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lsunstreakerl · 2 days ago

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my prompt has been extremely fulfilled but im just putting this out in the universe… maxiel or lestappen, with a Significant age difference where max is inexperienced, like a shy blushing type. and oop, daddy kink unlocked…. 🙂‍↕️

obviously, again, this has gotten out of hand. in the name of the father, the son, and the holy coldplums, I gift to you all the reason for my relative radio silence: maxiel corporate boytoy.

I've got. hmmmm. about 8k of it written at the moment, so I'm posting the first few chunks for you all to read. here is 2.5k of exposition, alternating POV's. HI: kink prompt. obviously. explicit content ahead.

pairings: daniel ricciardo/max verstappen

relevant heads up: power imbalance, age difference, work environment that would make an HR department cry. dirtbag daniel (somewhat), inexperienced max.

Daniel doesn't really keep up with the interns- supposedly he's been observing them all year, narrowing them down the best ones, the perfect fit for the company.

In reality, he pays them no mind and lets the supervisors tell him who they want. It's a good system, and it hasn't failed him yet.

He's walking with Blake down across the loft portion of the fourth floor- he can see down across the glass at some of the other levels, and it still blows his mind sometimes that everyone he can see works for him.

Blake is nattering on about the next fiscal year's budget- Daniel will pay attention to it when the paperwork is on his desk, and not a moment sooner. His eyes are bouncing around, landing on familiar and unfamiliar faces, older and experienced supervisors training the young blood.

His attention snags. There's someone across the walkway, half leaning over a desk and gesturing at something on a monitor. Daniel is more distracted at the way his slacks fit, hugging his thighs and narrowing into a waist that Daniel immediately wants to take a bite out of.

He's not sure when they started hiring pornstars.

"Blake- who is that? Over by Scarlett's desk."

Blake looks confused for a moment before his face lights up in recognition.

"Oh! That's Max- he's one of the interns for the year, and he's really good on the numbers end- kid's got a real solid brain in him. I was actually hoping to talk to you about him- he's my favorite intern I've ever had in the department, and I think he'd be really good full time."

Daniel thinks he'd be really good bent over the desk. All the way.

"Yeah, for sure man. Well bring him on board."

"Uh, Dan?"

Daniel's still walking, but he's pivoted his course, making his way over to Scarlett's desk. She and Max have their heads together- probably trying to actually do Daniel's company some good, honest work.

Daniel doesn't care.

There's more details as Daniel gets closer- Max has blonde hair, just on the side of too short around the back of his head, slightly longer at the top. It's gelled, which- they can fix that. If the women in the company don't break him of the habit, Daniel will just change the dress code.

His shoulders are broad under the white button up, which really adds to the waist thing he's got going on- Daniel wants to wrap his hands around him, see if it feels as perfect as it looks.

He's definitely not complaining about his back view though- Max has a cute ass. Daniel wants to put teeth marks in it.

Scarlett notices them approaching, straightening up.

"Daniel! Blake! This is Max, our finance and accounting intern for the year. Max, this is Daniel- you should know who he is, and Blake- you should also know who he is."

Max spins around, and Daniel wants to hire him on the spot. He's got a unique face- European of some kind, probably. He also has a perfect set of DSL's.

Max smiles, eyes scrunching up into little crescents. There's a freckle on his lip.

"Hello! Mr. Friend, it is of course nice to meet you again. It is nice to meet you as well, Mr. Ricciardo."

Oh, he has a lisp. They're definitely keeping him.

"Just Blake is fine, Max. Dan over here prefers his first name too- everything else is too stuffy. We're not that kind of workplace."

Daniel reaches out to shake Max's hand- he has long fingers, blunt squared off nails. No jewelry, and most importantly- no ring.

He flashes Max his best smile, and the kid goes a bit red, cheeks flushing as his eyes dart away for a moment.

Bingo. Point for Daniel.

Daniel likes the way he blushes, wonders how deep it can get, how far it can go.

"So Max- how do ya like working for the company?"

Daniel keeps his voice light, but his eyes are locked on Max. To his credit, Max doesn't look away again, holds his gaze as he starts talking.

"It is very nice! The teamwork is helpful, and everyone has been kind."

He talks with his hands, which reminds Daniel of the Italian side of his family- although with the accent, Max has got to be some kind of Northern European.

