#live on air || Mr. Studio

[wonderfulworldofwondertainment]

So, brother, tell me. What happened to Mr. Smiles?

Dr. Wondertainment froze. For but a moment, the air around him dimmed slightly, almost unnoticeably.

...Mr. Smiles...Mr. Smiles was once the crown jewel of the Misters. So brimming with whimsy that it sprung from his skin. He was great with children, and always cheerful.

Dr. Wondertainment smiled, staring off into the distance.

One day... the Factory decided I was a problem. I was too happy, made to many others happy.

He shuddered. Mrs. Wonder got a little closer.

It's alright. take your time.

They discovered the Trauma phenomenon. They... crafted a...poison with it. Bound to the rust off their machines. Shot me with it.

....What monsters...

At first, I was fine. But then it spread. It began to leech off me, growing and growing. And... Smiles...

Mrs. Wonder took his hand. Behind them, Ms. Advice and a couple of other Misters watched.

I begged him not to. But he refused to listen. He said, "I may be Mr. Smiles, but you're the one making things to smile about." Then...he took the poison into himself.

...I'm sorry.

That's part of why I want to help cure this ailment. I do want to help... but if I can cure it... Maybe...maybe...

For the first time in decades, Dr. Wondertainment seems...

You seem...Lost, Father.

All eyes turned to the door, where the lonesome visage of Mr. Lost resided.

Maybe...I can help with that. Would you like to go for a walk?

All present turned to Dr. Wondertainment. Ms. Advice spoke up first

I can clear your calendar.

I'll manage distribution.

Mr. Type and I Can Prepare A Press Release!

The sound of a typewriter rings out as Mr. Type speaks.

𝙸𝚝'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎.

I'll have the animals all squared away!

Dr. Wondertainment looked across the room as all the Misters pledged to handle whatever might come up in his absence. Tears welled up in the old man's eyes.

...I can't possibly thank you all enough.

Mr. Anon stepped forwards.

Happy fathers day, dad. enjoy your walk!

The Good Doctor smiled, and swooped up his son in a bear hug. After several warm goodbyes, he took Mr. Lost's hand and the two went on a walk to who-knows where. The Doctor wasn't worried. Lost always took people where they really needed to be.

[alexlwrites]

You ask and you shall receive!

Here's part 2 of "Yoongi never had a crush until you" from my notes app. I'm always open to more requests <3

(Check out part one here)

(Buy me a coffee on ko-fi!)

....

Tonight was the night. Yoongi could feel it, from the tip of his long luscious hair to his weirdly long toe. There was something in the air - whispers of certainty and peace that could either be a sign that Jungkook had left the premises or that tonight was the night that Yoongi was finally going to gather all the courage within his tired body and ask you out!

Furthermore! - he shook his fist in front of his mirror, eyes slightly crazed with a decidive stance - you'd say yes!

From there, everything would fall into place, stars aligning and errors corrected. His shoes would fit better, the wifi faster, the coffee tastier. Everything improved by your presence in his life.

He just couldn't stand all this nervous, jittery energy anymore! It was all so unlike his cool, calm, collected persona and he didn't know how to deal with his sudden difficulties to form full coherent sentences when you showed up. He had to put a stop to it and act on his new and, to be honest, slightly concerning feelings.

You see, he was a man with a written plan! In the depths of his pockets, under seven layers of coffee shop receipts from 5 months ago and guitar picks he thought he had lost, there was a small piece of paper with his plan detailed step by step: first he would calm the fuck down (crucial). Then, check for sweaty hands, unknown food stains on his outfit and bad breath (Just in case!!!!). Then, present his five slide power point showcasing his feelings and finally - finally! - ask you out.

In case you'd say no, he had an extra slide with more appealing arguments (i'm rich, it said). Otherwise, he'd move to south america and live his life as Carlos, the potato farmer.

Of course, as Yoongi's life was never as simple as a power point presentation, all his plans were forgotten when you showed up in his studio dressed up in a way he'd never seen, skin tight dress clinging to your body in the way he wanted to, rendering him speechless and brain dead.

"Yoongi! Sorry for the late hour, I just had to drop these documents before I left and I rushed here because I have plans for the evening..."

Ask her out, his heart said, beating so loud he was surprised you didn't hear it. Ask her out, make her yours, rip this sinful devil sent dress into pieces. Fuck the power point, fuck your canva vision board, ask her out, ask her out, ask her out, ask her...

"Out" he spluttered at last and he swore his heart shattered at the hurt in your eyes.

"Oh, im sorry" you said, dropping the stack of papers on his coffee table, lips pouting and eyes saddened in a way that made yoongi want to choke on his own fucking wrist "I'll leave you be, mr. Min"

"No-nO! I DIDN'T MEAN..." but it was too late and youd already left.

BUGGER.

BUGGER IT ALL TO HELL!

(Part three)

[facioleeknow]

Time for love ° Hwang Hyunjin

Hyunjin. the immortal Adonis, falls for a human.

WC: 2094 Genre: Greek mythology AU, angst, smut

TW: make up artist reader, model hyunjin, smut, masturbation, thigh riding, handjob, mention of cum, borderline asshole hyunjin, greek gods and goddesses, mention of blood, angry hyunjin and angry deities

AN: thank you from th ebottom of my heart to th elovely @leeknowsallyoursecrets , for giving me her opinion about this.

My Kofi if you want to support me <3.

Hyunjin was old. Hyunjin was really really old. Eternal youth they called it. When one thinks about youth, they imagine freshness and fun; a colorful, colorful phase when you get to try new things and explore the world. Hyunjin’s life was anything but; he had seen every corner of this earth and tried every experience that was humanly possible. His life was flat and gray, there was nothing more to do and he was bored.

He remembered his first life. His name was Adonis and he was considered the most beautiful man in the whole world; he was so beautiful that goddesses soon appeared on his doorstep and asked to share his bed. That’s how his story became myth, or what people thought it was.

He had lived many lives from then, he had taken many names and done many things, he lived a tranquil life and minded his business; had sometimes taken a couple of lovers but nothing that had stuck to him. 

His life and pattern of change had come crumbling apart when one day the gods decided to come out in the open and introduce themselves to humans. With time everything was uncovered and the protagonists of every myth became their own kind of celebrities. He had never been more famous in his life, but he also had never been more lonely. He was beautiful and that was a fact, and with the fame came the modeling offers. He modeled for the most famous maisons of fashion of the world and people loved him. No they didn’t love him, they loved his body, they loved his face, they loved his fake smile and fake confidence.

His days were always the same, he would wake up at an insane hour, get on set, get ready, shoot, get unready, check social media and then go to bed, just to do it all the following day. Day after day the cycle had never been broken, for years on end. Until it had.

When he walked inside the photo studio, he could sense something had shifted in the air. He hated changes. A heavy hand smoothed back his unruly hair, his eyes closed almost on instinct after he sat down in his makeup chair. He had requested a special chair, made of one of the softest furs he had ever touched, where he could sleep and relax.

Something warm and small suddenly touched his shoulder, hesitantly. He hissed and his eyes shot open, his staff knew better than to interfere with his pattern. 

His breath hitched in his throat when he opened his eyes. This wasn’t his usual make-up artist.

“Sorry to disturb you Mr. Hwang, I am Y/N L/N, your new makeup artist,” your voice was sweet, way too sweet to be human, but he knew all deities by heart. Perhaps some kind of creature.

“What happened to Ha-na?” his eyes bore holes into your skull, his gaze held a fiery passion you had never seen in your life. Is this how an immortal looks?, you thought.

“She’s on maternity leave, sir,” you had never felt that nervous in your life.

The conversation died off after that but his eyes were fixed on you. There was something about you that Hyunjin couldn't quite pinpoint, his inside felt like they were lit on fire. His head told him that if he looked away from you, something bad would've happened. He had to have you, one way or another, he didn't even care if you were human or not.

Since that day Hyunjin had always waited anxiously for your arrival every morning. You would always greet him with a tight lipped smile while you closed into fists your obvious shaky hands. He liked to think your hands were shaking and your heart was beating out of your chest because of him. 

At night Hyunjin would lie awake and think about you, your hair, your lips, your hands, your eyes, but most of the time he would think about what laid under your clothes, how your curves would look and how they would feel in his big and soft hands.

He had to have you, he didn't care if you were human or not.

The second time Hyunjin spoke to you, it was weeks after your first encounter.

“What are you?” his eyes bored into yours like the first time you met.

 “What do you mean sir?” 

His presence felt almost overbearing, it looked like he was towering over you, it felt like he was everywhere, you couldn't run from him. But in reality he was still sitting in front of you.

“Don't play coy. What kind of creature are you?” 

“Creature? I'm human, sir,” your eyes wide as saucers at his assumption. You? A supernatural creature? 

“Are you lying to me?” His tone was stern and demanding.

“No, sir, I would never.” 

He didn't reply.

He was scary. Immortals were scary and dangerous for humans more than anyone else. You should've been fearful of him but a familiar throb between your legs kept growing and growing and you couldn't help but feel ashamed.

Hyunjin could feel your arousal, he could read it on your face. After centuries he could read human emotions quite well.

“Everybody out!” His tone left no space for arguments. The staff and photographers scurried out of the room with their hearts in their throats.

“Come sit.” The immortal patted his spread legs, his big hand encased your wrist.

“Excuse me?”

“You don't want to?” he sounded cocky now, a new emotion he let you see.

“I didn't say that,” you stuttered.

“Then be a good girl and straddle my thigh.” 

His hands never left your body, not even when you complied and positioned yourself how he asked. He was in control, he was the one guiding your movement.

A small gasp escaped your lips when you felt him ground you on his strong thigh.

“Please sir, touch me,” the shame fueled your pleasure like never before.

“No can do, get yourself off like this or don't at all.”

That was the best orgasm of your life.

After he touched you, Hyunjin couldn't get enough of you. He thought your voice was sweet at first, but your moans were even sweeter, your skin tasted like nectar and your pussy like ambrosia. He was addicted.

Sleep came easier to him now but not even in your dreams he could escape you. Your voice, your sweet whines, your skin, your scent, they all clouded his brain even in his slumber. He'd wake up hard as a rock every night and leaking. He would fuck his fist roughly, just how he liked it, he would use all of his toys and cum again and again until his seed had permanently stained his satin black sheets. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He had to feel you clench around him, he had to feel you rake your nails down his back, he had to push your legs to your chest and see fat tears roll down your cheeks.

So he would get up and drive to your house where he would fuck you until you both passed out. It became some sort of routine, one that he followed religiously. But the more he saw the bigger a foreign and strange feeling grew inside him. It started at the pit of his stomach and then spread through his chest like a warm blanket enveloping him in a tight hug. It was comforting and that unsettled him.

He was confused and ignorant, he hated that. But he knew that it didn't come from him, somebody was attacking him. That's how Hyunjin found himself in front of the goddess of love, Aphrodite, herself.

“What have you done to me?” he yelled. He knew yelling at a deity was not a smart move but the anger was consuming him, mixing with that strange feeling and making his blood hot.

“You cursed me, didn't you? You cursed me because I don't want to share a bed with you anymore, you selfish woman.” The moment those words came out of HYunjin’s mouth he regretted them. The room started shaking along with the anger of the goddess, everybody knew not to anger Aphrodite. he was foolish, he thought he could get away with it because he used to be her favorite lover. The goddess grew in stature, the light bulbs in the room exploded, leaving the only light her angry eyes. 

“You foolish human, how dare you speak to me like this,” this was not Aphrodite the goddess of love, this was the goddess of fiery passion and victory, “ I did not curse you. You do not hold significance in my eyes anymore, you are a mere human. Humans all fall in love, it’s their destiny.”

The walls of the pristine white room they were in started to crack under the gravity of the goddess full immortal form. Hyunjin knew that the fact he was not dead meant that Aphrodite let him live as a sign of charity and because of the time they shared their bed. But she did not give second chances, she never had so he quickly kneeled and when he felt the presence of the immortal get gradually less overbearing he got up and walked backwards until back hit the door as a sign of respect and then left. 

The drive home was pure madness, flashes of rage traveled through his body like lightning before leaving like nothing had happened. Hera was punishing him for angering her daughter, nothing was less expected from the goddess of family. When he stumbled into his house, with shaky hands he grabbed his ceremonial cup and offered his bloods to the gods to appease them and as a thanks for sparing his life.

The following day Hyunjin avoided looking at you in the eyes, he had never looked away from you, not even once. You were so used to having his fiery gaze on you that now your whole body felt cold as ice. 

‘Maybe he’s tired,’ you thought while you worked. Tired or not, you felt him miles away from you even if you were touching his skin with your very own hands. Something had shifted between you. 

The next day felt like a deja vù, Hyunjin still had his eyes closed and he still refused to talk to you. You felt wronged and cold. The following days followed the same pattern, it felt like a terrible nightmare. His nightly visits had also stopped and so did his texts. 

Anger and frustration were eating away at you. Work had started to get tougher and Hyunjin’s attitude was making your mental health drop. The last straw was the pouring rain, you were stranded at work, with no umbrella, when all you wanted to do was go home, eat ice cream and sleep.

Fat teardrops started dropping down your cheeks, why was this all happening to you? Why couldn’t you live in peace? Why was Hwang Hyunjin doing this to you?

“Are you crying?” That voice. Hwang Hyunjin.

“That’s none of your business, Hyunjin,” you furiously wiped at your cheeks.

“It is,” his hand cupped your cheek and you had no strength to fight it, “ it is because you are the only woman i’ve ever loved in my long life.” Your breath hitched in your throat.

“Say that again.”

“You, “ he paused, “ are the only wo-”

You didn’t give him the chance to finish his sentence, your lips attached to his and you richest deflated with relief. Kissing him felt familiar and natural. The recognizable desire that always lit within you when you were with him started spreading through you like wildfire. Your hands quickly traveled to his pants and unbuttoned his pants without thinking, you had done that countless times. His dick was already hard and leaking, waiting for you. Your soft hand wrapped around his velvety skin and tugged and moved just how you knew he liked, how you knew drove him mad. Your lips found his neck and nipped and sucked at his pulse point, his weak spot.

“Oh, baby, I’m not going to last, I think I’m cumming.”

A quick swipe of your thumb against his slip made him spill all over your hand, his head thrown back in ecstasy and his eyes tightly shut.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, lover, but first let me return the favor.” 

A hand on his chest stopped him.

“Take me on a date first.”

“Whatever you want, lover.”

[wannaeatramyeon]

Can I request for Taehoon and Seongjoon NSFW??👀👀👀

Black Anon

Here's a cookie for you 🍪

Hi black anon! Thanks for the cookie and the ask! Taehoon came (heh) pretty easily but Seongjun will be in a part 2 unfortunately.

Seong Taehoon x Reader: NSFW hc

This guy just screams pretty. Pretty eyes, pretty lashes, pretty lips, pretty skin. You know where this is going.

You bet he's got a pretty dick too.

Good god does he know how to use it. You would never have guessed he was so inexperienced, but you've seen how abhorrent and prickly his personality can be at first. A deterrent for anyone that even tries to get close and in his pants.

And his moans? The prettiest, bar none. And he will blush furiously in the afterglow if you tell him and call you cringe for even saying something like that. Though if anything, he'll take that into consideration and might be a bit louder next time too.

The best is when Taehoon is fucking you, and the orgasm catches him unexpectedly. Like a rupture of a dam. He lets out the prettiest, sluttiest groan you have ever heard. Especially if he has to cut himself off from degrading you.

Oh yeah, degradation? He has a thing for that. It didn't actually start off as anything conscious. Just Taehoon being Taehoon. Awfully mean and condescending, that includes when you're in the middle of sex too. And then when he felt how wet you got and your walls clench around him as he berates you? Guess this is a thing now.

However, the words aren't too harsh. For him to even sleep with you, he has to like you a fucking lot. Taehoon does not do casual.

So yes. He will degrade you and prod enough with his words that some stuff sting in a good way (like the first rush of cold air after he spanks your ass), but nothing over the line or that crosses your boundaries.

Mr. Live However You Want likes to to fuck you anywhere, any place, assuming you're ok with it.

More than anything though, he wants to fuck you in the Taekwondo studio. Just imagining you bent over on the mats in his favourite place makes him a little feral.

And don't worry, it'll definitely happen at some point. Unfortunately for Taehoon that the days after that event, practicing with his dad standing right there also makes his brain malfunction.

Hansu being in the same spot where Taehoon has railed you as you're screaming out, drawing waves of pleasure with his tongue and fingers. Gross. Yeah the studio does a 180 and becomes a turn off.

It never happens again. But he does have a soft spot for that corner when he fucked you up against the wall, and the mat by the sandbag where you held on for dear life as he took you from behind.

Surprisingly sweet and thoughtful with aftercare. Doesn't need you to even ask. Taehoon is very efficient. Here's a towel, here's some water. Pulls you into his arms after you're both cleaned up. Silently observing you and checking over to make sure he didn't hurt you or go too far.

Think about it though, why wouldn't Taehoon be thoughful with aftercare. You just let him do that to you.

And, as mentioned, he likes you a lot to be even in bed with you. Probably has no qualms telling you he loves you mid sex. Just don't throw it back in his face, or he will be the sulkiest motherfucker ever and it will be a long time until you hear those words again.

[petitprincess1]

