#two days late but shhh

[anixolt]

Happy new year everyone!! 🎇🫶

[peacockrulz]

Merry Christmas Happy New Years! :)

[princeson]

everybody shut up!! the birthday boy is here!! *gently but aggressively ruffles his hair*

happy birthday, mob!! :D

[cakesplice]

the ultimate fashionista // valentine's day edition

sans text under the cut

context in tags 🏷️

[spin-attaxx]

Star light, star bright, Lumina shines on Christmas night.

Tried playing around with different techniques/tools for this one.

[turning4-8turn]

[230804]

❤️TURNING 100일 축하해❤️

오늘도 내일도 8TURN으로 가득한 하루되세요😘

❤TURNING Happy 100th Days❤

For today and tomorrow, have an 8TURN-filled day😘

haemin🥺🩵

[shackld]

2 & 21 !

2. How did you get into this franchise/fandom?

I think it was like... two or three days after the game released and I only caught wind of it because one of my friends posted a sc or something from it I forget but I thought the art looked really cool and I have a severe gacha game addiction and just went eh why not and Then I Chief And Then i Made This Blog The Very Same Day and that horrible decision cost me the rest of my life :)

21. Which song do you feel describes your character the most and why?

Well I have a LOT of songs that describe Chief in very diferent aspects but the first one I thought of was Half Life by Livingston.. I just really think the message of it really describes Chief and her relationships, especially towards Sinners??

[limitlesspossibilities]

"I uh... H-heard it... Was... Y-Your B-Birth-day... Ha-Happy... B-Birth-day... T-Tsuki-no." ( From Yukio Kasamatsu! (He's a stuttering mess around girls lol.) )

"Thank you." She's not the type of girl most people are usually nervous around, so she's a little surprised by the stuttering, but she offers a gentle smile in response. "It means a lot."

[chlorinecake]

❝ DON’T WAKE DAD ❞ — ✿ 𝐏.𝐒𝐇 ׅ ㅤ֢ ㅤׄㅤ .

── 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈 ܃ Sunghoon was your stepbrother, and ever since your two fractured families merged into one, he’s had feelings for you. Deep down, he knows the attraction is wrong, but the taboo of it all only made it more addicting to him…

��𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 ｡｡｡ KINKTOBER SPECIAL, swearing, kissing, mentions of virginity loss, oral (m. r), masturbation (f. r), stepcest kink, cum eating, manhandling, face slapping, hair pulling, breath play, unprotected sex, dirty talk, mentions of 02z, reader is younger than sunghoon & has long hair, short parental argument, that’s all

𝐖ORD 𝐂OUNT ⨾ 4199 — 𓊆ྀི Day 10 𓊇ྀི

“She’s hot as fuck, I can’t help it…” Sunghoon sighed while readjusting himself in his seat just at the mere thought of you.

He and his two friends, Jake and Jay, were hanging out in your step-father’s backyard near the pool, helping themselves toa few cold drinks and some conversation while round about the outdoor table.

“Who fucking cares, dude?” Jake asked rhetorically, his Australian accent rugged and thick with utter confusion and disgust.

“Exactly bro… you’re playing with dangerous fire here, Hoon, and trust me when I say you don’t wanna mess with that step-sis shit…” Jay added, crossing his legs where where he sat.

“Why not, though?” Sunghoon challenged, pulling out his phone to swipe a few notifications clouding his screen.

“Well, for starters, screwing your step-sister in real life is a lot more tricky than how it’s shown in pornos… secondly, you two could be blood-related for all you know!” Jake pitched in, spreading his arms as if to convey increased importance.

“Please…. I highly doubt that…” Sunghoon scoffed, shaking his head at his friend's cautious protest.

“Right… and what makes you so sure then, huh..? You’ve taken any DNA tests lately?” Jay questioned matter-of-factly.

“Of course not, idiot, but that’s beside the point—”

“She might have the same dad as you!” Jake went on in a fit of concern.

“Not possible… my father had a vasectomy before I was even born, and my step-sister’s younger than me…”

“Then you all might have the same mom, it doesn’t matter! You never know with this type of stuff, dude—”

“Wait- Shhh…” Sunghoon whispered, just as a woman’s voice in the distance filled his ears until you eventually walked by.

“Hey, Hoon!” You chirped, paying a brief yet respectable wave to his friends as well, “Your dad’s been looking for you all afternoon, by the way…”

“Oh yeah? What’s up with him?” Sunghoon asked in between taking a sip from his soda can.

“He said something about you leaving the garage door unlocked last night?… I don’t know, maybe he just wants to talk to you about it…”

“God… I mean, okay, uh… thanks for letting me know, sis…”

“Mhm,” you hummed with a nod, right before turning on your heel and walking back from whence you came...

“Dad?” Jay repeated with confusion.

“Sis?” Jake added, just as confused.

“Yup… and we don’t look very similar now, do we?” Sunghoon offered with a proud smirk, taking the last sip of his cherry cola with a clenched jaw and sighing at the fizzy sensation.

“Fine, but what difference does it make when you live under the same roof and share a set of parents, biologically or not?” 

The space felt quiet at Jay’s sudden comment, with nothing other than chirping birds in the distance filling the void. 

“Look man, I gotta go now, but please, at the very least… consider… our advice,” Jay said in a more solemn tone before shuffling from his seat and standing up to walk away.

“Yea… I mean… I’ll consider it,” Sunghoon nodded nonchalantly while waving his friend off, but Jay didn’t see it as shady because that’s how Sunghoon always acted…

Numb, absent, impetuous.

It’s those precise qualities in him that initially earned your attraction, and they were the same qualities that eventually made you stick around…

1 hour later…

“It’s so pretty, Hoon…” you admired from beneath your step-brother, trailing an inquisitive finger along the underside of his cock as he nearly dug crescents into the palms of his hands from how tightly he balled his fists.

He was just so, so sensitive…

“Can I now?” You asked softly, eager to finally have his cock in your mouth and stretching your slutty little lips apart with his thickness…

And to no one’s shock, he was just as eager to have your mouth around him, too…

Of all the private time you’ve spent with Sunghoon, you two had tried almost everything in the books from dry humping, nipple sucking (on both sides), vaginal sex, cockwarming, and even mutual masturbation on some accounts…

Though, you had never tried giving him oral before, and it’s an act that’s been on your mental bucket list for quite a while now.

“Go on, angel,” Sunghoon groaned, watching intently as you began prepping him by stroking the base of his length, and he swears a hand has never felt so good around his cock before.

Your step-brother, being the handsome guy that he was, had his fair share of sexual experiences in the past…

However, once he met you, or more accurately, once y’all crossed that dangerous physical boundary, he fell in love with you in a way that would never be considered brotherly.

Simply put, you were the best at everything to him; making him feel better after a bad day, listening to his most profound thoughts when no one else would, etc etc.

And it helped that you were one of the most beautiful girls he had met, too…

The first time he had sex with you, he remembered gazing at your cunt first before sliding himself in, and he felt so bad for having to be the first one to stretch you out.