"Glad to hear it, Maxy."

Ding ding! Another point for Daniel.

Max goes red, stuttering over his words for a moment. Daniel drinks it in, the way Max is completely derailed, just at the nickname. He's cute.

Daniel gives him another smile as he starts walking away again- and then a lightning quick wink, just to see the way Max blinks, like a deer in headlights.

Blake lets them get out of earshot before he starts complaining.

"Dan, mate- do not fuck my intern, please. I want him to stick around."

Daniel's grinning, hands in his pockets. This day is going great.

"Relax, Blake. I'm not going to fuck your intern."

Blake eyes him suspiciously.

"Really? Because those are kind of your textbook steps on the way to getting laid."

Daniel whistles, thinking about the rest of the day. He'll cater lunch to the finance department, as a little treat. Make up some shit about good budgeting.

"I'm going to fuck my employee. There's a difference."

Blake stops in his tracks for a moment.

"Dan. You cannot seriously tell me you're going to poach one of the brightest minds to come through my department to get your dick wet man, come on."

Daniel shrugs.

"I'll let you give him some busywork- not too much though, I'll be keeping him occupied."

Blake rolls his eyes.

"Busy on his knees, maybe."

Daniel snaps his fingers, shooting him finger guns. This is why he likes Blake- he gets him.

"Exactly! I'm buying your department lunch, what do you guys like?"

"Oh sweet- there's this Greek place a couple blocks over-"

------

None of the other interns even stood a chance- Max is unofficially hired four months before the end of the internship period.

It doesn't look as biased as Daniel had wondered- Max really does stand out from the other interns in terms of the quality of his work, and he gets along well with the team.

It would be a shame Daniel isn't actually interested in that from him, if not for the way that he's just so cute. Daniel's a bit hedonistic, believes in having fun, and Max definitely looks like fun.

He's gone ahead and let Blake handle telling Max about his responsibilities shift- he's got some bullshit analytics job Daniel hadn't even known they had. The important thing is that it requires him to visit Daniel often. He normally hates being interrupted, but this is one he won't mind, not if it means getting to tease Max in the relative privacy of his office.

Now he just has to wait.

------

Max carefully flicks through his printed report. He's nervous- everyone has said Daniel is nice, but he also has a famous hatred for paperwork, and Max is about to dump some on his desk. He'd seemed friendly enough in the few moments he'd talked to Max, even if Max had thoroughly embarrassed himself, stumbling over his words and losing his train of thought.

He knows he's checked for typos a million times, but this final check is the most important. The new responsibilities on Max's plate aren't quite what he was doing before, but he's up for the challenge.

He checks the last page, satisfied, before tugging at the end of his shirt sleeves, hopes he looks presentable enough to be going to the top floor. He's never really gone higher than six- certainly has never had a need to go to eight, where Daniel's office is.

The elevator ride is quick, and Max is on the eighth floor sooner than he'd like.

He passes Blake's office on his way to Daniel's, who gives him a weird little half salute- odd, but most CFO's are.

Daniel's door is closed. Max had really been hoping it would be open- having to knock is stressing him out. He's not sure if Daniel is in a meeting, or has guests, or anything.

Surely his report can't be this important. Technically, his report should be able to go to Blake, but- that's none of Max's business.

He breathes out slow before he raises his fist and knocks, knuckles rapping firmly against the door.

There's a moment of silence during which Max assumes he's about to be fired- before he's even officially hired on, which would surely be some kind of office record.

"Come in."

Daniel's voice is clear, and Max pushes the door open, slips inside. Daniel is leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his other knee. His suit jacket is open, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showcasing his neck- long golden skin, the kind of tan Max could never manage.

"Hey, Maxy. Whatcha got for me?"

Max wills his fingers not to shake as he steps forward, shoes quiet in the plush flooring of Daniel's rug.

"I have- from the last quarter, the missing earnings report."

Daniel's eyes are... not on Max's face. He hopes he hasn't somehow spilled something on himself.

"Yeah?"

Max nods.

Daniel moves his mouse, minimizes his monitor screens before moving a stack of binders off of the side of his desk.

"Sit, tell me about it."

Max blinks, confused. There's no chair across from Daniel's desk- and he doesn't think he's being asked to sit on the floor.

"Sit..?"

