#i suggest following my main account

[the-writing-mobster]

Ah. I have so many unanswered asks, Franstober piled up on me, and my fics go un-updated. I feel myself getting the itch to write my actual novel again, which I'm very happy about. However, I know that means I'm going to be a lot more inactive on here while I dive back into it.

I'll def still be around, but I'll be posting about my novel, Stars & Back, not Undertale (until I get the UT itch again and then I will be revived like an undying curse)

All this to say,

Don't forget about me when I start Stars and Back posting.

[pillowprinx]

if you’re following my main and/or art blog then you’ll already know I’m remaking blogs, I don’t know if I’ll be remaking this blog any time soon but if you’d like to know if/when that happens then you’ll have to follow my new blogs

[theriverbeyond]

i hate suggested/for you pages so much.... i feel like the act of following a person/account went from meaning you want to see more of that person's specific stuff (active, direct) to meaning you want to get shown more stuff that is potentially similar to them (passive, random?), as determined by the ever changing black box algorithm. when it is all just "content", the artist/individual is rendered disposable and forgettable as they are only a means to an end for things like viewcounts and targeted advertising and never ending scrolling to make sure you (the piggy bank) keep that app open.

[longagoitwastuesday]

This is the piece (and the sketch) I was talking about yesterday in the tags of that one other drawing in my previous reblog

[kyouka-supremacy]

°<°

[shameeater]

The end of online privacy

Now, this isn't something I usually post about from my silly goofy k1nk account (reminder to minors to not follow or scroll this acount).

But I have more followers on here than main, and this is extremely important. Like, scary shit.

This applies to everyone. If you're reading this? It's going to effect you.

I'm sure perhaps some of you have seen around about a this thing going around... KOSA, is one of the ways it's being referred to.

If this shit passes, lemme tell you...

LGBTQ+ adults and minors seeking help and community,

people looking for abortions,

people organizing protests,

anyone using their free speech to voice concerns about injustices, 

even FAN ARTISTS...

Even people reading fan fiction...

And for the purposes of where I'm posting from... people sharing and enjoying their k1nks, wanting to post things with safety and privacy... smut artists and writers, people even LOOKING for smut...

It's all gone. No privacy.

They'll have your face, your name, your age, where you live.

You'll need an ID to use any US-based platform, even if you're NOT in the United States.

Instead of dooming, here's what you can do to stop this shit in it's tracks 👍

Here is a website where you can sign a letter just by filling out a form, (it takes less than 30 seconds) and where you can call reps.

I HIGHLY suggest leaving calls if you're able, and if you have phone shyness, do this after 6pm, since it will leave messages instead.

I'm shy, but I did it!

Here's another letter to sign, takes less than 20 seconds.

Here is a form you can fill out sharing how the social media has POSITIVELY effected you.

Share all of this with as many people as you can. Our safety, freedom, joy, and protection online is at risk more than ever.

(Here is the thread where I found all of this information.)

STAY SAFE!

[yelloworangesoda]

just deleted my pinned post LOLLL. this is p2iimons sideblog ect

[hamilando]

ੈ✩ i did not need to know that (smau) ੈ✩

pairing : charles leclerc x norris! fem reader

summary : With all the extra information being spilled, noriss’s sister spills something way important !

tw : a lot of sexual innuendos , cursing, chaotic af

fc: megan roche *she is so pretty-*

a/n : thank you so much to @xshazxx for suggesting this ! lysm 🫶🏻

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

liked by norissfr, lordperceval, lilihye, albono, maximilian and 76 others

norizzfr y’all my brother was not paying attention to Zak 🫷🏻

view comments

mclaren Lando Noriss, kindly report to the office 🙌🏻

norissfr such a lovely sister 😒

norizzfr any day my loving brother 🧡

oscarpastry does the official McLaren account follow your private !?

norizzfr cuz the admin loves me 💪🏻

mclaren 🙌🏻🧡

norissfr admin… stay away from her

mclaren 🙌🏻🧡

jrchilli he never listened to me as well ☹️

norissfr oh shut up you no fish !

lordperceval damn, is it only my eyes but you look ugly

norizzfr if you care for you balls, you better keep that thing of yours shut

fernandoalonso yes Charles, don’t be rude

norizzfr 🤍🩵

lordperceval but i speak genuine facts 🫶🏻

norissfr dw charles, she can’t see that’s why she wears those huge ass balls on her face

norizzfr at least i am getting some balls -

norissfr i would rather have some 🐱 instead of 🐔

norizzfr EW BROTHER

albono i did not need to see that -

maximilian stop acting as if he is not sucking your balls everyday !

lordperceval can everyone stop exposing the dirty little secrets ?

hamsandwich charles, do you want me to start ?

mercedesgeorge lewis, remember the gold old times of us two in a tub?

carmenvroom sleep in the tub tonight then ! ❤️

norizzfr WHY THE HELL IS EVERYONE’S SEX LIFE BEING TALKED ABOUT IN MY COMMENTS !?