You were so tight and fragile and he was so thick and long that it took more than a few tries just to have sex properly…

But since then, you became his little fuck toy, and he simply dreaded the thought of some other guy getting to enjoy those parts of you one day…

The parts he worked so hard to cultivate in you… the parts that he felt should be for his eyes and his eyes only…

“Ohhh, God,” Sunghoon groaned suddenly, sealing his pretty brown eyes shut at the feeling of your lips sliding along the center of his shaft.

His tip, the most sensitive part of his cock, found utter bliss in the back of your tight throat, and his tense hips subconsciously bucked into your mouth, causing you to tap his thigh as a sign to slow down.

“Sorry,” he whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear to prevent it from getting in the way, but you couldn’t help yourself from marveling at the way his length twitched inside your mouth, its tip already crying out precum as you kept bobbing your head nice and slow.

And it was genuinely such an honor to be sucking him off, considering how much he had done for you in the past… things that your parents never had to find out about because he was there to help you.

For instance, you vividly recall the time when a deadbeat date you met at a party dropped you off on the side of the road after you rejected his sexual advances, and Sunghoon was the only person who answered your call that night…

That same night marked the first night you kissed each other… in his car at a red light on your way home, to be precise… 

And you cried the rest of the drive back to the family mansion until Sunghoon managed to finally calm you down with a hug… one that led to him sleeping in your bed that night with his clothed cock slowly rutting against the curve of your ass…

You remember pretending like it didn’t happen for a while until eventually, the taboo craving was reciprocated in you; you wanted Sunghoon just as much as he always wanted you…

“Fuck, baby… ‘m so close,” your stepbrother groaned in pleasure, keeping his hands in your hair because it was genuinely one of his favorite parts about you, “Yea… keep drooling around my fat cock, baby… just like that… shit~”

You squeezed your thighs at Sunghoon’s desperate dirty talk, feeling yourself getting more and more turned on every time he swore beneath his breath.

“Go on, angel… touch yourself for me,” he mewled from above you, compelling you to do exactly what he just suggested.

Slipping your fingers past the waistband of your skirt, you found your core instantly given how you weren’t wearing any underwear.

You slid your digits over your folds while still sucking his dick before humming at the feeling of your aching clit finallygetting some attention.

“Didn’t know sucking my cock would turn you on so much,” he snickered through a smirk, only to groan once again as you hummed around his dick, reeling him even closer to climaxing.

With just a few more bobs of your head, Sunghoon was finally coming undone, screwing his thick eyebrows shut with his head thrown back.

His thumbs slowly outlined the side of your hairline as he looked back down at you with pure affection, slipping his cock out of you as cum coated every surface of your mouth—

“C’mere, princess,” he whispered in a raspy voice, finding your lips in the sweetest kiss as your tongues intertwined, all while you still stimulated your clit beneath your clothes…

And as if you weren’t feeling a bit lightheaded already, you definitely were now, feeling your hips spasm the more and more his tongue ran against yours.

Before you knew it, you were crying out Sunghoon’s name into his mouth and creaming all over your fingers.

“Shhh,” he cooed while holding your head in place with a gentle hand, backing away only once so he could see the look on your face as you finished.

It was such a beautiful sight to him, too… the way your eyes brimmed with tears as you bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet but failing nonetheless…

He loved every part of it—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Sunghoon, are you in there?” Your mom called out from behind the door, just mere feet away from you two.

“Uhh, yeah, what’s up?” Sunghoon asked as calmly as he could manage while you both worked on readjusting your clothes back.

“Your father’s ready to have dinner with everyone,” she continued, trying to listen in on what was happening on the other side of the door, only to have her ears filled with the sound of shuffling.

“Alright, I’ll be down in a minute,” Sunghoon answered, just as you stood up to kiss him again, desperate for more.

“Great… I’ll go and tell your sister to join us, too,” she said before finally walking away, and you smiled even deeper into the kiss as Sunghoon’s hands found your body, guiding your hips closer against him.

30 minutes later…

“Why’re you making such a big deal out of this, Dad?”

“Because you’re too irresponsible for your age,” your stepfather scolded at the dinner table, the awkward clinking of silver forks against glass plates filling the room.

“Just because I forgot to lock the garage back on one night?”

“One night is all it takes for someone to come in and rob us, son,” his dad argued in between chewing on a piece of steak,“if you ever want this property or anything in the family estate to be yours, you better start acting like it belongs to you already…”

“But I do, Dad… can’t you see that?” Sunghoon asked with frustration in between eating some rice from his plate, “I keep the pool clean, cut the lawn weekly, and help out with bills, what else do you want me to do?”

“Lock the garage door back at night. Let’s start there,” his dad said plainly, and Sunghoon simply scoffed at his words.

“Right… got it, sir, but I’ll be excusing myself now,” Sunghoon said while getting up from the table with his dad in unison.

“No, you sit back down and finish eating so you can help your mom and sister clean up… I’m going to my room…”

“Ugh,” your mother sighed, getting up from the table and following in the exact steps as Sunghoon’s father did, “Sorry to leave you guys hanging, but I think I’m gonna call it a night and just chill out with your dad…”

“Oh… yeah, that’s fine,” you and your stepbrother smiled softly while getting up to wash dishes, “have a good night…”

“You, too, guys,” she smiled softly with her hands clasped in front of her before eventually leaving.

In the meantime, you got started on loading the dishwasher and wiping the kitchen surfaces; Sunghoon helped by sweeping and taking out the trash.

Afterward, you and Sunghoon sat on the living room couch and talked for a bit, the sound of the dishwashing machine thrumming in the distance.

You remembered his friends kept giving you weird looks earlier, so you decided to ask Sunghoon what they were talking about as a conversation starter.

“Oh- nothing, really… they were just curious about who you were, is all…” Sunghoon answered plainly, gentle clicks coming from his fingers as he toggled with the TV remote, searching for something good to watch.

And you knew it shouldn’t have affected you so much, but you could almost feel his hands all over you again just from looking at them…

You could feel the way his fingers were cupping your face earlier, and the way his palm felt resting on the small of your back as he kissed you that evening—

“Wanna watch something scary?” He offered, interrupting your brief thoughts.

“Do we even have a choice?” You returned while glancing at the screen, shocked to see there were predominantly horror movies playing tonight.

“I swear, it's like people never get bored of having scary movie marathons,” Sunghoon shrugged before eventually turning the TV off.

Currently, you were both sitting opposite to each other on the couch, up until your stepbrother patted the empty space next to him, signaling for you to come closer.

You laid your head on his shoulder, and the warmth of his body radiating through the cotton sweater he wore made you sigh in comfort.

“What, you're getting sleepy already?” Sunghoon asked with a soft smile, not expecting you to have snuggled against him so suddenly.

“No,” you said, reaching for his pale hand before tracing the nail beds of his fingers with your own, “just wanna enjoy this gentle moment with you...”

“Oh... Seriously?”

“Mhm...” You hummed against him, making the smile on his face linger for a little longer, “Can I ask you something?”

“Yea, what is it?”

“Well... hypothetically speaking, if your dad left his bedroom door open all night, how much do you think we could get away with in here?…”

“____...”

“Relax, it's just a question,” you pouted, letting go of his hand and touching his tense thigh instead.

He gulped before answering.

“Okay then... hypothetically speaking... I know I could keep quiet during a lot of things, but you on the other hand...” his voice trailed off as he gave you a knowing look instead of finishing his sentence.