Daniel nods at the space he's cleared on the desk, and Max's heart jumps into his throat- it feels inappropriate somehow, but Daniel is saying it's okay, so-

He's not quite tall enough, has to do a little hop braced on his hand to get up there, and one of Daniel's hands is hovering near his waist- maybe in case he falls.

Max clears his throat, tries to ignore the heat in his face.

"So, the materials department, and their quarterly budget-"

------

Daniel is very pleased with himself. Sure, Blake looks annoyed every time he has to bring his own chair with him to talk to Daniel, but it's a small price to pay for what Daniel gets in return.

He's been carefully inching the clear space on the desk closer to him- Max is so delightfully nervous about sitting on his desk, even two weeks after he'd made him do it the first time.

Daniel is taking things slow with him- slower than he normally would, but that's because he's been accused of playing with his food.

He can't help it- Max is too cute. The way he's just slightly too short, has to do a little hop, the way he squeezes his thighs together to try not to take up space- Daniel wants to take a bite out of him.

He's being patient.

It's especially delicate today- the space Daniel has cleared, the only available space on the desk- it's practically right in front of Daniel. He has his chair scooted back a bit, so that Max won't feel like he's directly in his lap, but- he might as well be.

He's looking forward to it, and if he's lucky Max will really go pink. Surely he notices when he's bright red, but he always powers through anyways.

Blake walks into his office, doesn't bother knocking- everyone else knows Daniel doesn't care for it, but he likes when Max does it.

He sighs, leaning his hip against the desk.

"Would you just fuck him already, please? He's a phenomenal worker Dan, I'd like to actually take advantage of that."

Daniel smiles at him.

"What, you don't want to sit on my desk and tell me that?"

Blake rolls his eyes, and he has the expression Daniel knows means he's begging for divine patience.

"You're toying with him, Dan."

Daniel shrugs, twisting a pen between his fingers, spinning it like a drumstick.

"Yeah babe, that's the point. He's cute like that- perfect little toy, I kind of want to wrap him in a bow. But I'm being patient, Blake, I thought you wanted me to work on that?"

Blake snorts, snatching the pen from Daniel's fingers.

"I meant that in terms of company growth and you know it. But I'll keep the ribbon thing in mind for the office Christmas party, how's that?"

"You do love me!"

------

Max straightens his stack of papers. He's got another report ready, and he's splashed cold water on his face, a reminder that Daniel is his boss- his boss boss, the CEO. Just because he's terribly attractive doesn't mean Max gets to drool over him.

Not to mention- he's so busy there's almost never space on the desk, so Max is probably just a passing blip in his day, barely noticeable.

The elevator dings as the doors slide open, and Max gives Blake a small wave as he passes by his office door. He's not sure what's endeared him to Blake, but the CFO treats him somewhat fondly, in a way that's almost demeaning. Max can't figure it out.

Blake waves back anyways, and then Max is knocking on Daniel's door again.

A beat of silence, and then Daniel is calling him in, but he has a finger pressed to his lips when Max slips inside, and Max freezes. There's voices from one of Daniel's monitors, and Max moves back towards the door, only for Daniel to snap his fingers at him.

Max looks back over and Daniel gestures at his desk, moving his mouse for a moment.

"C'mere, it's fine- I'm almost done."

There's not- Max looks for his usual space by the corner, but it's messy again, the only space is along the edge right in the middle, directly in front of Daniel.

Surely Daniel doesn't mean...

Daniel quirks an eyebrow and Max shoves the doubt down, carefully hopping up onto the desk. Daniel's camera doesn't look like it's on, thankfully, but he's afraid to even breathe as they all exchange their goodbyes.

Daniel chimes in with his own, and then he's leaning forward, chest between Max's knees as he reaches past him to fiddle with the speakers, one palm pressing on Max's thigh to support himself.

Max feels the heat of his palm like a brand. He's frozen still- his face has to be bright red, there's no way it isn't. He fights not to squeeze his thighs together, ignores the warmth starting to pool in his gut.

Daniel just wants to talk about quarter reports.

More like listen to Max talk about quarter reports, but the point remains the same.

Daniel gives Max's thigh a little pat as he leans back, grinning at him.

"Sorry about that babe, meeting went long. What do you have for me?"

Max swallows, tries to pull himself back together.

"So I noticed in the fiscal budget for 2016 a few years ago..."

