiting on the other side of that door.

When he finally steps in and sees her, color already gone from her face, he feels small, like a little kid - he is a kid - and she was a kid - and now they have -

He doesn’t remember walking over to the clear plastic bassinet, but then he is there looking down at the thing that took his first love from him.

Her tiny fists wave in the air - clearly a fighter from her first breath- and then her teeny nose wrinkles up as she lets out a piercing cry.

The shriek, is timed perfectly with a deep wail from Claire’s mother.

The sounds are like the gun at the start of a race, his feet moving before he thinks.

He has no control over his body as he rushes back into the hallway, his heart pounding, breaths shallow and quick. His chest feels like it’s on fire as he slides his body down the wall, sinking into the floor, much like he did several months back when Claire broke the news - although this is light years more jarring.

“Why don’t you go see your baby girl?” Plays back in his head like a cruel joke.

It’s a girl.

He should be happy that at least one of them made it out, but all is brain can grab a hold of is the fact that the one that did, is not his girl - not Claire.

The commingled cries leak under the door and waft into the hallway, giving him no reprieve. His hands slide over his ears as he tucks his knees into his chest and digs his forehead into the denim of his jeans.

He thought he knew what grief felt like. When his mom died, years ago now, it was like someone rearranged his insides and forgot to put his heart back into the right place, stuck somewhere near his stomach, perpetually sunk. And back then, he knew it was coming - a monster in the closet that would eventually come so he left the door ajar. He slowly grieved the loss of her for months and months before the cancer finally took her, and it hurt, but not like this.

This was different.

He wasn’t prepared for a monster to come and take everything, and certainly not on today of all days.

He thought they would rush to the hospital and get settled in a room and figured the worst thing that could go wrong was Claire squeezing his hand maybe a bit too hard - maybe even enough to break it, he had heard that could happen - and then after a few grueling hours, they would leave with arms cradling a boy, a strong little fella with Claire's bright eyes and his big’ole nose.

They would go home as three.

He knows there’s two of them now, but he feels like he’s just one.

He can’t do this.

With a clack on the tile, feet halt in front of him. Raising his head slightly off his knees, dark brown cowboy boots come to fill his view as they grind into the ground. With a firm hand - an angry clench that squeezes his bicep- Claire’s father hoists him up roughly, feet slipping on the smooth tile as he’s forced to stand and face him.

His eyes are all fire when they meet Joel’s and his grip intensifies as they bear into him. He’s heard stories about Mr. Johnson’s anger - never would touch a woman, but Claire’s told him about how he wouldn’t hold back on her brother Mike. For a moment, he’s sure he’s about to experience what he can do, but instead, he’s slammed against the wall.

“Stand up. Act like a damn man,” he growls, his voice a strident whisper.

It’s harsh, but expected. Her dad never liked him, thought he was derailing his daughter's future, and that was before getting her pregnant. Five years of pent-up anger and disdain are channeled into the vice grip on his arm. He winces, but he also knows he's fortunate it's only his arm taking the brunt of it.

“This is on you, boy. So you march back in there, you take the reins, and you do right by that child. You hear?”

He only manages to nod his head, but Mr. Johnson finds it’s enough, and he is released with a final shove.

In the silence that follows, a lifetime passes.

He stops being a kid, walks back in, and tends to his child.

His child: Sarah.

That’s the name they had picked after thumbing through a far too large book rented from the college library. Claire had wanted something with meaning, “classic, but strong,” and landed on Alexander and Sarah - a warrior and a princess.

He didn’t think they would be needing the girl's name - “Miller’s make men” he had begun to chime every time Claire’s eyes veered toward something pink or purple for the baby. But perhaps it was mother’s intuition because here she is.

Sarah

Sarah

Sarah

She was supposed to be their princess. Now, she’s just his, and that fact weighs his body down like an anchor, planting his feet next to her bassinet, forcing him to stare into her big brown eyes that go as deep as the ocean.

Claire would have loved her baby’s eyes.

A warm hand settles between his shoulder blades, and he pushes his gaze away from her, blinks rapidly to clear away the tears pooling in his waterline, and turns toward the source. A nurse with a yellow scrub cap that matches a tweedy bird pin clipped on her pink scrubs offers him a quaint but sullen smile and drops her hand away.

“You picked a name out for her yet, sugar?” She asks bending over the bassinet clipped to retrieve the name placard at the top of the small crib.

The powder pink card boasts “It’s a Girl!” in a cursive font with flowers and a cheery teddy bear with a bow. Beneath it, are all the important things, like “Mother: Johnson”, “Weight: 6lb 1oz,” “Length: 17 ⅛. In.” and “Time: 10:27am.”

The spot for the name is glaringly empty.

Joel nods with a sniffle.

“And what’s the winner then?” The clipboard in her grip swings around to her front, and she balances it in a crevice of her stomach as she uncaps a black felt tip marker with her teeth.

Mouth dry, he swallows hard. The last time his throat pushed out words was when he whispered “you’ll be okay” into Claire’s ear as she was pushed away from him through those doors off the ER bay. He hates that his last words to her were a lie, but that’s neither here nor there now.

“Sarah,” he says slowly, listening how it floats through the air.

“Middle?”

He knows what Claire wanted - what they had planned - but his eyes flick across the room and find her blanched face obscured by a tube and surrounded by monitors, and he just can’t go with it.

“I think it should-,” he pauses, pondering it again for a fraction of a second, “-Claire.” He nods, “Sarah. Claire. Miller.”

He hopes she doesn’t mind.

*** ʚїɞ ***

The hours begin to bleed together.

The mechanical whispers of the hospital - the soft beeps, the muted shuffles of footsteps, the low voices of doctors, and nurses, and administrators weaving in and out the dimly lit room - it all becomes one giant mush after a while.

Someone had offered to wheel Sarah away, and put her in the nursery with all the other newborns - “are you sure? fathers ain’t normally the ones watchin’ them like this” - but despite being utterly terrified, he shook his head at the offer. He planted himself in the corner of the room on a small maroon plastic couch, rolled her bassinet firmly in front of him, and kept her small form at his eye level.

People come in to evaluate Claire, but when nobody veers toward their own little space to check on them, he wonders if it’s the wrong decision. She seems perfectly fine, but his leg bounces nervously with the possibility that she isn’t - silently slipping away because he doesn’t know anything about babies.

His gaze rarely leaves her even as conversations swell around them, constant low-murmured discussions about what comes next.

They frame their words carefully, tiptoeing around the inevitable, trying to present things as if there are options to be made, but there aren’t options - there is just one option :

When to let her go.