“What? Finish what you were gonna say, loser,” you chuckled, sitting up to look him in the face now, but judging from his cheeks alone, you could tell he was a bit flustered about something...

“Hey,” you spoke softly, moving your hand from his thigh and cupping his face instead, but it didn't stay there long before he was pushing you on your back, caging you beneath him on the sofa.

“I think it might be better if I just show you instead of telling you, hm?” He whispered, dangerously close to your face, and you felt your heart rate increase while caged beneath him…

Not because you were nervous, but because you knew your parents were likely still awake, and you’d hate to get caught in a position like this.

“S-Sunghoon, maybe not in here, okay?” You began with shaky breaths, trying to keep your voice as low as possible now,“It’s too risky…”

“Shhh,” he whispered again, right before leaning down to kiss you, and you hated how it was truly that easy for him to win your submission.

Sliding a hand over your breasts, he found your neck in his grip, gently but firmly.

Though, the pressure only increased from here, and it was enough to make you squeak.

“You’re seriously getting all noisy, and just from that?” He judged you with a snicker, “If you want me to fuck you, y’know you’re gonna have to stay quiet, pretty… think you can do that for me?… hm?”

You could only manage to whimper in response, and he finally freed your neck from his rough hand, at first you think it’sbecause he’s easing up on you, but then you realize that he was just getting started.

Sitting up, he tugs your pants down to your thighs, only to have you immediately pull them back up again.

“Do you really wanna force me to get rough with you tonight, baby?” Sunghoon slithered, cupping your entire cunt in his hand before grinding his palm against your clothed sex, and he almost laughed out loud at the way you squirmed now.

“I can’t believe you’re being this s-stupid right now,” you stammered, but you couldn’t stop your hips from subconsciously bucking against the delicious friction he provided.

“Look at you… rejecting my advances only to grind against my hand like a bitch in heat,” he retorted, spitting in his free palm before slapping you across the cheek, the added moisture only adding to the echo of the impact.

You wanted to curse him out, kick him, punch him, or even just yell at him for doing that to you… but someway, somehow, you felt your body freeze at his gaze, and tears erupted from your eyelash beds in the same way they did the first night he kissed you… the first night he claimed you as his…

“Now, you know I didn’t wanna have to do that, sweetie,” Sunghoon pouted with a hoarseness to his tone, and you immediately felt his erection brush up against your thigh.

“As my little sister, you’re supposed to obey me, no matter what I ask of you,” he continued tenderly now, wiping the tears from your face with the back of his hand.

Your cheek still stung from where he slapped you, and it only made matters worse when you heard shuffling from your parent's room.

“B-but… I am ob-beying you,” you sniffled, voice cracking slightly as he kissed your face right where he struck you.

“Good,” he smiles, ceasing his hand in groping your cunt, “So that means you’ll let me make you feel good and you’llkeep quiet then, right?”

“Y-yes, Sunghoon,” you nodded, feeling him kiss your lips one last time before freeing you of his daunting shadow, only to stand up from the couch and tug you in whatever position he pleased.

And he handled your body as if you were weightless, but you knew that had more to do with his strength training than anything.

Situating you on your knees on the floor of the couch, he knelt behind you, caressing your waist while pressing his front against your ass.

Keeping all your clothes on, the only thing he did was slide both of your bottoms down, and you don’t think you ever felt more eager than you did once the cool room air hit your aching cunt.

And that’s when your stepbrother started sliding his burning red cock between your folds, trying his hardest not to spank you as that would only make more noise.

“You ready, baby?” He asked, making a makeshift ponytail of your hair, but before you could even answer, he was already sliding inside you all the way now.

And because you and he had sex so many times in the past, it’s like your walls were carved just for him.

No matter the circumstance, Sunghoon could always count on you being ready to take him in every which way he desired…

So, when you put up a little fight today, he made sure to remember it as he started rutting into you, keeping one hand firmly at your hips while the other one secured your head.

“Ohh…. mmm… ahhh,” you hummed, keeping your eyes shut completely as the faint sound of skin against skin filled the room.

His cock felt so good inside you, just like it always did… given the position, your cunt was angled a little different than what you were used to, but it helped him to fuck even deeper into you anyway.

“Feels good, baby?… Yea?… You just love taking your step-brother’s fat cock in your tight cunt, don’t you… you dirty little- nghh,” Sunghoon groaned breathlessly from behind you, pulling your hair back further now as he roughly pounded into you again and again.

“Your ass is so perfect, too,” he slurred, and all the dirty talk was making your pussy throb even more, with his greedy cock loving the sensation as well.

“Fuck, Hoonie,” you whimpered quietly, arching your back a bit so he could fuck you even deeper, when suddenly, you felt his grip release from your hair, causing your face to meet the couch cushions.

You could conveniently bury your face into the, whenever you felt like making a noise, letting all your naughty little sounds dissipate into the cotton.

He was bucking his hips behind you so fast and hard though now that even the wooden floorboards were starting to creak…

“Nghh…. Oh my g… ahh… fuck, baby,” you whined into the couch, but being so lost in the pleasure, it didn’t seem like Sunghoon cared to keep quiet anymore either.

He was grunting all loud like a madman now, and if it wasn’t for the air conditioner drowning out the squelching noises of skin-to-skin, you’re certain your parents would’ve caught you like this…

Your hearts pounded in unison as Sunghoon's hands continued to roam over your soft, supple body, tracing the curves of her hips before grabbing hold of the swells of your breasts. 

You couldn't help but let out a stifled moan as squeezed you in his grip, filling you with an intensity that was almost too much to bear.

Biting down on your wrist, you tried your hardest to keep yourself from crying out, but it wasn’t long before you felt your walls tightening around him, Bo your collective breaths growing more ragged as you approached the brink. 

“S-Sunghoon, I’m getting close,” you gasped, feeling something in your stomach tighten the faster your stepbrotherfucked his throbbing cock into you.

“S-so am I,” he stammered as the initially deep tone of his voice started to sound more desperate and vulnerable.

Sunghoon's eyes fluttered shut as he concentrated on the pleasure your soaking wet hole provided him with, digging his nails into your hips to contain all the energy within himself until it finally happened; with a silent scream of pleasure, you shuddered around his cock, making him lean forward to cover your mouth and conceal your moans, causing you to whine into his hand.

Swearing beneath your breath, he felt it was safe to remove his hand from your mouth now as your body arched off of the couch, and Sunghoon’s orgasm followed closely behind.

Not wanting to finish inside you, he pulled out as quickly as he could, jerking his slimy cock with the same hand he just covered your mouth with before cumming all over your back, using it as a landscape for his ivory release.

Sunghoon then pulled your shirt back over to cover you, and if you weren’t so tired and fucked out, the feeling of his sticky cum smearing under the cotton of your clothes would’ve made you cringe.

The two of you just lay there for a moment, panting and trembling with slick sheens of sweat decorating every corner of your collective bodies.

With a satisfied sigh, you looked down the hallway, noticing that your parent's door was already closed and that perhaps,the two of you missed it earlier given all the excitement.

You were already starting to feel the aches in your body creep up on you given how rough Sunghoon was being, but that all melted away once his lips connected with yours, humming into a gentle kiss.