#ficlet #kind of #when I put it all together on ao3 it will be fic sized #maxiel corporate au #kink prompt #sunny where is the daddy kink you all ask #it comes in later

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mediumgayitalian · 13 hours ago

Text

———

At first, Naomi dreams of ringworms.

They surround her, writhing and slimey, gripping onto her skin, and it doesn’t make sense, because ringworm are fungi, not some kind of critter, she remembers because she remembers asking, once, at the doctor’s office, when she had it. This is how she knows it is a dream. But it does not stop the wretched things from surrounding her, from latching onto her skin in waves of millions, teeth pinpricking, bloodsucking; leeches, is what she should be envisioning, but it’s ringworms, instead, billions of them, wriggling around her skin, attaching to her pores, boring into her, screaming, screaming, screaming.

She wakes up to blood, an ocean of it, under a bright silver new moon.

“This phase comes to an end,” warns the moon, voice smooth and soft and sweet, young and high. Melodic. “The hardest seasons approach. Hold yourself, girl. You’ve come this far.”

She opens her mouth, to question, to yell, to agree, to cry, and a wave created by her own treading hand washes a gush of blood into her mouth, sticky, muggy, iron, and she gags, because she recognises it as hers, pails of it, pools of it; she knows the taste, the sweet-salty-bitter of it, from biting the inside of her cheek, from years of braces, from the time she fell off her bike and the underside of her calf was impaled so forcefully and so quickly the blood spurted, upward, onto her face, into her dazed, gaping mouth, still tasting of beating muscle.

“Help,” she gargles, or tries to, but the moon only surges, brighter, and the tide surges with it, and she is forced into the depths of her own arteries, ventricles; until her blood fills her lungs from the outside in and she is choking, heaving, gasping.

The third time she dreams she is in space, floating, and she is eight years old, and all of her friends are there, older.

“Oh, Ami-girl,” says Leela, bent over, smiling, hands on her knees. “You're in for in now, ain’tcha?”

“Leela,” she protests, only it’s her woman-voice, her now voice, that comes out, and it startles her, and she looks down, and there is something, big, worming its way around under her chest like a mole, like a shrew, like giant funnel web spider. She can feel it, squirming, desperate, fighting for a way out, for a push, and she slaps her hands to her chest, her baby hands, pink-chipped nail polish Mama did up last week, pushing, pressing, keeping it inside of her, and it shoves back, and it’s so close, it’s so close, paper thin, thin skin, taut grape, sharp canines, razor claws, pushing, pushing, push.

Push!

———

She wakes up, finally, screaming, fingers scrabbling at her chest, sheets tangled to her chin, ankles aching, belly heavy, screaming, echoing, clawing at her ears, up and down her arms, tickling, throat scraping.

“Off, off, off, off, off,” she chants, salt still filling up her mouth, skin still wet, skin still itchy, chest still pounding, tight, heavy. “Off, off, off —”

There is nothing to soothe her, no soft hands or warm smiles, but there is a pressure, hard, at the helm of her belly, and then another right beside it, and another. Faster than they usually are, right under her ribcage, right on her ribcage; the giant T-balls she’d bat back at Daddy’s head, his laughter, his cursing, the welt he got right over his eyebrow that had faded into a sunburst purple scar.

“Wake up call from God,” he’d said, cuffing under her grinning chin, Mama’s bag of frozen corn pressed to his head, “doubting you.”

She blinks and her room -- her motel room -- is in front of her again, yellowed wallpaper, squat mini-fridge, bathroom door that doesn’t lock. There’s another kick at her belly, a little farther down, this time, where she’s more flexible; hard enough that she can almost see the fleeting shape of a little foot.

She presses her hand to her mouth, nose in the web of her thumb, and yells, leaning forward as far as she can, tearless, heaving, choking, gagging. She is sure that her weight pulls her clean through the creaky mattress, brushing against the dusty floors. Her limbs drag, knuckles first, along the tiles, and her neck bends after them, head a lead ball, lungs shrivelled, tiny, insufficient.

She is sweaty. She is sweaty, and she is heaving, and her sheets aren’t wet, not like she thought they’d be, but there is a mugginess to the air, a heavy one, and a flurry of movement in her womb, rapid, warning, and there is pain.

Now, Naomi is no stranger to cramps.