She’s already gone in all the ways that matter. Her body is there, but her brain is not. She’s never going to wake up. She’s not going to go home and dance in their apartment, or wiggle her toes in the sand, or blow bubbles in her drink, or call him “Joel Michael Miller” when he tickles her too much.

And she is not going to hold her baby, or hear her giggle, or see her take her first steps cause Claire is not going to be stepping out of this hospital.

He knows it, but the Johnsons haven’t quite gotten there yet. So he just watches from the corner of the room as her parents ask all the same questions over and over again, yet hope for different answers.

Earlier, someone had tried to explain what happened was rare. That when the placenta detached her body kicked into overdrive, blood clotting excessively. As little Sarah was being pulled into the land of the living, Claire slipped the opposite way, a clot traveling up to her brain and cutting off blood supply for too long.

A one in a million chance.

“Exceedingly rare,” they had said repeatedly, and, “no way to know this would happen,” as though those two things could somehow soften the blow.

Soft enough to knead it into something it isn’t.

For her parents, “rare” became synonymous with special, and “no way to know” mutated into defying the odds, and both together turned into a false hope of an impossible reality.

“She just need’s some time - we’ll wait- our Claire - she’s a strong one - patience is a virtue.” her mother told the room, aiming the words at nobody in particular.

And waiting is what they have been doing. They hover by her bedside, chairs drawn close, bodies hunched over and slipping out, practically on their knees as they tightly grasp Claire’s hands and pray.

Their words to God fill the space between beeps and breaths, and he doesn’t really believe in Him like how they do, but part of him also want’s to get down on his knees and ask Him why.

When the hours tick by, they start to beg for a miracle.

And Joel doesn’t believe in that sort of stuff either, but the longer he spends with Sarah the more he thinks that God has already delivered. He could have taken them both, but he left one behind.

Wrapped snuggly in a hospital blanket, she stirs slightly, her tiny hands balling into fists against the underside of the blue and pink striped fabric. He holds his breath until she settles.

He’s been doing that a lot.

The door groans softly on its hinges, inching open just wide enough for someone to slide through. The Johnsons pivot toward the sound, and they nod in recognition, gesture returned politely by the nurse slipping through. She then shifts focus, surprisingly shuffling back toward Joel tucked away in the corner.

It’s Judy again - that nurse from the ER who seems to be trailing them throughout the hospital. She pauses beside him, her gaze softening as she looks down at Sarah, and then back to him.

“May I?” Her voice is a hushed whisper as she gestures to the cramped couch that has become his home for the last several hours.

Anxiously his hands had been wedged beneath his thighs, but he slides them out, and scoots an inch to the right, making room for Judy to settle in beside him.

“I know I’m not one of the gals in pink, but I thought I would come and check on ya’ll.” She adjusts her sea foam green scrub top, smoothing out some wrinkles, and untangling her hanging ID badge that’s gotten caught in the chain of her glasses draped around her neck.

She’s so nonchalant about it all, it's a little strange, but also a little comforting hearing someone talk to him like normal.

"How are we holdin’ up?" she asks her voice a gentle coo. Joel pauses, caught off-guard, unsure if her words are meant for him or the baby nestled in front of them. He goes with the former, but manages only a shrug, expression a bit hollow.

“Well, that’s expected,” she murmurs back.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, his whisper barely audible as he brushes his palms back and forth against his thighs.

He’s been thinking it for hours, hasn’t dared to utter it outloud, but something about Judy has him spilling his secrets.

“Do?” She angles toward him, her brow bunched together in a soft frown.

“With her. I don’t know what I am supposed to be doin’.”

A reassuring touch lands on his knee. “Oh hun, nobody really does at first. But you’ll get there,” she encourages. With a hopeful tilt of her head she suggests, “Why don’t you start by holding her?”

Joel balks, his voice stuttering. “No I don’t - I don’t -,”

He’s thought about it, but she’s a tiny little thing - swears he’s seen potatoes at the county fair bigger - and he’s petrified of someone how smushing her. He’s fairly certain his hands will cause more harm than good the second he reaches for her.

He hasn’t, so he won’t.

“ - I can’t,” he begins, but Judy halts his efforts with a raised hand.

“Nonsense,” she dismisses as she stands, couch squawking with the change in pressure. Her hands are cool as they touch his arms, sending goosebumps up his skin the moment she bends and positions them. The reaction has nothing to do with the iciness of her touch though; his heart bounces into his throat before settling back into his chest and hammering against his ribs.

“Yep there ya’go,” she softly assures as they become a cradle. Silently, he shakes his head - every part of his body telling him he shouldn’t do it, but Judy pays no mind.

"It’ll feel more natural than you think.”

Staying petrifyingly still, his eyes acutely track her as she turns towards the bassinet and slips her hands under Sarah’s small form. “Hand under her head now, like where mine’s at,” she instructs, catching Joel’s nervous eyes and waiting for him to return a nod before proceeding.

He’s not ready, but he doesn’t think Judy would let him stop even if he asked; he suspects her bright red hair matches her personality in that regard.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek and gives her a curt confirmation.

He’s going to have to be ready.

Sarah's tiny head fits into the crook of his elbow, and for a moment, he's too afraid to breathe. Her weight settles against his chest, and although a rush of warmth floods through his heart, physically he can’t seem to meet the feeling halfway, body clenched up tight.

Filled with apprehension his eyes flick up to Judy. She’s giving him a hearty smile, the crow's feet at the corner of her eyes turning into deep valleys as they crinkle up.

When Sarah begins to squirm and fuss, it has his heart starting to beat nervously fast. He didn’t realize he could be any more tense, but his body constricts even more, shoulders darting to his ears, spine curling, feet pushing hard into the ground; it's all in a futile hope that if he stops moving, she will too.

He holds his breath.

“Relax, she’s a baby, not a brick,” Judy whispers, careful not to aggravate Sarah anymore as she bends in close. “She feels what you’re feelin’ honey just -” Her hand settles on his upper arm and brushes down it.

He forces himself to take a breath, urging his body to comply with Judy’s coaching. Slowly, his shoulders come away from his ears and his chest sinks back against Sarah, and he lets out a shaky, but unburdening breath.

Sarah settles too.

When he looks up to show Judy, he discovers she has retreated several feet, busying herself with something on the back countertop. His heart catapults into his throat again as he realizes he’s holding her alone. His eyes widen with concern as they snap down to Sarah. He gulps hard, adam’s apple pushing down to the bottom of his neck and then climbing back up. His muscles are threatening to constrict again, but he tries to keep all that at bay.