“Let me help you to bed, sissy,” he whispered, helping you get up from the ground now.

He offered to carry you, but you insisted that you could walk on your own.

A few steps later, you were eventually in your bedroom with Sunghoon’s delicate hands getting to work on removing your shirt and wiping down your back.

Sliding a nightgown over your head, he gave you one last kiss goodnight before sweeping off to his own room now… but something in you told you this wasn’t the last you’d see of him tonight…

It was on nights like this that you missed Sunghoon most; despite how you two had already shared such intense intimacy with each other, you still craved his presence, and of course, he felt the same.

As you forced your eyes shut to hopefully get some sleep in, you comforted yourself with the fact that you never heard the soft click of the door latch from Sunghoon’s bedroom, letting you know that it’d only be a few minutes before his footsteps would echo through the hallway as he’d slip into bed beside you.

✎𓂃 Thanks for reading DAY 10's fic entry for my 2024 Kinktober Event !! Sorry I’m a day late to posting this (I had to process some issues in one of my friendships), but nonetheless, if you're interested, feel free to check out my main enhypen masterlist or my kinktober masterlist here !!

♱ PERM TAGLIST:

@squoxle, @nishiimuranights, @ashgonedash @yourmomscuntis2tighy (miss you), @wonbinisbabygurl @watamotee33, @addictedtohobi, @ot7sevenlvr

♱ KINKTOBER TAGLIST:

@pasteltheghost16 @fawnpeaks @melonvrs @mheretoreadff @skzfelixlove @inishij @yaorzu-blog @andromedawillburyyou @ramyeonzprincess @zaihypen @simjaeyunns @gardenwonnies @hynier @idontknowhowtomakeusernames @enhymeowz @minhosimthings @stormy1408 @crownj1min @jay-0n3s @gacktsa @leeknowinggg @d-dilemma @mrsjohnnysuh

[sukunasteeth]

Stitches

Sukuna has never made you wait for him.

He was always on time, always there before you, and if circumstances arose where-in he couldn't be, you always knew an hour before. You were never left to wonder or worry.

If Sukuna says he'll be there, he's there.

So when you wake up to his cold and empty bed, after hours of waiting for him to return home from work, you want to assume the best case scenario.

He's just working late, you assure yourself when your eyes find the clock on the nightstand and it tells you that it's two o'clock in the morning. Maybe he was so entranced in whatever he was tending to that he had forgotten to call you and tell you he'd be late. It had never happened before, but there was a first time for everything.

You try not to trip over your own two feet on your way to the bathroom, ignoring the dread that immediately darkens your thoughts upon checking your phone for the hundredth time that night.  

No call. No text... Did he tell you in person earlier in the day and you had simply forgotten?

What if he's hurt?

You round the corner of the hallway.

What if he's in trouble?

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't even register seeing the bathroom light peeking out from under the door.

You push it open.

What if he's-

Standing over the sink, dripping in blood, and using a fishing line to sew up an enormous gash splitting into his side?

You're frozen in the doorway. 

Faced with the unfortunate answer to the questions that had been progressively plaguing you the entirety of the night. Shock grips your throat and has a cold sweat breaking out over your skin.

You haven't seen him so roughed up since the two of you were in high school. Sukuna, always hungry for a test of strength, had often walked you home with a bloody nose or a ripped open pair of knuckles, but this would be the first time you've seen him look like he just rolled out of a fight club ring. 

He's taken off his suit jacket and his usually pristine white button down has been torn to shreds. The pieces that are left of it have adhered to the deepest of his wounds, soaked in crimson. He's holding up the hem of his shirt with his teeth, glaring down at a particularly large slice in his torso as he feeds a needle into the skin and puts himself back together again. One of his eyes is swollen and there's a small cut to the side of it. You can tell that he'll have a black eye come morning. Sukuna must see you in the corner of it, because he suddenly turns to look at you. The edge of his shirt falls out of his mouth, but Sukuna doesn't seem to notice, too surprised by your presence.

The two of you take each other in. Silently appraising the situation.

Before you can react, his surprise is already morphing into a resigned, disappointed sigh.

"Aw shit."

"What the HELL?!" You don't recognize the voice that escapes you in your panic. Raspy from the sleep still coating your throat, disjointed as your tonsils remember themselves and yet forget how to operate in your shock. You're across the room in a flash, nearly tripping headfirst into him in your haste. "What happened?! Y-You're hurt. Why are you hurt? Jesus, that looks so bad- oh my god. 'Kuna-"

"Shhh," He's hushing you. You're close enough for him to reach out with his free hand and pull you even closer, he doesn't seem to notice the streak of fresh blood he leaves behind on your wrist. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"You're covered in blood!" You whisper in horror, you search his eyes for even an ounce of alarm, and find only his usual nonchalance lounging there. As though this was nothing out of the ordinary.

He even looks down at himself like he wants to refute you, but when he picks up the collar of his shirt, finding the shredded pieces of what remained of it, he seems to think better. 

"Little bastards didn't do half bad, actually." He mutters to himself. He almost sounds... impressed. "Any deeper and it could have really been a pain in my ass."

"What happened?" You ask again, desperate.

"Just some kids waiting outside of the office." He rubs at the back of his head, and you notice another small cut there over a raised bump that seems to be swelling at the base of his skull. It must be tender, because he grimaces when he grazes it. You do too, just from watching him. "Trying to make some pocket money off of me and Uraume. They should have at least waited until we were both alone." When he pulls his hand away from his head, there's fresh blood glistening on his fingertips. He sucks his teeth. "Amateurs."

You take a deep, steadying breath- willing your heartbeat to slow.

You were the one who decided to fall for a man constantly looking for a good fight. At this point, you had only yourself to be disappointed with.

Without another word you turn your back to him and head straight for the shower. You needed him to wash off. You wouldn't be able to tell which parts of him needed attention in the mess that was currently coating his skin and you were already preparing mentally to tend to him. You spin the dial to ‘hot’ and turn back to him, trying your best to glare. You didn't think it was working very well. Especially because he's smiling softly at you.

"Get in." You command, pointing to the tub.

Sukuna scoffs softly, turning back to his needle and fishing line.

"It's fine.” He brushes you off. “I'm just going to rinse the cuts as I go-"

"Sukuna." You don't mean for it to come out as demanding as it does. Sukuna was hurt. You wanted to be gentle with him, but you can't help how overwhelmed you are at the sight of him battered to such a degree.

He slowly lifts his head like he was giving you time to think about the way you had just spoken to him before he meets your eyes again. You're too roused to take it back. "Get. In."

You can tell in his momentary silence that he doesn't recognize this shade of frustration on you. He's watching you like he's trying to take in every detail of it. Engrave it into his brain. Part of you is reminded in that moment that it wasn't Sukuna's anger you were in risk of pushing, but rather his excitement.

He folds up the fishing line and loops it around the sewing needle, placing it onto the counter without turning to look at it.

Your unrelenting stance falters a bit as he crosses the room after you, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he goes. His eyes never leave yours, testing your will.

When he makes it to you, he's brimming with pride. His belt clinks when he unloops the first notch. 

"Yes ma'am." He purrs.

...