She was an early bloomer and had them a lot as a kid. The first time she got them, actually, Mama had been an hour away down south, staying with Abuela after her surgery. Naomi hadn’t been allowed to come, reckless, cartwheeling child that she was, but Daddy had made their summer at home a little more bearable. Tried to, anyway; cooked different than Mama but at all the same times, let Naomi help, took her to football matches and out on his runs. At nine he was still Clark Kent. But then she hunched over on the couch in the middle of their newly-rented copy of the Princess Bride, gasping, feeling like her thighs were getting stabbed and her belly was turning outwards, blood pooling on the worn upholstery, and like Superman, Daddy had never felt pain like hers before.

Daddy called Mama, frantic. She came gunning home, scooping her up from where she’d been crying, curled up on the tile floor, and carried her up to her parent’s giant bath, stripping her soiled clothes, resting the water, and washing her carefully, inch by gentle inch, until the blood melted off from her legs, her hands, her belly. Until the heat from the steam uncoiled her muscles, somewhat, and then Mama laid her out on the bed and rubbed the rest of the cramps away, holding her as she cried, promising the rest of them would come easier.

There is no one for Naomi to call, now.

“Just you, and me,” she wheezes, “and sheer fucking — sheer fucking —”

She heaves, she thinks, although she doesn’t quite recognise the sound she makes, the sound dragged from her body. Pulling away from the gnarled quilt is like fighting out of cement bandages, and she gets that feeling, the trapped feeling, where your eyes bug out and your pupils constrict and your heart pounds a million miles an hour, screaming inside your head. She screams another desperate sound and rips herself free, barely catching herself, barely managing to stay on her swollen feet.

“—will! She fucking will! Sheer fucking —”

It is hard, to stumble to the door, to shove her feet into her flip-flops, because she forgets how big she is, how monstrous she has grown. The ten year old inside her mind looks down at her bloated, distended body and screeches, clawing, pulling and yanking herself away, hollering for Mama. She makes it to the door anyway, scrabbling with the lock, yanking it open, slamming it shut, leaning hard against it, ignoring the squeaking protests.

It’s easier to breathe, slightly, outside of her room.

She’s been locked up for days. Not really, but she can’t move, not even enough to pee, almost, and certainly not enough to work without her entire body wailing in protest. Every step she takes is a waddle. Her ankles are the size of blue whale bones. Acid always brews, stinging, just under her sternum, and it has been forty weeks exactly, down to the day, the hour.

She stumbles to her car, nearly crying at the relief the cool metal brings, and squishes herself inside, panting, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling. She still fits, at least. For the most part. Her limbs are inside and she can reach the gear shift. She can see clear through the windshield, and the window rolls down. She reaches with shaking hands for her binder, easy accessed on the passenger seat, and flips quickly through it, stopping at the familiar pastel yellow CD, sliding it through and starting the engine as plunky notes drift through the shitty speakers, sweet warbling voice right after. She breathes, shuddering, and forces her mouth to move along with the lyrics, her throat to hum along to the tune.

I can’t forget you

Ever since the moment that I met you

The strings are soft even through her shit fucking speakers, even over the wide open windows, and it helps, the distraction, if only slightly; instead of focusing on the waves of ache in her lower body she can focus on the hurt that’s been brewing inside her nine months. What is he up to now, she wonders, that he is not here beside her? That he is not driving her, that he is not handling this, as he is meant to, as Mama told her she would have one day? The sun is down. He doesn’t sleep. This is his domain, she’s pretty sure. And he loves a damsel.

“You and me,” she chants to herself, over the music, over the whipping winds and empty roads, “you and me and sheer fucking will, kid. Fuck.”

It takes her two hours to drive to the hospital.

Really, it should only take her one. The nearest maternity ward is seventy-one point seven miles away (she checked). The roads are clear -- it is past one in the morning, they are empty. She doesn't even know what the posted speed limit is. She isn't checking.

But she is pulling over, every ten fucking seconds, to throw up, to hunch over, to scream, to ride the wave of the giant bulbous thing that is bursting out of her, soaking her seat, blasting her into pieces. She has heard, women, at home, at the diner, in changerooms, out for coffee, talking about birth. About ripped flesh and soaked sheets and husband stitches, about dilation and watermelons and ounces and pounds. She has looked at her friends and rolled her eyes and curled up in her mother's lap, forehead to her stomach, to her first home; she has asked Di, tentatively, and been banished to the tile grout with a toothbrush for days. She has been prepared. She has been prepped, been carefully pruned and groomed for the eventuality of it, the inevitability of it, of birth.