Radio Rebel (name pending?) AU

(This is me just testing the waters of how this will be received. Might make a full story or, at least, a combination of ficlets. It all depends on the interaction. Now, join me in: What if Alastor Joined The Vees)

~~~

Annoying murmuring and blubbering happening near me. That buzzing from the hot overhead lights that are constantly in my eyes. That second one from the right. It's always flickering. Pestering me. I asked for it to get fixed and no one did a damn thing!

The blathering is getting louder, making my ears twitch at the noise. I'm sure no one in the audience is caring at all. That one skimpy-dressed rabbit is just taking pictures of herself. That light is still flickering. More twitching! More buzzing! More and more monotony! When will this fuc-

"MR. RADIO DEMON!"

Alastor left out from his thoughts upon the sudden shouting. He blinked back into reality and looked around the talk show set that he was on. The hardwood desk he was sitting in front of, the plush chairs, wooden flooring, and, yes, the guest! He cleared his throat, pushed back his shortened hair, and smiled too widely, "Ah, yes, sorry about that, my dear! It's lovely having you back on air! How's your husband?"

The Sinner stared at him with teary eyes before muttering, "Dead....sir...."

Blink. Blink. "Ah," that was all Al could muster before a loud ringing shocked his system. The Sinner began tearing up again as makeup artists rushed over to her to begin cleaning her up. Alastor watched as the "live studio audience" went off to do...whatever the hell it is that they do.

The deer demon leaned back against his chair, adjusting his tight necktie, and let out a loud sigh. His smile was much smaller as he stared at the lights that tormented him and beat down with their senseless heat. This is supposed to be Hell, and yet why is this the only time he feels as if he's being tormented by flames?

A sudden rush of static coursed up Alastor’s spine, making his ears rise in alert and hair slightly rise. He sat up slightly straighter as a bolt of neon blue electricity shot down in front of his desk. Within the blink of an eye, the pure energy formed into his.....business partner. Al greeted, "Good morning, Vox! Judging by your twitching brow, I take it you saw this stunning broadcast?"

Vox's twitched brow suddenly stopped as a large, "friendly" grin appeared on his flat face. He chimed back leaning onto Alastor's desk, "That's right~ And I gotta say, Al....that was absolutely the worst fucking thing that I ever could've seen! So, would you kindly explain what exactly that was...please?"

The rad- deer demon stood up from his desk and scoffed, straightening out his jacket, "Oh, it's nothing, my friend. Just simply was distracted by that light that I told you many times that keeps flickering. You did say that you'd eventually look into it, but I didn't think that meant our entire undead lives! Hahaha!"

A distorted, broken-down laugh track came from Alastor. The TV host just blinked at Al and was very unamused by his humor. However, he just wrapped an elbow around the, now-stiffened, deer as he chuckled humorlessly. Vox patted his chest, "Now, now, Alastor. This isn't just an isolated incident. I'd be perfectly fine, but...this is like the 10th time this week and that makes me worry for you."

He pulled away from Al, kept him arms-length, and with his hands on the cervidae's shoulders. He sighed, "Come on, buddy. This is a safe place. No need to hold back on your partner, right?"

Alastor corrected, removing Vox's hands from his person, "Business partner. Also, I'm sorry that I don't exactly care for whatever woes someone wishes to force onto me."

"Well, yeah, no shit! No one cares for what that fucking COW says!" Vox shouted, turning his head towards the bovine Sinner. The widow wept as she ran off the set, forcing the lackeys to chase her down. The smaller Overlord took another breath as he took Alastor by the hand and made him sit down in his armchair.

He went behind the demon, dropped his arms down Al's chest, and whispered near his ear, "Are you still mad at me, Al~?"

Alastor's eye twitched as his smile widened into a grimace as he tilted his head away from Vox. The TV demon snickered lowly as he hummed, "I was right, wasn't I? Come on now. Don't be upset. We made a consented deal that would benefit both of us. We work together on this. Your happiness is my happiness and your pain is mine~"

Al felt a nip on his ear that made a loud screeching sound abrupt from him. He suddenly stood up and hit Vox in the face, causing the other's screen to turn to static in shock. The deer Overlord immediately moved away from the other as he casually continued the conversation, "Yes, yes, I'm aware. It's just that I don't see why exactly I need to do...this mundane garbage. Even though I am not a fan, a simple podcast is much closer to my style. Don't you agree?"

It took a few seconds for Vox's screen to turn back to normal before he groaned in annoyance. He rolled his eyes before stating, "Yeah, of course it is. However, you don't exactly see many people lining up to sell their souls for that shit. Well, unless you count those who are middle-aged or singles wanting to be raw-dogged by the next serial killer. You don't get to see and experience the desperation on wayward's souls faces! And, besides, how many can say they've been in the same room as the radio demon~?"

"I actually feel like more could-"

"Shut up. It was rhetorical," the object head cut Al off before he went onto his phone. Alastor tried to peer over his shoulder, but another unnerving shock went up his spine and caused him to move back. Vox smirked at the obedience before he turned around and said, "Alright, fine. How's about this? Why don't you take some time off, ay? You know, clear your mind and get some air.....until you're back on by ten, that is. I'm sure all of this can be resolved after, I don't know, getting something to eat or whatever."

Alastor's ears flattened against his head as he started, smile becoming small once more, "I actually haven't been-"

"ROTTEN BITCH-!!"

Both Vox and Al were shocked by various shouting and crashing going on above them. The TV demon growled in frustration at the nuisance. He told Alastor, "Hold that thought. Someone's being an obnoxious prick, yet again."

Vox turned around to cup Alastor’s cheek, making the other's ear twitch. His thumb rubbed against his grayed skin before he suddenly turned into electricity that traveled through the various cables on the floor. Al just shuddered once he was alone and muttered, "Pompous prick..."

(That's all you get, for right now. There's still more to this first chapter! Lmk what you guys think! Reblogs are very much appreciated :3c)

[writemekpop]

I Kissed the President (Part 3) | Jung Jaehyun

Summary: You're an undercover journalist digging for dirt on billionaire Jung Jaehyun. You'd do anything to get the story. Even fuck him... But what happens when he finds out you're lying?

Genre: Smut, angst, drama

Word Count: 0.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 ❤️

Your editor has asked you to interview Jaehyun on live national television.

When you enter the dressing room of the TV show, everyone cheers your name, but it only makes you feel worse. 

Then you’re sitting opposite Jaehyun, the studio lights burning into your face like the midday sun.

Jaehyun is breath-taking in his sombre black coat. But he won’t even look at you. 

“Mr Jung, it true that you illegally solicited a sex worker?” you ask, reading from the script on the teleprompter.

Jaehyun’s eyes are an empty black. “Yes.”

“And is it also true that you are not part of the Jung line – but are an adoptee, a fact your family tried to keep secret?” 

He hesitates. “Yes.” 

You see the next line flash up on the screen: Is it fair to say that to the nation, you are a stranger? 

A wisp of air struggles on your lips, refusing to form words. 

You know that if you don’t do what you’re told, you will lose your job. But you cannot look Jaehyun in the eye and betray him. 

Slowly, you say, “Would you agree that you are not an elite, but the first president who is a ‘man of the people’?” 

Colour rushes to Jaehyun’s cheeks.

You continue, “Thanks to our great country’s welfare system, you rose from abject poverty to become a presidential candidate. Your story is one to inspire all Koreans. And… for that reason, you have just made the decision to increase your party’s welfare spending by over 15%. Is that right?” 

Jaehyun wears your favourite look – astonishment mixed with pleasure. He grins, and says, “You are absolutely correct…” 

---

Jaehyun Jung becomes the youngest ever president of South Korea. 

You lost your job. That was expected. A stack of empty Ben-and-Jerry cartons totter next to your sofa. 

You expected to feel furious at Jaehyun. Really, you’re happy that he’s achieved his dream.  

You only realise that you loved him now that he’s gone. At night, you remember the beautiful look of the blood rushing into his cheeks when he was embarrassed, and your heart hurts. 

One rainy night, you are especially depressed… when you hear a soft tap on your window. 

You run to the window and see… Jaehyun. 

He is standing in front of a long black car, holding a stone in his palm. 

Your heart thudding in your chest, you run down the stairs, forgetting about your scrappy pyjamas. 

Jaehyun’s strong, graceful body is silhouetted against the moonlight. 

Rivulets of rain run over his cheeks. The look in his eyes is not kind. In fact, it is a little frightening. 

He steps closer, and you fight the urge to shrink away. 

“You-“ he says, then falls silent, too angry to speak. “I told you things I’ve never told anyone, and you used me. Y/N.” You shiver at the sound of your real name on his lips.  

“You got what you wanted,” you say. “Why are you here?” 

“You’re right,” Jaehyun says. “I shouldn’t be here. I hate you.”

You no longer want to shrink away from his warm body. You want to move closer. You watch drops of water run over his plump pink lips. 

His voice is soft now. “I should hate you.”

You clasp the sides of Jaehyun’s neck and kiss him. 

This kiss is different to the last one. There is an urgency to Jaehyun’s hands. They roam over your body as if you might disappear any second. This is not sympathy, or affection, it is hunger. A hunger so strong it might swallow you both up. 

You pull him into your bedroom. 

You hear the soft thump of Jaehyun’s clothes on the floor. You feel the slight roughness of his palms as they stroke up your bare thighs. You smell the thick, dizzying scent of him on the air. You close your eyes and let every part of you press up against him…

---

When the sunlight beams through the windows, you wake up. Your body is tangled in Jaehyun’s. 

Jaehyun, with his hair a mess and his eyes half-glued together, is beautiful. When he wakes up, you are nervous. Did last night mean as much to him as it did to you? 

But then, he kisses you, long and deep, and says, “Next time, we should really do this at my place. Your apartment is a dump.”

And you laugh, the strong swell of relief surprising you. 

Over steaming hot lattes, you make fun of everything Jaehyun said in his inauguration speech, and Jaehyun complains that the photo they put of him in your article showed his ‘bad side’. 

But you’re holding hands. Your stomach tingles with excitement. 

At one point, you interrupt Jaehyun. “Oh my god,” you say. “I can’t believe I’m dating the president.” 

Jaehyun grins. “We’re dating, are we?” 

You blush.

But then, Jaehyun kisses your hair, and says, in a tone that vibrates with pride, “I can’t believe Y/n is my girlfriend.” He looks at you. “Come work on my press team. We need someone like you.” You shake your head. “Sorry, but I have a plan. I’m starting my own newspaper. What do you think about The Daily Worker?”

Jaehyun smiles. “I will never understand you. Let me spend the rest of my life trying?”    

You pull him closer. “I’d like that.” 

—

MAIN MASTERLIST

Let us know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋

Taglist: @lovingvoidgoatee @the-universe-in-you-jjh@tacitanecdote@jolie-jolie@methneo@fairy-jojo@fluffyjaes@callingczimlonely@lav-nct@zodiqmz@nctevia @johnbanana @sheimarcali @su-minnie @sharkipoonis

[mutant-what-not]

Classic Retrovision Milestones

64 years ago today, November 19, 1959, The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show premiered. (known as Rocky & His Friends during the first two seasons and as The Bullwinkle Show for the last three seasons) It originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964, on the ABC and NBC television networks. Produced by Jay Ward Productions, the series is structured as a variety show, with the main feature being the serialized adventures of the two title characters, the anthropomorphic moose Bullwinkle and flying squirrel Rocky. The main adversaries in most of their adventures are the Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. Supporting segments include Dudley Do-Right (a parody of old-time melodrama), Peabody's Improbable History (a dog and his pet boy Sherman traveling through time), and Fractured Fairy Tales (classic fairy tales retold in comic fashion), among others.

Rocky & Bullwinkle is known for quality writing and wry humor. Mixing puns, cultural and topical satire, and self-referential humor, it appealed to adults as well as children. It was also one of the first cartoons whose animation was outsourced; storyboards were shipped to Gamma Productions, a Mexican studio also employed by Total Television. The art has a choppy, unpolished look and the animation is extremely limited even by television animation standards at the time. Yet the series has long been held in high esteem by those who have seen it; some critics described the series as a well-written radio program with pictures.

The show was shuffled around several times (airing in afternoon, prime time, and Saturday morning time slots), but was influential to other animated series from The Simpsons to Rocko's Modern Life. Segments from the series were later recycled in the Hoppity Hooper show.

There have been numerous feature film adaptations of the series' various segments, such as the 2000 film The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle which blended live-action and computer animation and the 1999 live-action film Dudley Do-Right, which both received poor reviews and were financially unsuccessful. By contrast, an animated feature film adaptation of the "Peabody's Improbable History" segment, Mr. Peabody & Sherman, was released to good reviews in 2014.

Mr. Peabody will star in a new reboot series picked up for 13-episodes.

In 2013, Rocky and His Friends and The Bullwinkle Show were ranked the sixth Greatest TV Cartoon of All Time by TV Guide.

[probssomethingorother]

Next of Kin: A TLOU fanfic

This is really long and hopefully kinda sad. Don't look too close cause I got tired of editing and didn't get a beta.

Pre-Tlou, Sarah's birth story, big sad, canon compliant-ish

Sarah, Joel, Claire (OC)

Rating: Teen

“This is on you, boy. So you march back in there, you take the reins, and you do right by that child. You hear?” He only manages to nod his head, but Mr. Johnson finds it’s enough, and he is released with a final shove. In the silence that follows, a lifetime passes. He stops being a kid, walks back in, and tends to his child. ------- The day Joel becomes a dad and how he deals. Slight canon divergence where his wife dies instead of leaving.

ONE SHOT - Words: 15,929

Live laugh love, comment subscribe reblog - that's how it goes right??

Read on AO3 here or down below ⤵️

He becomes a dad on one of the worst days of his life.

July 20, 1989.

*** ʚїɞ ***

It’s a slow morning until it isn’t.

Soft light pours into their tiny bedroom through sheer polyester pom-pom studded blue curtains, relentlessly shining onto his face until finally, Joel cracks open his eyes. He inhales deeply, sucking in air against his pillow as he withdraws his arms from underneath and stretches until he takes up the entirety of the bed. It’s just a full - it’s not hard to fill the space, but usually, there is someone else keeping both his arms from hitting the sides.

Claire.

Head popping up as he blinks away the fuzziness of sleep, he catches the time on their bedside clock, and then promptly flops back down.

8:47 AM, Thursday - class.

She is halfway through some advanced design course right now, stuck in an architecture studio with a bunch of kids who don’t know how to hold a hammer.

“You’re voluntarily going to summer school?” he had teased, a mock frown puckering his forehead.

“You’re not going to be able to build ‘em, if I can’t design ‘em, buddy,” she shot back with a grin.

They don’t have many concrete plans, but they do have a little dream to start up their own building company - her designs with his construction, in-house everything from start to finish.

Several months ago, it looked like that dream was gone. He came home to her sobbing on the floor of his bathroom, clutching three positive pregnancy tests, blubbering about how it wasn’t supposed to happen, how her parents would be so upset, how her life was over, and how she didn’t think she could be a mom.

After the shock abated—the overwhelming drumming in his ears subsiding to a disconcerting tapping and his heart slowing to a crawl—he descended to the bathroom floor to be beside her. With a deep breath, he slid down the putrid yellow wall, intertwined his hand in hers, and exhaled every ounce of air in his lungs. Then, with a sweet peck to the top of her hand, breathlessly he told her, “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout kids….but I do know… if one’s gettin’ you for a mom - they’re goin’ to be pretty amazin’.”

Much to his chagrin, his words only brought on a fresh wave of tears and sobs. He didn’t know what part of what he just said was wrong, but he couldn’t handle seeing her cry. As he frantically scurried on the tile floor to sit in front of her, he missed the subtle shift in the way her shoulders shook, angst turning to something lighter.

Tenderly, he nestled her head in his hands, and hastily sputtered:

“No no no, please don’t - I didn’t mean - we can do this is all. Ain’t the end of the world. You’ll be a good mom - and I think maybe... I’ll be a good dad - teach him all sorts of stuff about buildin’, and football, and my abuela’s tamales...And he’ll... and I know we don’t got much right now, but that’s just right now - we can have ‘em -“

And then Claire let out a snot-soaked chuckle, mouth twitching up at the sides as she wiped her wet face against his arm, leaving a shiny residue.

“Him? What makes you so sure were havin’ a boy?”

With a sigh of relief, he sat back as her tears came to a trickle; and with a curt nod and a smile, he dropped his hands away from her face.

“Well yeah,” he drawled, “Miller’s only have boys - me, Tommy, all the primos- not a girl in the bunch.”

Two days later Claire met with her counselor, rearranged her course schedule, and made a plan to enroll in the summer semester, freeing up her fall for the arrival of the baby. At the start of term, she crossed her fingers and prayed to God that the little nugget would stay inside long enough for her to make it through to finals.

It’s her last week. So far the plan has worked.

Normally, he’s navigating the morning rush to drop her off at UT Austin before he heads to the relentless buzz of the construction site, but this morning he’s on the late crew. He has nowhere to be til noon, and the extra hours of sleep are nice, but he also would rather be working.

He had asked for more shifts to make extra money before the baby comes, but Asshole Andy didn’t take too kindly to the request and did the exact opposite - slashed his hours by six each week, snarkily advising him he could “probably use more time at home prepping from the arrival of the rugrat.”

He had brooded over the whole ordeal for a couple of weeks, but now it irks him less, especially since Claire has given him a laundry list of things to complete before the little man comes home - assembling the crib, buying a bottle warmer, installing his car seat, cleaning the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the floors, and the couch, and pretty much every surface in their dinky 700 square foot apartment.

The list starts its relentless nag on his mind right as the last dredges of sleep scurry away, and the morning light, now too bright for any more excuses, floods their matchbox of a bedroom. It leaves Joel with no choice but to begrudgingly abandon the comforts of their bed, and rolling to its edge, with a small groan he begins his day.

Shuffling out of their room, his feet catch and peel away from the warped parquet floor with a faint, sticky noise that echoes in the quiet morning. It's one of the many quirks of their aging apartment that they've come to accept- its "charm," as Claire loves to say. Their living space is a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture, DIY fixes, and cheap decor. They have tried to make it look better, but even with all of Claire’s design knowledge only so much can be done to distract from the place's age and size.

He flicks on the TV - an old set, the screen slightly too blue- and flips to Sport’s Center to catch the Astros’ game highlights.

Taking a few moments to himself, he plops down at the tiny table wedged in the corner of their kitchenette with a hefty bowl of frosted flakes before the day's duties demand his attention.

His spoon pauses mid-air, startled, as the front door swings open and bounces against the wall. He’s halfway through breakfast, but wasn’t keeping track of the time.

Claire comes barreling through, her presence like a sudden storm, backpack haphazardly dropping with a thud as she crosses the threshold. She’s always been a bit of a tornado, bouncy brown curls trailing her like a dust cloud as she whips up small messes in her wake.

“Need to pee!” She announces as she hurries past Joel, her movement more of a rapid wattle, one hand cradling her swollen belly. She’s three weeks out from her due date and feeling and looking like “Veruca J, Veruca!” - as she likes to lament to him at least once a week.

Despite the urgency, she tosses him a small smile as she slips inside the bathroom and shuts the door. With a small smile of his own, he gives his head a little shake and returns to his cereal.

“You eat?” He calls with a full mouth, attention on the screen in the far opposite corner, a little too enthralled watching the Astros get smashed by the Mets. The question is thrown casually over his shoulder, a formality really because he knows the answer. She never eats before class, opting to take the extra few minutes of sleep over fixing up something, but still, he has to go through the routine: he asks, she grumbles, he says the baby needs food, and then there is a slight pause before she crosses her arms and says he’s right.

But when its usual pattern unfolds with no reply, he lobs another question towards the bathroom, “Wan’me to pour you a bowl of this?”

And that’s when everything speeds up.

She emerges from the bathroom with stark panic etched across her face, its complexion losing color by the second. Her deep brown eyes, wide and unblinking, lock onto Joel's like a silent scream.

Her shorts are off, her underwear is red, and blood spreads down the tops of her inner thighs.

He’s on his feet in a fraction of a second. As he darts up, the table jostles violently, sending his breakfast airborne in a chaotic slew of cereal and milk, and the bowl slips off, splintering against the tile of the kitchen floor. The high-pitched clatter of it all is nothing compared to the sudden ringing now filling his head.

Tears begin to pucker her waterline as he rushes to Claire, his footsteps quick, his hands hovering before they gently, firmly, grasp her shoulders.

A thousand words are interchanged between them, but none break from either of their lips.

With a shared nod, they split—Joel to the chaos of their bedroom for clothes, Claire to the phone.

“Mom?… Momma? Can you n’Pop meet us at the hospital?” Her voice is shallow and cracky, but Joel can hear it as clear as day as he rushes to throw on a t-shirt and wriggle into a pair of jeans.

“No St. David’s ..” she chokes out, as he stumbles over his own feet as they enter his pant legs, leaving him to careen into the closet door. As he pops back up, he catches her trembling voice ending the call: “Okay, love you, see you soon.”

The phone crashes to the laminate countertop with a sharp clatter, clearly not rehooked, as he snatches his wallet from the dresser and scrambles to find his keys.

If he wasn’t fighting to suppress the panic quickly growing inside him, frustration over the search for the pesky things would have been all-consuming. He rummaged through three pairs of pants, and checked under the bed, in the couch cushion, in the kitchen, the bathroom, and pretty much every other inch of their apartment, before finally lifting Claire’s backpack strewn in the entry to see the car keys discarded beneath.

Within seconds of his eyes landing on them, they are out the door, and the worst and best day of Joel’s life begins.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“Joel?”

“Right here, baby, right here.”

“I - I- please, don’t let - we need to - now-”

“I know, I gotcha.”

Her fragmented pleas, broken by sharp intakes of breath and muffled by cascades of tears, repeat incessantly in his head—louder and more urgent with each echo. Joel can’t get it to stop - much like his leg moving in an equally incessant rhythm, bouncing up and down as he sits in the rigid chair. The compulsive movement is matched by his hand - right anxiously twisting his watch band back and forth, rubbing it deeper and deeper into the rawing skin of his left.

“There’s so much blood.”

“Just focus on breathe’n now, we’ll be there soon, alright?”

Dried remnants of it cling stubbornly to the crevices of his knuckles and dirty the spaces in between his fingers, staining them a brownish crimson. He could clean it off, but it’s a piece of her - and if he can’t see her, at least he can still look at this bit, no matter how gruesome.

Almost an hour has passed since he’s last seen her.