Relax, relax, relax

The anxious flutter only settles when he sees Judy returning.

“Chart says she’s fit as a fiddle, and due for another feed soon. Did the nurse show you how to give her a bottle?” she inquires, peering at him over her purple glasses.

Joel shakes his head.

“They show you anything?” she presses, her tone gentle as she moves her readers and sticks them into her bushy hair.

Again, he shakes his head, and then at the same time both their attention moves toward the Johnsons, still ensconced in their silent prayer at Claire’s bedside. A mutual understanding passes between them then, both knowing that other things have taken precedence in this room besides teaching a new dad how to be just that.

“Well, I ain’t no labor and delivery nurse, but I’ve had five of my own. Reckon I can get you sorted,” she declares, settling back onto the couch. With practiced ease, she adjusts Joel’s hold on Sarah, her hands confident and caring. Unprompted, she continues, “You remind me of my youngest - and I’m not going to ask you where your mama’s at - but if my little one was havin’ his own little one, and I wasn’t there for some reason, I’d hope that somebody would have some mercy on that clueless kid and step’n for me.”

It’s true, he is a clueless kid.

He doesn’t know how to hold her, or feed her, or change a diaper, and he’s not sure what cry is fine and what sound should have him racing to find a nurse.

Not to mention any of the parts about her being a girl and what to do with that. He might have been able to push through if life with this child was going to be mud and dinosaurs and football and little boy things, but he has no idea about pink and princesses and dance class and being a girl.

And part of him knows he still wouldn’t know any of this stuff if Claire was sitting next to him, but at least she’s made for this.

Was made for this.

He’s not.

Yet, as if reading his mind, Judy offers: “You’ll figure it out.”

Sarah’s small lips pucker and then croak out the faintest yawn, before flattening into a little smile.

“See, she like’s when you hold’er,” Judy chimes while playfully bumping her shoulder into his.

Goosebumps cascade down his body again, but this time they are warm—soft and bright, like Sarah's smile. The fear still lingers, rattling in his chest, but he can’t help but mirror her expression. His mouth twitches, the corners lifting into a smile of his own.

The longer he looks, the more he realizes he’s seen that grin before.

Lost in the moment, he looks up to show Claire.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“No reason to keep her here, you’re all set to leave,” the pediatrician tells him as he unhooks his stethoscope from his ears and gently places Sarah’s blanket back in place.

His tone is light and optimistic, but his volume is hushed, matching the somber ambiance of the room. Everyone’s been quite cognizant to keep quiet with the Johnsons holding vigil at the other end.

“Leave? To another room?” Joel whispers, swaying on the balls of his feet, hands crossed tightly over his chest.

With a small snort and shake of his head, the doctor tries again, “No no, your baby is being discharged, you can go home.” There is a beat of silence and then he adds, “get out of ..here.. for a bit, get a break from this, son.”

Joel’s eyes drift over to Claire’s parents, and a weight that’s been looming in the background suddenly settles on his shoulders. He rakes his hands down his face and they settle in front of his mouth, palms touching like prayer hands.

He knew this would come, but he hadn’t let himself consider how it would play out. A shiver slips down his spine and he drags in a long breath.

He’s not sure he can do this part, but then again, he didn’t think he could do any other parts of the day either.

“Talk with ‘em, but I think it’d be best if she goes home tonight,” the physician encourages as he departs, giving his shoulder a small squeeze before smiling back at Sarah and taking his exit.

The talk is a mess.

It’s a charged volley of raised voices and differing views.

They can’t believe he is considering leaving, but the doctor is right, there is no reason to stay lingering by and waiting in a place seeped in gloom and dread when Sarah’s life should start with something much brighter.

They tell him a mother and child aren’t supposed to be separated.

They aren’t wrong, but they aren’t right. He holds his tongue to what he could say, and the conversation pivots, anyway.

He asks them to revisit what the doctors said, that she will not be waking up. Gently, he tries to convince them that Claire wouldn’t want to live as a shell hooked to monitors and breathing by way of an air tank -that this isn’t what she would want - that this isn’t her.

But they don’t get it. They tell him God can work in mysterious ways, that He will choose if she goes.

He tells them that God made his choice, and now it’s their choice - his choice, he corrects. He has let them take charge this entire time, but their ceremony at the courthouse in March makes this his responsibility.

It was just a little thing with a borrowed suit and a white dress from the thrift store, and a Clerk named Alvin as their witness, but he wants to uphold the vows he swore to her that day.

With a scoff, they tell him that it wasn’t before God, that it wasn’t in a church, that it might have well have been two kids playing dress up.

They say she’s still their responsibility. And he knows “responsibility” for them is really “she’s our baby,” - and he now has a glimpse of what that means - but still, he can face what they can’t.

He tells them they are making her suffer.

They tell him he’s going to hell.

He doesn’t necessarily disagree with them.

*** ʚїɞ ***

When he shakily thumbs through some paperwork - meaningless words on a page that don’t stick in his brain - and then signs his name at the bottom, he somehow feels too young and too old at the same time.

His signature is a janky mess that anyone would be hard-pressed to decipher if it came from the trembling hand of an eighty-year-old or a fourth-grader learning cursive for the first time.

Her dad had told him to be a man.

It hurts, but that’s what he’s trying to do.

*** ʚїɞ ***

When the nighttime air hits his face, he takes a breath, dragging it in slowly through his nose and holding it until his lungs beg for mercy. He thought a few moments away would feel good, but it just seems to have highlighted a new type of anxiety that’s prodding at his insides.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him he’s forgotten something, but he knows it isn’t true.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, it whispers.

He tries to picture exactly where she is, tucked safely in the hospital minded by nurses, but the nagging feeling stubbornly remains.

Anxiously, he twirls a pair of borrowed scissors in his fingers as he walks across the parking lot toward his car. Every step further elicits one more repetition of her name, louder and louder.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

He pauses halfway across the parking lot, the urge to go back stopping his stride. As he drums the blade of the scissors against his palm, he considers it for a moment. He wants to have her where he can see her, but shaking his head, he dismisses the idea and continues on.

It’s strange how they’ve only been together for a few hours, and already he can’t seem to let her go—not even when he tries. He hopes that’s normal.

His keys twist into the back lock and the trunk pops open with a loud click, catapulting open and up as soon as it's unlatched. Having seen far better days, the ‘78 Wagoneer is chronically temperamental. He’s normally fluent in its weird behaviors, but he’s not on the ball today.