And yet the pain strikes her. The pain strikes her, because it is stabbing, because it is aching, because it is bruising, because it is everything at once, all over her body, times a thousand; it is not like shitting a watermelon it is like a watermelon the size of Rhode Island made of plutonium is blowing up inside of her and tearing her skin to shreds, exploding her organs, boiling her blood. It is like nothing she has ever felt before and everything she has been too afraid to imagine. The slashers she watched with Uncle Noah, curled on the couch, face in her pillow, complaining about melodrama between peeking fingers, are real, are true; nothing is real except the explosion of it, the stirring in your gut, the wince when someone gets hurt in make believe. Her head spins. Her stomach heaves. Her eyes dry up and shrink, vision reduced to blurry nothing, wind scraping her face like sharp sand, and everything is a blur, everything is a smudge of yellow light and pinpricked stars and a bright white moon, and green and blue exit signs, and red, crimson, scarlet waves of torture.

She cannot afford a ticket. She cannot afford to be towed. But she throws her shitty car in park in the ambulance roundabout, vomiting onto the cracked pavement, and stumbled, belly swinging, to the overbright Emerg doors, world spinning, ankles turning, skin crawling. She is dying. She is sure of it.

"--iss? Miss? Are you alright? Are you --"

In the movies when you faint you swoon, first, you get woozy, the room spins, you stumble towards the nearest surface. Someone catches you. Then you wake up in the dark, on a bed or a couch, someone sitting next to you, head bent, ready to explain with adequate somberness and histrionics what happened, how, and why the audience should care.

In real life Naomi drops like a stone. In real life she wakes up, seconds later, on the floor, ears underwater, vision still swimming, still in agony, only this time, people are yelling.

"-- nurse, get a --!"

"--gnant! Full term! I dunno, twen--"

"--octor, then! Fast! Let's --"

"--surance--"

Another cramp waves through her, worse than all the rest before it, and she moans, lowly, a lesser sound, a deeper sound, a sound of pain because it's all that she can feel, and she curls up, or try to, but her fucking belly gets in the way, again, and something trickles down her leg, a lot of something, and she is afraid.

She is afraid, and she is going to die.

"Y'r not gonna die, baby," someone whispers, smile in her voice, care in her cool hands. "You're not gonna die, here, not today. God willing."

"Mama," Naomi sobs, "Mama, help me."

"I gotcha, baby. I gotcha."

Epidurals cost three thousand fucking dollars.

Who knew.

"You're pretty much too late for it, sugar," says the nurse, pulling on a glove, "if it helps any."

"Fucking does not," Naomi bites out, and wishes she was unconscious. The nurse barks out a laugh, head thrown back, eyebrows raised and dark eyes gleaming the way adults' do when you push the envelope.

"There anybody I can call for you?"

There isn't and the nurse knows damn well. Naomi knows by the tightening of her hands, the rough careful scrape of her palms over Naomi's sweaty shoulders, over her flushed forehead. Naomi says silent, and she squeezes again, bridge of her wide nose knocking gently against the crown of her head and Naomi chokes back a sob, a real one, at the feel of it. Like sparked lightning scratchy wool blankets and the musty smell of Abuela's farm. "Well, now, that's fine. Doctor's on her way, baby, and this little one'll be out a'ya in no time, y'hear?"

“Get it out of me faster,” Naomi moans, and the nurse chuckles, again, drier, and swipes a cloth over her soaked forehead.

“That’s a you job,” she says. “You’re dilated to high heaven and things are going smoothly, all things considered, so pray it don’t become an ‘us’ job.”

Naomi supposes she could pray. She glances at the ceiling and imagines, for a moment, the warm, endless sun, but all she can feel is its distance.

“No one for me to pray to,” she says, quiet. Then, quieter: “I’m scared.”

The nurse squeezes her hands. The scrape of her palms is tougher than asphalt and Naomi’s chest heaves with it, shakes with it; Daddy’s were, too. And…his.

He told her he was a runaway farmhand, when he met her.