By the time they reached the ER, she was too dizzy to walk. She’s not much smaller than him, but Joel had scooped her up with urgency anyway and charged through the sliding doors. The muted blue walls of the hospital corridor blurred in his periphery as he zeroed in on the signs leading them there. As he burst through the doors, they rebounded off the walls with a loud slap, and the collective gaze of the waiting room pivoted toward them.

His arms burned from her weight, but he dug his grip in more, fingertips pushing into her thigh hard enough to bruise.

"Something’s wrong with her," he blurted out to the quiet room, his blown-wide eyes locking onto the woman’s at the admittance desk.

It took no time for the nurses to descend on them, ushering Joel out of the waiting room and back toward a bed he could finally let her down on.

Claire was barely coherent, face ashy, breathing labored.

“What’s her name, son?” A sweet older woman with box-dyed red hair asked, gently moving him aside to better attend to Claire.

“Claire,” She took his name officially a few months back, but he’s known her longer as - “Claire Johnson,” - it just flows right.

“Okay Claire, we’re going to take good care of you. How many weeks are you, hun?”

When her head lolled to the side, lips moving but no words coming out, he felt like someone was squeezing the air out of his lungs while simultaneously filling his head with cement.

He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. His eyes bounced from her to the monitors, from the nurses to doctors, from the needle being pushed into her arm to the cross on the wall, from the strap being secured around her belly to her beautiful curls getting crunched beneath the oxygen mask, and then finally, to a calendar hanging crookedly above the corner sink -

His gaze had lingered there for a long moment.

Claire had put a magnet on the fridge to track the weeks, a little pink and blue calendar. He thought watching the time tick by was a little silly at first, but this week, when she flipped it to “3 weeks from baby!” he got a little flutter of something in his chest.

“37,” he muttered, brain distantly doing the mental math as a nurse dispensed a healthy glob of ultrasound jelly onto Claire, bottle squelching with the brute force of the squeeze.

Only 37 seconds later, a decision was made: she needed surgery immediately. Her bed rails snapped up, she was disconnected from the machines that beeped and blinked with a detached urgency, and wheeled away swiftly. Someone tried to explain something about the placenta and an “abruption” and that she was losing more blood than her body could handle, but all Joel could focus on was keeping pace with the gurney so her hand wouldn’t slip from his.

But eventually, it did - had to.

She was pushed behind a set of doors he was not allowed to go, held back by a physician’s firm hand. “Take a seat, someone will come talk to you,” they said.

That was 37 minutes ago, and nobody has come to talk to him.

The flickering of the fluorescent light overhead is now the only thing keeping him sane. It mixes with some sun strips crossing the blue tile floor, and when everything hits right, it looks like beams of light dancing at the bottom of a swimming pool. He finds himself fixating on it, forcing himself to take a breath every time a glowy strip appears. Everything else around him just fades into the background, the ring of the hustle and bustle of the hospital becoming muted as if caught beneath the waterline.

Claire once told him blue is used to evoke calm, but surrounded by the hospital’s blue walls and blue floors, it only makes him feel more and more like he’s drowning underwater.

Claire loves the water.

She’s lived in a landlocked city her entire life, but give the girl a chance and she will talk about the ocean. She’s only been a handful of times to the coast- just Padre Island, yet, you would think she’s dipped her toe in each of the seven seas. Sand and sunshine, blue skies and blue sea - she could never get enough.

They had almost escaped there for the Fourth.

“Come on, J, one last hurrah,” she had pleaded, her eyes alight with the prospect, her voice threaded with excitement as she bounced around their small living room. “It’s called a babymoon - everyone’s doing it now,” she had tried to explain, doing her best to convince him to sit in the sand and watch fireworks explode in dazzling arrays over the Gulf.

But he had to say no. There was no time, no money, and his old car, which creaked and groaned even on short drives, would probably not survive a four-hour trek in the boiling Texas heat.

It’s a little silly - especially now - but all he can think about is her and him, and how they really should have just taken the goddam trip.

*** ʚїɞ ***

There is little to say to her parents when they arrive and find him waiting, his hands slick with sweat as they approach. He gulps hard and clears his throat, scrambling for words that refuse to form. But before he can try to speak, Mrs. Johnson pulls him in for a hug.

Her hand gently brushes the back of his head, and the precipice of any words dissolves into a shaky exhale into the crook of her neck. She smells like a blend of lavender and vanilla—just like his mom used to. When she breathes, "Oh honey," her voice cracks with maternal warmth, and for a moment, Claire’s mom is his mom, and he doesn’t want to let go. Arms, heavy and trembling, slowly rise around her, his body deflates, and for a flash of a second, he doesn’t feel like he’s stuck underwater.

But he only gets in one breath before he slips back under.

Claire’s father, a big burly man - an old-fashioned Texas rancher- interrupts the moment, hand going firmly to his wife’s shoulder. He tugs her back, guiding her to a nearby chair with a look of the eye and a twitch of the head.

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes, already weary and tinted red, spare Joel one final sympathetic look before taking her seat and turning to the ground.

Mr. Johnson takes his wife’s spot, leaning in close. His breath is hot and has the stench of musky cigars as it puffs into his face. “Nurse at the front told us what’s goin’ on,” he gruffs with a dagger-like glare, a look that Joel has only seen once before when he caught them one late night junior year fooling around in the back of his Tio’s truck.

If it hadn’t been for Claire coming between them—literally—Joel’s pretty sure Mr. Johnson would have killed him on the spot.

Unfortunately, he’s lacking her protection now.

On shaky knees, he sinks back down in his seat as Mr. Johnson takes his own next to his wife, who has already brought out her Rosary and begun the Litany.

For a long while, he watches her fingers glide across the beads. Her umber tone makes the milky cream of the tiny glass orbs and the gold-plated cross shine in her grip. Head bowed, her voice is hushed, a whispered prayer—delicate, but intentional.

He’s never taken much to religion, but it was important to his mother, so he never missed a Sunday. It was just a hollow obligation then, but in this moment, he can see why people are drawn to it.

There is a comfort in knowing what to do, what to pray, who to ask for help.

He follows along in his own head, punctuating her efforts with his own hard “Amens”. He pushes his anxiety into each prayer, hoping the Mary up there will take pity on them, see herself in Claire, and protect their son.

They only make it three decades deep.

Perhaps if they had finished it, things would be different.

He barely registers the doctor’s approach. When he slowly looks up, he can’t miss the hollow defeat that hangs heavily in the woman’s eyes as she comes into focus behind the Johnsons.

Time stops.

He goes rigid, fidgety anxiousness leaving his body as dread pushes in.

Seeing the change in Joel's expression, the Johnsons twist to face the doctor, their bodies stiffening as they stand. He tries to rise, but his legs betray him, and he remains half-seated, peering through the narrow gap between their shoulders. The doctor, flanked by the nurse from before with the coppery hair - “Judy” he remembers off a name tag - looks exhausted, face drawn tight, almost like a different person then who she was in the ER.

"I'm sorry," the physician offers, each word measured but heavy, carrying a weight that squeezes out all the little remaining air from the waiting area. "We did everything we could, but..."

The words that follow blend into the sterile air. Something about complications, a clot to the brain, a loss too great, a life gone as a new one gasped its first breath.

His knees buckle and he’s back in the uncomfortable seat once more. His fingers find the sides and wrap around, knuckles going white as he holds onto the plastic like it’s a preserver in rough waters. Every hair on his body stands to attention as a wave of goosebumps runs from his head to his toes. Saliva pools in his mouth and his throat constricts tight and his lungs feel like they are vacuumed sealed shut.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. What they don’t tell you is that it happens just the same when they die.

Claire.

She’s eleven years old, escorted into their church camp room, and placed in a seat next to him. He was dared by Freddy Bower to yank her ponytail so he gave the new girl a gentle tug. In return, she picked her nose and wiped it on his arm. Everyone teased him the rest of summer that she had given him her cooties.

She’s in his homeroom when school starts in the fall and the rivalry is instantaneous, competition whittling down to their days of birth - and of course, she’s three days ahead.

And then she’s thirteen and leaning across the circle, the tip of the soda bottle pointing towards him. Even though she unabashedly wiped him off her lips, he didn’t mind the way her strawberry chapstick lingered on his. He wanted to remember his first kiss with a girl, even if it was with her. At the same party the following year, they are stuffed in a closet for seven minutes in heaven, but they stay several inches apart - “Miller if you think I’m goi-” - “Oh, like I would even want you to.”

And then they are freshmen, and she’s not in any of his classes or clubs and he kind of misses her, but convinces himself it's just the competition that he craves, and has nothing to do with how she’s bubbly, and witty, and pretty, and fun.

And then it’s the summer and they are stuck in the back of a hardware store together, wearing neon green vests, racing to stock shelves, tallying who knows the most paint codes, and the competition is back and now he doesn’t want to let it go. So he doesn’t.

He makes her start to hate him less, and they get paired together in home-ec, and when they both get dragged to church by their parents they go to the pew in the back and fold all the hymnal pages into geometric patterns. They get close enough for his mom to start packing her a tamale in his lunch, teasing “para su amiga,” with a wiggle of her brow, and for Claire’s older brother to start snagging him packs of Marlboro Reds from the corner store on Park before away games, because “since you she fights with our Pops less.”

And even though she laughs in his face when he asks her to Junior year homecoming, it’s official - they are together - and they stay together.

She cries with him when his mom dies and he holds her tight when her brother meets the same fate five months later. She gets accepted to NYU, but decides to stay in Austin for school - “I’m not doing this for you - me and Tommy are buds now, can’t leave him.”

And although she lives in the dorms freshman year and he takes the couch at his Tio’s, they still make it work. When he saves enough to rent a place of his own, one night a week becomes several, and then she’s with him full-time. And she decorates the place with seashells and butterflies and they laugh and dance in the living room, and burn things on the stove, and watch marathons of shitty movies, and flood the bathroom trying to fix the sink. And he pops the question one silly night under the sheets, and puts a peach ring on her finger, and he’s in love, and they are making plans, and having dreams, and having a -

"Hun?" The gentle intrusion startles him as it slices through his life with her. Judy’s auburn hair flashes infront of his eyes before her kind gaze takes its place. He nods mechanically.

“Why don’t you go see your baby girl?” She chirps soft and smooth, as one of her wrinkly hands comes to his elbow while the other wiggles her fingers under his and unlocks his grip from the edge of the seat.

With another shaky nod, he forces himself to his feet, each step hesitant as he follows the Johnsons out of the waiting area.

Only once he’s at their backs do her words hit his brain, but by then he’s not sure he’s hearing anything right - hoping he’s not hearing anything right.

*** ʚїɞ ***

Things go a little hazy for a while, like wandering through a dream that both makes absolute sense and none at all.

Despite being behind the doctor, her parents set the pace- a quick stride, nipping at the physician’s heels, pushing her to lead them down the winding corridor at a speed Joel finds wholly unmanageable. He can’t quite put his finger on the feeling, but his brain is telling him that it’s strange to be rushing - inappropriate- to be speeding this along.

With every five tiles, he falls a step behind, his pace slowing incrementally until the echoes of their footsteps fade and he’s alone with nothing but the empty stretch of corridor to navigate.

Distance.

Minutes ago, he had wanted the space between them to disappear; now, he wishes the hallway would stretch a little longer, the doorway be a bit further - hell, if he could move her room to the other end of the hospital, that would be best.

Space is time, and he needs time before this moment finally catches up with the next. The next that’s tainted by a cruel reality waiting on the other side of that door.

When he finally steps in and sees her, color already gone from her face, he feels small, like a little kid - he is a kid - and she was a kid - and now they have -

He doesn’t remember walking over to the clear plastic bassinet, but then he is there looking down at the thing that took his first love from him.

Her tiny fists wave in the air - clearly a fighter from her first breath- and then her teeny nose wrinkles up as she lets out a piercing cry.

The shriek, is timed perfectly with a deep wail from Claire’s mother.

The sounds are like the gun at the start of a race, his feet moving before he thinks.

He has no control over his body as he rushes back into the hallway, his heart pounding, breaths shallow and quick. His chest feels like it’s on fire as he slides his body down the wall, sinking into the floor, much like he did several months back when Claire broke the news - although this is light years more jarring.

“Why don’t you go see your baby girl?” Plays back in his head like a cruel joke.

It’s a girl.

He should be happy that at least one of them made it out, but all is brain can grab a hold of is the fact that the one that did, is not his girl - not Claire.

The commingled cries leak under the door and waft into the hallway, giving him no reprieve. His hands slide over his ears as he tucks his knees into his chest and digs his forehead into the denim of his jeans.

He thought he knew what grief felt like. When his mom died, years ago now, it was like someone rearranged his insides and forgot to put his heart back into the right place, stuck somewhere near his stomach, perpetually sunk. And back then, he knew it was coming - a monster in the closet that would eventually come so he left the door ajar. He slowly grieved the loss of her for months and months before the cancer finally took her, and it hurt, but not like this.

This was different.

He wasn’t prepared for a monster to come and take everything, and certainly not on today of all days.

He thought they would rush to the hospital and get settled in a room and figured the worst thing that could go wrong was Claire squeezing his hand maybe a bit too hard - maybe even enough to break it, he had heard that could happen - and then after a few grueling hours, they would leave with arms cradling a boy, a strong little fella with Claire's bright eyes and his big’ole nose.

They would go home as three.

He knows there’s two of them now, but he feels like he’s just one.

He can’t do this.

With a clack on the tile, feet halt in front of him. Raising his head slightly off his knees, dark brown cowboy boots come to fill his view as they grind into the ground. With a firm hand - an angry clench that squeezes his bicep- Claire’s father hoists him up roughly, feet slipping on the smooth tile as he’s forced to stand and face him.

His eyes are all fire when they meet Joel’s and his grip intensifies as they bear into him. He’s heard stories about Mr. Johnson’s anger - never would touch a woman, but Claire’s told him about how he wouldn’t hold back on her brother Mike. For a moment, he’s sure he’s about to experience what he can do, but instead, he’s slammed against the wall.

“Stand up. Act like a damn man,” he growls, his voice a strident whisper.

It’s harsh, but expected. Her dad never liked him, thought he was derailing his daughter's future, and that was before getting her pregnant. Five years of pent-up anger and disdain are channeled into the vice grip on his arm. He winces, but he also knows he's fortunate it's only his arm taking the brunt of it.

“This is on you, boy. So you march back in there, you take the reins, and you do right by that child. You hear?”

He only manages to nod his head, but Mr. Johnson finds it’s enough, and he is released with a final shove.

In the silence that follows, a lifetime passes.

He stops being a kid, walks back in, and tends to his child.

His child: Sarah.

That’s the name they had picked after thumbing through a far too large book rented from the college library. Claire had wanted something with meaning, “classic, but strong,” and landed on Alexander and Sarah - a warrior and a princess.

He didn’t think they would be needing the girl's name - “Miller’s make men” he had begun to chime every time Claire’s eyes veered toward something pink or purple for the baby. But perhaps it was mother’s intuition because here she is.

Sarah

Sarah

Sarah

She was supposed to be their princess. Now, she’s just his, and that fact weighs his body down like an anchor, planting his feet next to her bassinet, forcing him to stare into her big brown eyes that go as deep as the ocean.

Claire would have loved her baby’s eyes.

A warm hand settles between his shoulder blades, and he pushes his gaze away from her, blinks rapidly to clear away the tears pooling in his waterline, and turns toward the source. A nurse with a yellow scrub cap that matches a tweedy bird pin clipped on her pink scrubs offers him a quaint but sullen smile and drops her hand away.

“You picked a name out for her yet, sugar?” She asks bending over the bassinet clipped to retrieve the name placard at the top of the small crib.

The powder pink card boasts “It’s a Girl!” in a cursive font with flowers and a cheery teddy bear with a bow. Beneath it, are all the important things, like “Mother: Johnson”, “Weight: 6lb 1oz,” “Length: 17 ⅛. In.” and “Time: 10:27am.”

The spot for the name is glaringly empty.

Joel nods with a sniffle.

“And what’s the winner then?” The clipboard in her grip swings around to her front, and she balances it in a crevice of her stomach as she uncaps a black felt tip marker with her teeth.

Mouth dry, he swallows hard. The last time his throat pushed out words was when he whispered “you’ll be okay” into Claire’s ear as she was pushed away from him through those doors off the ER bay. He hates that his last words to her were a lie, but that’s neither here nor there now.

“Sarah,” he says slowly, listening how it floats through the air.

“Middle?”

He knows what Claire wanted - what they had planned - but his eyes flick across the room and find her blanched face obscured by a tube and surrounded by monitors, and he just can’t go with it.

“I think it should-,” he pauses, pondering it again for a fraction of a second, “-Claire.” He nods, “Sarah. Claire. Miller.”

He hopes she doesn’t mind.

*** ʚїɞ ***

The hours begin to bleed together.

The mechanical whispers of the hospital - the soft beeps, the muted shuffles of footsteps, the low voices of doctors, and nurses, and administrators weaving in and out the dimly lit room - it all becomes one giant mush after a while.

Someone had offered to wheel Sarah away, and put her in the nursery with all the other newborns - “are you sure? fathers ain’t normally the ones watchin’ them like this” - but despite being utterly terrified, he shook his head at the offer. He planted himself in the corner of the room on a small maroon plastic couch, rolled her bassinet firmly in front of him, and kept her small form at his eye level.

People come in to evaluate Claire, but when nobody veers toward their own little space to check on them, he wonders if it’s the wrong decision. She seems perfectly fine, but his leg bounces nervously with the possibility that she isn’t - silently slipping away because he doesn’t know anything about babies.

His gaze rarely leaves her even as conversations swell around them, constant low-murmured discussions about what comes next.

They frame their words carefully, tiptoeing around the inevitable, trying to present things as if there are options to be made, but there aren’t options - there is just one option :

When to let her go.

She’s already gone in all the ways that matter. Her body is there, but her brain is not. She’s never going to wake up. She’s not going to go home and dance in their apartment, or wiggle her toes in the sand, or blow bubbles in her drink, or call him “Joel Michael Miller” when he tickles her too much.

And she is not going to hold her baby, or hear her giggle, or see her take her first steps cause Claire is not going to be stepping out of this hospital.

He knows it, but the Johnsons haven’t quite gotten there yet. So he just watches from the corner of the room as her parents ask all the same questions over and over again, yet hope for different answers.

Earlier, someone had tried to explain what happened was rare. That when the placenta detached her body kicked into overdrive, blood clotting excessively. As little Sarah was being pulled into the land of the living, Claire slipped the opposite way, a clot traveling up to her brain and cutting off blood supply for too long.

A one in a million chance.

“Exceedingly rare,” they had said repeatedly, and, “no way to know this would happen,” as though those two things could somehow soften the blow.

Soft enough to knead it into something it isn’t.

For her parents, “rare” became synonymous with special, and “no way to know” mutated into defying the odds, and both together turned into a false hope of an impossible reality.

“She just need’s some time - we’ll wait- our Claire - she’s a strong one - patience is a virtue.” her mother told the room, aiming the words at nobody in particular.

And waiting is what they have been doing. They hover by her bedside, chairs drawn close, bodies hunched over and slipping out, practically on their knees as they tightly grasp Claire’s hands and pray.

Their words to God fill the space between beeps and breaths, and he doesn’t really believe in Him like how they do, but part of him also want’s to get down on his knees and ask Him why.

When the hours tick by, they start to beg for a miracle.

And Joel doesn’t believe in that sort of stuff either, but the longer he spends with Sarah the more he thinks that God has already delivered. He could have taken them both, but he left one behind.

Wrapped snuggly in a hospital blanket, she stirs slightly, her tiny hands balling into fists against the underside of the blue and pink striped fabric. He holds his breath until she settles.

He’s been doing that a lot.

The door groans softly on its hinges, inching open just wide enough for someone to slide through. The Johnsons pivot toward the sound, and they nod in recognition, gesture returned politely by the nurse slipping through. She then shifts focus, surprisingly shuffling back toward Joel tucked away in the corner.

It’s Judy again - that nurse from the ER who seems to be trailing them throughout the hospital. She pauses beside him, her gaze softening as she looks down at Sarah, and then back to him.

“May I?” Her voice is a hushed whisper as she gestures to the cramped couch that has become his home for the last several hours.

Anxiously his hands had been wedged beneath his thighs, but he slides them out, and scoots an inch to the right, making room for Judy to settle in beside him.

“I know I’m not one of the gals in pink, but I thought I would come and check on ya’ll.” She adjusts her sea foam green scrub top, smoothing out some wrinkles, and untangling her hanging ID badge that’s gotten caught in the chain of her glasses draped around her neck.

She’s so nonchalant about it all, it's a little strange, but also a little comforting hearing someone talk to him like normal.

"How are we holdin’ up?" she asks her voice a gentle coo. Joel pauses, caught off-guard, unsure if her words are meant for him or the baby nestled in front of them. He goes with the former, but manages only a shrug, expression a bit hollow.

“Well, that’s expected,” she murmurs back.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, his whisper barely audible as he brushes his palms back and forth against his thighs.

He’s been thinking it for hours, hasn’t dared to utter it outloud, but something about Judy has him spilling his secrets.

“Do?” She angles toward him, her brow bunched together in a soft frown.

“With her. I don’t know what I am supposed to be doin’.”

A reassuring touch lands on his knee. “Oh hun, nobody really does at first. But you’ll get there,” she encourages. With a hopeful tilt of her head she suggests, “Why don’t you start by holding her?”

Joel balks, his voice stuttering. “No I don’t - I don’t -,”

He’s thought about it, but she’s a tiny little thing - swears he’s seen potatoes at the county fair bigger - and he’s petrified of someone how smushing her. He’s fairly certain his hands will cause more harm than good the second he reaches for her.

He hasn’t, so he won’t.