A second too slow at catching it, the edge nails him in the face as it comes up. It doesn’t hurt all that much, but it’s embarrassing, and he quickly turns his head around the parking lot to check if anyone’s noticed. But the only thing staring back at him is the washed-out face of a smiling baby plastering the side of the car seat box in his trunk.

It was bought over the weekend from Walmart, but hasn’t been touched since. Getting it sorted before the baby was born was supposed to be on the list of things for him to do.

Obviously that didn’t happen.

With a hefty sigh, he drags it closer and flicks open the scissors to slice at the packaging tape. Every inch of the orange handles and silver blades are heavily plastered in sharpie with “Nurse Stat. 7” to an absurd degree.

Asking for them wasn’t easy.

His request was simple at first: “Ma’am, do y’all have a pair of scissors or somethin’ I could borrow?” The woman at the large, curved desk glanced up, giving him her full attention. He probably didn’t need to say more, but her direct gaze made him nervous, and he found himself rambling.

And that’s when things got hard.

“We just had - I just had -” he stuttered before stopping in his tracks, trying to find the words that felt right to explain what had happened that day.

They did just have a baby, but they weren’t a “we” anymore, yet saying “I” felt dishonest—he hadn’t done anything. She had done everything. Gave everything.

And he knew the other half of his “we” was gone. He knew it, but verbalizing that reality outside the confines of her hospital room felt like he was spreading a lie, leaving a bitter, acidic taste in his mouth. So he decided to omit it—“if you have nothin’ nice to say, don’t say nothin’ at all,” he reminded himself, as though he was a kid back on the schoolyard, stopping a pesky rumor from spreading.

He wished it was just that.

With his hands buried in his pockets to hide their shaking, he instead managed, “My baby came a bit early and were gettin’ ready to go, but they say she needs a car seat, and her’s is still packed up in the back of my trunk.” The words came out awkward and uneven, voice cracking as if he was just a kid.

She was light on the sympathy when she handed the scissors over, slapping them into his palm with clear directions not to run off with them as if she’d heard his story several times before.

Maybe she has.

He dumps the pieces out haphazardly and arranges the array of lightweight muted grey awkwardly shaped plastic parts across the flatbed. The only bits he can definitively identify are a curved handle, a lightly padded fabric liner in blue, and two thin woven nylon straps for her seatbelt. Frustration comes on quickly as he fails to snap together two parts that look like they should fit, finds nothing that seems to anchor another, and every time he looks at the pieces scattered about, it feels like the pile has doubled in size. The minutes start to tick by quickly, and he’s no further in the process than when he started.

The little voice in his head is getting louder and louder screaming Sarah, Sarah Sarah!

He’s not really an impatient person but he can’t take it.

With an exasperated breath, an unlucky piece flies from his hand, arcs through the air, and crashes against the interior of the trunk, ultimately landing back among the sea of discarded parts.

Leaning heavily against the back bumper, his clenched fists dig into the rusty metal, knuckles going white. His chin hits his chest, defeated. Of all the things to make him unravel today, he can’t believe the goddamn car seat is somehow a fighting contender.

He thought he would be good at this - capable of building something - it’s what he does day in and day out, but this is a puzzle, not a construction project. He can build a house, but he has no idea what fits where in a seat that doesn’t even look like it would hold a toy doll, much less a living breathing child.

His gaze lifts reluctantly to the box, and with a deep sigh, he straightens. Dragging one hand through his hair the other plunges back into the box and retrieves a small white instruction booklet that mocks his competence. He slams the trunk shut with a dissatisfied breath.

Coming around front, the window slips down a healthy inch as he forces his car door open with the usual two hearty tugs. The leather of the seats are cracked and chipped, and whenever he slides into the driver’s side, his jeans always snag as he gets settled. Today is no different.

The car smells like her - sweet and floral with a hint of salt from that spray she likes to put in her hair. Claire always said it was to help with her curls but knowing her, Joel thinks it was just to smell a little like her favorite place.

He leaves the door open, allowing the nighttime air to cycle through the cabin and chisel away at one of the last remnants of her.

Lingering in any memory of her for longer than a heartbeat hurts far too much.

He cranes and contorts his body to catch a sliver of light, but it helps little. Even the big bold letters on the front - “Joy Ride Infant Seat Manual” - fade into the darkness and when he flips to the first page, squinting does nothing to help decipher the instructions.

With a sigh, he tosses the booklet into the passenger seat and moves his keys from the cup holder to the ignition. The clunker sputters to life, and Joel slams his door shut, the window pane sneaking down another half inch as the metal frame rocks with force. He drives it up two spaces, putting it under the white light of the parking lot pole lamp, and then gets out, and tries again.

The instructions do wonders for making progress.

The seat begins to take shape, but its frame is lighter and more fragile than he wants it to be. Each piece snaps and clicks into place with an unsettling ease that doesn't inspire confidence in the slightest. His hands grow clammy as he flips back and forth through the instruction booklet, doubting each step.

"Right?” he asks with skepticism to the air, picturing how it should look, glancing at the flimsy thing, and then back to the box and booklet. Truthfully, he had been worried about the quality even before putting it together:

“It’ll be fine, we didn’t even have them when we were kids, and look - we made it through,” she had tried to assuage his fears as they waited in line with it by the register on Saturday. Doubt about their choice started settling in when he picked up the suspiciously light box and it rattled with the sounds of several small pieces.

Several pieces that are now somehow a car seat.

“Right,” he mutters reluctantly, shaking his head at the final product. It hardly looks like it will keep her safe, but he’s pretty sure that is the result of choosing the cheaper option - of being two kids on a shoestring budget - and not his poor assembly skills.

He was always the worrier, Claire was always the one to talk him down.

“Go with the motion of the ocean, dude” she would always kid, dropping her voice low and slow, pretending to be some surfer boy Kyle from San Diego.

He wonders if she would stay as cool about 'the motion of the ocean' if she saw the seat's concerning sway, despite being securely fastened into the backseat during the short drive through the hospital parking lot. His ears can’t help but to zero in on the sound of its rocking as he maneuvers the Wagoneer from the dimly lit lot to the harsh fluorescent light under the hospital’s awning.

Coming to a stop, the engine idles with a rhythmic purr that mixes with the steady blink of his hazards, and for a moment, it feels nice - just him alone.

But it doesn’t last long. Alone makes him feel guilty.

Sarah! The voice in his head screams again.

As he reaches to turn off the car, his fingers brush against his keychain, causing the baubles to jingle. He pauses, the sound drawing his attention to the beaded orange and black monarch and a tiny bleached conch that knocks softly against the other keys.