An hour later, he's as clean as he can be and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat. You're perched in his lap, having already finished stitching shut the larger wounds that needed it. Now you're down to the last small cut left, which is on his cheek. It didn't require much attention, it was a tiny graze compared to the rest of the gashes you had tended to.

You can feel Sukuna watching you with a smitten little smile, like you had just spent the past hour silently telling him how much you adored him with your gentle but stern touches.

It ticks you off.

"Stop looking at me like that." You mutter, pressing the last of the steri-strips against his skin.

He doesn't even pretend to stop. You refuse to meet his gaze as you do a final examination of your handiwork. Finally, with him properly patched up and without a single drop of fresh blood in sight, the pain in your heart eases. He was okay. 

"...Why didn't you have Uraume help you with this before you came home?" You pretend to reassess one of the gauze strips on his bicep, but it's really just an excuse to nervously pick at the cotton while you're underneath his gaze.

There were plenty of people at the office who knew how to deal with wounds to this severity, professional medics that could have sewed him up twice as fast and sent him home just as clean as when he had arrived. So why did he wait so long for help?

Sukuna hums and his bandaged knuckles glide up and down the outsides of your thighs. "Maybe I like watching you play nurse."

"Kuna~" You groan hopelessly, letting your head thunk against his shoulder. "Quit teasing. I'm mad at you." You announce.

It only serves to widen his grin, which you can feel pressed against your hair as he kisses your forehead.

"But you're so cute when you want to be mad at me." He mocks your tone of voice and chuckles when you press your thumb into the bandage on his bicep in an attempt to punish him-just a bit.

Quickly, he snatches your hand, locking the both of your fingers together and gently nudging your head with his own. Silently asking you to look up again.

You're trying your best to pout at him, but you're surprised to see softness where you expected to find mischief in his expression. There's a warm fondness to his gaze. One you usually only see him wear when he's watching you talk about something you're particularly passionate about.

"I'm sorry I made you worry." The genuineness of the statement softens the hard lines of your face. And just like that, you completely forget that you’re supposed to be mad at him. His fingers trace the space between your brows where he had just made an angry knot disappear. "I do hate it when I do that."

Maybe it was a tactic to get off the hook. But it was a good one. It even has you feeling guilty for being hard on him. 

"I don't like seeing you covered in blood." You whisper, finally meeting his eyes. The glimmer there is triumphant.

"I'll hose off out front next time, how's that?"

You bite back a laugh at the image, trying to keep your stern disposition. You lean in, so as to impart the severity of your tone. "No next time."

Sukuna leans in closer, "And I'll have to get you a nurse's outfit."

"No next time!"

You were in love with the epitome of mischief. There was always going to be a next time.

[dog-pilled]

cw: intox, somno

my fantasy of the day:

spending the night with your owner, because you haven’t been sleeping well lately, and they know just how to put you to sleep!!

“c’mere pup, let’s get you some melatonin to help you go to bed on time tonight.” you protest, but only slightly - as fun as it is to stay up with your owner, you know you need your rest.

“open up-” they gently hold your jaw as they place the tablet on your tongue, and softly run their fingers through your hair as it dissolves in your mouth, leaving behind a fruity taste.

only moments later, you’re snuggled up against your owner, their chest against your back, as the drowsiness begins to set in. all the while your owner is softly tracing their fingers through your hair and over your skin.

just as you’re on the verge of sleep, you feel their fingers make their way up to your mouth. just a finger or two, gently tracing your lips or softly pressing against your tongue, but not enough to wake you from your sleep-hazed state. you’d much rather stay cozy where you are, nearly drooling over your owner’s fingers at this point.

the fingers in your mouth stop for a moment, but are almost immediately replaced with their other hand, as the first slips under your waistband with slick fingers gliding over your tdick. you let out a small, sleepy gasp at the sensation.

“shhh, it’s alright pup, go back to sleep. i’m only helping, remember?” your owner coos with a gentle kiss to the back of your head. the fingers in your mouth massage gentle circles across your tongue, while the fingers at your crotch gently stroke your tdick, back and forth.

before long, you notice you’ve been softly whining and panting in your sleepy daze. maybe you’ve even began sucking on the fingers in your mouth or rutting against your owner’s hand without realizing. but just as you’ve nearly fallen into a blissful sleep, you feel the fingers that were rubbing against your tdick glide down, and then into your already soaking cunt.

you gasp once more as you feel your owner’s fingers slide into you, gently thrusting and massaging how it feels best. it’s hard to do much in this sleepy state other than whine and moan around the fingers in your mouth.

“shhh, it’s alright pup, relax. there ya go~ such a pretty, sleepy mess-” your owner coos once more as the fingers inside you slow down, just to add their thumb against your tdick. their fingers curl inside you as their thumb massages in circles that feel so good, almost helplessly moaning and drooling over the fingers in your mouth as you cum over your owner’s hand.

“what a good pup~” your owner praises, as they bring their motions to a slow and plant gentle kisses along the back of your head, neck, and shoulders. they hold you tightly against them as you come down from your orgasm, falling asleep in your owner’s arms soon after.

[sacredsorceress]

logan howlett x f!reader / inbox

there is just something about logan being a gentleman.

sure he's the definition of rough around the edges and his patience is very thin with most people, but i just know that when he found his woman, he'd be the definition of chivalrous. he's old school: opening the door for you, giving you his jacket when there's even a slight breeze... and he won't mention any of it. he'll do it all wordlessly as if its second nature. and if you do point it out to him he'll just make a snarky comment in return or say nothing, instead wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close to his side because what is there to say? of course he takes care of you. he considers himself damn lucky to be the one to do so.

if some guy was rude to you, or god forbid, hit on you? he'd be on them in seconds, grabbing their shirt and asking them if that's how they think they should be treating a lady. (it's a rhetorical question and a warning. if they give the wrong answer? lets say you'll be cleaning blood off his shirt that night).

on nights where he drives the two of you home, he'll be constantly glancing at the passenger seat, rubbing circles onto your thighs. and if some asshole ran a red, forcing logan to slam on his breaks, his first instinct would be to fling his arm over you, holding you back against the seat. when you wake up from the commotion he'd just run his thumb against your temple and tell you in a hushed voice that "it was nothing, sweetheart. go back to sleep."

if someone on the team brought you up in a negative manner when you weren't there (rare, it would probably just be scott trying to get a rise out of logan) he'd turn red: "don't you talk about her" and "keep her name out of your goddamn mouth". because who the fuck thinks they can talk about his girl??

he's not big on PDA but that doesn't mean he's not touchy. anytime you'd walk up the stairs he'd let you use his arm as your own personal railing. before he left for work in the morning, no matter how late he was, he'd make sure to kiss you on the forehead before he left. and if he had a job where he'd have to wake up at the crack of dawn? he'd make sure to get out of bed as quietly as ever and if you so much as stirred, he'd brush your hair back with a "shhh" and a kiss before he got ready for his long day. but it would be okay because he could get through anything knowing he'd be coming home to you at the end of the day.

anyway as rough as logan can be, he's obsessed with his partner and wants to do nothing more than take care of them. and that my friends makes logan the ultimate gentleman.

a/n: just a little blurb because i am obsessed with this idea. my inbox is open if anyone wants to share more thoughts on logan cause ahhh!!