“ - I can’t,” he begins, but Judy halts his efforts with a raised hand.

“Nonsense,” she dismisses as she stands, couch squawking with the change in pressure. Her hands are cool as they touch his arms, sending goosebumps up his skin the moment she bends and positions them. The reaction has nothing to do with the iciness of her touch though; his heart bounces into his throat before settling back into his chest and hammering against his ribs.

“Yep there ya’go,” she softly assures as they become a cradle. Silently, he shakes his head - every part of his body telling him he shouldn’t do it, but Judy pays no mind.

"It’ll feel more natural than you think.”

Staying petrifyingly still, his eyes acutely track her as she turns towards the bassinet and slips her hands under Sarah’s small form. “Hand under her head now, like where mine’s at,” she instructs, catching Joel’s nervous eyes and waiting for him to return a nod before proceeding.

He’s not ready, but he doesn’t think Judy would let him stop even if he asked; he suspects her bright red hair matches her personality in that regard.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek and gives her a curt confirmation.

He’s going to have to be ready.

Sarah's tiny head fits into the crook of his elbow, and for a moment, he's too afraid to breathe. Her weight settles against his chest, and although a rush of warmth floods through his heart, physically he can’t seem to meet the feeling halfway, body clenched up tight.

Filled with apprehension his eyes flick up to Judy. She’s giving him a hearty smile, the crow's feet at the corner of her eyes turning into deep valleys as they crinkle up.

When Sarah begins to squirm and fuss, it has his heart starting to beat nervously fast. He didn’t realize he could be any more tense, but his body constricts even more, shoulders darting to his ears, spine curling, feet pushing hard into the ground; it's all in a futile hope that if he stops moving, she will too.

He holds his breath.

“Relax, she’s a baby, not a brick,” Judy whispers, careful not to aggravate Sarah anymore as she bends in close. “She feels what you’re feelin’ honey just -” Her hand settles on his upper arm and brushes down it.

He forces himself to take a breath, urging his body to comply with Judy’s coaching. Slowly, his shoulders come away from his ears and his chest sinks back against Sarah, and he lets out a shaky, but unburdening breath.

Sarah settles too.

When he looks up to show Judy, he discovers she has retreated several feet, busying herself with something on the back countertop. His heart catapults into his throat again as he realizes he’s holding her alone. His eyes widen with concern as they snap down to Sarah. He gulps hard, adam’s apple pushing down to the bottom of his neck and then climbing back up. His muscles are threatening to constrict again, but he tries to keep all that at bay.

Relax, relax, relax

The anxious flutter only settles when he sees Judy returning.

“Chart says she’s fit as a fiddle, and due for another feed soon. Did the nurse show you how to give her a bottle?” she inquires, peering at him over her purple glasses.

Joel shakes his head.

“They show you anything?” she presses, her tone gentle as she moves her readers and sticks them into her bushy hair.

Again, he shakes his head, and then at the same time both their attention moves toward the Johnsons, still ensconced in their silent prayer at Claire’s bedside. A mutual understanding passes between them then, both knowing that other things have taken precedence in this room besides teaching a new dad how to be just that.

“Well, I ain’t no labor and delivery nurse, but I’ve had five of my own. Reckon I can get you sorted,” she declares, settling back onto the couch. With practiced ease, she adjusts Joel’s hold on Sarah, her hands confident and caring. Unprompted, she continues, “You remind me of my youngest - and I’m not going to ask you where your mama’s at - but if my little one was havin’ his own little one, and I wasn’t there for some reason, I’d hope that somebody would have some mercy on that clueless kid and step’n for me.”

It’s true, he is a clueless kid.

He doesn’t know how to hold her, or feed her, or change a diaper, and he’s not sure what cry is fine and what sound should have him racing to find a nurse.

Not to mention any of the parts about her being a girl and what to do with that. He might have been able to push through if life with this child was going to be mud and dinosaurs and football and little boy things, but he has no idea about pink and princesses and dance class and being a girl.

And part of him knows he still wouldn’t know any of this stuff if Claire was sitting next to him, but at least she’s made for this.

Was made for this.

He’s not.

Yet, as if reading his mind, Judy offers: “You’ll figure it out.”

Sarah’s small lips pucker and then croak out the faintest yawn, before flattening into a little smile.

“See, she like’s when you hold’er,” Judy chimes while playfully bumping her shoulder into his.

Goosebumps cascade down his body again, but this time they are warm—soft and bright, like Sarah's smile. The fear still lingers, rattling in his chest, but he can’t help but mirror her expression. His mouth twitches, the corners lifting into a smile of his own.

The longer he looks, the more he realizes he’s seen that grin before.

Lost in the moment, he looks up to show Claire.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“No reason to keep her here, you’re all set to leave,” the pediatrician tells him as he unhooks his stethoscope from his ears and gently places Sarah’s blanket back in place.

His tone is light and optimistic, but his volume is hushed, matching the somber ambiance of the room. Everyone’s been quite cognizant to keep quiet with the Johnsons holding vigil at the other end.

“Leave? To another room?” Joel whispers, swaying on the balls of his feet, hands crossed tightly over his chest.

With a small snort and shake of his head, the doctor tries again, “No no, your baby is being discharged, you can go home.” There is a beat of silence and then he adds, “get out of ..here.. for a bit, get a break from this, son.”

Joel’s eyes drift over to Claire’s parents, and a weight that’s been looming in the background suddenly settles on his shoulders. He rakes his hands down his face and they settle in front of his mouth, palms touching like prayer hands.

He knew this would come, but he hadn’t let himself consider how it would play out. A shiver slips down his spine and he drags in a long breath.

He’s not sure he can do this part, but then again, he didn’t think he could do any other parts of the day either.

“Talk with ‘em, but I think it’d be best if she goes home tonight,” the physician encourages as he departs, giving his shoulder a small squeeze before smiling back at Sarah and taking his exit.

The talk is a mess.

It’s a charged volley of raised voices and differing views.

They can’t believe he is considering leaving, but the doctor is right, there is no reason to stay lingering by and waiting in a place seeped in gloom and dread when Sarah’s life should start with something much brighter.

They tell him a mother and child aren’t supposed to be separated.

They aren’t wrong, but they aren’t right. He holds his tongue to what he could say, and the conversation pivots, anyway.

He asks them to revisit what the doctors said, that she will not be waking up. Gently, he tries to convince them that Claire wouldn’t want to live as a shell hooked to monitors and breathing by way of an air tank -that this isn’t what she would want - that this isn’t her.

But they don’t get it. They tell him God can work in mysterious ways, that He will choose if she goes.

He tells them that God made his choice, and now it’s their choice - his choice, he corrects. He has let them take charge this entire time, but their ceremony at the courthouse in March makes this his responsibility.

It was just a little thing with a borrowed suit and a white dress from the thrift store, and a Clerk named Alvin as their witness, but he wants to uphold the vows he swore to her that day.

With a scoff, they tell him that it wasn’t before God, that it wasn’t in a church, that it might have well have been two kids playing dress up.

They say she’s still their responsibility. And he knows “responsibility” for them is really “she’s our baby,” - and he now has a glimpse of what that means - but still, he can face what they can’t.

He tells them they are making her suffer.

They tell him he’s going to hell.

He doesn’t necessarily disagree with them.

*** ʚїɞ ***

When he shakily thumbs through some paperwork - meaningless words on a page that don’t stick in his brain - and then signs his name at the bottom, he somehow feels too young and too old at the same time.

His signature is a janky mess that anyone would be hard-pressed to decipher if it came from the trembling hand of an eighty-year-old or a fourth-grader learning cursive for the first time.

Her dad had told him to be a man.

It hurts, but that’s what he’s trying to do.

*** ʚїɞ ***

When the nighttime air hits his face, he takes a breath, dragging it in slowly through his nose and holding it until his lungs beg for mercy. He thought a few moments away would feel good, but it just seems to have highlighted a new type of anxiety that’s prodding at his insides.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him he’s forgotten something, but he knows it isn’t true.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, it whispers.

He tries to picture exactly where she is, tucked safely in the hospital minded by nurses, but the nagging feeling stubbornly remains.

Anxiously, he twirls a pair of borrowed scissors in his fingers as he walks across the parking lot toward his car. Every step further elicits one more repetition of her name, louder and louder.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

He pauses halfway across the parking lot, the urge to go back stopping his stride. As he drums the blade of the scissors against his palm, he considers it for a moment. He wants to have her where he can see her, but shaking his head, he dismisses the idea and continues on.

It’s strange how they’ve only been together for a few hours, and already he can’t seem to let her go—not even when he tries. He hopes that’s normal.

His keys twist into the back lock and the trunk pops open with a loud click, catapulting open and up as soon as it's unlatched. Having seen far better days, the ‘78 Wagoneer is chronically temperamental. He’s normally fluent in its weird behaviors, but he’s not on the ball today.

A second too slow at catching it, the edge nails him in the face as it comes up. It doesn’t hurt all that much, but it’s embarrassing, and he quickly turns his head around the parking lot to check if anyone’s noticed. But the only thing staring back at him is the washed-out face of a smiling baby plastering the side of the car seat box in his trunk.

It was bought over the weekend from Walmart, but hasn’t been touched since. Getting it sorted before the baby was born was supposed to be on the list of things for him to do.

Obviously that didn’t happen.

With a hefty sigh, he drags it closer and flicks open the scissors to slice at the packaging tape. Every inch of the orange handles and silver blades are heavily plastered in sharpie with “Nurse Stat. 7” to an absurd degree.

Asking for them wasn’t easy.

His request was simple at first: “Ma’am, do y’all have a pair of scissors or somethin’ I could borrow?” The woman at the large, curved desk glanced up, giving him her full attention. He probably didn’t need to say more, but her direct gaze made him nervous, and he found himself rambling.

And that’s when things got hard.

“We just had - I just had -” he stuttered before stopping in his tracks, trying to find the words that felt right to explain what had happened that day.

They did just have a baby, but they weren’t a “we” anymore, yet saying “I” felt dishonest—he hadn’t done anything. She had done everything. Gave everything.

And he knew the other half of his “we” was gone. He knew it, but verbalizing that reality outside the confines of her hospital room felt like he was spreading a lie, leaving a bitter, acidic taste in his mouth. So he decided to omit it—“if you have nothin’ nice to say, don’t say nothin’ at all,” he reminded himself, as though he was a kid back on the schoolyard, stopping a pesky rumor from spreading.

He wished it was just that.

With his hands buried in his pockets to hide their shaking, he instead managed, “My baby came a bit early and were gettin’ ready to go, but they say she needs a car seat, and her’s is still packed up in the back of my trunk.” The words came out awkward and uneven, voice cracking as if he was just a kid.

She was light on the sympathy when she handed the scissors over, slapping them into his palm with clear directions not to run off with them as if she’d heard his story several times before.

Maybe she has.

He dumps the pieces out haphazardly and arranges the array of lightweight muted grey awkwardly shaped plastic parts across the flatbed. The only bits he can definitively identify are a curved handle, a lightly padded fabric liner in blue, and two thin woven nylon straps for her seatbelt. Frustration comes on quickly as he fails to snap together two parts that look like they should fit, finds nothing that seems to anchor another, and every time he looks at the pieces scattered about, it feels like the pile has doubled in size. The minutes start to tick by quickly, and he’s no further in the process than when he started.

The little voice in his head is getting louder and louder screaming Sarah, Sarah Sarah!

He’s not really an impatient person but he can’t take it.

With an exasperated breath, an unlucky piece flies from his hand, arcs through the air, and crashes against the interior of the trunk, ultimately landing back among the sea of discarded parts.

Leaning heavily against the back bumper, his clenched fists dig into the rusty metal, knuckles going white. His chin hits his chest, defeated. Of all the things to make him unravel today, he can’t believe the goddamn car seat is somehow a fighting contender.

He thought he would be good at this - capable of building something - it’s what he does day in and day out, but this is a puzzle, not a construction project. He can build a house, but he has no idea what fits where in a seat that doesn’t even look like it would hold a toy doll, much less a living breathing child.

His gaze lifts reluctantly to the box, and with a deep sigh, he straightens. Dragging one hand through his hair the other plunges back into the box and retrieves a small white instruction booklet that mocks his competence. He slams the trunk shut with a dissatisfied breath.

Coming around front, the window slips down a healthy inch as he forces his car door open with the usual two hearty tugs. The leather of the seats are cracked and chipped, and whenever he slides into the driver’s side, his jeans always snag as he gets settled. Today is no different.

The car smells like her - sweet and floral with a hint of salt from that spray she likes to put in her hair. Claire always said it was to help with her curls but knowing her, Joel thinks it was just to smell a little like her favorite place.

He leaves the door open, allowing the nighttime air to cycle through the cabin and chisel away at one of the last remnants of her.

Lingering in any memory of her for longer than a heartbeat hurts far too much.

He cranes and contorts his body to catch a sliver of light, but it helps little. Even the big bold letters on the front - “Joy Ride Infant Seat Manual” - fade into the darkness and when he flips to the first page, squinting does nothing to help decipher the instructions.

With a sigh, he tosses the booklet into the passenger seat and moves his keys from the cup holder to the ignition. The clunker sputters to life, and Joel slams his door shut, the window pane sneaking down another half inch as the metal frame rocks with force. He drives it up two spaces, putting it under the white light of the parking lot pole lamp, and then gets out, and tries again.

The instructions do wonders for making progress.

The seat begins to take shape, but its frame is lighter and more fragile than he wants it to be. Each piece snaps and clicks into place with an unsettling ease that doesn't inspire confidence in the slightest. His hands grow clammy as he flips back and forth through the instruction booklet, doubting each step.

"Right?” he asks with skepticism to the air, picturing how it should look, glancing at the flimsy thing, and then back to the box and booklet. Truthfully, he had been worried about the quality even before putting it together:

“It’ll be fine, we didn’t even have them when we were kids, and look - we made it through,” she had tried to assuage his fears as they waited in line with it by the register on Saturday. Doubt about their choice started settling in when he picked up the suspiciously light box and it rattled with the sounds of several small pieces.

Several pieces that are now somehow a car seat.

“Right,” he mutters reluctantly, shaking his head at the final product. It hardly looks like it will keep her safe, but he’s pretty sure that is the result of choosing the cheaper option - of being two kids on a shoestring budget - and not his poor assembly skills.

He was always the worrier, Claire was always the one to talk him down.

“Go with the motion of the ocean, dude” she would always kid, dropping her voice low and slow, pretending to be some surfer boy Kyle from San Diego.

He wonders if she would stay as cool about 'the motion of the ocean' if she saw the seat's concerning sway, despite being securely fastened into the backseat during the short drive through the hospital parking lot. His ears can’t help but to zero in on the sound of its rocking as he maneuvers the Wagoneer from the dimly lit lot to the harsh fluorescent light under the hospital’s awning.

Coming to a stop, the engine idles with a rhythmic purr that mixes with the steady blink of his hazards, and for a moment, it feels nice - just him alone.

But it doesn’t last long. Alone makes him feel guilty.

Sarah! The voice in his head screams again.

As he reaches to turn off the car, his fingers brush against his keychain, causing the baubles to jingle. He pauses, the sound drawing his attention to the beaded orange and black monarch and a tiny bleached conch that knocks softly against the other keys.

Claire had "spruced them up" one afternoon, hoping to get a funny rise out of his coworkers at the construction site. After the teasing, he took off most of the other girly keychains and pink ribbon, but he kept around the butterfly and small sea shell.

He wishes he kept all of it now.

With a deep breath, he retrieves the scissors from the dash and goes to collect his daughter.

She is fussy and more squirmy than he thought a baby should be when he eases her down into it. Her tiny limbs flail against the stiff plastic sides and each time he tries to snug her in, she wriggles, face scrunching in displeasure. The straps are working against him too, twisting up as he fumbles with the buckles.

His hands tremble as he attempts to adjust the plastic chest piece, sliding it up, then down, never quite finding the right spot. He knows he’s doing something wrong, but he’s not exactly sure what - other than maybe being too gentle, but he’s not sure how to change that either because he’s determined to keep his touch feather light with her; keep it all soft and gentle so he doesn’t scare her more than she already looks to be.

He glances back at the assembly booklet, but the part about actually putting your child inside is light on details - just one page out of a hundred.

Sarah’s cries escalate, echoing in the backseat and slipping out to fill the air in the hospital entry.

His heart races as he imagines the eyes of every passerby on them, judging his clumsy attempts. A car honks loudly, startling him, and he pops his head up just in time to catch the driver shaking their head in disapproval as he swerves past.

“Work with me Sarah, come’on baby girl.”

He holds his breath as he hears the sound of the sliding doors behind him, and his hands still as he bears down and waits for someone to yell at him to get a move on.

He steals a quick glance over his shoulder, catches the eye of the woman coming through, gives her a pleasant but curt nod and then turns back toward Sarah in the car. He hopes the gesture will stave off the inevitable complaint heading his way.

“Excuse me.”

He sucks in a breath but doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. He knows he’s been at this too long, he doesn’t need a stranger reminding him of it too.

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder.

"Need some help with that?" she asks.

His face must convey his answer, cause she doesn’t wait for his reply, pushing in next to him. Part of him wants to resist the help, too proud to need it, but the better part of him lets his hands back away and hers take his place.

“First time’s always hard with these things,” she tells him as her hands untangle and unclip the twisted straps. Her nails are painted purple like Claire’s before - like Sarah’s mom’s that morning - and that’s all his brain can seem to focus on as she moves things around. He almost misses her undoing the straps completely and resetting them- apparently he anchored those upside down when he put the thing together.

With a final click of a buckle, she’s gone as quickly as she came, giving him a pat on the back before climbing into the car that honked at him just moments ago.

He didn’t get the chance to say thank you.

*** ʚїɞ ***

It’s a short drive home, but it's a spotty blur of lights in the dark - some greens and reds, but mostly whites - bright headlights that burn into his retinas from the rearview as he takes far too many long and hard glances toward Sarah in the back seat.

With every mile, his grip on the wheel tightens and his arms stiffen, and by the time he’s pulling into the apartment complex he might as well be a statue in the front seat. And even though it prolongs the stiffness even more, he takes the curve into the apartment complex at a crawl and keeps the speedometer unreadable as he glides gently into his parking space.

His foot moves slowly as it eases off the break, car bobbing back ever so slightly. His hands release the steering wheel, knuckles aching as they straighten and flood back to color. His right-hand drifts stiffly down, fingers curling around the ignition key. With a deep breath, he pauses, gaze going to the top of Sarah’s car seat just visible in the corner rearview, and then with a decisive twist, the rickety engine that had been her lullaby shudders to a halt.

Mercifully, she doesn’t wake.

He exhales a long breath as the car settles into the stillness - quiet, yet far from peaceful.

Drawing another breath in feels like inhaling sludge, oxygen to thick to gulp. Suddenly his body is feeling again, bringing out every worry and fear that he pushed down in their drive home. They are trying to crawl out of his stomach, digging into the sides of his throat as they climb their way up and out.

He can’t breathe.

The car is totally stopped, but he feels like any move he makes now will somehow send them into a tailspin, he won’t be able to steer them out of it, and they will crash, and Sarah will end up in the same place as Claire.

She’s home safe and sound - “home safe”, he repeats over and over in his head - but he can’t get his brain and body to sync up.

He knows it's all irrational, but he feels lightyears away from safe.

His fingers grip the top of his thighs, pressing down hard and deep as his breaths come in choppy and labored through his nose, jaw clenched up tight.

He knows what’s happening, but it makes little difference in stopping it. His mother used to call it "emociones fuertes" when he was a child, but he hasn’t had a true one in years - really not since living with Claire.

“Stop it Miller, Stop it.” He grates, trying to find something to focus on to push away the feelings of overwhelm. His eyes land on the only thing in view, the parking sign at the head of his spot, and he traces the number 12 over and over again with his eyes.

Down, around, across, over. Down, around, across, over.

Failing to find relief, he takes a long breath in and collapses forward, forehead pushing into the top of the wheel as he closes his eyes hoping the sparkly specks and blurry colors behind them will be a better distraction. Instead, his mom’s voice comes drifting through his head, a brief vision of her flashing behind his eyelids: "Mira, mira, mijo, mira a mí. Inspira - uno, dos. Suelta - uno, dos."

He does what she says.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He repeats over and over again.

When he peels himself up and away after an undeterminable amount of minutes, his eyes first go to his rearview mirror and catch Sarah’s car seat, and then go to his dashboard and land on the green numbers of the clock. It reads 10:27, just like the placard on her bassinet at the hospital - a strange coincidence that has his anxiety twitching, threatening to come back in full for no apparent reason.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He cracks open his car door, but almost slams it shut - a roaring sound of buzzing cicadas wafting into the car. He holds his breath and pauses, hand not even off the door handle. He waits and waits for her to start fussing and crying -bugs should make babies cry right?- but Sarah stays quiet, blissfully asleep.

And she remains that way by some small miracle as he detaches her car seat and locks the car with a loud resonant chirp.

The flight of stairs up to the apartment is taken at a sloth's pace, anchoring both of his feet into each concrete step and pausing before moving on to the next, all while holding the car seat fiercely level with two hands as if the slightest dip will have her slipping out.

When he reaches his front door, he does everything in his power to minimize the sway of her seat as he shifts to hold her with one hand and muffle the jingle of the keys as he unlocks it, petrified of waking her.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