Claire had "spruced them up" one afternoon, hoping to get a funny rise out of his coworkers at the construction site. After the teasing, he took off most of the other girly keychains and pink ribbon, but he kept around the butterfly and small sea shell.

He wishes he kept all of it now.

With a deep breath, he retrieves the scissors from the dash and goes to collect his daughter.

She is fussy and more squirmy than he thought a baby should be when he eases her down into it. Her tiny limbs flail against the stiff plastic sides and each time he tries to snug her in, she wriggles, face scrunching in displeasure. The straps are working against him too, twisting up as he fumbles with the buckles.

His hands tremble as he attempts to adjust the plastic chest piece, sliding it up, then down, never quite finding the right spot. He knows he’s doing something wrong, but he’s not exactly sure what - other than maybe being too gentle, but he’s not sure how to change that either because he’s determined to keep his touch feather light with her; keep it all soft and gentle so he doesn’t scare her more than she already looks to be.

He glances back at the assembly booklet, but the part about actually putting your child inside is light on details - just one page out of a hundred.

Sarah’s cries escalate, echoing in the backseat and slipping out to fill the air in the hospital entry.

His heart races as he imagines the eyes of every passerby on them, judging his clumsy attempts. A car honks loudly, startling him, and he pops his head up just in time to catch the driver shaking their head in disapproval as he swerves past.

“Work with me Sarah, come’on baby girl.”

He holds his breath as he hears the sound of the sliding doors behind him, and his hands still as he bears down and waits for someone to yell at him to get a move on.

He steals a quick glance over his shoulder, catches the eye of the woman coming through, gives her a pleasant but curt nod and then turns back toward Sarah in the car. He hopes the gesture will stave off the inevitable complaint heading his way.

“Excuse me.”

He sucks in a breath but doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. He knows he’s been at this too long, he doesn’t need a stranger reminding him of it too.

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder.

"Need some help with that?" she asks.

His face must convey his answer, cause she doesn’t wait for his reply, pushing in next to him. Part of him wants to resist the help, too proud to need it, but the better part of him lets his hands back away and hers take his place.

“First time’s always hard with these things,” she tells him as her hands untangle and unclip the twisted straps. Her nails are painted purple like Claire’s before - like Sarah’s mom’s that morning - and that’s all his brain can seem to focus on as she moves things around. He almost misses her undoing the straps completely and resetting them- apparently he anchored those upside down when he put the thing together.

With a final click of a buckle, she’s gone as quickly as she came, giving him a pat on the back before climbing into the car that honked at him just moments ago.

He didn’t get the chance to say thank you.

*** ʚїɞ ***

It’s a short drive home, but it's a spotty blur of lights in the dark - some greens and reds, but mostly whites - bright headlights that burn into his retinas from the rearview as he takes far too many long and hard glances toward Sarah in the back seat.

With every mile, his grip on the wheel tightens and his arms stiffen, and by the time he’s pulling into the apartment complex he might as well be a statue in the front seat. And even though it prolongs the stiffness even more, he takes the curve into the apartment complex at a crawl and keeps the speedometer unreadable as he glides gently into his parking space.

His foot moves slowly as it eases off the break, car bobbing back ever so slightly. His hands release the steering wheel, knuckles aching as they straighten and flood back to color. His right-hand drifts stiffly down, fingers curling around the ignition key. With a deep breath, he pauses, gaze going to the top of Sarah’s car seat just visible in the corner rearview, and then with a decisive twist, the rickety engine that had been her lullaby shudders to a halt.

Mercifully, she doesn’t wake.

He exhales a long breath as the car settles into the stillness - quiet, yet far from peaceful.

Drawing another breath in feels like inhaling sludge, oxygen to thick to gulp. Suddenly his body is feeling again, bringing out every worry and fear that he pushed down in their drive home. They are trying to crawl out of his stomach, digging into the sides of his throat as they climb their way up and out.

He can’t breathe.

The car is totally stopped, but he feels like any move he makes now will somehow send them into a tailspin, he won’t be able to steer them out of it, and they will crash, and Sarah will end up in the same place as Claire.

She’s home safe and sound - “home safe”, he repeats over and over in his head - but he can’t get his brain and body to sync up.

He knows it's all irrational, but he feels lightyears away from safe.

His fingers grip the top of his thighs, pressing down hard and deep as his breaths come in choppy and labored through his nose, jaw clenched up tight.

He knows what’s happening, but it makes little difference in stopping it. His mother used to call it "emociones fuertes" when he was a child, but he hasn’t had a true one in years - really not since living with Claire.

“Stop it Miller, Stop it.” He grates, trying to find something to focus on to push away the feelings of overwhelm. His eyes land on the only thing in view, the parking sign at the head of his spot, and he traces the number 12 over and over again with his eyes.

Down, around, across, over. Down, around, across, over.

Failing to find relief, he takes a long breath in and collapses forward, forehead pushing into the top of the wheel as he closes his eyes hoping the sparkly specks and blurry colors behind them will be a better distraction. Instead, his mom’s voice comes drifting through his head, a brief vision of her flashing behind his eyelids: "Mira, mira, mijo, mira a mí. Inspira - uno, dos. Suelta - uno, dos."

He does what she says.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He repeats over and over again.

When he peels himself up and away after an undeterminable amount of minutes, his eyes first go to his rearview mirror and catch Sarah’s car seat, and then go to his dashboard and land on the green numbers of the clock. It reads 10:27, just like the placard on her bassinet at the hospital - a strange coincidence that has his anxiety twitching, threatening to come back in full for no apparent reason.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He cracks open his car door, but almost slams it shut - a roaring sound of buzzing cicadas wafting into the car. He holds his breath and pauses, hand not even off the door handle. He waits and waits for her to start fussing and crying -bugs should make babies cry right?- but Sarah stays quiet, blissfully asleep.

And she remains that way by some small miracle as he detaches her car seat and locks the car with a loud resonant chirp.

The flight of stairs up to the apartment is taken at a sloth's pace, anchoring both of his feet into each concrete step and pausing before moving on to the next, all while holding the car seat fiercely level with two hands as if the slightest dip will have her slipping out.