“By the soul in my lungs I’ve got you, girl,” the nurse promises. Her dark black eyes are like embers and Naomi locks onto them, breathing heavy. She squeezes again. “Twenty-two years in this here ware an’I only ever lost three precious souls, may they rest in God’s mercy. Twins and a mother, four month’s premature. Septic shock.” She straightens up and fiddles with the bed levers, hauling Naomi upright. “You’ll be through this in no time, wondering how long it’ll be for your next. Minimum of a year and a half, in case you were wondering.”

Naomi snorts.

She was not.

The doctor rushes in and the nurse grips her hand and they shout, together, push!, and Naomi thinks, belatedly, that she is not really pushing, she is contracting, she is tensing, she is, on some levels, coughing out the parasite she has been growing for nine months. But she digs her nails into callused skin and pushes, as hard as she can, expels, and hears the doctor shout something about dilation and how fucking far long?! and hears the nurse say, quietly, near four inches. And the doctor yells louder than Naomi does and there is lightning between her legs. Real lightning.

And she looks to the nurse with her kind eyes and dark face and she is afraid.

On a base, intellectual level, Naomi knows what four inches is. Four thumbs, side to side; just shy off a Subway hoagie. The length of her palm.

On a real, practical level, she can say nothing about what four inches feels like except in the very back of her throat, guttural, like a little calf on the chopping block scrambling for its mother.

It rips.

The doctor’s blonde head bobs from between her thighs, calling out instructions she can’t pretend to follow and patting her thigh like a flank, and the nurse with kind eyes stands, tall and firm, at her side, gripping her hands, and the swinging fluorescent lights flicker in rhythm with her screaming, and she watches it, hears it, feels it all, ten feet from above her body, panting.

“That looks like it hurts a whole lot.”

There is a girl floating next to her and she cannot be more than six, round-faced knobby-kneed, stark red hair in two thick braids. She hovers by Naomi’s knees, smooth hair shining, peering at the mess of blood and fluid.

“Sure as shit does,” Naomi mutters. “I think it's killed me.”

The girl smiles sardonically. She descends gracefully next to the doctor, resting with her bare feet featherlight on the floor. Naomi watches. The girl closes her eyes, breathing in, slowly, and out, in, and out, in, and out; the tiny, cramped hospital room dulls with every breath, fading to something monochrome, to something silver.

“No.” The girl reaches out both hands and rests them on the doctor’s shoulders. “You’re not dead yet.”

The doctor straightens, sweat dripping down her straight nose, and tightens her grip on Naomi’s thighs. Heat burns through her, hot and sudden.

Naomi gasps. “I’m not?”

“No. No, but you’re not far off.” The monitor beeps, suddenly, loud and fast, and the dark-eyed nurse and doctor both snap up to look at each other, jaws tightening. A slow cold spreads across Naomi’s heart as the nurse lets go, lunging for the machine.

“You must hold on, Naomi Solace.”

She blinks and the girl is above her, hovering, still, over the bed, over where Naomi’s head has fallen back, eyes hazy, white ceiling swirling behind her.

The girl’s eyes are much, much older than she is. Small and almond-shaped but dark, darker than ash and sky and bone, and they stare at Naomi like they know, down to the earth and up to the heavens, the scrolling entirety of her future and present.

“The hardest seasons are right behind you.”

Naomi blinks.

“I’ve heard that before.”

This time, though, the words come out of her mouth, her real mouth, and they are slurred, and her tongue is huge and swollen, and her eyes are so, so, heavy. There is a pain, sharp and quick, on her shoulder, and a voice, hazy: Stay awake, babygirl! Awake! We need you awake!

The girl smiles. The colour has leeched out of her all the way now, and she is silver, shining, except her dark, dark eyes, darker than the midnight sky, darker than the heavens. Deep, celestial blue.

Sky blue.

Naomi blinks.

“Hey.”

The girl smiles wider.

“Clever woman.”

Her small hands brush through her sweaty, coiled hair, cool as riverwater.

“Remember your strength, Naomi Solace. Hold on to your will. When the hardest seasons come, you will face them, and you will survive them.”

Pain lays over Naomi’s body like a blanket. The girl’s cool hands continue to brush through her hair, and her quiet, eerie humming twists gently throughout the heated room, resting gently in her ears. The ceiling gets darker, and darker. The blanket gets heavier.

“Ain’t nothing that can’t be fixed the next morning,” her mother says.

Naomi drifts to sleep.

———

naomi art

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