lilyhye i feel bad for you luv 🫶🏻

norizzfr thank you bubs 😤

liked by norissfr, lordperceval, lilihye, albono, maximilian and 56 others

norizzfr my personal papprazzi @ norissfr

view comments

norizzfr i am an elder brother, ofc i was blackmailed to click these 😌

norissfr i am a younger sister, ofc i will expose all your broken vases to mum 🤩

fernandoalonso My child, you should not be posting these on the internet with every other person seeing !

maximilian its her private account 😐

mercedesgeorge you commenting from your main makes me nervous as well

fernandoalonso i cant handle this one, you expect me to have another !?

lilihye no lube, no protection, all night , all day, from the kitchen to the bathroom -

albono babe, why are you telling are sex life again ?

lilihye WHAT !?

carmenvroom WHt!? alex it was a joke

norizzfr i definitly did not need to know my best freinds sex life but WHY THE HELL ARE YOU NOT USING PROTECTION

albono SHE ASKED FOR IT

hamsandwich please be safe kids 🙏

jrchilli where did you pop out of ?

hamsandwich my mom

lilihye ALEX SHUT UP

albono YOU ONLY TOLD ME STOP BEING QUITE “ LET ME HEAR YOU ALEX !”

norizzfr my comments always become someones sex life discussion

lordperceval wanna tell them about ours ?

norissfr EXCUSE ME WHAT !? Y/N !?

norizzfr i hate him more than toto could hate ferrari

mercedesgeorge true that 💪🏻

maximilian you look pretty y/n!

norissfr the only normal comment 😩 thank you so much max 🫶🏻

liked by lilyhye, albono, norissfr, lord perceval and 64 others

norizzfr so yes, i do golf 💪🏻⛳️

view comments

norissfr i was third wheeling the whole day !

albono us brother us 🙌🏻

norizzfr yall just jealous that lily loves me

lilihye I LOVE YOU 🫶🏻❤️

norizzfr I LOVE YOU TOO 🫶🏻❤️

maximilian suprised that hey found a stick shorter than lando 🧐

norissfr watch out for your next crash 😗

oscarpastry zak would not orefer that ☺️

mclaren Lando noriss in my office please - Zak

norissfr fuck, i forgot they follow her private, ADMIN UNFOLLOW HER

mclaren 🫶🏻🧡

lordperceval the first slide is making me see things 🙂‍↕️

norizzfr shut up before you see your own ass

lordperceval you have seen it though -

mercedesgeorge i think i am missing something -

jrchilli we missed a whole chapter -

hamsandwich kids these days 😌

norizzfr Sir Hamilton, you talk as if you dont have girls in your hotel room 🫶🏻

liked by lordperceval, norissfr, maximilian, lilyhye and 82 others

norizzfr in my polaroid era 📷

view comments

albono I-

mercedesgeorge did she mean to -

norissfr Y/N NORISS WHAT THE HELL !?

norizzfr why are you screaming for no reason ?

lilihye hun, who clicked the first two pictures ?

norizzfr my friend …

lilihye the friend is visible in the third slide 🙂

norizzfr fuck…

norizzfr CHARLES BABE I AM SORRY

lilihye HIS FACE WAS NOT VISIBLE !

albono she just exposed the guy herself 🪽

norizzfr oh. so i just exposed it myself ….

norissfr Yes ma'am , CARE TO EXPLAIN !? I THOUGH IT WAS A GUY AND WAS OK WITH YOU DATING ! BUT WITH FUCKING CHARLES !? CHSRLES LECLERC?

lordperceval they could not see my face bubs ❤️

norizzfr well atleast i would now not have to pretend to hate you 🫶🏻

lordperceval the prettiest love ❤️

norissfr can you both not ?

hamsandwich ew.

maximillian ew.

mercedesgeorge ew.

albono they were better hating each other

lordoerceval I LOVE YOU Y/N

norizzfr I LOVE ME TOO CHARLES

lordoerceval HEY! we agreed to stop hating

norizzfr I LOVE YOU TOO CHARLES 💌

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

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

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

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

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

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

December.

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

You hate every fucking minute of it.

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

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

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

Never mind.

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

“Tommy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How am I holding up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

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

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

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walk me home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

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

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

You don’t?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

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

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

“’n whose fault is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what I’m craving?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

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

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

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

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

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

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

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

And I mean anything. OK?

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

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

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom.

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

Mom. Mom and Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

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

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

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

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

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

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

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

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

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

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

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

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

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

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

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

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

Let go.

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

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

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

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

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

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

But right then –

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

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

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

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

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

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

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

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

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

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

Your head shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

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

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

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

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

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

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

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

He sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

“You have to go.”

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

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

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

He leaves on Saturday morning.

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

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

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

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

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

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

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

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

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

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

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

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

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

“Hm. Now go.”

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

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

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

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

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

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

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

[zephyrchama]

ZephyrChama's Obey Me! Masterpost

Updated October 7th, 2024.