When he reaches his front door, he does everything in his power to minimize the sway of her seat as he shifts to hold her with one hand and muffle the jingle of the keys as he unlocks it, petrified of waking her.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

With a creak, it falls open and an unexpected, staticky voice from a distance halts him on the threshold. His eyes track the sound to a very faint blue glow in the far corner and the realization hits harder than it should - TV’s still on, left unattended in the rush this morning.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

Shaking his head, Joel sighs heavily and steps inside. His gaze flits to the light switch but then back to his hands glued firmly to the car seat, and decides not to engage with it, forgoing the juggle it would take to get them turned on. The door closes with a push of his heel, and the apartment entry plunges into darkness.

A jolt of panic rips up through him as he stumbles, feet tripping up on something on the floor. He catches himself in a rush of awkward steps, and looks back to see the culprit. Squinting against the dark the outline of Claire’s backpack comes into view.

Swallowing hard, he tears his gaze away, focusing on getting Sarah settled.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

Embarrassingly, his arms are already aching, and that makes his heart pound with worry, fearing somehow they will just give out without his permission. It’s maybe only ten steps, but it feels like he is crossing the entire length of the small apartment as he rushes to put her down.

But then she’s on the coffee table and he finally lets out a real breath.

Fumbling in the dark, he attempts to flip down the car seat handle, hands blindly feeling out the button, but he can’t get it to budge. “Okay, baby girl, okay,” he coos in a whisper as Sarah begins to let out the tiniest mewls as her resting place is disturbed. Promptly, he removes his hands holding them up until she settles.

He steps back, pauses, then scrambles to find the remote control and flips off the TV, pushing the space into stark silence.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

With a deep sigh, he sinks into the couch in front of her. A sliver from a street light outside slips through a small opening in a window curtain, hitting her car seat at just the right angle. The orange hue brightens up the darkness just enough for Joel to see her small little face as she settles back into sleep.

It should make him feel better, being able to see her, but the more he stares, the more anxiety fills his body.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He isn’t supposed to be doing this alone.

Twisting his watch band back and forth, his mind races with all the things he doesn’t know, all the things he’s going to have to learn, and everything he has to do. He grates his molars together as the list grows and grows.

He’s going to fail at this.

He is going to fail her.

His chest is feeling tight again, and his breaths are coming in choppy no matter how many times he tries to coach himself into breathing. Desperate for relief, his hand leaves his watch and goes to rub it against his sternum. It’s an unseasonably cool day by Austin standards for July, but the apartment is starting to feel unbearably hot and all too small. His shirt is growing wet, sweat making it uncomfortably cling to his body, and he wants to just rip off the constricting material and get out of this too-small space, and run away.

But that idea hurts his heart more than helps. An image of her alone in the dark stabs at his insides and aggravates all the dread swirling inside him.

He stands abruptly and crosses to the window, bats at the curtain to push it aside, and cracks it open to let in some of the night's cooler air.

The sounds of the city at night drift in - a car alarm in the distance, the low hum of traffic, and of course, the buzz of the summertime cicadas. He leans against the wall next to the window, allowing the slight breeze to cool his face as he listens.

He didn’t realize how suffocating the silence was until his heart rate slowed and his lungs grew lighter as he basked in the distant rumble of Austin. Back in the hospital, there had always been a constant backdrop of sounds—machines beeping, footsteps, conversations - all a distraction for his brain to digest instead. When it’s too quiet there is nothing to keep his anxious thoughts at bay.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He could stay standing in the spot all night long- fall asleep upright - but his heart is tugging him in a different direction after just a couple of minutes. Feeling more steady, he pushes off the wall and goes back over to Sarah, already worried he’s done something wrong by taking his eyes off her for just a few moments.

When he settles in next to her this time, it's on the floor beside the coffee table, wanting to be as close as possible. He leans his head on the wood table top as he gently reaches inside her car seat and lays his hand atop her stomach.

Feeling every one of her tiny inhales and exhales calms some of his nerves, but doesn’t wash away all his fears. He pushes himself to match her breathing.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

*** ʚїɞ ***

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. And he certainly doesn’t remember moving off the scratchy rug on the floor to the old green tweed couch, but he has.

His eyes snap open as the sound of her wails jolt him awake, body jerking and almost tumbling off the side, back to the floor where he thought he had been.

Still dark, his eyes take a long moment to adjust, only seeing the outline of her car seat and her squirmy body, while his brain also races to catch up with his sudden awakening.

But then her small little body emerges from the dark, pushing against the confines of her seat, and he’s dropping to his knees infront of the coffee table in an instant. His hands make quick work of unclipping her buckles, but come to a slow as they reach inside for her - making sure his big clumsy hands are delicate and careful with her as they slip under her tiny arms and around her back, pointer fingers nestling at the base of her head as Judy had aptly shown him.

The moment she is free, her body curls into a tight ball, knees drawn to her chest. Her face mirrors, scrunched tightly as she cries, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open, her tiny chin trembling with each wail.

"Shh, baby girl, I got ya," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and laden with worry. Carefully, he draws her close against his chest, rocking gently as he kneels on the floor. His hand sweeps down her back in a soft caress, followed by a tender pat, repeating the process in a rhythmic lull. But it does nothing to soothe her.

Her cries continue to pierce through the silence of the apartment, and each sob compounding the worry and anxiousness filling up his gut.

One of them is shaking - he’s really not sure which one - but as her cries persist and stab into his ears, he thinks it might be him more than her.

“C’mon, Sarah, tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads softly as he slowly rises to stand with her.

Pacing the room, he rocks her gently, his lips pressed to her forehead in a silent plea for calm. "Shhh, it's alright, nothing to cry about," he murmurs, the words meant as much for himself as for her.

It’s a little startling how easily her tears have triggered his own. They slip down his face in one hot wet line, and he feels horrible for allowing them to drip onto the crown of her head, but he can’t move his hands away from holding her to brush them out of his eyes and off his face.

“Please stop cryin’.”

The cries only swell.

The ring and echo in his ears, muddling his thoughts into a desperate slurry of “please stop.” He hates himself for it, but he places her back in the car seat, digs the heels of his hands against his eyes the moment they are unburdened, and groans hard in frustration.

“Wet, hungry, tired. That’s all you got to figure out, capiche?” Judy had told him.

He repeats it now, despite his doubts about the simplicity: “Wet, hungry, tired.”

Gritting his teeth, he wipes the back of his hand to his eyes, clearing away the tears, and carries her to the kitchen - not exactly sure why, it just feels right.

The tiles are cool under his bare feet and the overhead sconce flickers before coming alive and bathing the space in a soft yellow light.

He pauses with her in the carrier, looking at the mess of spilled breakfast still on the table, and the minuscule space of countertop that barely can fit a pan on a good day. He taps his hand against his thigh as he thinks about his options, but her cries are like a timer pushing him to make a decision.