[venusbyline]

Sleep ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 26, oct.

(late post) Prequel of Nine Moons

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: creampie

— summary: Jacaerys was determined to make you his wife, forcing his mother to marry him to you, even against her will. Or against your will too.

— word count: 1.3k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 26th day, female!reader, dark!Jacaerys, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, creampie, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), dubcon somnophilia, rape/non-con, vaginal sex, breast worship, butt worship, breeding kink, degradation, praise kink, corruption kink, loss of virginity, blood licking, squirting, cum eating, cum swallowing, dacryphilia, crying, watersports, doggy style position, minor Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, Referenced Targaryen/Velaryon Incest (cousins), implied/referenced cheating, underage sex, ambiguous/open ending, non-consensual drug use (herbal tea), drugged sex, forced orgasm, forced pregnancy, marriage of convenience mentioned, butt slapping, biting, hair-pulling, manipulation, sexism, possessive behavior, implied breastfeeding kink, implied lactation kink, implied pregnancy kink, innocent!reader, virgin!reader, dark content, sadism, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, canon divergence, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads @dearjardim

— crossposting: AO3

— high valyrian words used: Idaña (twin), Hāedar (younger sister), Lēkia (older brother), Muña (mother).

Jacaerys was fed up with his mother's stubborn and boring behavior. Rhaenyra's refusal to break off his betrothal with Baela and refusing to let him marry you, his twin sister, was only making the fucking war even more stressful. As if the death of his little brother Lucerys was not enough, Jace still had to deal with Baela's constant interference against his angry thoughts and the fact that she did not understand why he hated these stupid Dragonseeds so much. It was easy for someone who was children of a Targaryen King Consort and a Velaryon princess to say he was being too arrogant or spoiled.

Either way, Jacaerys did not want a damn betrothed who was barely fit to support him during the outbursts. Even though she was extremely delightful and an excellent warrior, Jacaerys needed more. He needed a caring wife. And he knew you could play the role very well.

His anger towards Rhaenyra and Daemon was growing, to the point where he sometimes wished that his mother would actually recover her rightfully Iron Throne, but only because then he could rule the Seven Kingdoms soon.

He asked and even begged his mother to change the betrothal, explaining that the bond between the two of you had grown since Luke's murder and he needed you. Unfortunately, Rhaenyra remained a woman of her word, refusing to change the agreement.

Perhaps it was really a spoiled and cruel attitude on Jace's part, but he was determined to make you his wife, forcing his mother to marry him to you, even against her will. Or against your will too.

"Idaña, please..." Your whimper sounded too loud for both of your own good and Jacaerys whispered for you to moan lower, his large hand went straight to your mouth, sticking his index, middle and ring finger there to muffle the sounds that followed as he continued to slowly move his hips back and forth.

Each time he took himself out and put it back in, Jacaerys enjoyed the sight of his cock wet with your juices and also the blood of your innocence, as well as the sight of your voluptuous ass shaking when he fucked you a little rougher than before. He was trying his best to be careful with you, taking advantage of your drowsy dubious consent. Of course he did not want to hurt or scare his little twin sister in any way. He just wanted to left you filled with his seed, making your future heir growing in that soft womb.

"Shhh, Hāedar... You do not want to wake up our mommy, do you?" Jace murmured, pressing his bare sweaty chest against your white satin nightgown-covered back. He really wanted to rip that stupid fabric off and fuck his sister until you barely remember your own name. Until you beg for his cock. Until you were practically brainless. "Mother does not want me to marry you. But you want to marry me, do not you want to, my dear?"

Jace's question made you moan incoherent words around his hand, impossible for him to understand anything, so he took his three fingers out of your lips, wet with your spit and stuck them in your head, pulling your dark wavy hair just like his, despite the difference from length. You were like a reflection of him. The hair, the eyes, the nose... You were like a pure and innocent version of Jacaerys, the version he could never be. You were a true pure soul. You were everything he should have been and he was everything you could become.

He fucked you deeper, slapping your buttocks hard and making you scream softly, while he took the opportunity to pull your hair back, leaving your neck exposed to nibble and kiss. "Answer me, little sister. Do you want to marry me? Do you want to carry the future King or Queen of the Iron Throne inside your belly? Do you want me to turn you into a Muña?"

Perhaps it was your still slightly asleep state, perhaps it was how his cock was fucking you too fast and brutally for your virgin cunt to handle, or perhaps it was the special herbs that Jacaerys had put in your drink during dinner... But you just could not say no to him. You did not even want to say no. All that was going through yourself mind was that Jacaerys needed to keep doing what he was doing, even if it hurt so bad.

"Do you want me to breed you, sister? Beautiful little dark-haired babies sucking milk from your breasts while I sit on the Throne?" His question did not get a verbal response, however, Jace understand it as agreement due to the way your walls tightened around his member. "That is, that is my fucking good little girl... So innocent and obedient." Jace growled between moans, taking his hand out of your head and moving it to the softness of your clothed breast, squeezing roughly over the fabric. "You are taking me so well, Idaña. You are going to look so beautiful pregnant with our children. I am going to fuck my seed into you every year, I will never get tired of that warm and tight little cunt..."

You cried out and felt a sequence of slaps on your ass again, noises so loud that the entire castle was probably already hearing you two. "Lēkia... S-stop... I need to pee!" You suddenly screamed groggily when you felt your lower belly start to ache. You hoped Jacaerys would stop what he was doing and release you, but all he did was chuckle mockingly and grip your hips tighter. "PLEASE, JACE! Brother, please... I really need to pee right now!"

Even though you could not see Jacaerys' face because he was fucking you from behind, but you felt his breath in your ear, his teeth nibbling on your earlobe before he purred. "Then do it." He teased hornily. "I am your twin and some minutes older than you. Also, I am the one who will be the future King, so I am ordering you to do it."

Your eyes widened, coming out a little of your sudden trance and drowsy state when Jace continued holding your hip with one arm, but brought the other to your belly, pressing hard on the place where your bladder was. Tears began to fall desperately from your face and you struggled under your twin brother body, the hot liquid wetting the sheets and both of your legs and the Jace's too. "Well... I thought princesses and big girls did not piss on themselves. Now I guess I was wrong, you are a cute bedwetter, my dear. That was so horny."

The mockery turn everything more shameful and you sobbed, just crying when your cunt began to spasm intensely until you came, a clearer liquid splashing out before you fell face down on the pillow completely, your consciousness fading for a while after the orgasm and something else.

You did not know how long you were unconscious. Probably just for five or ten minutes. When your eyes opened with difficulty, you were still breathing heavily, your face pressed into your soft pillow, hearing Jacaerys growl and feeling him pull his cock out of you after his release, spreading your buttocks to enjoy the view of your bruised ass and reddish and sore cunt, full of cum and drops of your blood and wet with your own pee and your sudden squirt.

"Both of us will hope my seed catches as soon as possible. Right, Hāedar?"