Hi! I'm zephyrchama. I don't read much fanfic but it seemed fun and I wanted to try getting closer to the fandom, so I started writing Obey Me stuff as a self indulgent treat. As this is a side blog that I never expected to get followers, I can't follow or like anybody's posts or send asks from it, only with my main blog. I've also started writing some Twisted Wonderland stuff on another blog.

More info about me can be found at the bottom of this post.

You can find almost everything I've written in these links, sorted from shortest content to longest. Though, it is possible I've missed a few stories.

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Headcanons

Self explanatory, these are headcanons! My shortest posts, some are even just a sentence long.

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Longer Headcanons and Super Short Writings

This is for more fleshed out ideas: headcanons that are 2 paragraphs and longer or really short stories/ideas.

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Short Stories / Detailed Headcanon Lists

These are posts with multiple paragraphs. Detailed headcanon lists with at least a paragraph per character and fics that aren't a page long.

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Fics

Full one shot stories.

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Ask Requests

Obey Me! posts that are submitted requests.

My ask box is always open and I"m happy to receive requests! Please know that it may take me literal ages to respond as there is a large backlog, but I earnestly think about every submission and greatly appreciate each ask. If you praise me, I'm probably going to hoard the ask and smile and giggle every time I see it.

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Series

Multi-part fanfics. Usually one segment for each character or segments that can be read as one-shots but are part of a bigger tale.

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More about me!

I've been playing Obey Me! since literally the day the OG was released. I am a hardcore cosplayer so whenever a convention is coming up this blog will get slow as I focus on sewing. I'm close to 30 years old. I'm ace, so this blog has suggestive content but won't really get more intense than that. Everything on this blog is SFW. I have an A03 account courtesy of a friend who referred me, but it's pretty barren and mostly used to cross post more popular stories. Anything explicit I write will go on the AO3 with proper tags.

My asks are open but expect a really slow response because I am so shy hkgahkj. I take requests but no guarantee I'll write them, or it may take several months. I don't do much proofreading at all so I'm very open to constructive critique, if you see a typo please let me know! Thanks for reading.

[iridescana]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚...𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡

.☘︎ ݁˖ 𝐬𝐲𝐧. 𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 ᥫ᭡. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭. 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ༯ 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑵𝑰

...word count: 1.1k

...note from irene: don't ask.

nanami kento rests languidly on the edge of the bed, your back in his view as he graciously takes the mantle of an attentive husband.

“i literally can’t with you. you’re a natural at this stuff,” you huff, somewhere between a vent and a bout of praise that he found endearing nonetheless. he raises an eyebrow, albeit dazed by the hypnotic show of you being able to reach your own zipper - who’s a natural at what? you, who resumes your tirade with an obliviousness towards his wandering eyes, is a natural at enchanting him. your hair was blown out, almost reaching your shoulders in cloudy tufts - that had been the last mission of tonight, a hairstyle more laborious than the act of lifting weights. “you can easily get away with being stand-offish, which…i’m not saying you are but…”

he releases a soft chuckle, adjusting his cufflinks, “now, humor me for a second, my love. when have you ever seen me get defensive?” 

“huh?” you tilt your head in confusion eyeing him expectantly through your reflection as you secure your earring. 

“you don’t need to worry about insulting me, darling. i can take it. if you think i’m stand-offish, just say it.”

you briefly turn to face him, bestowing a histrionic look of indignation. “i wasn’t saying that! okay—” you raise your hands in surrender, “you are quite stoic. does that do you justice?”

he offers a hum, one of satisfaction, an invitation for you to continue to the point you had intended to make. and you do just that, bending over the vanity to apply your lip gloss as kento’s attention blithely averts to the curve of your ass. “so, yes. you could get away with what will earn me, at best, some auntie in the corner asking me if i’m okay like…please! i’m fine! i just wanna be left alone!” 

he chuckles along with you again, silently basking in your mirthful exchange… until he notices it. within seconds. the brief drag of hesitation as you began working on your hair. your makeshift puff remains put, arms raised for your hands to take the temporary role of a hair tie and…

…oh dear.

you were staring at your underarms again. in acute disdain. 

he needn’t say a word - this conundrum was as foreign to him as a blue sky. but you’ve only complained about it once, a main focus on the fruitlessness of your spending. all these regimens, remedies and receipts the length of the great wall of china for them to still be there - sizable splotches of pigmentation that you just can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how hard you try.

once, you’ve verbally lamented. 

but more than once, you’d been reluctant to don anything without sleeves, participate in anything remotely related to summer - and if you did, not lifting your arms was the war you were prepared to die in. and tonight, well, you’d had the misfortune of learning life’s indifference. the thin straps of your silky, cream white dress were well in torturing you with a reminder.

a click of the tongue bounces off the walls of your bedroom, and kento tries to think less about how your beauty terrifies him, opting to soothe you with his adeptness in subtlety. 