With a creak, it falls open and an unexpected, staticky voice from a distance halts him on the threshold. His eyes track the sound to a very faint blue glow in the far corner and the realization hits harder than it should - TV’s still on, left unattended in the rush this morning.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

Shaking his head, Joel sighs heavily and steps inside. His gaze flits to the light switch but then back to his hands glued firmly to the car seat, and decides not to engage with it, forgoing the juggle it would take to get them turned on. The door closes with a push of his heel, and the apartment entry plunges into darkness.

A jolt of panic rips up through him as he stumbles, feet tripping up on something on the floor. He catches himself in a rush of awkward steps, and looks back to see the culprit. Squinting against the dark the outline of Claire’s backpack comes into view.

Swallowing hard, he tears his gaze away, focusing on getting Sarah settled.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

Embarrassingly, his arms are already aching, and that makes his heart pound with worry, fearing somehow they will just give out without his permission. It’s maybe only ten steps, but it feels like he is crossing the entire length of the small apartment as he rushes to put her down.

But then she’s on the coffee table and he finally lets out a real breath.

Fumbling in the dark, he attempts to flip down the car seat handle, hands blindly feeling out the button, but he can’t get it to budge. “Okay, baby girl, okay,” he coos in a whisper as Sarah begins to let out the tiniest mewls as her resting place is disturbed. Promptly, he removes his hands holding them up until she settles.

He steps back, pauses, then scrambles to find the remote control and flips off the TV, pushing the space into stark silence.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

With a deep sigh, he sinks into the couch in front of her. A sliver from a street light outside slips through a small opening in a window curtain, hitting her car seat at just the right angle. The orange hue brightens up the darkness just enough for Joel to see her small little face as she settles back into sleep.

It should make him feel better, being able to see her, but the more he stares, the more anxiety fills his body.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He isn’t supposed to be doing this alone.

Twisting his watch band back and forth, his mind races with all the things he doesn’t know, all the things he’s going to have to learn, and everything he has to do. He grates his molars together as the list grows and grows.

He’s going to fail at this.

He is going to fail her.

His chest is feeling tight again, and his breaths are coming in choppy no matter how many times he tries to coach himself into breathing. Desperate for relief, his hand leaves his watch and goes to rub it against his sternum. It’s an unseasonably cool day by Austin standards for July, but the apartment is starting to feel unbearably hot and all too small. His shirt is growing wet, sweat making it uncomfortably cling to his body, and he wants to just rip off the constricting material and get out of this too-small space, and run away.

But that idea hurts his heart more than helps. An image of her alone in the dark stabs at his insides and aggravates all the dread swirling inside him.

He stands abruptly and crosses to the window, bats at the curtain to push it aside, and cracks it open to let in some of the night's cooler air.

The sounds of the city at night drift in - a car alarm in the distance, the low hum of traffic, and of course, the buzz of the summertime cicadas. He leans against the wall next to the window, allowing the slight breeze to cool his face as he listens.

He didn’t realize how suffocating the silence was until his heart rate slowed and his lungs grew lighter as he basked in the distant rumble of Austin. Back in the hospital, there had always been a constant backdrop of sounds—machines beeping, footsteps, conversations - all a distraction for his brain to digest instead. When it’s too quiet there is nothing to keep his anxious thoughts at bay.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

He could stay standing in the spot all night long- fall asleep upright - but his heart is tugging him in a different direction after just a couple of minutes. Feeling more steady, he pushes off the wall and goes back over to Sarah, already worried he’s done something wrong by taking his eyes off her for just a few moments.

When he settles in next to her this time, it's on the floor beside the coffee table, wanting to be as close as possible. He leans his head on the wood table top as he gently reaches inside her car seat and lays his hand atop her stomach.

Feeling every one of her tiny inhales and exhales calms some of his nerves, but doesn’t wash away all his fears. He pushes himself to match her breathing.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

*** ʚїɞ ***

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. And he certainly doesn’t remember moving off the scratchy rug on the floor to the old green tweed couch, but he has.

His eyes snap open as the sound of her wails jolt him awake, body jerking and almost tumbling off the side, back to the floor where he thought he had been.

Still dark, his eyes take a long moment to adjust, only seeing the outline of her car seat and her squirmy body, while his brain also races to catch up with his sudden awakening.

But then her small little body emerges from the dark, pushing against the confines of her seat, and he’s dropping to his knees infront of the coffee table in an instant. His hands make quick work of unclipping her buckles, but come to a slow as they reach inside for her - making sure his big clumsy hands are delicate and careful with her as they slip under her tiny arms and around her back, pointer fingers nestling at the base of her head as Judy had aptly shown him.

The moment she is free, her body curls into a tight ball, knees drawn to her chest. Her face mirrors, scrunched tightly as she cries, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open, her tiny chin trembling with each wail.

"Shh, baby girl, I got ya," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and laden with worry. Carefully, he draws her close against his chest, rocking gently as he kneels on the floor. His hand sweeps down her back in a soft caress, followed by a tender pat, repeating the process in a rhythmic lull. But it does nothing to soothe her.

Her cries continue to pierce through the silence of the apartment, and each sob compounding the worry and anxiousness filling up his gut.

One of them is shaking - he’s really not sure which one - but as her cries persist and stab into his ears, he thinks it might be him more than her.

“C’mon, Sarah, tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads softly as he slowly rises to stand with her.

Pacing the room, he rocks her gently, his lips pressed to her forehead in a silent plea for calm. "Shhh, it's alright, nothing to cry about," he murmurs, the words meant as much for himself as for her.

It’s a little startling how easily her tears have triggered his own. They slip down his face in one hot wet line, and he feels horrible for allowing them to drip onto the crown of her head, but he can’t move his hands away from holding her to brush them out of his eyes and off his face.

“Please stop cryin’.”

The cries only swell.

The ring and echo in his ears, muddling his thoughts into a desperate slurry of “please stop.” He hates himself for it, but he places her back in the car seat, digs the heels of his hands against his eyes the moment they are unburdened, and groans hard in frustration.

“Wet, hungry, tired. That’s all you got to figure out, capiche?” Judy had told him.

He repeats it now, despite his doubts about the simplicity: “Wet, hungry, tired.”

Gritting his teeth, he wipes the back of his hand to his eyes, clearing away the tears, and carries her to the kitchen - not exactly sure why, it just feels right.

The tiles are cool under his bare feet and the overhead sconce flickers before coming alive and bathing the space in a soft yellow light.

He pauses with her in the carrier, looking at the mess of spilled breakfast still on the table, and the minuscule space of countertop that barely can fit a pan on a good day. He taps his hand against his thigh as he thinks about his options, but her cries are like a timer pushing him to make a decision.

They hadn’t gotten around to setting up her crib yet or a changing station of some sort, and the space seems the only feasible option for them right now.

So the floor it is.

He drops to the ground with her, tugging down two dish towels looped over the oven handle as he descends. A faint odor of rancid milk and soggy cereal wafts up from the tiles, leading his gaze to the shards of a broken bowl scattered beneath the table, remnants of this morning's chaos. He contemplates moving, but her cries are growing louder. Wincing, he pushes the stench to the back of his mind, and then with an exacerbated exhale that puffs out his cheeks, he wipes his forearm across the floor, checking for bits of bowl. When he feels none, he lays out the two towels atop each other like a little mat, hoping to provide her some comfort.

“Please stop cryin’, please Sarah I'm tryin’,” he whispers as he finds the snaps on her onesie - a powder pink and thin cotton thing given from the hospital, plain as can be. “Please baby girl I'm tryin’,” he begs softly against her hard cries that echo and bounce off the tiny kitchen, growing in strength each time they ricochet into his ears.

But his quick work is all for nothing, cause he straightens up on his knees and realizes he has forgotten the most crucial bit - a diaper.

His heart sinks and he lets out a dejected rumble at the realization of where it’s at. The hospital had handed him a 'goody bag for dad,' as one nurse had cheerfully put it, filled with enough supplies to last until he could make a proper store run. Grateful, he had nonetheless tossed it onto the floor of the passenger seat, his mind too preoccupied with other things to pay it any attention, until now.

Sitting back on his haunches, he contemplates a quick dash to retrieve it, but the thought of leaving her alone, even for a minute, claws at him.

With a resigned sigh, he bundles her back into the car seat - forgoing her onesie - it’s warm, it will just be a minute. Cursing under his breath, he heads to the car with her in tow.

The journey downstairs and back is torturous, each step deliberate, trying not to jostle her too much and worsen her cries. The thud of his heart pounds in his ears, synchronizing with each of her sobs.

He’s not sure if it's just the contrast of sounds, but it seems quieter out than before, and he wonders how late into the night or how early into the morning it actually is. He bites his lip with a grimace as they pass the neighbor’s door, Sarah of course letting out a particularly loud wail right in front, certainly disturbing their sleep. If he wasn’t already feeling guilty, that surely sealed it. He makes a mental note to send them an apology, as he come back inside to the apartment and drop the bag onto the kitchen floor.

With a deep breath, he resets, and begins the process again.

It’s his second time ever changing a diaper and it’s no better than the first horrid attempt at the hospital. Somehow the sticky side wings bunch up together and pulling them apart ruins the whole thing, tearing at the materials and making it wholly unusable. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the mistake, chucking the collateral damage of his inexperience far across the kitchen as she continues to cry and cry.

Things bode better with the second diaper, satisfaction flicking across Joel’s face as he fastens up the last snap of her onesie and her cries recede.

But the quiet is short-lived, gone before he can even sigh in relief. She starts to whimper and then they escalate into another bout of full-on cries, face scrunching up in discomfort.

She really does have a set of lungs on her.

"Alright, not wet, then. Hungry, huh?" He asks scooping her up into his arms as he debates what to do. He eyes the carrier and then settles Sarah back into it, standing with her in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment. It seems like the only safe place to have her when he’s up and moving.

“Hungry, we can fix that, just we gotta -,” he narrates as he takes a long stride forward to the counter. He attempts to place her on it, but the top of her carrier hits the underside and cabinet, preventing him from doing so.

Shit.

He fumbles momentarily, trying to figure out where to put her, to finally deciding on the sink. The stainless steel double bowled sink was something they used to make fun of, size out of place in the rest of the tiny apartment, but he’s never been more thankful for it now. Her carrier balances perfectly on one of the sides, resting atop like a colander would.

He lets his hands go from it hesitantly, murmuring, “Okay, just stay there,” as he slowly backs away to retrieve the brown bag of supplies from the floor.

“We’ll get you a bottle then,” he tells her, throwing the words over his shoulder as if she can understand. Her reply is only more piercing sobs.

His hands are shaky as he pulls out the formula and a bottle and he can’t help but stare at them with wide eyes as they linger in the palms of his hands. The transfixion breaks at the sound of a particularly rattled shriek that claws up from her throat.

He carries the supplies back to the counter and instinctively reaches into his pocket. Relief washes over him as he finds the small piece of paper he stashed there hours ago still safe. Carefully, he pulls it out and smooths the crinkled paper against the countertop edge.

“Can I write this down?”

“Sure thing, let’s um - here,” Judy offered, ripping out a blank form from a chart, flipping it over to a blank white back, and passing it to him with a click of a pen.

It’s his writing, but it’s barely recognizable chicken scratch.

Reading the instructions aloud to himself, his voice is hesitant and shaky, but he tries to ground himself in the steps, eyes casting over to Sarah every other second.

Her face is red and glistens, soaked in tears.

He can’t help but tell her, “workin’ as fast as I can baby,” as he lowers his head down to the bottle and makes sure he is pouring the exact amount of water into the measuring line. The formula tin opens with a scratchy metallic sound as he tears away the top. His fingers dig inside for the scoop - he made a note that Judy said it likes to hide - and when they find reach it he quickly uses the plastic shovel to ladle the powder into the tiny bottle.

It’s not a particularly clean process - rushing, excess powder spills onto the counter every time he taps the scoop to the lid of the bottle to get the formula in. He probably should be more careful with it, but Sarah’s screaming for him to hurry.

He slides infront of her as he shakes the bottle, using his free hand to wipe away the tears drenching her cheeks.

“Almost there, almost there,” he coos half to Sarah, half to himself, as he clings to small talk as if the words could bridge the gap between panic and calm while gently rocking her seat.

Raising the bottle toward the ceiling, he uses the light to check the formula is all dispersed and seeing it is, he turns quickly to offer it to her, and the nipple grazes her mouth her pulls it back quickly.

He forgot to warm it.

Quickly, he flips the faucet handle up and over, hot as it can go, and holds the bottle under the stream. The heat begins to sting his hand, but he holds it steady and waits for the warmth to seep into the milk.

Sarah’s cries lull to a sputter, and her tense expression eases into a prolonged frown.

There is only one thing that’s changed:

“You like the water huh?” he asks glancing back and forth between the tap and her face.

As he holds it under, the redness in her face fades begins to fade, and a tentative smile begins to form on Joel's lips. "You know, your momma loved the water," he distantly murmurs, watching her visibly relax.

With the rush of the faucet filling her ears, Sarah stops crying abates, and he slips the bottle out from under it.

“You get that from her.”

It’s a melancholy whisper that he knows she can’t understand, but he hopes it somehow it roots in her heart like his. Catching a glimpse of Claire in her - getting a reminder that she still is her daughter too, and not just his, has a certain type of flutter kicking in his heart.

He tests the temperature on his wrist like Judy showed and, then hesitantly takes a sip himself just to double check—it’s lukewarm at best, but it will have to do. He keeps the soothing rush of the tap on for her as he gently slips the bottle into her mouth. When she takes it without protest, his shoulders droop, relief washing over him. He watches her drink, the soft rhythmic sounds of her sucking mixing in with the white noise of the water beside her.

"There you go, baby girl. That’s it," he murmurs, a smile blooming full into his cheeks.

He’s not sure what does, but suddenly he’s feeling like nothing can go wrong.

As she takes the bottle at a chug, her plump cheeks rise and fall, appearing even fuller and irresistibly adorable. Her long eyelashes, mirroring the rich brown mop of hair atop her head, flutter gently as she settles more comfortably. And even after crying her little head off, remnants of her screams and tears still clearly on her face, he can’t help but think that she is one of the most beautiful babies out there.

Which isn’t a surprise cause she looks like Claire and she was one of the most beautiful people out there.

"We can do this," he whispers.

*** ʚїɞ ***

“3 weeks from baby!”

The small little calendar magnet stares him down. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot from a night gone without sleep, but he holds its gaze harshly. Gently swaying, Sarah rest against his chest, her tiny form curled securely in his grasp.

He’s not sure what to do with it.

Never once has he changed it - it was Claire’s thing - and it still feels like her thing- but the morning light peaking through the crusty blinds in the kitchen is hitting it perfectly, spotlighting it in a warm glow, and it just feels like the world is telling him to fix it.

He stops his sway, coming to a slow as he heaves a sigh. With one hand, he carefully removes the magnet, flips it to the last page, jostles it in the air as the thin pages catch on the cheap spiral binding, and slaps it back onto the fridge.

“Baby is here!”

It’s up for all of three seconds before it flies across the kitchen.

It clangs against the metal sink, sliding down with a scrape, and settling ominously at the bottom drain.

Fixed somehow feels infinitely worse than wrong.

Sarah stirs, a soft whimper breaking through as she senses his tension. He exhales slowly, relaxing his clenched jaw, and resumes his gentle sway, hoping to soothe both her and himself.

Now, the black fridge door hosts only a lone neon butterfly magnet, its wings pinning a small card beneath them - a phone number, an address, and an army insignia.

His heart moves from somewhere beneath Sarah to the floor.

Tommy.

He had been gone most of the summer at basic training, and at the start of his ten weeks, Claire had put up the address to make sure she knew where to send his letters. They were two kindred spirits, the same type of recklessness and bubble - her little brother just as much as his.

He never asked what was in the letters she sent, but he’s certain Claire was keeping Tommy up to date with her pregnancy, especially because in his own letters from Tommy, he would be nagged about not buying Claire enough chocolate-covered pretzels and salt n’ vinegar chips- her two favorite snack cravings.

He deserves to know.

Plucking the card from the fridge, Joel shuffles over to the wall-mounted phone, the cord stretching and coiling like a reluctant snake. He sinks into a kitchen chair, cradling Sarah more snugly as he dials the number, each press of the button sharper than necessary. Calling during training isn’t really a thing - “only write me” Tommy had explained once, but this isn’t something that could wait. After an agonizing series of redirects and brief conversations with faceless operators, his brother’s familiar voice finally crackles through the speaker.

“Joel? Everythin’ alright?” He asks immediately.

His eyes are on Sarah, balanced in his arm supported up by a bent leg in a figure four. His foot is wiggling anxiously, but she seems to like the motion as it vibrates up his leg. “She’s here” is what is at the tip of his tongue, fighting to come out, but that’s barely half the truth.

The feeling like he is about to spread a lie is back, guilt settling heavily in his chest. He can’t find the words to say Claire is gone.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

“Joel? You there brother?” Tommy presses again.

His eyes drift up to the butterfly on the fridge and suddenly the truth is tumbling out in a hurried stream, details of the past day pouring out so quickly he barely catches his breath. He’s not even sure he says it all in the right order, and he knows the sprinkles of things the doctor said, and mentions of Claire’s parents, as well as his laments about not having anything ready, probably don’t help with clarity either. By the time he finishes, the phone is pressed hard against his ear, digging into the cartilage to an uncomfortable extent and the acidic taste from yesterday is peaking into his mouth from the top of his throat.

For a long moment there is only the echo of Joel’s winded breath.

In - one, two. Out - one, two.

“Hermano,” Tommy sighs, breathy air pushing into the phone and transmitting as a loud crackle in Joel’s ear. The static subsides back into silence, and both are unsure of what to say.

“Brother I’m s -,” he begins, only to stop to shush some ruckus in the background of his line, “I’m goin’ to request some leave - come home, be there by day after next.”

“That ain’t -“ Joel begins to protest, but Tommy cuts him off.

“-don’t start with that, I’m comin’, this is family.”

His eyes wander down to the bundle in his arms, and immediately they well up with tears. He sniffs them away - no time for that, he chastises himself - and nods his head before letting it fall back, gaze turning up toward the blotchy ceiling, letting gravity take care of the rest of the water pooling in his eyes.

“Joel?” Tommy asks against the prolonged quiet, voice tugging him back from the brink of tears. He comes back to attention, clearing away the tightness growing in his throat with a closed-mouth cough.

“Yeah sorry.. I’ll see ya’ day after tomorrow then.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Tommy parrots, almost absently, trailing off with another despondent sigh. “Howaw is he?”

“He?” Joel pauses, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Your son.”

“Oh,” Joel says with a small snort, a hint of a smile forming. He wedges the phone into the space between his ear and shoulder, and holds it firm in place as he readjusts Sarah. She’s starting to wake, lips twitching up and little eyes fluttering. He gently brushes his pinky down her soft cheek.

“Well you ain’t goin’ to believe this, but he’s a she.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah, a girl…Sarah.”

Sarah who looks like Claire with beautiful brown eyes and thick hair, and loves the water like her mama. Sarah who has a sweet little gurgle but cries like a coyote cause she’s strong and knows what she wants. Sarah who has been with him topside less then a day, but has already made his heart grow two sizes bigger.

“Well I’ll be dammed..baby girl Miller...ain’t that somethin’.”

She is. She really is.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Good Husbandry

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: One day in the mess hall Elvis breaks his self imposed rule of not talkin ‘bout ensuring marital satisfaction and the key to makin a woman like taking her man

Warnings: crude and dated lanaguge regarding women, marriage, sex and female pleasure

Circa: 1959

There’s a lotta talk in the army about women. No surprise really, anywhere men congregate be it barracks, backstage, manholes, urinals, studios, they tend to talk about dames. But in the army there’s an extra air of entitlement to any sorta talk about them. Women at home and women on the streets, women in magazines or on tv, all the women in their lives and, initially at least, a whole lotta talk about Elvis’ woman.

His wife.

He reiterated her honored title pointedly to any fella who started talking as if she wasn’t a married before god wife and the revered mother to his children. Anyone who took her at her photographed face value as just another woman with beautiful tits and a trim waist, a gippable ass and a generous mouth and devilishly glinting eyes that just anyone was allowed to jerk and spatter over.

That was his wife.

It was a typical sort of hazing and like all the other forms thrown his way by his fellow soldiers he had surmounted it, along with the help of good ole gentlemanly Hodge, and now when the privates and corporals and sergeants milled around and talked about the only subject worth any breath, they didn’t include Elaine Presley in the discussion.

Most times.

Now that she’s over here Continental side, and now that he’s done his duty by her and filled her full again and she’s ripening right up like the goddamn fertile minx she is, it’s made matters both better and worse. Now there’s a hostess and a soul and a kind lady to put to the face of the pretty Mrs. Presley they’ve speculated about, and it causes the better sort of men some shame to drool and wank unashamedly over her as she pops in for the occasional visit to the base. Though now she is an indisputable fixture in the social life of these men “Elaine” in all her real life glory gets thrown about quite frequently, and while often it’s in the context of her house parties and her snacks and her friendship with their women, Elvis can tell by the rush of color and the heavy silence that often follows a mention of her that they ain’t thinkin things they oughta be thinkin about another man’s wife. He knows it, he knows it because if she weren’t already his he’d have unchristian designs on her until she was. It makes him grabby and possessive and irrational and more than a little proud as each week ticks by and shows her swelling more and more in the magnificent cause of growing a second batch of his twins. She looks so happy about it the guys just know, they just know she has a grand time making them. Something her husband is doing makes her whale-like proportions and aching feet a goddamn badge of honor.