They hadn’t gotten around to setting up her crib yet or a changing station of some sort, and the space seems the only feasible option for them right now.

So the floor it is.

He drops to the ground with her, tugging down two dish towels looped over the oven handle as he descends. A faint odor of rancid milk and soggy cereal wafts up from the tiles, leading his gaze to the shards of a broken bowl scattered beneath the table, remnants of this morning's chaos. He contemplates moving, but her cries are growing louder. Wincing, he pushes the stench to the back of his mind, and then with an exacerbated exhale that puffs out his cheeks, he wipes his forearm across the floor, checking for bits of bowl. When he feels none, he lays out the two towels atop each other like a little mat, hoping to provide her some comfort.

“Please stop cryin’, please Sarah I'm tryin’,” he whispers as he finds the snaps on her onesie - a powder pink and thin cotton thing given from the hospital, plain as can be. “Please baby girl I'm tryin’,” he begs softly against her hard cries that echo and bounce off the tiny kitchen, growing in strength each time they ricochet into his ears.

But his quick work is all for nothing, cause he straightens up on his knees and realizes he has forgotten the most crucial bit - a diaper.

His heart sinks and he lets out a dejected rumble at the realization of where it’s at. The hospital had handed him a 'goody bag for dad,' as one nurse had cheerfully put it, filled with enough supplies to last until he could make a proper store run. Grateful, he had nonetheless tossed it onto the floor of the passenger seat, his mind too preoccupied with other things to pay it any attention, until now.

Sitting back on his haunches, he contemplates a quick dash to retrieve it, but the thought of leaving her alone, even for a minute, claws at him.

With a resigned sigh, he bundles her back into the car seat - forgoing her onesie - it’s warm, it will just be a minute. Cursing under his breath, he heads to the car with her in tow.

The journey downstairs and back is torturous, each step deliberate, trying not to jostle her too much and worsen her cries. The thud of his heart pounds in his ears, synchronizing with each of her sobs.

He’s not sure if it's just the contrast of sounds, but it seems quieter out than before, and he wonders how late into the night or how early into the morning it actually is. He bites his lip with a grimace as they pass the neighbor’s door, Sarah of course letting out a particularly loud wail right in front, certainly disturbing their sleep. If he wasn’t already feeling guilty, that surely sealed it. He makes a mental note to send them an apology, as he come back inside to the apartment and drop the bag onto the kitchen floor.

With a deep breath, he resets, and begins the process again.

It’s his second time ever changing a diaper and it’s no better than the first horrid attempt at the hospital. Somehow the sticky side wings bunch up together and pulling them apart ruins the whole thing, tearing at the materials and making it wholly unusable. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the mistake, chucking the collateral damage of his inexperience far across the kitchen as she continues to cry and cry.

Things bode better with the second diaper, satisfaction flicking across Joel’s face as he fastens up the last snap of her onesie and her cries recede.

But the quiet is short-lived, gone before he can even sigh in relief. She starts to whimper and then they escalate into another bout of full-on cries, face scrunching up in discomfort.

She really does have a set of lungs on her.

"Alright, not wet, then. Hungry, huh?" He asks scooping her up into his arms as he debates what to do. He eyes the carrier and then settles Sarah back into it, standing with her in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment. It seems like the only safe place to have her when he’s up and moving.

“Hungry, we can fix that, just we gotta -,” he narrates as he takes a long stride forward to the counter. He attempts to place her on it, but the top of her carrier hits the underside and cabinet, preventing him from doing so.

Shit.

He fumbles momentarily, trying to figure out where to put her, to finally deciding on the sink. The stainless steel double bowled sink was something they used to make fun of, size out of place in the rest of the tiny apartment, but he’s never been more thankful for it now. Her carrier balances perfectly on one of the sides, resting atop like a colander would.

He lets his hands go from it hesitantly, murmuring, “Okay, just stay there,” as he slowly backs away to retrieve the brown bag of supplies from the floor.

“We’ll get you a bottle then,” he tells her, throwing the words over his shoulder as if she can understand. Her reply is only more piercing sobs.

His hands are shaky as he pulls out the formula and a bottle and he can’t help but stare at them with wide eyes as they linger in the palms of his hands. The transfixion breaks at the sound of a particularly rattled shriek that claws up from her throat.

He carries the supplies back to the counter and instinctively reaches into his pocket. Relief washes over him as he finds the small piece of paper he stashed there hours ago still safe. Carefully, he pulls it out and smooths the crinkled paper against the countertop edge.

“Can I write this down?”

“Sure thing, let’s um - here,” Judy offered, ripping out a blank form from a chart, flipping it over to a blank white back, and passing it to him with a click of a pen.

It’s his writing, but it’s barely recognizable chicken scratch.

Reading the instructions aloud to himself, his voice is hesitant and shaky, but he tries to ground himself in the steps, eyes casting over to Sarah every other second.

Her face is red and glistens, soaked in tears.

He can’t help but tell her, “workin’ as fast as I can baby,” as he lowers his head down to the bottle and makes sure he is pouring the exact amount of water into the measuring line. The formula tin opens with a scratchy metallic sound as he tears away the top. His fingers dig inside for the scoop - he made a note that Judy said it likes to hide - and when they find reach it he quickly uses the plastic shovel to ladle the powder into the tiny bottle.

It’s not a particularly clean process - rushing, excess powder spills onto the counter every time he taps the scoop to the lid of the bottle to get the formula in. He probably should be more careful with it, but Sarah’s screaming for him to hurry.

He slides infront of her as he shakes the bottle, using his free hand to wipe away the tears drenching her cheeks.

“Almost there, almost there,” he coos half to Sarah, half to himself, as he clings to small talk as if the words could bridge the gap between panic and calm while gently rocking her seat.

Raising the bottle toward the ceiling, he uses the light to check the formula is all dispersed and seeing it is, he turns quickly to offer it to her, and the nipple grazes her mouth her pulls it back quickly.

He forgot to warm it.

Quickly, he flips the faucet handle up and over, hot as it can go, and holds the bottle under the stream. The heat begins to sting his hand, but he holds it steady and waits for the warmth to seep into the milk.

Sarah’s cries lull to a sputter, and her tense expression eases into a prolonged frown.

There is only one thing that’s changed:

“You like the water huh?” he asks glancing back and forth between the tap and her face.

As he holds it under, the redness in her face fades begins to fade, and a tentative smile begins to form on Joel's lips. "You know, your momma loved the water," he distantly murmurs, watching her visibly relax.