“darling,” he begins, standing to walk towards you, “i think you should wear your hair down.”

“hm, i think so too,” you smile warmly at him through your reflection, conducting his suggestion by letting go of your hair and instead opting to comb it out, “let’s just hope it doesn’t rain tonight. i honestly don’t get the appeal of outdoor parties.”

all that follows is a soft hum, one of admiration. truly, you are an angel sent from heaven. more than just the angelic glow of your skin under the vanity light, your smile - your soul - can account for that. he watches you, deftly pulling at your coils to maintain the perfect shape - watching you fruitlessly strive to perfect the one thing that has always been just that. you. perfect.

“what?” you meekly acknowledge his stare with a shy smile, halting your movements. 

“my love,” he drags, moving close enough for his hands to reach your hips. your attention moves away from your hair, prompting you to put your comb down and heed the sensation of his chest meeting your back. kento’s hands are calculated, a dexterous trace of your curves striving for a different kind of tenor - a lead from one thing to a delectable other. he moves his lips towards your ear, hazel eyes meeting yours through the mirror in a wordless declaration of unabashed desire. “you know that every inch of you is perfect, right?”

you shiver, at your best to conceal your want to reciprocate by scoffing playfully, “fancy, i’ve never pegged you for the corny type.” 

“i mean it,” he rejoins, ignoring your jest, softly kissing the shell of your ear before he performs the unexpected, a hand moving to gently grab your wrist, lifting your arm up above your head. “every…inch.”

oh. 

he really means it.

heat rises to your cheeks, noting how observant he had been towards your behavior earlier - this wasn’t new to you. you could stain a white shirt with pasta sauce and he’d counter your dismay by saying that it should’ve been there when you first bought it. he’d praise any part of you from head to toe. that realization had been made many moons ago. now, as all attention falls upon your exposed underarm, you forgo the need to protest, keeping your arm raised and resting your hand on the back of your husband’s head, fingertips blissfully pricked by the sharpness of his undercut. 

“mmm…every inch, you say?” you murmur with feigned cynicism, a grin rising as Kento’s hand gently slides down the tricep of your raised arm. 

“mhm…every…inch” your heartbeat is the toms of an acoustic drum set, as he reaches your underarm, lightly grazing the skin with his fingertips, prompting you to shiver at the ticklish sensation. “god, you’re breathtaking…”

he breathes it out like it’s the first time, and the sight before you is…sinful? a burlesque plays out in your reflection, a hand sensually caressing your hip whilst the other continues to draw reverent patterns on the area you’ve detested for eons. your husband, so fucking handsome, buries his face in crook of your neck, inspiring every last bit of your scent, and you still can’t help but huff in amusement, “hm, my black armpits were the ones to bring you to that revelation?”

“you amuse me, my love,” is the muffled, half dismissal towards your counter, followed by a kiss on your neck, “now, let me enjoy you.”

you giggle softly, meek at how your husband's brief praise towards your underarm has ever so slightly titillated you, “we’re gonna be late, you know…”

he perks up, privy to the suggestion you so dared to make, “if memory serves me correctly, it’s you who fails to see the appeal in these outdoor parties.”

[sgiandubh]

He was at Three Sheets yesterday night with Ashley. Check their respective stories

Dear Three Sheets Anon,

Your information is correct. What I meant by 'nothing to do with Ashley Hearn' in my post is a bit different, though. Ashley has been in London for a while already, obviously for sales & marketing purposes. She clearly posted about it and even suggested she will be in Scotland soon. But she is not the reason he is in London these days. She already successfully toured several bar outlets by herself, using her own business contacts, in New York and elsewhere: meeting her boss while in London is absolutely normal and nothing to write home about. But not the main reason he is in London right now, I think.

So it would seem they met at the Three Sheets Bar, yesterday.

S's IG story:

[Later edit]: Ashley's IG story - too bad I interrupted myself to get a delivery and then lost this thread:

S tagged both the bar and SS's IG accounts. This is a routine business meeting, especially considering the Three Sheets also deals in business consulting:

They have two outlets in London, one in Dalston and the other in Soho. Both have excellent reviews and well, the expected price range for cocktails in London (10-20 £ ):

Your ask also gives me the opportunity to come forward with several things I have been keeping in my drawers for a while, so thank you for that. Kind of.

Remember (LOOOL and then some more for that, always) my through the grapevine info that C joined S and the team at Milady's bar in New York, on October 17 2024, after the Versace Armani event she attended with Maria McManus? I also remember the Without Pix Anon:

Well, I don't have 'pix' , but I do have the next best thing (gracias a ti, siempre ❤️):

Ashley liked what C posted on October 25, 2024. One full week after the Milady's get together - why would she, if C wasn't there at all, like all the Righteous Pundits lie to you?

She also briefly followed her on IG, but not anymore (why? I will let you draw your own conclusions), along with several OL cast members (followed all of them at the same moment, after the event): Rankin, John Bell and Skeleton. Bell and Skeleton were at that get together, too (unsure about Rankin? it's Saturday, after all and I am not the Metropolitan Police, either - please correct me if I am wrong). She still follows them on IG. Clearly they met there?