So there’s a lotta talk. They talk about women and they talk about wives and they talk about his woman and his wife. They never say her name but they speak of the anomaly, they speak of the constant struggle men have between the sweet wife at home and the back alley whores. How the sedate and respectable wives ought to be the preferred choice but the joyous and hungry alley cats can’t ever manage to keep their claws out of ‘em…their minds if not their bodies.

That’s when they bring her up without ever saying her name, but as he fiddles with his footlocker at the end of a long day before he gets to shuck off and go home to her, he hears them saying “reckon the secret is to combine the two.”

And he knows even without the use of his eyes that they’re looking at the back of his head enviously. As if god made Elaine soley, out of all the women in the world, the only hungry wife.

It’s not just whores, they talk about. There’s the other types and likelihoods. They talk a whole lot about secretaries or waitresses they met on the side, the sweet-tight-blow-naughty-dirty-tits-ass-pussy-bar-backseat-desk-lunchhour kinds of women, who made noises and told them they were good lovers, who responded with all the arched back-tits up-snatch clenched-back scratch-eyes roll-throat hoarse-enthusiasm a man could dream of, the ones who would do the things their wives wouldn't. They sigh longingly about those women, they damn them for being so addictive. It never occurs to them that their wives could be that, too, if they’d just love them into it.

Elvis would sigh and slam his foot locker closed.

Elaine was not aware of the logistics of conjugal life when he wrestled her father and got ahold of her, she was unaware that a man shoved himself inside a woman on their wedding night. She had laughed and then frowned and then gulped in fear when she realized he wasn’t kidding. When she realized what he intended to do to her.

She had been like any other woman.

But he had managed to soothe, and love and stoke her fire till she was doing the ‘shoving in’ herself a mere two hours later. His jaw had ached for days after from unhinging itself in devouring her skittish pussy all that interim, but it had been worth her slick and gentle first ride. He’d never told her that riding his face or swallowing his seed or letting him take her hot and vicious from the back was something wives did not do, that it was naughty or the “other woman’s” job.

On the contrary, all Elaine ever knew was that it was exactly what wives did, what they were fashioned by God to do. And to enjoy. The men and women who saw the enjoyment written on her face and the joy stretching her belly thought her a scientific anomaly.

But Elvis bites his lip and doesn't comment when the men talk about women. If he speaks up he doesn’t think he’ll be able to shut up. That maybe he’ll say some shit he’d rather keep private, maybe go on too long orating the perfect fit of her and the way her face scrunches and glows when he does his job right.

Elvis rarely talks about women, and never about the waitresses and fans and secretaries and starlets he’s had. He gets asked often but he laughs it off, he remembers their particulars as about as fascinating as his hand. It did the job but wasn’t the one he can’t stop thinking about, even though he woke up next to her this morning. Women mean his wife, too, so he doesn’t talk about women.

That is until today. The subject is back up like a bad penny and the naughty girls and side women are being extolled and the wives are being complained of in usual fashion. He chews in silence and jiggles his leg under the table of the cafeteria mess as he listens:

-“Well, I'm in her, right, and she says it's too much and makes me stop. Too much! Can you fucking believe? Tammy never had a problem taking me, you know?

They talk a lot about taking - about taking her, taking me, taking it.

So much talk about “taking”. They’re always dreaming of the gals who take them, Elvis supposes those fellas who don’t talk much must be happily married like him, they just eat their collards in peace while everyone else talks about those rare female unicorns who were made to “take” men.

Made for it. He’d taken a raw virgin and made her into a howling baby making machine who wears satisfaction on her face like it’s Vaseline. She takes him easy as pie and she’s a wife. It doesn’t make her a whore that she can take him, it makes her his well loved wife.

“Whadda ya mean your wife *can’t* take ya?” he waves his fork around in annoyance and the man pauses halfway through his anecdote about how his old lady for some reason freezes up and winces when he rolls on top of her and puts it in without notice.

The whole mess hall goes deathly quiet and somehow Elvis knew this would be the reaction if he ever spoke up, somehow he just knew not to but he had to go and put his foot in it. Or his mouth, that is.

“She -she’s all tight and shit.” The guy swallows and looks at his fellows and there’s various faces around the table, ones who are sympathetic, those who look condescending and those who look confused. Elvis is the later. The guy shifts in his seat at the idea of The Pelvis finally taking the bait and joining in only for it to be on the subject of his lackluster marital bed. “And look,” he goes on chuckling nervously, “I’m a nice guy, I’m not one to force the issue. She’s just all clammed up, can’t get her excited, always says I go too fast, then too slow then changes her mind and -hell, why can’t she just be easy like them waitress girls?”

“Thought Debbie had been a waitress ‘fore y'all married.” Elvis mumbles around his next bite.

“What? Well yeah, yeah, but she was different then.”

“She was different then.” Elvis imitates mockingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Loverboy?”

“Just wonderin the last time ya kissed her without askin for more.” he shrugs.

“I-I don’t get it.” the guy looks for backup around the mess but everyone’s rather invested and hoping that Elvis will finally start spilling whatever black magic tricks he’s got up his sleeve that made a whole nation cream themselves over his voice alone. No one intervenes.

“If ya go out an’ crank the tank in the middle of winter, then curse it for takin a little while to idle before it runs smooth, er’yone here’s gonna think yer an impatient fool, right?”

“Uh, yeah. -What have tanks got to do with my wife, Presley?”

“They both got slow warmin’ motors, man.”

The guy looks torn between brawling and asking for more explanations. “She used to -didn’t used to be this way, man, we had some good times. Used to take her out back behind the diner and she liked it. Dunno why she’s all clammed up now.”

“Well I reckon that was nice and excitin for her back then.” Elvis says, “Bein’ adventurous and defyin her mama and lettin ya fool with her.”

“You’re saying she was thinking of her mother while we-“

“-no, no not that, -look Kipper, for women more than half the hots of it is in the mind, alright? It’s in the anticipation, it’s in the motivation, it’s in the intent ya have when you finally go to take her. The suspense of the thing. That behind the diner stuff -it’s old hat now, gotta keep her ‘cited in other ways now. Half of the thrill for them is in the mind. And it’s in knowin not every touch and kiss is gonna end up with a man jackhammerin inside.”

“Well, what would ya do if a Elai-“ Kipper snaps his mouth shut and judiciously rephrases his legitimate question, “What would you do if you had a wife who was all clammed up on ya?”

Elvis pushes the peas around on his plate and contemplates that, his mouth puckers childishly and Charlie Hodge thinks that maybe he didn’t hear, or is deciding to retreat from the conversation while he’s ahead. All the men are leaning in when Elvis flicks his eyes up and he has to clear his throat a little to work up his voice in nonchalance,

“Why Kipper, I’ve only had one and that one only for a couple a’years.” he chuckles self consciously and the men join in, he milks his mouth briefly in embarrassment.

“C’mon Elvis, just…hypothetically.” another man pipes up from father down.

“What would I do with a clammed up wife?” he repeats the question like he does in his interviews, “Well, for one I’d make certain it weren’t no extracurricular matter weighin on her mind, and if, havin judged it is a uh, uh matter of distaste for relations then, well then I’d start assuring her I value her, I’d compliment her, worship her and I’d try to take her out for nice little things when I could and I’d try not to fall asleep after dinner so we could chat and I’d only ever initiate one bit of contact for a lil while.”

“What’s that?” a couple dozen voices ask, entranced.

“I’d kiss her wrists.” he shrugs, “And if after awhile of that one day ya feel the pulse jumpin under your lips, then you’ll know you’re makin progress.”

The table nods solemnly in unison before suddenly Kipper has a heavy realization settle on him. “Wait, you’re saying don’t try anything besides that? Might as well go celibate for eternity than wait for her to pounce!”

“Hmm, well,” Elvis skewers a ham cube with his fork and proceeds to chew it obnoxiously, “if ya do what I’m sayin and ya do it with patience, she’ll come round. She’ll start wantin it. Women are like horses, they can sense impatience and since they wanna please they get all skittish and they…clamp up. Even the ones who are tryin to be pleasin, they’re tryin too hard and too focused on makin ya happy, ya gotta flip the tables. First night she makes a move, you better eat her kitty out like it’s your last meal and not so much as wet your tip.”

“You’re kiddin man, you eat your wife’s beaver?”

“Breakfast of champions.” he grins cockily until it dies on his lips as he sees a couple dozen pairs of eyes glaze over at the thought of Elaine’s perfect pussy. “Anyway,” he clears his throat pointedly, “you might shock yourself and like it. Better yet if you can shock her and make her like it. And don’t ask for no returns, that’ll come later. Power of suggestion is highly powerful.”

“How’da ya mean?”

“Look,” Elvis wipes his mouth on a napkin, “you might not think about wantin a donut but then you see I’m eating a donut, then suddenly you want a donut. Power of suggestion. Now it won’t be the same donut but it’s the same craving. Lick her kitty and she might start thinking to -ya know…suck your pole. Women are a lot less stingy than men, they see ya do a nice thing and they wanna repay, just gotta make ‘em feel safe for doin it, appreciated. That sorta thing.”

“A-and that will do it?”

“It’s a start, man.” Elvis shrugs, “Suck her button for a bit, Lordy, it ain’t complicated. Her nipples, too. Make out with her for a couple nights like yer teenagers again. Ha! Look at you cats actin like you’ve never got your face up in there before, ain’t no different than slurpin watermelon off the rind.”

-“Well, fuck man, sounds kinda hot when you put it that way.”

-“yeah, any other tips?”

“Get messy.” Elvis grins, leaning back and starting to enjoy the superiority he’s being in, “Get in there, don’t just smooch her down there, suck at her, swallow her, tongue her, ya know like-“ he closes his eyes and waggles his head while making a obscenely skilled motion with his tongue that makes it blur in a whizz of pink movement that the table can generally assume has come from much practice.

Someone down the line is getting patted on the back after inhaling some cola. When Elvis opens his eyes he looks a little lost, like he really went somewhere far away in his mind for that brief second. Kipper's spoon drops and hits his plate with a clatter.

“Look, you and you and especially you-“ he points at the fellas who a years worth of communal showering has given him more knowledge of than he strictly needs, “unless you take these precautions you’re gonna hurt some poor dame ‘makin’ those things fit.” the table laughs and things start to loosen up, “Gotta grease her up, get all the blood rushin down there so she can hold -uh, take- more, best way to do it is ta lick ‘er up to a couple of orgasms first. Check ‘er lips, her mouth that is, before ya go in, if all the blood’s gone south, her lips’ll be cool to the touch.”

“Sergeant Presley!” an orderly taps him on the shoulder, ears pink from embarrassment at overhearing more than he bargained for in delivering a message, Elvis tries to give him a stalwart grin of encouragement, “Phone call for you. Says it’s your wife, she says ‘come quick, the boy just said’ -um, um” he squints at the table cloth trying to recall what the very pretty and very excited Mrs Presley had breathily charged him with relaying over the crackling receiver, “uh.”

“My son’s first words and you can’t remember?” Elvis thunders, rising from his seat without leave.

“Elvis, sit!” Hodge hisses, plucking at his elbow.

“Don’t calm me down man, I gotta know!” he pleads, flopping down in a dejected lump anyway. “Kipper, be a pal an’ ask the Colonel if I can be excused from mess, tell him it’s of the utmost urgency and this idiot can’t be trusted to carry important information.”

“Give me private lessons.” The Colonel bargains from the head of the table and Elvis gives him a disbelieving stare. “O-on women. Ya know…wives.”

“You’re shittin’me.” Elvis growls.

“Casual like,” the Colonel assures him, “off the books -just tips and date ideas and such.”

“Hey I want in, man!” another voice chirps up.

“Yeah, ain’t fair hogging the tricks all to yourself!” a corporal from Missouri objects.

“If it’s got a show an’ tell about how to take a woman with Elaine as Exhibit A, then I wanna buy tickets.” Kipper is grinning, thinking he’s real funny.

Elvis is ready to commit himself. Sometimes he despairs of mankind, he really despairs. God, why can’t the fucker just remember what his son said?

“Bubbles!” The lingering orderly recalls suddenly and Elvis swivels fully around to face him in his excitement, “It was bubbles. The word was bubbles!”

“You hear that cats? I’ve got an ed-u-cat-ed firstborn! What’s your name, my boy?” Elvis rises from his seat beaming and embraces the orderly, protocol be damned, “Colonel you’re on, so long as you agree to buy this fine fella an officer’s commission.”

“Elvis that isn’t legal anymore…” he thinks he hears Colonel begin.

None of it really matters. His son knows how to say bubbles.

[not-alien-girl-v]

Mrs All American (Matty Healy)

warning: mention of dick sucking, tw mention of his fuckass mohawk circa 2013

note: god i’m so lonely.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

he had been at the studio all day. it’s something you’re used to, him being a musician and all, it’s just a little unfortunate that because he’s always so ‘in the zone’ during his time at the studio that he never texts. it’s not impossible to get a message to him, but most of the time you have to call, which is a lot of work.

he left before you woke up this morning. you don’t live together, you have your own place but if you don’t spend most of your time at his house, you’d almost never see him.

today, once he left, you simply didn’t go home, spending your day lounging around his shared house with george, who was also away at the studio all day.

it’s around 6 in the evening now, you’re at the dining room table, headphones on blasting a catchy song by an australian pop rock band that you adore, and your back is to the door, so you don’t even notice a change in the house when the door swings open, two men entering.

you do notice, however, when a pair of arms wrap around you from behind, a warm breath onto the shell of your ear, a loving sigh, and a tight squeeze from the arms. the red bracelet, the ‘dad’ tattoo, the smell of tobacco on his breath.

popping out your earbuds, your eyes are still trained on the laptop but you touch your palm to his forearm, squeezing it. “hey, baby.”

“how’d you know it was me?”

“i can tell by the stench.”

he rolls his eyes, the sunset catching a curl against his cheek, causing the dark brown to glow golden for a moment, and he looks too beautiful.

“i’ve told you before, love, you’ve got to stop referring to any scent as a ‘stench.’ it makes it seem like i smell bad.”

you open your mouth to release a snarky remark but he predicts it. “ah! and i do not smell bad.”

you smile back at him. george enters, grabbing a soda from the fridge and cracking it open, not even paying attention to this lovers quarrel, he knows better than to by now.

“what can i say? you’re a boy. you’re stinky. and you have cooties.” he snorts and you hear george, against his best effort, conceal a giggle from across the room, leaving you feeling like a real comedian. they should start paying you for this comedy show.

“i do not have cooties, you stupid girl. you don’t even know.” he’s still hugging you from behind and the position is awkward for a full conversation so you peel him off and turn to face him in your chair.

“trust me, i know what i’m talking about. i spend all day in this house, and let me tell you, this place reeks of male energy. and cooties.”

he hums, not quite ready to let you have it. “you probably have cooties by now, then. shouldn’t have agreed to marry me if you’re so worried about disease.”

you grin and you don’t want to fake argue with him anymore, so you wordlessly turn back to the laptop. he leaves a parting kiss on your cheek, and it’s a bit wet with saliva so, like any intelligent woman would, you fake gag and wipe it off.

he gasps, loudly, stumbling back and placing a hand over his chest like he’s been shot, such a drama queen. “did you just wipe off my kiss?”

playing dumb, “i don’t know, did i?”

he lunges forward, smooching your cheek again, you wipe it off just as fast. it’s instantly become a battle that you’re committed to winning. he kisses again, you wipe it again. he kisses one more time, you wipe it off.

once more, he kisses your cheek and just as you’re about to wipe it off your face, he forcefully grabs your wrist mid-air and uses this leverage to yank you up out of the chair.

you’re chest to chest with him and for a split second you’re worried he’s genuinely lost his temper, but the thought is dissolved from your mind immediately when you remember this matty you’re talking about, and he loves you too much to ever lay a wrong hand on you.

he drops your wrist and instead gently takes your face into both of his hands, leaning in slowly to kiss you sweetly. this time, you decide it’s best to just enjoy it, you’ve been clingy and missing him all day and this is the first bit of attention you’ve received from your lover since last night.

after your normal, romantic kiss, he pulls away and with a silly smile, leans in again, catching your lips and releasing them with a big ‘mwah.’

“well, i got some candy for you my dear, but i understand, since i’m so gross and have cooties, i’ll just have to eat it all myself.” he walks away, grabbing at the plastic bag you’ve only just noticed had been dropped to the floor by your chair, and he disappears down the hall.

“wait! i’m sorry!” you holler and scamper down the hallway to catch him before he eats your candy because knowing matty, he may actually do it.

you find him sitting on his bed, trifling through the bag of sweets. “what did you get me?”

“you? oh, i didn’t get you anything. i got me a bar of chocolate and another twix bar in case i’m still hungry. twix is your favorite, isn’t it? ah, that’s too bad it’s all for me, then.”

you pout and approach him on the bed. “i’m sorry, please, you don’t have cooties, i love you. if you give me the twix, i’ll suck your dick so hard your stomach will cave in like a juice box, i promise.” you put your hands together and grovel.

“i’ll hold you to that,” he sighs and hands you the twix bar, it’s a left twix.

you giggle, giddy like a child given candy. it’s not far from the truth. he stands and stretches out, groaning and joins cracking. he pulls off his t-shirt, glancing at the hamper across the room and then to you. “think i can make this shot?” you put your candy down on his nightstand.

“no.”

“prepare to be wrong, baby.” he crumples up the fabric into a ball and makes a proper shot at the hamper, missing it by about 2 feet. the shirt lands helplessly on the floor. “shit.”

you burst out laughing, falling back into the bed in a fit of giggles. “that was embarrassing, stop laughing.”

he crawls over and lays down beside you, settling down on top of the black duvet. it’s when you both finally still that your neediness snakes it’s way back into your brain like an evil worm that tells you to kiss him all over.

you steal glances at him through your lashes, admiring his beauty, specifically his soft, dark curly hair. you scooch closer to him, pressing your body against his, propping up on an elbow and reaching out to brush your fingers over his hair.

like a puppy, his eyes flutter shut. “this is getting long.”

“it is. do you like it?”

“of course i like it. but do you want to keep it like this. wanna let me cut it?”

“if you like it, then i won’t cut it.”

“i like your hair all the time. except for when you had that fuckass mohawk, that sucked.”

he sighs, “i know, baby, i won’t do it again,” he sounds like he’s being scolded for something and you’re glad. you hated that fuckass mohawk.

“missed you today,” you keep a hand threaded into his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp with the very tips of your nails.

“missed you too. promise i’ll be home more often, hate being away for so long.”

“it’s fine. i know it’s your life. it’s one of your things.”

he opens his eyes again, looking at you with a deep sense of purpose all the sudden. with his one hand, he places it on your forearm, rubbing gentle with his thumb. “just don’t think i don’t care. don’t think i don’t miss you just as much every time i leave. it’s not hard to love you, it’s the easiest thing i’ve ever done. and the best thing, as well.”

you don’t know why, but tears begin to well up in your eyes and you want to look away from him and his intense gaze. it’s like he senses every thought in your mind, so he pulls you into his arms, chest to chest again, his nose brushing against your exposed collarbone.

he works his hands up and down your back, pushing under your shirt to graze across your bare skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.

any sense of urgency in your clinginess is instantly lost as he holds you like you’re falling out of his arms.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

taglist: @indierockgirrl @itssimpleanditgoeslikethis @milkluvr8 @americanangel @butyou-callmewhenyourebored

[wroteclassicaly]

i’m here dw <3 i’ve been thinking of the idea of him fucking you and interrogating you hehe. “you wanna cum? you better answer my fuckin’ questions first.” taking total and complete control over you when you’re being difficult is sooooo 💫🫶🏻 He -han

Mr. Tillman loves him some bondage. 🥵

Also… I’m sorry that this took on a mind of its own, and I gave some Headcanons/backstory, that we don’t have yet. I do know Roy is most likely Gator’s dad, because his name is listed as Roy Tillman, so I’m assuming? 😭

Warnings: Language, bondage, edging, possessive Gator, vaginal sex, and use of a sex toy!

~*~

If you told yourself that you never thought about what Gator would, or could do to you with the plethora of binds he kept on him (or in that rust bucket he called a pick-up) — you’d be the biggest liar in the whole entire Midwest. Asking didn’t seem like an option to you, and you weren’t sure if Gator would a) use those specific things on you, or b) think you could handle them. You weren’t the type of girl that he usually took home to bed and be rid of. When you started sleeping together it surprised everyone in town, because let’s face it, word travels when a Tillman is involved in even a spill on aisle twelve. The whispers were more aimed at you, the quiet little mouse that ran the town’s one and only library, and resided on the edge of poverty.

Your grandparent’s lived and died in a trailer, and your dad left with his high-school sweetheart. Your mom had scurried out of town and went further into the country, residing on a farm with her flavor of the last few years. You’d known the Tillman’s since you were born, school mates with Gator, your grandfather working for the city with Roy’s father. It was a weird cycle, things often happening that you didn’t want involved in. So you opted to stay in town in your upstairs studio — charmed by it’s exposed pipes and original hardwood floors — rough, but yours.

Your work was a flight of stairs and down the street — away. You’d pass your favorite diner and the station, both of which Gator always routined in the morning, similar to your own schedule. More often than not, you’d see him clambering from his merlot colored 1948 Ford pickup. He never shut up about restoring the thing, much to Roy’s constant dismay.

“Buy a new one, boy. Waste of time.”

Gator added that to his many blissful defiances towards his father. Ones that could be overlooked. He knew better than to tow the line on the bigger things, even if he was ‘Sheriff’. Still, Gator Tillman did whatever job he was presented with, and he did it well. It followed on the spurs of a roughened elegance, like a soft spicy cologne, the leather of his combat boots, that thick gel he laid his chestnut tresses back with, or the beard burns he decorated along your thighs.

The morning that started it all, is when you’d had some continuous issues with idiot kids breaking into the return box and busting it into dents. Was it a big deal? Not really. But you weren’t about to lose your shitty minimum wage job for childish theatrics, all because your manager was a tight wad, and the town hall was in Roy’s back pocket, unwilling to let funds go for things that weren’t firearms. You hadn’t unlocked the box for returns, and you heard the kids throwing rocks, ramming it with the tires of their bikes —sheer boredom on a summer morning.