With the rush of the faucet filling her ears, Sarah stops crying abates, and he slips the bottle out from under it.

“You get that from her.”

It’s a melancholy whisper that he knows she can’t understand, but he hopes it somehow it roots in her heart like his. Catching a glimpse of Claire in her - getting a reminder that she still is her daughter too, and not just his, has a certain type of flutter kicking in his heart.

He tests the temperature on his wrist like Judy showed and, then hesitantly takes a sip himself just to double check—it’s lukewarm at best, but it will have to do. He keeps the soothing rush of the tap on for her as he gently slips the bottle into her mouth. When she takes it without protest, his shoulders droop, relief washing over him. He watches her drink, the soft rhythmic sounds of her sucking mixing in with the white noise of the water beside her.

"There you go, baby girl. That’s it," he murmurs, a smile blooming full into his cheeks.

He’s not sure what does, but suddenly he’s feeling like nothing can go wrong.

As she takes the bottle at a chug, her plump cheeks rise and fall, appearing even fuller and irresistibly adorable. Her long eyelashes, mirroring the rich brown mop of hair atop her head, flutter gently as she settles more comfortably. And even after crying her little head off, remnants of her screams and tears still clearly on her face, he can’t help but think that she is one of the most beautiful babies out there.

Which isn’t a surprise cause she looks like Claire and she was one of the most beautiful people out there.

"We can do this," he whispers.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“3 weeks from baby!”

The small little calendar magnet stares him down. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot from a night gone without sleep, but he holds its gaze harshly. Gently swaying, Sarah rest against his chest, her tiny form curled securely in his grasp.

He’s not sure what to do with it.

Never once has he changed it - it was Claire’s thing - and it still feels like her thing- but the morning light peaking through the crusty blinds in the kitchen is hitting it perfectly, spotlighting it in a warm glow, and it just feels like the world is telling him to fix it.

He stops his sway, coming to a slow as he heaves a sigh. With one hand, he carefully removes the magnet, flips it to the last page, jostles it in the air as the thin pages catch on the cheap spiral binding, and slaps it back onto the fridge.

“Baby is here!”

It’s up for all of three seconds before it flies across the kitchen.

It clangs against the metal sink, sliding down with a scrape, and settling ominously at the bottom drain.

Fixed somehow feels infinitely worse than wrong.

Sarah stirs, a soft whimper breaking through as she senses his tension. He exhales slowly, relaxing his clenched jaw, and resumes his gentle sway, hoping to soothe both her and himself.

Now, the black fridge door hosts only a lone neon butterfly magnet, its wings pinning a small card beneath them - a phone number, an address, and an army insignia.

His heart moves from somewhere beneath Sarah to the floor.

Tommy.

He had been gone most of the summer at basic training, and at the start of his ten weeks, Claire had put up the address to make sure she knew where to send his letters. They were two kindred spirits, the same type of recklessness and bubble - her little brother just as much as his.

He never asked what was in the letters she sent, but he’s certain Claire was keeping Tommy up to date with her pregnancy, especially because in his own letters from Tommy, he would be nagged about not buying Claire enough chocolate-covered pretzels and salt n’ vinegar chips- her two favorite snack cravings.

He deserves to know.

Plucking the card from the fridge, Joel shuffles over to the wall-mounted phone, the cord stretching and coiling like a reluctant snake. He sinks into a kitchen chair, cradling Sarah more snugly as he dials the number, each press of the button sharper than necessary. Calling during training isn’t really a thing - “only write me” Tommy had explained once, but this isn’t something that could wait. After an agonizing series of redirects and brief conversations with faceless operators, his brother’s familiar voice finally crackles through the speaker.

“Joel? Everythin’ alright?” He asks immediately.

His eyes are on Sarah, balanced in his arm supported up by a bent leg in a figure four. His foot is wiggling anxiously, but she seems to like the motion as it vibrates up his leg. “She’s here” is what is at the tip of his tongue, fighting to come out, but that’s barely half the truth.

The feeling like he is about to spread a lie is back, guilt settling heavily in his chest. He can’t find the words to say Claire is gone.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

“Joel? You there brother?” Tommy presses again.

His eyes drift up to the butterfly on the fridge and suddenly the truth is tumbling out in a hurried stream, details of the past day pouring out so quickly he barely catches his breath. He’s not even sure he says it all in the right order, and he knows the sprinkles of things the doctor said, and mentions of Claire’s parents, as well as his laments about not having anything ready, probably don’t help with clarity either. By the time he finishes, the phone is pressed hard against his ear, digging into the cartilage to an uncomfortable extent and the acidic taste from yesterday is peaking into his mouth from the top of his throat.

For a long moment there is only the echo of Joel’s winded breath.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

“Hermano,” Tommy sighs, breathy air pushing into the phone and transmitting as a loud crackle in Joel’s ear. The static subsides back into silence, and both are unsure of what to say.

“Brother I’m s -,” he begins, only to stop to shush some ruckus in the background of his line, “I’m goin’ to request some leave - come home, be there by day after next.”

“That ain’t -“ Joel begins to protest, but Tommy cuts him off.

“-don’t start with that, I’m comin’, this is family.”

His eyes wander down to the bundle in his arms, and immediately they well up with tears. He sniffs them away - no time for that, he chastises himself - and nods his head before letting it fall back, gaze turning up toward the blotchy ceiling, letting gravity take care of the rest of the water pooling in his eyes.

“Joel?” Tommy asks against the prolonged quiet, voice tugging him back from the brink of tears. He comes back to attention, clearing away the tightness growing in his throat with a closed-mouth cough.

“Yeah sorry.. I’ll see ya’ day after tomorrow then.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Tommy parrots, almost absently, trailing off with another despondent sigh. “Howaw is he?”

“He?” Joel pauses, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Your son.”

“Oh,” Joel says with a small snort, a hint of a smile forming. He wedges the phone into the space between his ear and shoulder, and holds it firm in place as he readjusts Sarah. She’s starting to wake, lips twitching up and little eyes fluttering. He gently brushes his pinky down her soft cheek.

“Well you ain’t goin’ to believe this, but he’s a she.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah, a girl…Sarah.”

Sarah who looks like Claire with beautiful brown eyes and thick hair, and loves the water like her mama. Sarah who has a sweet little gurgle but cries like a coyote cause she’s strong and knows what she wants. Sarah who has been with him topside less then a day, but has already made his heart grow two sizes bigger.

“Well I’ll be dammed..baby girl Miller...ain’t that somethin’.”

She is. She really is.