The second thing I wanted to bring along is Maximum Wobbler Bullshit's recent nonsense:

This impostor and mythomaniac I have repeatedly debunked in the past still has very scant English, negligent writing skills at best and no damn idea about what marketing means. She was completely triggered by this particular post, on November 5, 2024 (while almost everyone was looking elsewhere, for obvious reasons):

Featured in the pic is Mia Kumari, a good friend of Ashley Hearn. Maximum Wobbler Bullshit conveniently forgets to explain who Mia Kumari is:

Based in London, UK and currently mixing at the Satan's Whiskers bar in Bethnal Green (after a short spell at The Savoy, hello?), she is a well-known, up-and-coming bartender with a consistent record of awards:

The press is raving about her:

[Full article, here: https://foodism.co.uk/features/long-reads/women-london-bar-scene/]

She is also a feminist bartender, with an internationally praised agenda:

[Mia was last week in Greece, as guest speaker at the very prestigious Athens' Bar Week. Too bad I left: I would have certainly bought a ticket and gladly listened to what she had to say - https://www.athensbarshow.gr/guest-speakers/mia-kumari]

Surely a trailblazer 'in London’s dynamic and globally revered bar industry', who also is 'an advocate for equality, diversity and inclusion' does not need Sassenach Spirits to promote herself. She is doing a smashing job at it, like the pro she clearly is: on trend, progressive, sought after and more than noticed. I fail to see where the fuck the alleged cronyism is, because that would simply mean Mia Kumari is a social zero, a nobody in the UK's spirits industry, taking advantage of her friendship with Ashley Hearn in order to get more attention for her sole benefit. That is a lie and that is simply wrong: if anything, it is Sassenach Spirits that needed to prominently feature someone like Mia Kumari, in order to align itself to the values she is so actively promoting (all values C is sensitive to, hmmm). We are miles away, here, from the Cutty Sark wannabe (in)famous Labour Day boat party in Marina del Rey, featuring the BBC/Blue Bikini Chick, back in September 2023 (https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/727347023165145088/its-all-fake-anyway), when all the fandom trolls were on fire. So, Sassenach Spirits needed to do exactly something along these lines, in order to promote and boost the seasonal Xmas sales of their tartan scarves, SS's most expensive merch, targeting a younger, more sophisticated urban crowd.

Clever brands constantly redefine themselves, looking for the right trends and the right crowds to promote their products to. This is a clear sign that finally adults are in the room, now, at SS's Marketing and Sales respective departments. So damn glad to see this welcome shift!

[fourormore]

FOUR OR MORE 2024 FICATHON

[Image description: A polyam flag with the words “four or more fic-a-thon” on it. End description.]

AO3 COLLECTION

[CLOSED] THIS EVENT HAS FINISHED. WE ARE NO LONGER TAKING PROMPTS BUT OUR COLLECTION WILL REMAIN OPEN FOR LATE ENTRIES.

It is here! The inaugural event for FOUR OR MORE is live. A ficathon designed to get more fic featuring relationships with four or more people out into the world! Inspired by the Rarest of Rairpairs ficathon, this first event will run from August 15th to October 20th.

GUIDELINES

- Any medium! Any rating! As long as your work focuses on a relationship with 4 or more people, it's allowed! - No minimum or maximum but fills must be complete. - You don’t have to fill something to leave a prompt. The more prompts, the merrier! - Prompts must be for relationships featuring 4 or more people. - You may link to the fill if it is posted elsewhere. Warnings are not mandatory, but you're free to include them if you wish to do so. - You may combine these with other events, as long as the other event allows it. - Small fandoms welcome! - Don't forget to comply with the community guidelines.

Prompts can be found in the comments of the official DW announcement.

FAQ

Q: What kind of works am I allowed to submit? A: All type of fanworks are welcome! Fics, art, podfic, meta, you name it. As long as the main relationship features 4 or more people, it's allowed.

Q: I don't have a Dreamwidth account. Can I join? A: Of course! You don't even need an AO3 account if you wish to post only on tumblr.

Q: My work contains [INSERT WARNING HERE]. Can I still participate? A: Yes. This is a CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) space. Feel free to tag us in your posts #fourormore or @/fourormore and we will reblog your post.

Q: I don't want to see [X] content, can you please remove it? A: No. The only content that will be removed will be that that does not comply with the rules. You can ask us to tag a certain topic for blacklisting purposes and you are more than encouraged to do so, but remember that you can always unfollow if some content upsets you.

RULES

ALL works must feature a relationship with 4 or more people as its focus. All configurations are allowed.