You sniffled and nodded, not protesting when Jace pushed his finger into your sensitive hole and brought it to your lips, forcing you to lick up the disgusting mixture as he smirked, stroking your dark hair too. "My dear little sister. My true future betrothed and wife. You will be such a good mother." He placed a kiss on your shoulder, caressing your sore ass and laying down next to you, ignoring your confused and sleepy cries. "Seven Hells, do not be pathetically dramatic. Just go back to sleep, dear sister. Go back to sleep and then we can rule Westeros together very soon, I promise this to you. Nothing will separate us, not even Mother, Daemon or Baela. Not even you."

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[satellite-evans]

Drunk in love

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: When their wives get drunk, it is up to the Bridgerton brothers to take care of them ;)

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Kate and reader are drunk lol, just pure fluff

A/N:

this is just something silly I had in my mind lol enjoy

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The Bridgerton household was steeped in the soft glow of the evening, and in the library, two brothers sat comfortably. Benedict Bridgerton leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips as he listened to Anthony's latest tirade about the complexities of running the family estate. The occasional crackle of the fire punctuated Anthony’s words, creating a comforting backdrop to their conversation.

"It's all well and good for you, Benedict," Anthony was saying, "to prance about with your paints and canvases. But someone has to keep this family afloat."

Benedict chuckled, shaking his head. "You take life far too seriously, Anthony. One day, you'll realize there's more to it than ledgers and land."

Before Anthony could retort, a burst of laughter erupted from the drawing room, loud enough to make both men pause. They exchanged curious glances, and without a word, rose to investigate the source of the commotion.

As they approached the drawing room, the laughter grew louder and more infectious. Pushing the door open, they were met with a sight that brought simultaneous smiles and sighs to their faces. There, amidst a sea of discarded shawls and half-empty wine glasses, were their wives: Y/N and Kate, draped over the settee in fits of giggles.

"My love," Benedict began, striding over to Y/N, who looked up at him with sparkling, mischievous eyes.

"Ben!" Y/N exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. "Have you come to join our party?"

Anthony moved to Kate, who was similarly animated, her cheeks flushed with wine. "What on earth is going on here?" he asked, unable to keep a smile from his lips.

"We were just... having a bit of fun," Kate replied, her words slightly slurred. "Isn't that right, Y/N?"

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, her grip on Benedict tightening. "Yes! And you should have been here, Benedict. We were planning all sorts of adventures!"

Benedict exchanged a knowing look with Anthony. "It's getting late," he said gently. "Perhaps it's time to retire for the night before we wake the whole household."

"But we’re not tired!" Kate protested, though she yawned right after.

"Yes!" Y/N said eagerly. " We have work to do. We need to save the pirates!"

Benedict looked at Anthony with a confused look on his face, not understanding a word his wife is saying.

"The pirates? What pirates?" He asked his wife.

"Silly Benedict, the pirates that got captured of course! If we don't help them they will die or worse, catch a cold." Kate said to her brother-in-law while slurring the words, indicating that the night was surely over for the 2 ladies.

With a mixture of gentle coaxing and persuasive charm, Benedict and Anthony managed to guide their wives towards the staircase, their efforts accompanied by more giggles and shushing noises. Y/N and Kate were like a pair of mischievous schoolgirls, clutching each other for support as they swayed precariously.

"Shhh, we must be quiet!" Kate whispered loudly, her finger pressed to Y/N's lips.

"Yes, shhh!" Y/N echoed, though her laughter threatened to spill over.

Benedict exchanged an amused glance with Anthony. "Easier said than done," he muttered, placing a steadying hand on Y/N's waist.

The trek upstairs was a comedic parade of whispered laughter and shuffling feet. Y/N, in her drunken state, decided it was a brilliant idea to try walking on her tiptoes to avoid making noise. She stumbled, her giggles turning into a high-pitched squeal as Benedict caught her just in time.

"My hero," she declared, leaning heavily against him.

"Always," Benedict replied, his voice filled with warmth.

Meanwhile, Anthony had his hands full with Kate, who seemed determined to recount an elaborate and entirely fictitious tale about their latest adventure. "And then the pirate said, 'No, it's my treasure!' and I told him, 'You can have it, but only if you dance a jig!'"

Anthony shook his head, suppressing his laughter. "Let's get you to bed, love. You can tell me the rest of the story tomorrow."

As they finally reached the top of the stairs, the brothers carefully navigated their wives down the hall to their respective bedrooms. Y/N clung to Benedict, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.

"Do you know what we should do, Ben?" she whispered, her voice conspiratorial. "We should have our own little party. Just you and me."

Benedict raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that so?"

Y/N nodded, her movements exaggerated by the effects of the wine. "Yes. And I have... ideas." She bit her lip, trying to look sexy for her husband but failing miserably.

Benedict couldn't help but laugh softly at her earnest expression. "I'm sure you do, darling. But I think you might regret them in the morning."

She pouted, leaning in closer. "You're laughing at me," she accused, though her own lips twitched upwards.

"Never," Benedict said, kissing her forehead. "I just find you utterly adorable."

Y/N’s pout deepened. "I’m trying to seduce you, Benedict Bridgerton, and you’re laughing."

Benedict wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "And I love you for it," he murmured. "But you’re far too drunk to remember this tomorrow."

Y/N huffed, but her eyelids were already drooping. "Fine. But you owe me, mister."

"I’ll gladly pay my dues," he promised, tucking her under the covers, making sure she was comfortable.

Once the bedroom doors softly clicked shut behind them, Benedict and Anthony exchanged amused glances, their expressions a mix of fond exasperation and lingering mirth.

Anthony let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Well, that was certainly an eventful evening."

Benedict grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Indeed. I never knew Y/N had such a penchant for dramatic declarations."

"And Kate," Anthony added with a raised eyebrow, "tyring to save pirates? I wonder where she comes up with these ideas."

Benedict chuckled softly, moving to pour himself a glass of water. "It’s all part of their charm, I suppose. Makes life interesting."

Anthony nodded thoughtfully, leaning against the dresser. "Indeed it does. They certainly keep us on our toes."

Silence settled between them for a moment, the sounds of the quiet house filling the space. Benedict took a sip of water, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Anthony. "At least they provided us with some entertainment."

Anthony grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To our adventurous wives and the mornings after."

Benedict laughed, clinking his glass against Anthony's. "May we always be prepared for their antics."

The next morning, the dining room was a scene of quiet activity as the Bridgerton family gathered for breakfast. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the table laden with a variety of morning fare. Benedict and Anthony were already seated, exchanging knowing glances as they sipped their coffee.

"Good morning," Anthony greeted with a wry smile, his voice a bit too cheerful as Kate and Y/N finally made their way downstairs. The two women looked thoroughly sheepish, their faces pale and their movements slow, battling clear signs of a hangover.

Kate, with a hand on her throbbing head, groaned softly as she took her seat. "Please. Not so loud, Anthony," she muttered, reaching for a slice of toast but ultimately settling for a glass of water.

Y/N, trailing slightly behind, sat down next to Benedict, doing her best to avoid his amused gaze. "Good morning," she mumbled, her voice hoarse, reaching for a cup of tea as if it were a lifeline.

Benedict leaned over, a smirk playing on his lips as he whispered in her ear, "How’s your head, my love?"

She shot him a sideways glance, her cheeks coloring. "Let’s not talk about it," she replied, taking a tentative sip of her tea.

"But you were quite the charming seductress last night," Benedict teased gently, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning softly. "I’m never drinking that much again."