Gator was already out there, leaned over the top of a neon green set of handlebars, palm clasped on the pre-teen’s shoulder, shaking his head. The kid was pale, holding up his hands in apology, and turning towards you with glossy eyes. A quiet ‘M’ sorry, M’am.” Had tumbled off his lips. If they hadn’t continuously caused so much damage, you would’ve felt bad for him.

As he rode off into that crisp morning air, you’d turned, only to find the sun illuminating Gator’s enriching chocolate eyes, irises scattered with shards of mossy green and embers of golden flecks, his caramel colored hair slicked back until it looked darker than its natural shade — shining, freckles splattered all over his face and neck, a glimpse of his gold chain peeking out from his navy blue t-shirt, his vest tossed over his loose jean jacket, with his look completed by his thigh holster and weapon — strapped to his gray and black camouflage cargo pants. He drank in your reaction like a man dying of thirst. And the rest became one for the small town history books.

~*~

“Gator, just… fucking… PLEASE —“

A hand that is tainted with the musk of your own arousal, it lays flat over your mouth, his chain dipping between the valley of your perspired-drenched breasts, a brutal thrust delivered. His stubble formed beard, it scratches at your earlobe, his lips whispering out in a tone of mocking. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk unless you have answers for me?”

You mumble against his hand and he reaches back over with a free set of digits, snatching your wand off the table and pressing it back onto your clit. “What’s that, sweetheart? Was that a confession or another mouthy mistake?”

Tears soak your lash line, your cunt dousing him with new waves of cream each time he gives another push. He smirks, eyes blown and receptive, features a lit with mirth. He loves you not giving it up as much as he’s giving it to you. This… interrogation became more than his jealousy. A fun little game that he knew would also test his sanity not to claim you outwardly.

His spit-slick hand leaves your mouth, the vibrator being pulled off as you start to buck into his pelvis. You whine loudly, panting, his hand slapping above up into your bed frame, caging you in beside your cuffed wrists. You’re dripping down his balls and your ass, out of your fucking mind with raw need. You’ll say anything he wants, at this point. His calloused thumb-pad hovers over your clit, lips puffing out another questioning demand. “I asked you who he was and why he thought it was okay to act like your little hero, huh? He sniffin’ around you, wanting to hike up his leg for a piece of territory?”

“I need you, Gator! I want —“

His thumb grazes your clit and presses down… hard, leaving a painful ache snapping inside of your belly, but not enough to give you what you need, simply just encourage its flames. You tighten around him and he pulls out some, shaking his head. “Don’t care what you want. He’s playin’ on my turf, with my bitch. And she’s already been claimed.”

You attempt to twist your hips, but he rises onto his knees, hairy thighs pressed into the underside of your own. He’s in your face again, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “You wanna cum? You better answer my fuckin’ questions first!”

[facioleeknow]

Time for love ° Hwang Hyunjin

Snippet of my upcoming fanfiction, it is available fully on my Kofi otherwise it will be posted on tumblr in five days on the 1st of april.

TW for the snippet: Greek mythology au, adonis!hyunjin, model!hyunjin, make up artist! reader

tw for the whole fic: smut (more detailed warnings will be posted with the whole fic), angry hyunjin, borderline asshole hyunjin, emotionally constipated hyunjin

My Kofi <3

Hyunjin was old. Hyunjin was really really old. Eternal youth they called it. When one thinks about youth, they imagine freshness and fun; a colorful, colorful phase when you get to try new things and explore the world. Hyunjin’s life was anything but; he had seen every corner of this earth and tried every experience that was humanly possible. His life was flat and gray, there was nothing more to do and he was bored.

He remembered his first life. His name was Adonis and he was considered the most beautiful man in the whole world; he was so beautiful that goddesses soon appeared on his doorstep and asked to share his bed. That’s how his story became myth, or what people thought it was.

He had lived many lives from then, he had taken many names and done many things, he lived a tranquil life and minded his business; had sometimes taken a couple of lovers but nothing that had stuck to him. 

His life and pattern of change had come crumbling apart when one day the gods decided to come out in the open and introduce themselves to humans. With time everything was uncovered and the protagonists of every myth became their own kind of celebrities. He had never been more famous in his life, but he also had never been more lonely. He was beautiful and that was a fact, and with the fame came the modeling offers. He modeled for the most famous maisons of fashion of the world and people loved him. No they didn’t love him, they loved his body, they loved his face, they loved his fake smile and fake confidence.

His days were always the same, he would wake up at an insane hour, get on set, get ready, shoot, get unready, check social media and then go to bed, just to do it all the following day. Day after day the cycle had never been broken, for years on end. Until it had.

When he walked inside the photo studio, he could sense something had shifted in the air. He hated changes. A heavy hand smoothed back his unruly hair, his eyes closed almost on instinct after he sat down in his makeup chair. He had requested a special chair, made of one of the softest furs he had ever touched, where he could sleep and relax.

Something warm and small suddenly touched his shoulder, hesitantly. He hissed and his eyes shot open, his staff knew better than to interfere with his pattern. 

His breath hitched in his throat when he opened his eyes. This wasn’t his usual make-up artist.

“Sorry to disturb you Mr. Hwang, I am Y/N L/N, your new makeup artist,” your voice was sweet, way too sweet to be human, but he knew all deities by heart. Perhaps some kind of creature.

[nathancone]

Richard M. Sherman, 1928-2024

Richard Sherman, who died today at age 95, wrote along with his brother Robert some of the most memorable melodies of the 20th Century, including songs from “Mary Poppins,” “The Jungle Book,” and one of the biggest earworms of all time, “It’s a Small World.” (I happen to love it.) Sherman was one of the last living links to Walt Disney himself, and in 2023, got to revisit Walt’s old office as part of a Disney 100 special film, “Once Upon a Studio.”

In 2011, I was overjoyed to have an opportunity to interview Sherman by phone as part of the advance promotion for a touring production of “Mary Poppins” on stage. Today I listened back to my interview and smiled all over again. After our talk, Sherman asked if I’d send him a copy of the produced interview on CD, which I did. Then HE wrote me a thank you note, complimenting me! What a wonderful person he was.

Below is the transcript of my interview.

*****

Nathan Cone: This is an honor and a privilege to talk to you. Because I've been a big Disneyphile and Disney fan since I was a young boy.

Richard Sherman: That's nice. Thank you for saying that. That's very sweet of you.

Yeah, my wife asked me this morning, she said “You have your interview today, don't you?” And I said, “yeah, I do.” And she said, “are you ready?” I said, “I've been ready for 35 years.”

Oh my God! [laughs] Well, I'm thrilled to be giving you an interview. So ask away and I'll be happy to tell you anything you'd like to know.

Thank you so much. I wanted to know, first, when you and your brother Robert began writing songs for Mary Poppins, there was no script, only the stories by Pamela Travers. And in some ways, I think your songs helped shape the story, I guess. How do you see Mary Poppins?

Well, it's an interesting thing you used the word story, because if you read the books that Mrs. Travers wrote, you'd find a brilliant character and a lot of wonderful adventures and absolutely no story whatsoever. There is no storyline in her books. There's only adventures with a magical nanny. And what we did was we superimposed a story, a need for Mary Poppins to come. In other words, there was the original book, the original story that we came up with for when our first meeting with Walt was... We said there was no story. We just said there was a definite need because chaos was reigning in the house and, Mary Poppins came in and straightened out and gave life lessons and and that. And then, of course, in the development of the story, which in large part was due to a gentleman by the name of Walt Disney and his two of his finest talents, and that was Bill Walsh and Don DiGradi, these people, and my brother Bob and I shaped a story, and it evolved that the Banks family was, in a kind of a discordant position. And, that's the whole thing. I mean, I'm waffling away, but basically, we cobbled together a story. Walt bought the concept, and he liked the ideas of the songs we had. Mrs. Travers wrote the books in the period of 1934 through 1939-40. And it was depressing. England. It was a very drab period. And, it was an arbitrary decision on my brother's and my part to set the story back at the turn of the last century so that we'd have the English music-hall style music, and it would be very special. And you could believe that a nanny would come flying out of the air. And so basically, these are the things that we contributed to Mrs. Travers' great stories, because she had wonderful stories. There's no question about it. But they didn't have any way to hold an audience in their seats for 2.5 hours? No way.

And you alluded to this, that she was reluctant to allow her books to be made into a film. And I understand she had some reservations about this. What kind of feedback did you and your brother get from her when you were presenting songs?

She didn't understand why we were doing songs at all. She said, what's the point of this? You know, we had this Admiral Boom, and we had a little song for him. She said, "Why don't you use ‘Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay?’ You have the word 'boom' in it.” And I said, “because it's an original musical we're trying to write.” And then she says, “Well, I love ‘Greensleeves.’ Why don't you use Greensleeves?’” I said, “Because it's hundreds of years old and everybody knows it. We want to do something fresh and original.” And she just didn't get the idea. She was anything but showbiz, if you follow me. She had no concept of what we were going for, and that was a piece of entertainment for the world and for posterity, inspired by her books. But she, Mrs. Travers, was difficult. And to say it… I'm being very kind about that!

I love hearing you tell stories about how, with Feed the Birds it was Disney's favorite song, and how he felt it was the key to the to the story itself.

Yeah. Well, when we were working on developing an idea for how to do Mary Poppins, we came across this one story in Mrs. Travers first book, and it was about this lady who sat on the steps of Saint Paul's Cathedral and sold bread crumbs. She didn't explain what that story was all about. She just said, this lady sits on the bread on the steps of Saint Paul's and says, “feed the birds, tuppence a bag.” And that was all there was in it. And when we read the story we said, “My God, that could be... That could be the key to this whole thing.” It doesn't cost very much to buy some breadcrumbs to feed birds, but that's not what it's about. It's not about the cost of breadcrumbs and birds. It doesn't take much to give a kindness, to give love. And we got very excited. And by getting excited about this one thing, we said, this could be the key to this whole damn story, Mary Poppins comes in and teaches a family a lesson in giving, in giving love and giving a little extra dimension. And that's what she does. And she all of her little life lessons are involved in feeding the birds. In other words, giving that smile, giving that hug, giving that love, giving that extra little something that doesn't cost you anything. And so basically, we wrote this song. We were very inspired by it. And I remember we didn't know much about England or Saint Paul's Cathedral. We got pictures and there were pictures of the saints and apostles standing around on the top of the trellis on the top of the building there. And we said, okay, all the all around the cathedral, the saints and apostles look down as she sells their wares. I mean, we just made it up as we went along. And my God, it was such a good song. We got very excited about it. Now, we didn't make a big to-do when we played it for Walt the first time, but he listened to it along with some other stuff we had written, and he said, “That's the key to this whole story, isn't it?” We said, “yes, yes it is.” And that's when he said, “How’d you guys like to come and work here?”

Of course, he knew that we were thinking story and he was a storyteller. He was the master storyteller of the last century, God knows. And he knew that Bob and I were story writers. We didn't just write jolly tunes and stuff. We tried to say a lot more with our music than just, yeah, little carry tunes.

We have a stage musical now that is different from the movie... How does it differ from the movie?

Well, it differs in only this regard. The basic thrust of the story is exactly the same as the movie. The difference is the fact that there are new stories added. There are new dimensions to the characters. There's more knowledge of what the mother was all about. And we made her a suffragette. And, in the new incarnation on stage, she's a frustrated actress. She had been an actress, and she married Mr. Banks. And also there's new material in this play about Mr. Banks, his background, the reason why he became such a sort of a stiff, tight, restricted, thwarted individual was because he had his horrible nanny, Miss Andrew, who was a terrible nanny and, he was, like, thwarted in life. He didn't show emotion. He didn't show anything. And so, Mary Poppins comes and corrects all that. She comes in and does wonderful things for the whole family. And that's using a lot of the adventures and stuff that Bob and I had done in the original. The story basically is Mary Poppins comes in and straightens out a dysfunctional family. And you could say that about both the film and the play. The play goes a lot deeper. Julian Fellowes, who was a brilliant writer, wrote the book and he's wonderful. And Stiles and Drewe, the two wonderful English songwriters, added quite a number of good songs, new songs, along with the material that Bob and I had written. Because, basically the backbone of the story is still the same, and we have Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, Spoonful of Sugar Chim Chim Cher-ee, all of the songs are still in there and beautifully done, by the way.

And were you and Robert consulted for, the project or asked to, contribute in any way to, new aspects?

Spiritually! [laughs] No, actually, the project was mounted in England with as a joint project with Cameron Mackintosh and Tom Schumacher, who is the head of Disney Theatrical. And between Tom Schumacher and Cameron Mackintosh, this story was developed and evolved. The stage story. And the stage story is wonderful. And they did incorporate much of our music. I was in a sense, let's say a spiritual guru. I, I was consulted a bit on it so but basically not officially. So I didn't want to say I was officially involved in it.

Well, you and your brother Robert wrote many, many songs for the film that never made it into the picture, some of which you can hear on the DVD releases of Mary Poppins. So, you know, y'all must have a tremendous backlog of great music from Mary Poppins and dozens of other projects. What happens to those songs?

Well, you see, Bob and I were staff writers at the studio. So in all truth, when you write for a studio and you're a staff writer, it belongs to the studio. Many of the songs that we wrote for Poppins wound up in other Disney projects, and I'm happy to say a lot of them had very big, responses in different ways. A couple of examples of that are, let's see, The Beautiful Briny Sea, for example, was in a compass sequence in Mary Poppins, which was abandoned. And so The Beautiful Briny Sea was a big featured number in Bedknobs and Broomsticks seven years later, where Angela Lansbury, as this magical witch, takes these people on an adventure under the water. And it was very nice. Originally it was Mary Poppins that was going to do it, but that sequence was left out. And so we just took the song lock, stock and barrel and used it in a different picture. Then it was like a very beautiful, haunting theme that we had written for another adventure with Mary Poppins. It was called The Land of Sand. And they went to the Sahara Desert, and they were seeing, visions rising out of the sand, you know, images. And so we changed the words and it became Trust In Me, the song that the vicious snake sang, Kaa, in The Jungle Book. So the melody was the same, but the words are different. But that haunting, theme was used and it was very successful. So we've had a number of things where we've taken songs. Songwriters call it the trunk. It's something you've written but never used. It never had a home, so you can't necessarily use it exactly as such. But you can take the spirit of a piece or a melody and use it again. And that's what we do.

Well, Sterling Holloway did such a great job with that Trust in Me song. He's got such a unique voice. I'm wondering on films and working on projects. Do you like to write for a voice like Phil Harris or Sterling Holloway or David Tomlinson or Angela Lansbury better, or do you just hope that they find life in a picture somewhere? How did it work?

No, we write for character. It's always story and character. We never think about who is going to sing it. I think, once I think one time, twice, twice... Because we were on staff, we knew that Walt wanted to use Burl Ives in this picture was Summer Magic. So we thought of burrow when we wrote On the Front Porch and a song called The Ugly Bug Ball. We did a novelty and we did a very pretty song, old fashioned song that we knew this was a wonderful folk singer and he knew exactly how to handle this kind of material. So we wrote that for him. In the case of, we did three pictures starring Maurice Chevalier. The first one was, In Search of the Castaways. And then I think we did. Let's see, we did. The Aristocats was another one, and Monkeys Go Home, three pictures for Disney and all three, we knew it was going to be Chevalier, and we directly wrote this material for Chevalier. But other than that, we only wrote for characters. We never wrote for Julie, we never wrote for Dick Van Dyke, we never wrote for Angela or any of these people. We just wrote for the characters. And these wonderful, wonderful, talented ladies and gentlemen came in and interpreted the music. So basically, no. And Bob and I, I can say honestly, have always written 99% of our material for the character in the story and not for a star.

Well, you know, besides writing for the movies, you've also written songs for several of Disney's theme park rides, including a It's a Small World in the Carousel of Progress. 

Ah, you did your homework!

Yeah, I love these rides. I love them… and Magic Journeys.

Oh yeah, thank you! That's one of our favorites.

I love this music. And Disney famously conceives of their rides as stories in and of themselves. And so....

Yes, they are. You have to you have to tell a story, and you have to get the mood and the feel and the chemistry of the event, of course. For example, the very first song ever written for, a theme park, what was In the Tiki Tiki Tiki Room, which is the Tiki Room, right? I mean, there's not a ride, it's an experience, you know, you see the audio animatronics, flowers and dolls and birds and tiki torches all singing and chanting, and it's amazing. It's an amazing thing. But when that was first created way back in the early 60s, Walt had a mockup of it done in one of the soundstages out in the studio, and he'd bring his guests to see it. He was very proud of this thing, and it didn't have a song, but it had a lot of music in it because all this thing would come alive, and then they would sing, Let's All sing like the Birdies Sing and the Hawaiian War Chant and all these delightful classic songs. And people would say to him, “Walt, what the devil is this? What's this all about? What is it? What is it?” And so one day, as again as staff writers, we were called down to this meeting, where we saw this experience for the first time, and the same thing came out of mouth. “Walt, what the hell is this?” And he looked right at us and said, “You're going to write a song is going to explain it!” Oh, oh, that's why we're here, I see. [laughs] Okay. And so we wrote the song called In the Tiki Tiki Tiki Room, which was a calypso which tells the story of who they are and what they are and why they're singing. All the birds sing words. And the flowers croon in the tiki tiki tiki room.

It was just a cute little statement, but all of a sudden you could understand what it was and it was a magical place. And so Walt got the idea, hey, the Sherman brothers are pretty good for this. And then we started writing Carousel of Progress, and we did Small World, all in that short period of about a year. We had done a number of things, and over the years we've done at least 15 songs for the parks and the rides and the things.

So as staff writers on the lot in the ‘60s, then, what was a typical day like? How many different projects were you working on?

Oh, you know, you could actually be assigned to do several things. And always on the back burner was a major project like Poppins. For two years we were working on that while we were doing all these other pictures and all these other projects. We'd have maybe 5 or 6 things going at the same time, but we didn't, you know, just apportion our hours. We just wrote what was the deadline we're going to have a meeting on Sword in the Stone, we're going to have a meeting on Jungle Book. So you better get this sequence written. So we would do it sequence at a time, and we come up with, I Wanna Be Like You for the ape, for example. We'd have that for a project in mind, or we'd have, the Colonel Hathi's March where they wanted to have a character number for the elephants, and so we'd have a meeting on it, and then five months later we do another one. It was just, constantly being involved, and we were involved in many things at the same time. But it didn't always happen simultaneously.

You know, until I saw a documentary, about your life and your brother Robert's, The Boys, that y'all's sons had produced… I had no idea that as brothers, that you didn't always get along. And I want to know if those personal differences ever affected your working relationship.

No. The fact of the matter is that that Bob and I didn't really have any angry animosity, it's just that we went our separate ways for lots of personal reasons, and we just said, let's keep the work separate. And so it was sacrosanct. We'd walk into the studio, we'd walk into our offices (years later when we were working independently), and work came first. We didn't get into the personalities because there's always problems with personalities. So we just kept that out of the room and we would just be concerned with this is a stuffed teddy bear who was stuck in a hole or something. We didn't we didn't worry about ourselves. And it was very clever to do that because, when we first began, I mean, you saw the thing, our dad put us together. Our dad said, you know, together you'll be strong. If you separate and start figuring out who's going to do what and who did what and why did you do this? You're going to have battles and you're going to never succeed. You have to think about the fact that your success will hold you together. And that's exactly what happened. We were very successful. And so that held us together. And that was like an understanding. We said, let's not get anything in the way of our work, our character, what we do as writers. And so our personality and our personal bits are private. Frankly, my son and my nephew who did that... I said, I don't want to get into our personal stuff. It's nobody's business. And, we kept it private. We always did. So, the fact that they said was that. But that was the amazing part about it because we did overcome that. So I said, well, you guys are making your picture, so go ahead and make your picture. But basically, I don't think it was necessary to tell all that, but it never would have been made if they didn't have a hook. And you're a writer, you know what it is, you have to have that little hook to grab people, to make them-- that headline, that, that opening sentence, to grab hold of their interest. And they had this thing about the two brothers who really went separate ways. But we always worked together well.

The last Disney project you and Robert officially worked on, I guess, was The Tigger Movie. Is that correct?

Yeah, I think so.

Would you like to do any more with him?

Well, you know, if it came up. Bob lives in London now and he's off in his own world. He paints and he does his own thing, and I'm happy, I'm doing my own thing, independently. So I'm happy. I just did a picture a couple of years ago called Iron Man 2. I wrote a special song for it, and it was Make Way for Tomorrow Today. And I do a lot of instrumentals. I created a lot of instrumental music that's been published. So I'm very pleased with what I'm doing. And Bob's happy with how he's doing. And we're we have our career, which is, we're both proud of. So, you know...

I did like that, piano work that you play early on in the documentary in The Boys as well. The solo piano...