NO LIST

The following posts/comments will be removed from the collection, as they're outside of its scope. - Monogamous relationships (I think this is obvious) - Works that focus on OT3s (may I suggest sharing it with @polyamships instead? - RPF featuring non-famous minors (I will not be checking this because I simply do not have the time, so it'll be on the honor system. Please don't abuse the honor system. I don't want to be removing works just because)

[laura1633]

Hey Guys,

I said I would set a small fic challenge up for Lestappen's birthdays so here it is. I'm not going to set up a separate blog for it as it is just going to be a casual low key thing and it will be easier for me to manage from my main blog so I will just pin this note. It's going to be absolute complete chaos to start with as I have no idea how to do things or how it works so please be patient as things inevitably go wrong!

Dates and Guidelines are all below, this will outline how to submit a prompt as well as details about how to fill a prompt.

Key Dates: Submitting prompts: 2nd July - 16th July Claiming prompts: 2nd July - 16th October Posting finished works : 30th Sept - 16th October.

Guidelines for submitting a prompt 1. Prompts can be submitted by following this link and clicking on the 'Prompt Form' on the left hand side (you will need an ao3 account to do this) 2. All prompts must be centred around Lestappen (although it doesn't necessarily mean it has to be a romantic relationship). 3. Prompts can include as many other characters as you like (including other drivers, team principles, other sports stars etc) as long as the focus is on Max and Charles. As an example, you can prompt a poly relationship for Max, Charles and Oscar and Oscar can feature prominently as long as both Max and Charles also play a central role to the story, this is a Lestappen fest after all! 4. You can prompt fluff or smut or anything else you can think of. If your prompt contains sensitive topics then please try and use the tags accordingly when prompting. 5. Prompts are preset to be anonymous. There is a box at the bottom of the prompt form that states 'Semi-anonymous Prompt?' leave this box ticked to keep your prompt anonymous. 6. You will need an ao3 account to submit using the steps above. If you don't have an ao3 account but would still like to submit a prompt then please send an ask to me but clearly label it "Lestappen Birthday Fest prompt". If its not labelled I won't know that it is a prompt. Please try and limit the number of prompts sent through asks as I think I will be limited in the amount I am able to add to ao3. Once I hit the limit I will update here.

Guidelines for claiming a prompt 1. The prompts can be found here and you are free to claim them as soon as you want. You do not need to wait for the prompt window to close before claiming your prompts. 2. Feel free to claim as many prompts as you feel you will be able to complete. There are no consequences to not fulfilling a prompt but it’s better not to over claim if you know you won’t have the time to fulfil them.  3. The claims and fills are not set to anonymous so it will show that you have claimed the prompt. However, there are no consequences whatsoever in claiming a prompt and then having to drop it. 4. It is fine to claim a prompt someone else has already claimed. You can also claim your own prompts.

Guidelines for filling a prompt 1. You can fulfil your claim at any time but the collection will be set as unrevealed until the 30th September so your fic will not go live until the 30th September. This also means you can go into your work and edit it right up until 30th September. 2. When completing your work on ao3 there is an option that states 'Set a different publication date' so I would suggest setting the date as 30th September. 3. Whilst the collection will go live on 30th September (Max's birthday) you can keep fulfilling your claims right up until the 16th October (Charles' Birthday) 4. Please make sure you tag your works in regards to sensitive topics. 5. Whilst the aim is to get at least some works posted in the period 30th Sept - 16th Oct I do recognise that if you are writing a longer fic you might need some more time and so I will leave the collection open for people to add to it after the 16th if this is necessary.

What if I want to submit my own piece of work rather than fill a prompt? The very first prompt on the page is a free prompt, you can claim this if you want to post your own piece of work to the collection. Does it have to be a fic? Absolutely not, you can post artwork too if you would like.

Still have questions? If you still have any questions then please feel free to send me an ask either anon or not. Please just be patient as I might not respond straight away, unfortunately I have a very boring job that also takes up my time!

There will be some issues at the start whilst I sort things out so we will just see how it all goes!

Remember it's all for fun with no pressure ❤️

[phlurrii]

It’s finally time to introduce the secondary project I’ve been working on >;Dc

I’ve had this queued for sometime in June, did not check when, so hello on [random date in june] ;D

I’m also here to explain how I’ll be posting this stuff going forward! Everything will be posted here, on my main account before being reblogged over to Soul’s Anchor a side bog with the place holder title. Unless it deals with more adult/suggestive content or heavier topics, of which will be exclusively posted to Soul’s Anchor side blog. As I don’t want certain themes alongside AM! I’ll also be referring to this series as Anchor for short! I will encourage any and all Questions, Mentions, and Thoughts to be directed there for those interested and those who are not, dw! You’ll only see the initial posts here, no asks or follows up, but this is still my art account and I shall enjoy it as I please ;3

Brief Synopsis about the Story:

A queer love story following a cursed pirate and a cult refugee implanted with a god’s eye as they combat the reality of living in a world which was created solely to feed the gods that govern it. All whilst a sapphic couple attempt to help guide the pair along a path to to a better future, one that’s validity comes into question. A dark fantasy story that aims to represent the disabled community, the LGBTQIA+, and SA survivors written by fellow members of these communities.