At the other end of the table, Kate was having a similar conversation with Anthony. "Honestly, I can't remember the last time I felt this awful," she confessed, gingerly rubbing her temples.

Anthony chuckled, passing her a plate of fruit. "Perhaps next time you’ll heed my warnings about overindulgence."

Kate shot him a baleful look, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "Don’t be smug, Anthony. It’s not becoming."

"Who, me? Never," Anthony replied with a wink, earning a soft laugh from Kate despite her discomfort.

As the morning continued, the initial awkwardness began to fade, replaced by the comforting normalcy of family life. Eloise and Colin entered the room, their curiosity piqued by the unusual quietness of their typically lively sisters-in-law.

"Good morning," Eloise said brightly, her keen eyes darting between Kate and Y/N. "You two look like you’ve been through the wars."

"Something like that," Y/N muttered, managing a small, embarrassed smile.

Colin, always one for humor, grinned broadly. "Did we miss an adventure last night?"

"Let’s just say it was a night to remember," Benedict replied, his eyes meeting Y/N’s with a tender affection that spoke volumes.

Eloise raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do tell."

"Another time, perhaps," Y/N said quickly, the color rising in her cheeks again.

As the conversation flowed around the table, the bonds of love and laughter only grew stronger. Despite their mortification, Y/N and Kate couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for their husbands’ gentle teasing and unwavering support.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Benedict asked Y/N, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. "Bits and pieces," she admitted. "I remember laughing a lot. And I think I tried to..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.

Benedict chuckled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "You were very determined to have a private party," he said, his eyes twinkling. "It was quite the spectacle."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I’m so embarrassed."

"Don't be," Benedict said softly, leaning closer. "I love seeing every side of you, even the tipsy, adventurous one."

At the other end of the table, Kate was facing a similar interrogation. "So, what exactly were you and Y/N plotting in the drawing room?" Anthony asked, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

Kate looked mortified, her face pale except for the flush of her cheeks. "I think we were planning an expedition to find some pirate treasure," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or something equally ridiculous."

Anthony laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You certainly had quite the adventure in mind. Perhaps we should consider a career change?"

"Very funny," Kate muttered, though she couldn’t help but smile at his good-natured teasing.

The rest of the family, picking up on the mood, joined in the light-hearted banter. Colin leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "It seems our sisters-in-law have a penchant for late-night escapades. We'll have to keep an eye on them."

Eloise, never one to miss a chance to tease, added, "I think it’s wonderful. We could use more excitement around here. Perhaps next time, I'll join in the fun."

"Absolutely not," Anthony interjected firmly, though his smile betrayed his true feelings. "Two tipsy adventurers are quite enough."

Amidst the laughter and teasing, the lingering embarrassment began to fade. Y/N and Kate, though still feeling the effects of their overindulgence, found themselves relaxing, their initial mortification replaced by a growing sense of comfort. The warmth and acceptance from their family wrapped around them like a cozy blanket, reinforcing the love that bound them all together.

[aurorawritestoescape]

HALLOWEEN NIGHT

Stepdad Joel Miller x f!reader || 500 words

Summary: you’re about to leave home for a Halloween party but your stepdad has other ideas.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, step-cest, dub con but reader’s into it, legal age gap, perv!Joel, infidelity, unprotected piv (wrap it up), degradation, slutshaming, praise kink, daddy kink, swearing.

A/n: a brief and unexpected (for me too lol) visit from stepdad Joel. He won’t let me go I guess🫠 Happy Halloween, sluts (affectionate)🎃💕 dividers by @saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST

You’re hurrying down the stairs, wearing your Halloween costume - a top, a mini skirt with a tail and cute cat ears. Almost out of the door you hear your stepdad call your name from the living room.

“What?” you ask, peeking into the room.

He looks you up and down, brows furrowed.

“C’mere.”

“What?” You repeat, getting annoyed. “I’m late.”

You know it’ll take longer to argue with him so you do what you’ve been told.

He’s sitting on the couch and when you step up to him he leans forward and plants the elbows on his knees.

Your stepdad’s dark eyes slide over your figure and he takes a sharp breath.

“Lookin’ like a damn slut. As always.”

“It’s Halloween, Joel,” you grumble, rolling your eyes at the man.

“Seems like ya celebrate it every day, sweetheart,” he mumbles as his hand darts to his crotch and he starts palming it. You glare at him but already feel the tingling between your legs. He looks so hot wearing his white undershirt and worn out gray sweatpants.

When Joel’s free hand wraps around the back of your thigh you softly gasp and try to step back but he holds you in place.

“Shhh, little kitty, ‘s jus’ daddy.”

“Joel,” you plea, your mind screaming for him to stop while your body demands for him to continue.

“Gonna have fun tonight?” His hand slides up and up until it snakes under your skirt.

Your heartbeat is booming in your throat. You’re scared that your mom will catch you two but at the same time you’re trembling with arousal.

“Mmm— I — I don’t know,” your voice is shaky. “My friends are waiting in the car.”

“Hmm, what kinda friends?” You feel Joel’s warm fingers graze your ass and softly pinch your cheek. He’s looking up at you, his eyes obsidian.

“Just my girls.”

You’re barely breathing at this point.

The pads of his thick digits push between your cheeks and he massages your pussy folds through your thin panties from behind. You wonder if he feels how wet you’re. For him. For your stepdad. Oh god!

“Hngg — your girls’ll have to wait.”

His hand leaves your pussy and he leans back on the couch.

“Ya gonna ride this dick now. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you up soon. 5 minutes tops,” he’s telling you this as his hand pulls the waistband of his sweatpants down and he frees his hard cock. How the hell is he already hard?!

You open your mouth to protest, to reason with him, to tell him you don’t have time, that your mom, napping upstairs, can wake up any moment but his cock—

his gorgeous, stiff, leaking cock—

calling to you— Your pussy wants it—needs it.

You sigh and pull your skirt up before straddling Joel’s hips.

Your hand wraps around his girthy base and you line up his fat tip with your little hole. You’re soaking wet and your cunt is sinking down on it, easily taking his massive cock, while your eyes are locked. Your stepdad moans, his lids heavy with pleasure, before a smirk tugs at his lips and he mumbles,

“Happy Halloween—my little slut.”

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!<3

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

Stepdad Joel tag @megangovier @she-could-never

[macfrog]

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

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

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

December.

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

You hate every fucking minute of it.

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

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

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

Never mind.

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

“Tommy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How am I holding up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

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

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

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walk me home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

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

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

You don’t?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

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

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

“’n whose fault is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what I’m craving?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

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

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

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

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

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

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

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

And I mean anything. OK?

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

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

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom.

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

Mom. Mom and Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

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

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

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

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

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

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

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

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

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

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

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

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

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

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

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

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

Let go.

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

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

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

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

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

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

But right then –

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

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

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

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

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

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

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

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

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

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

Your head shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

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

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

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

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

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

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

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

He sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

“You have to go.”

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

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

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

He leaves on Saturday morning.

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

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

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

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

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

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

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

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

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

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

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

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

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

“Hm. Now go.”

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

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

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

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

A one-night stand.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

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

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One twenty-three. You go into labor.