Oh, yeah. Well, there's about six of my pieces in there where I play piano. Actually, my son Greg is the one that said, “Hey Dad, can you record some of these things? I think they're great. I could use them and background fillers and stuff like that behind some of the sequences,” and so, sure! And that one that I play in person in the very beginning is, it was just an Improvisation we had been talking about the years gone by and, and what we had been doing, and I just got nostalgic and I came up with his piece and he said, great. So that was one of the pieces that this record producer fell in love with, and he had collected 15 of my pieces that I had written, and I recorded them. And, it's out on an album called Forgotten Dreams. It's the things that I've written over the years that I never did anything with.

What do you think of the, for example, Mary Poppins, some of the interpretations that have been done of the songs over the years. What are some of your favorites? I know that, I'm a big jazz nut, and so I really wigged out and loved hearing John Coltrane do Chim Chim Cher-ee, for example.

Oh, did you ever did you ever hear the entire album that Duke Ellington did with... oh my God, it's fantastic. It's on Reprise Records, and I think it's out on CD. It's an incredible jazz interpretation. Every number in Poppins, they are just wonderful.  I think Count Basie did an entire album on The Happiest Millionaire. I'm trying to think we got a lot of people that did jazz versions of my music. The Coltrane is fantastic because everything he plays is great! First of all, it's very flattering to have these greats, interpret your music. I mean, that's number one. And number two is it's also fascinating to hear how they were inspired to play with it. Because it's a theme and variations, really. They take your music and then they interpret it in their own language. And it's amazing. I've been very lucky to get a rather wonderful array of jazz artists who've done our stuff.

Do you still play any of the songs from Mary Poppins for yourself or to remember Walt Disney?

Oh, sure! I do a lot of fundraisers. I play them all the time for people. They love to hear it! In my croaky voice I sing them and they love it, you know? So I'm happy to do it. I do a fundraiser now and again for, you know, for AIDS and things like that. And it's a nice thing to be able to play them. And people like to hear the original, the version done by the writers, you know. So that's kind of fun. And I've always been the interpreter of our songs. I was always the musical one who played. So, you know, that was it.

Oh, man. Well, this that's a great place to, I guess in the official part of the interview. So thank you so much, Richard Sherman. I really appreciate it.

Thank you! You sound like a very nice young man. I hope I'll meet you one day.

[onenettvchannel]

#K5NewsFMExclusive: A Dark and Dramatic Conclusion as the 4th Season of Wakfu will be the Last Season of its historic French cartoon series (updated as FINAL!!!)

(Written by Rhayniel Saldasal Calimpong / Freelanced News Reporter and Presenter of OneNETnews)

ROUBAIX, FRANCE -- The upcoming Season Premiere of Wakfu, which will air on the 'Okoo' kids and teens programming block through French public broadcaster 'France Televisions' is set to be a dramatic heartstopping conclusion. This will mark the beginning of the show's 4th and Final Season, scheduled to debut in early mid-February 2024. It is worth mentioning to recall that the entire production at Ankama Studios in France has been successfully concluded, thanks to the global campaign fund of Kickstarter that took place in late-June 2020.

(PRESS RELEASE OBTAINED by K5 News FM Dumaguete)

Per the press release exclusively obtained through DWFH-FM 97.7mhz's K5 News FM, the latest synopsis for the final season of a French cartoon show portrays intense and potentially darker scenes that comes up a bit close to happen: "After their destructive battle with Oropo, but also with their own demons, Yugo the Eliatrope and his friends find themselves at the gates of Ingloriom, the realm of the Gods. The Tofu Brotherhood (TFB) has no time to wonder what fate the 12 Divinities have in store for them for this sacrilege: the floating territory is devastated!".

(SCREENGRAB COURTESY: FranceTVPro website)

(PHOTO COURTESY: Google Images)

Before an actual final season premiere on a national French television, a sneak preview in the panel is yet to be shown in-person at the Angoulême International Comics Festival (AICF) on Thursday late-afternoon (January 25th, 2024 at 5:30pm -- France local time).

(PHOTO COURTESY: AICF via X Network's FranceTVPro)

Inside a panel in Angoulême City, the said country, will discuss about the upcoming 4th and Final Season of the show, in the presence of Wakfu show creator named Anthony "Tot" Roux, one of the authors with French YouTuber personality (Malec) and Wakfu's historical Character Designer (Sonia Demechlis).

(SCREENGRAB COURTESY: Okoo / France Televisions / Ankama Animation via The X Network)

In a televised trailer 'X Network' (formerly Twitter) released Tuesday afternoon (January 16th, 2024), the heroes of the Brotherhood of the Tofu, Yugo the Eliatrope, Prncs. Amalia Sheran Sharm, Ms. Evangelyne the Cra, Mr. Ruel Stroud and among others have fought against formidable enemies and ancient evils. But sadly, things are gone crazier and darker situations as the fate of 'The World of 12' rests on their shoulders.

K5 News FM learns exclusively that the runtime for this 4th Season of Wakfu is 22 minutes long, with a final 13 new episodes.

(FILE SCREENGRAB COURTESY: Generation TV_FR via YT VIDEO)

French cartoon show of Wakfu was started in the late-October 2008 during France 3's kids programming block "Toowam", before transitioning to Ludo (home of between Wakfu on the said date of 2008 and LoliRock in the late mid-October 2014).

(FILE PHOTO COURTESY for REPRESENTATION: Zodiak Kids and Family for Banijay & Ankama Studios / Editing Provided by the Anonymous Artists, and from the top left to the bottom right: Lyna, Carrisa, Talia, Iris, Aurianna, Evangelyne, Yugo the Eliatrope, Prncs. Amalia Sheran Sharm)

At the time of the writing with a confirmation from Ankama Studios and Zodiak Kids & Family (part of Banijay Group), theories in French kids cartoon suggest between LoliRock and Wakfu will not be planning to do a crossover episode for now, in and outside of this same public broadcasting network on Wakfu's final season for France Televisions.

As reported exclusively between AnimeTVFrance news bureau (via The X Network) and Ankama News (also via the press release division of Wakfu), we do know that the new episodes to be aired back-2-back on primetime until early mid-March 2024.

With this, you can catch LIVE new episodes of the final 4th Season of Wakfu, premieres February 9th, 2024 at 1:30pm Eastern / 12:30pm Central (in the United States) / 7:30pm in France -- only on France 4's Okoo programming block and streaming LIVE via the France TV website, Animation Digital Network (ADN) and on the Okoo app for Google Play and Apple App Stores in France.

PHOTO COURTESY: Ankama Animations

SOURCE: *https://www.francetvpro.fr/contenu-de-presse/64569626 [Referenced Event Listings via FranceTVPro] *https://www.youtube.com/@malec3821 [Referenced YT Home Page via Malec] *https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angoul%C3%AAme_International_Comics_Festival *https://www.francetvpro.fr/contenu-de-presse/64684101 [Referenced PR News Article via FranceTVPro] *https://twitter.com/Totankama/status/1736789152455131477 [Referenced X Network Captioned VIDEO via Totankama] *https://twitter.com/francetvslash/status/1744403591736050165 [Referenced X Network Captioned VIDEO #1 via FranceTVSlash] *https://twitter.com/francetvslash/status/1747280767598641312 [Referenced X Network Captioned VIDEO #2f via FranceTVSlash] *https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toowam *https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/LoliRock *https://www.banijaykidsandfamily.com/shows/lolirock/ [Referenced Show Biography via Banijay Kids and Family website] *https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saison_4_de_Wakfu *https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wakfu_(s%C3%A9rie_t%C3%A9l%C3%A9vis%C3%A9e_d%27animation) *https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjWsaz7gxI4 [Referenced YT VIDEO via Kass Koui] *https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_7yLJQZ6JA [Referenced Classic YT Video via Generation TV_FR] *https://twitter.com/francetvpro/status/1750584660021666155 [Referenced X Network Captioned PHOTO via FranceTVPro] *https://www.wakfu.com/en/mmorpg/news/announcements/1680321-wakfu-s4-soon-available-viewing [Referenced News Article via Ankama News for Wakfu PR Division] *https://www.france.tv/france-3/wakfu/saison-4/5698308-wakfu-saison-4-des-le-9-fevrier-sur-okoo-et-france-tv.html [Reference News Article via France 3 Info] and *https://twitter.com/animetv_fr/status/1754591809651507421 [Referenced X Network Post via AnimeTVFrance News Bureau]

-- OneNETnews Team

[jetspikepub]

HISTORY OF COWBOY BEBOP

Attention! This chronology is a mix of fiction and reality.

1965 - Shinichiro Watanabe was born

1994 - Faye was born

1995 - Shinichiro Watanabe debuted as a director in Macross Plus. First acquaintance with Keiko Nobumoto, Yoko Kanno, and others *1

*1 Macross Plus is still very popular

Cowboy Bebop project was initiated secretly. At first, the title was supposed to be Shooting Star Bebop *2

*2 Kawamoto's ideas and sketches as a project proposal at the very early stage of development

1998 4 - First airing of the show on TV Tokyo

6 - The broadcast on TV Tokyo finished with only 12 episodes aired. The final compilation-like episode, Mish-Mash Blues, was controversial

10 - The beginning of complete 26 episode ariring on WOWOW

11 - Masahiko Minami left Sunrise and established Bones animation studio *3

*3 Bones business card (back side)

1999 4 - The complete show broadcast finished on W0WOW. The question of Spike's fate in the final episode attracted a lot of attention *4

*4 Invitation to the launch party held on the night when the last episode aired

6 - Watanabe, Toshihiro Kawamoto, Keiko Nobumoto and others visited Morocco to gather materials for the movie *5

*5 In Morocco

8 - The Seatbelts live "Diggin' my POTATO Puti ~The Irresponsible Night to Dance~" was held at ON AIR EAST, Shibuya, Tokyo *6 (picture in brochure is missing 🤷‍♀️)

9 - A press conference dedicated to the movie production, later known as the "Phantom Lie Press Conference," was held at Blue Note Tokyo (at that time the movie release date was year 2000) *7

*7 Materials distributed to interested parties

2000 5 - The completion of the script

Autumn - Movie storyboard was done *8

*8 A storyboard by Nabeshin (Watanabe)

11 - Yoko Kanno's held the first recording of The Seatbelts in N.Y.

2000 12 - 2001 1 - The title "Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heaven's Door" was chosen for the movie

4 - The launch of the official website

4-6 - The original novel СОЩВОЧ ВƐВОР Ц.Т. (Cowboy Bebop: U.T.) was published on the website; recording for the movie finished

7 - Ask DNA single release

8 - The completion of the movie, setting the preview at Kudan Kaikan, Tokyo *9

*9 Fans who came to the preview form lines

8 - The Seatbelts live "EARTH GIRLS ARE EASY Last Week End" at Shibuya AX, Tokyo

8 - Movie soundtrack "FUTURE BLUES" release

9 - Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heavens' Door release

10 - Seatbelts FUTURE BLUES videoclip release

2007 - Faye recorded a video message to future self that was supposed to be delivered ten years later *10

*10 Young Faye in the video message

2013 - U.T. (Ural Terpsichore) was born

2014 - Faye was put in a cryogenic sleep after a spaceship accident outside Earth's atmosphere

2022 - An accident occurred at Astral Gate located between the Moon and Earth. Earth suffered catastrophic damage, the period known as Turbulent 20's (Roaring Twenties) began

2035 12 - Jet was born

2044 6 - Spike was born

Vicious was born

U.T., a journalist responsible for entertainment section, became a bounty hunter. A chaotic period immediately followed after the enactment of the Cowboy Law *11

*11 Younger days of the legendary cowboy revealed for the first time in this illustration for the novel

2048 - Debut of The Seatbelts

2056 - The Seatbelts song"Tank!" became #1 in music charts of the Solar System

2058 1 - Ed was born (however, it is unclear)

2064 - Jet resigned from ISSP after losing his left arm *12

*12 Jet before he lost his right arm, about 29 years old

2066 - Ed suddenly appears in an orphanage on Earth

2068 - Spike left the Red Dragon syndicate *13

*13 Spike from the Red Dragon era… he looks angry

Jet and Spike teamed up

Faye woke up from cryogenic sleep *14

*14 Sleeping Beauty?

Ed disappeared from the orphanage *15

*15 Edward made up her name, the real one is Françoise, isn't it?

Julia went missing *16

*16 The woman Spike was thinking about

Rashid (Dr. Mendelo) appears on Moroccan Street on Mars in a new guise *17

*17 Mr. Mendelo, isn't it a little too much for a tanning salon?

2069 - Ein was born *18

*18 He must have been a genius dog from birth

A record of Vincent's death in Titan War *19

*19 He had short hair when he was in the army

2070 - Spike left a lobster in the fridge on the Bebop and forgot about it

2071 - The main story of Cowboy Bebop

[whatavery]

Crosstalk (Art Trade)

My part of an art trade I did with Melon over on twitter, featuring their OC Ethel Freeman and everyone's favorite weasel-faced Marigold, Wes! Had fun with this one, I'm glad you liked it, Melon!

Crosstalk: Noun: "When two communications channels play over each other, usually unintentionally."

...

“… and that marks the third raid on an illegal drinking establishment this month. While authorities have refused to comment on the matter, they have reassured me that all will be taken care of in an orderly fashion.” Ethel shuffled her notes for a moment as she took a short breather. The gray-furred cat took a moment, before she continued. “And on the topic of doing things in an orderly fashion, do be careful out there tomorrow, all you drivers. It’s getting real slippery out there. This has been Ethel Freeman with the Tin Twist Ticket. Have a good night.”

Ethel flicked a few switches and just like that, she was off the air. She checked her wristwatch for the time. It was getting rather late by now, almost ten. She was definitely one of the latest broadcasts, though she didn’t have much of a choice. These days, most stations were limited in when and how much they’d broadcast. Not many shows had female hosts and even fewer sole female hosts. But Ethel was doing what she enjoyed and she was doing it well – at least she thought she was doing rather well for herself.

Giving a yawn, the American Curl cat gave a self-satisfied smile. Life was good. Ethel ran a hand through her curly, black locks. With the holiday season, she had plenty on her mind; presents to buy, people to give them to… and people to keep at bay.

A knock on her studio door made her jump and whip around, her glasses almost falling off in the process. Framed in the door of her office stood a tall, looming figure clad in a black suit. Had it not been for the hunched figure’s white dress shirt and blood red tie, their clothes may very well have blended in with their black fur.

“Happy holidays,” the tall stranger sneered at Ethel, tone rather sarcastic. The scarred, elongated face was one Ethel recognized. If anything, it was one that was very hard to forget. His ominously bright, almost glowing eyes were trained on the heavyset American Curl.

“What are you here for, Mr. Clyde?” Ethel’s lips were pursed as she looked upon the weasel-faced stranger with mounting dislike. It wasn't the first time he'd appeared unannounced in her studio, though Ethel couldn’t exactly say that his other visits had been much better.

“That’s not a very festive greeting, now is it, missy?” he practically crooned at her as he moved into the room. While he himself had never done anything to harm Ethel, seeing him approaching still made her tense up. On the left side of his chest, Ethel spotted the familiar, orange flower pin, and she noticed he hadn't bothered wiping his boots of snow. “I was here to give you an invitation-”

“If it’s from your boss, tell him I’m still not interested,” the shorter female insisted. She scowled up at Mr. Clyde as he stopped in front of her. He had quite a inches on her in terms of height, he’d have even more if he wasn't as hunched. Despite being slicked back, the fur on his head looked slightly messy.

“Fighting words…” he said sarcastically as he looked down at her with a look that braver people than Ethel would have found intimidating. But she wasn't afraid of Wes Clyde, not in the least. “Are you sure? It’s a Christmas party and everything…”

Ethel gave a defiant nod and crossed her arms. “Quite sure. You don’t need to keep coming back to try and make me join you and your… your…”

“Yes…?” Ethel scowled when Mr. Clyde smirked at her, looking amused, as though he couldn’t wait to hear what she wanted to call him and his people.

“You and your band of low-lives.”

“Low-lives…? That’s just hurtful…” Ethel momentarily looked surprised when she heard those words, staring up into those yellow eyes. But when she saw the smirk on Mr. Clyde’s face, however, she knew he wasn't actually hurt – and there was no need to be sympathetic. “We’re proper folks. We run a business, just like you. Don’t you profit off our work?”

“If you mean all those supposed accidents…” Ethel said, squinting slightly up at Mr. Clyde, who grinned down at her. He took a step back and reached into his jacket pocket.

“That I do, li’l missy,” he told her casually, pulling out a cigarette and a light. Ethel didn’t even get a chance to tell him not to smoke in her studio before he lit the cigarette, slipping it between his lips. When he exhaled, he was at least kind enough to blow the smoke away from Ethel. “Don't try to change the subject, though – you’re profiting off our handiwork too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” she snorted at him, arms crossed as she looked up at him. “I just report on what your people are doing.”

The black cat gave a snort of his own and blew smoke to a point right above Ethel's head. “And you make how much as a radio host…?”

At this Ethel fell silent, scowling at the taller male, who grinned at her in a triumphant way. He took another drag of his cigarette, before he gestured towards the door. “Come, let’s go for a walk, li’l missy.”

A walk alone with him of all people? The thought made Ethel grimace slightly. She wasn't going to walk the cold streets with a man like Wes Clyde. “And what makes you think I’d want to be seen with you? I don’t want to be associated with you Marigolds…!”

“And people say I’m nasty,” the weasel-faced cat said, though he didn’t look like her words actually hurt him. “Please, just a short li’l walk. It’s nothing major, I just want to talk business…”

“I’m not doing business with you people, I already-”

“Or we can just talk,” the taller cat said, shrugging. He flashed the gray cat a grin and blew smoke towards the floor of all places. Ethel watched as the cloud of cigarette smoke made impact with the floor, washing over her feet before it dissipated. “Can’t blame a man for yearning for some lovely company, now can you?”

Ethel faltered slightly, fixing Mr. Clyde with a rather suspicious look. His words were dripping with a smarminess she wasn't quite sure she liked. The American Curl raised an eyebrow at him, while he simply returned it with a look to match his tone of voice.

As it turned out, the night air was indeed rather cold, which was no surprise. Clad in a thick, warm winter coat, Ethel stepped out onto the street. She could feel the air nipping at her face whenever a breeze blew past and she could see her breath in the air before her. The sky above the city was mostly clear, though the streets were still covered in quite a bit of snow, especially the sidewalks.

“Why are you really here?” Ethel asked as she turned to Mr. Clyde, the tall, hunched cat smirking at her. He'd thrown a coat of his own on as well on the way out, though it didn’t look particularly warm to Ethel. “Surely you didn’t stop by just to give me an invitation…”

“Maybe I did,” the black cat responded with a shrug. When he started walking by Ethel’s side, he offered his arm to her, though she simply looked at it as though it were a venomous snake that could strike at any time. When she didn’t take it, Mr. Clyde simply chuckled. “What’s it to you anyway?”

“I just don’t imagine you coming to hassle a radio host is actually part of your job…” the shorter cat noted coolly. When the hunched man chuckled, she turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “… what?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, li’l missy. You ain't the first radio host I've had to have a little talk with,” Mr. Clyde told her rather cryptically. They walked down the darkened street at a slow pace, snow crunching under their boots. Thankfully it wasn't too slippery, the soles of Ethel's winter boots thankfully keeping her mostly secure on her feet.

“A little talk? Who else did you talk to?” she asked, tone suspicious as she looked up at him. She knew quite a few other people who worked in radio, though not all of them did so as regularly as she did. She broadcast when she was able to, whether that be in the morning or the afternoon. Not many radio shows had set schedules, hers certainly didn’t, for the most part.

“Oh, really only that Morrison fella. But he wasn't as interesting as you, I've got to admit,” Mr. Clyde told her, smirking at her. “Nor would I want to invite that guy to a party…”

Once more Ethel looked at the black cat in surprise. He offered her his arm again, but she still didn’t take it. He didn’t appear to mind, however, and simply continued walking by the gray cat’s side. Ethel cleared her throat some. “You really want me to go, don’t you? I’m starting to think it’s personal and not business, Mr. Clyde…”

This time, it was the weasel-faced cat who fixed her with a curious glance. Mr. Clyde looked surprised, but quickly resumed smirking at her. “Well, in that case, you may call me Wes, li’l missy.”

Ethel's left ear gave an irritated flick. “Could you please stop calling me that?”

“What, you don’t like it? Fine, fine, Ms. Freeman.” Ethel stumbled lightly, a particularly slippery patch of ice under her foot. She had to grab the nearest thing and that just so happened to be the black cat’s arm. He was clearly taken by surprise as she nearly pulled him down with her, but he steadied himself to keep her from falling.

“Ah, now you’ll hold my arm – when you almost fall,” Wes teased her, smirking as they moved past the slippery area and turned a corner. Ethel let go almost immediately, however and simply walked beside him again.

“Trust me, I didn’t enjoy it,” she told him, though she felt her cheeks warming noticeably in the cold winter night. Ethel adjusted her spectacles as they continued on their way, though before long she realized how far away from her studio he was taking her. She’d hoped it would be a short walk around the block, but realized she had been foolish in her assumption. Ethel stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Wes asked, turning back towards her. He watched the American Curl with a look of intrigue. He smirked a bit when he seemed to realize. “Come now, it’s not far…”

“I’m not going into that… that…”

“That what?” Wes was almost sneering at her as he lit another cigarette.

“That den of lions!”

“Please, as if I’d let anything happen to you. You'd be our special guest for the night, there’s no need to make a fuzz, li’l missy.” He gave a snort, before taking the first drag of the cigarette. Wes extended his arm to Ethel once more, tilting his head slightly upwards, giving her a different view of his scarred face, looking almost pleasant – almost handsome… “What do you say?”

Ethel stood by the taller cat, frowning up at him. She looked back the way they'd come from, then up ahead. She knew that he was leading her further and further away from her studio. Her eyes met his for a moment, before she broke eye contact again. “… is it far?”

“Not at all, li’l missy, just another few blocks – faster to get there than to go back,” Wes insisted, grinning down at her. He offered her his arm yet again. Despite herself, Ethel took hold. Through his clothes, she could feel that he had quite a bit of lean muscle. The slender black cat looked particularly pleased with himself as he guided her along.

Ethel didn’t know much about Wes’ employers other than the fact that they dabbled in very unsavory business. She’d been exposed to Marigold thanks to her fascination with crime and the various stories that tended to pop up. She knew for a fact that he worked for people who weren't exactly on the proper side of the law. What would it even be like to be among people like that?

“See, this ain't so bad, is it?” Wes asked, flashing her another smirk as he guided her down the street. Ethel said nothing. She wasn't so sure. He was starting to act considerably nicer, but was it all an act to lure her in and spring a trap on her?

“It’s… something,” Ethel half-muttered, her brain going over the possible scenarios. Did she know too much? Was that why he was bringing her in? Or were they going to plant evidence on her or have her incriminated in some other way?

“You’re shaking.” Wes’ words caught Ethel off-guard. She turned to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you are.”

“It’s cold,” she simply noted, gripping his arm more firmly, as if to show her displeasure in a more physical manner.

“That it is, li’l missy, that it is…” he noted, blowing smoke up towards the sky, before it dissipated into the cool night air. “If you’re scared, you've got nothing to worry about. You can trust me.”

“But if I don’t…?” she asked, stopping in her tracks. Wes stopped with her and watched her for a moment. Then he let out a short laugh. “… what’s so funny?”

“Oh, I just find it funny – here you are holding my arm like we’re on a date and yet… you don’t trust me?” the black cat sneered down at her. Ethel cleared her throat, but said nothing, leaving the weasel-faced cat to chuckle to himself. “Don't be scared, li’l missy, I’ll take good care of you.”