Also brief disclaimer, I, Phlurrii, am simply an ally to the disabled community, my partner in crime writing alongside me, ArtJunco on Instagram, is our resident community member ;]

Anyways onto the meat of this!

Below is a collection of some, emphasis on some, of the concept art and processes I went through to develop and create one of the two main characters, Lumae.

Here are some of the earliest ideas, the basic thoughts I had in my brain when developing this goober after a 3 hours pacing in my kitchen at 1 am when that inspiration struck. His hair was the HARDEST bit for me to figure out. Which sucked as usually the hair is one of the first things I figure out because of how much I love it, so it was Agony while brainstorming that part.

I also briefly considered a goatee, however it was so cruelly shot down by my dear friend. So in stead we compromised that he may get one later down the line story wise… and see how we feel then. However, upon finally figuring out his hair I was bloody elated, still has some tweaks now and then, but the base is there.

As for this next concept, this was actually the FIRST thing created for Lumae and what started everything else about his character/design! His eyes! They are still my favourite but about him and something I adore whole heartedly! They are the core of his character ;3c

These next few are early refs and mock ups of his full design, testing our colours, experimenting with shading, getting used to drawing humans again, and general concepts I had for him as a character! Also a sneak peak at Ayric, our second main goober for this story! Who was lovingly designed and created by ArtJunco!

And finally his most recent WIP ref! The only thing currently bothering me about his design is the colour for his boot covers, I have no idea what to do with them so I’d you have suggestion or ideas, sincerely, feel free to shoot an ask to the Anchor blog! I’d genuinely love outside opinions!

As for the main curiosity of why I’m doing this, for those that missed the last post, I’ll give a brief explanation below ;3

To help with burnout so I can hop between fixations, help to avoid losing interest in AM in the future!

Keep up practicing humans and critters alike.

To take a break from story telling to do story building! Give the telling part of my brain a break, while still making cool stuff ;]

To have a more interactive blog with ya’ll! One where I’ll likely be asking advice and discussing a lot more hypotheticals, doodling asks, and general audience interaction given I am not bound by any updates! Purely just “ooo… shiny-“ and anyone is welcome to join me ;D

Last thing I request is to please read Anchor’s blog bio/description before you follow, as this story will deal with subjects not suited for all audiences posted/discussed exclusively on that blog.

Anywho, that’s all for now folks, hope you enjoyed this brief intermission to kickoff the second project being public!

[greyfongschemmenti]

A Ride To Remember

paring: Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

word count: 1.4k

Warning: none?

"I'm glad we have another thespian in Abbott," Jacob said as he settled into the backseat of your Honda Accord. "I'm not a thespian. I just watch" you gently offer. Earlier in the week during lunch, Barbara and Jacob had been discussing an upcoming production at the Bushfire Theatre. "I can't believe 'Life is a Dream' is being showcased here," Barbara chimed in as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Well, from the sounds of it, it sounds... interesting," Melissa quipped as you closed her door and got into the car. As you joined them, you listened to Jacob and Barbara excitedly exchange how the theater will portray the characters, shaking your head softly as you exchanged a smile with Melissa.

Once the two decided to see the play, Barbara asked Jacob if she could invite Melissa, given that the two had become friends since becoming roommates. Jacob agreed and suggested you join to keep the group in equal numbers. Since Janine has been busy in her new district role. You insisted on driving the four of you to the theater.

"So, who's the Quasimodo guy?" Melissa asked from the front seat as you began the drive downtown.

"Segismundo," Jacob gently corrected her, launching into a detailed explanation of the main character's background and history. Despite Melissa's regretful expression, you couldn't help but chuckle softly at her mistake.

—

While the play unfolded onstage, your eyes frequently wandered to Barbara and Jacob, who were captivated by the performance. You slid your hand into Melissa’s, surprising her and earning a warning look. The two of you exchanged a silent discussion, gesturing to your friends who were engrossed in the play. Melissa relaxed and intertwined her fingers with yours, both of you enjoying the subtle intimacy as you softly ran your thumb over her hand while watching the play. With each exchanged glance between you and Melissa, the connection between you deepened, amplifying the enjoyment of each other’s presence.

—

As the four of you navigated through the crowd exiting the building, you kept holding Melissa’s hand to avoid losing her in the sea of people. Once outside, you both let go, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "The play wasn’t that bad," you remarked with a smile.

Barbara agreed, letting out a happy sigh, while Jacob suggested grabbing coffee before heading back to end the night. No one opposed, and Jacob led the way to a nearby coffee shop. As Jacob and Barbara walked ahead, discussing the theater’s performance, you and Melissa followed, enjoying the quiet moment together, with your hands occasionally brushing against each other, a secret dance of affection in public.

Barbara looked back and saw the two of you oblivious of the action. "Do you agree, dear?" Her question caught you off guard. "I’m sorry, what?"

Jacob jumped in, redirecting the conversation to the play's conclusion “Segismundo’s conclusion at the end of the play. How he condemned the rebel soldier but Barbara is saying it’s about moral awakening”. You and Melissa exchanged a glance, scrambling for an answer. "Umm… I would think both of you are correct? It seemed like Calderón purposefully made it ambiguous, whatever the viewer takes and in return adds additional tension and depth to the play" you offered.

“Nerds,” Melissa scoffed, breaking the tension. Jacob and Barbara nodded, taking your words into account and continuing their discussion. You chuckled softly, grateful for Melissa’s quick save, as the four of you continued to the coffee shop.

—

Jacob opened the doors to The Toast Cafe, and you let Melissa and Barbara pick out a table. "What would you like to drink, Barbara? My treat," you offered, pulling out chairs for both women. Barbara requested tea, while Melissa nodded in agreement with your usual order. You met up with Jacob, letting him order his drink, and then you ordered for yourself and the two ladies.

After the barista made the drinks, you joined the ladies and handed them their beverages. "Oh, you did order a drink, Melissa," Barbara commented, noticing Melissa’s slight hesitation. She held her coffee cup and nodded “Yup, must’ve not heard me” she quickly took a sip to prevent the conversation from continuing.

—

On the drive back to Abbott, the group enjoyed watching the city lights while listening to soft music. Seated comfortably in the back were Barbara and Jacob. Meanwhile, in the front seats, you and Melissa exchanged furtive glances. After a while, Melissa absentmindedly reached her hand over and intertwined your fingers, resting them on your thigh as you navigated through the city streets. Melissa softly stroked your hand as you focused on the road.

Jacob looked away from the window and glanced over at his colleagues, noticing Melissa's hand. He thought with how dark the cabin was that he was seeing things but as each street light passed the image was clear. His face lit up with surprise, and he exclaimed, “Oh my god!”

The sudden outburst startled everyone, causing you to slightly swerve. Melissa’s hand immediately withdrew, her fight or flight instinct kicking in, while you regained control of the steering wheel after swerving out of the lane. "What?!" you exclaimed, “Yeah what the hell Jacob!” Melissa looked back at you just as Barbara grabbed onto the car and her chest, thinking this was the end.

Jacob looked at the both of you. “You two… you’re seeing each other!”

You and Melissa froze, exchanging panicked looks as you struggled to come up with a plausible explanation.

Barbara, ever the voice of reason, shook her head. "Come on, Jacob, don't be ridiculous. Melissa and y/n are just... friends, right?"

Jacob raised an eyebrow skeptically, his grin widening. "Oh, please. I may teach sixth grade, but even I can see the sparks flying between those two. No need for headlights with how bright they are"

Melissa cleared her throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from their personal lives. "Don’t be ridiculous. How about that Quasimodo dude and Rosario chick?"

“I already told you, Segismundo and Rosaura,” Jacob gently corrected her, launching into their stories before he stopped. “Oh, nice try, Schemmenti,” he added with a knowing look while Melissa stares daggers at him. The both of them having a silent discussion with just their looks before he relents “Alright, I'll drop it... for now.." 

But Jacob's intuition couldn't be swayed. His playful demeanor masked a keen awareness that sent a shiver down your spine. You and Melissa exchanged a glance, silently acknowledging the precariousness of your situation.

Once leaving the parking lot, dropping Jacob and Barbara at their cars, leaving Melissa last. You drove around the lot before leaving the lot entirely to actually drive her home. Once arriving at her apartment building you walk her to the steps of her building door, offering Melissa your leather jacket. You slide your hands in your jean pocket as the Philly air gets chilly. The both of you share a look before letting out a laugh. “That was close,” you murmured to the redhead. “Yeah, it was my fault. I forgot they were in the backseat when I took your hand,” her cheeks blushed softly, and you shared a smile. “It was weird driving without your hand there,” a slight smirk on your lips as you looked around, in case Jacob was driving up. “You think the coast is clear?”

Melissa glanced over then up at the window for a second and nodded. “Jacob’s gotta be asleep by now,” she whispered, and you took your hand out of your pocket, closing the space between you. Gently tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, you whispered, “Goodnight, Melissa,” gazing into her green eyes.

“Goodnight, hon,” she whispered back, resting her hand on your cheek. Your hands rested on her waist as you leaned in, sharing a series of slow kisses that deepened into a short makeout session.

Melissa let out a small laugh as she pulled back, softly resting her forehead against yours. “You should go before Boy Wonder sends out a search party,” she teased, lightly tapping your cheek before sliding out of your jacket and handing it back to you.

“You’re right,” you agreed, letting out a soft chuckle, sharing a last kiss then whispering to agree to see each other in the morning. You waved goodbye once you reach down to your car as Melissa went inside her house, not driving away until you saw the door close behind her.

Neither of you noticed that Jacob was watching the whole exchange from the bedroom window, a smug look on his face as he turns to walk back to his room. “My gaydar is never wrong.”