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macfrog · 3 months

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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 –

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.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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taegularities · 3 months

Text

entertainer (teaser) | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, sexual tension, he is so attracted to her :'), mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, dark past(s), crying, fear, confrontation and fighting, cocky kook, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content (kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, etc.), more warnings on drop day once the fic is finished!! not much for the teaser itself, though <3 ➳ wc: 1.8k :') (around 20k for the full thing) ➳ a/n: scratches head. this has been a long time coming and i'm beyond curious how y'all will like it :') very new and experimental, so let's see how it goes!! as always, drop a message to lmk what you think of this lil glimpse, i'll be waiting with dangling feet hehe!! <3

➳ give the Entertainer playlist a first listen! 🖤

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done that a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices once the two of you halt in front of another piece of work. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me like that?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“So,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only recognises a tranquil ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is tender, but wrapped in dark mystery.

How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly odd things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“But it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must be a trigger, or a thought on something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ahhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibition made me realise how that colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who've earned it.”

Earned it? How?

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your gaze. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Someone…

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t. Yet.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — a nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like this when you were at the meeting, or in his office. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the puzzles away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this much of an open book?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Hah. Well, I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Strokes his ego, though. And then, out of the blue again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely inhaled half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps this is enough for now, visiting the overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake to go with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh. One?” you ask, “Don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as hell. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for us two.”

You laugh — a candied, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip of his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. While he does avoid them, it’s still always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, serving two perfectly prepared cappuccinos and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge piece.

You thank her with a gentle smile, and tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your dangling silver earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… oh God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head.

All the way through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag the wet tip of your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance in snail’s pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sound around him comes alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You catch him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — and maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

Making you smile must be an achievement, though, right? If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him live, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… that’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you interesting. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue.

“You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing; getting what he wants? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before.

No matter what it is; Jungkook only understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants you to be the colour green for him.

wrote most of it now and while sick, so it might change hehe! but i hope it's okay so far, and it shall only get better!! i'm so so excited for this, like i've been working on it and putting thought into it since october, so i hope it's worth the wait <3

as always, send your thoughts, questions, complaints lol lemme know what you think or i might perish sniff. super curious to know!! also, here's the taglistttt 🤍 love and appreciate you all <3

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook

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baddestbittyontheblock · 4 months

Text

choi seungcheol fic recs

you are responsible for the content you consume‼️

✧*:·˚ hi everyone!! here is a list of all the fics that are my favs with tagged writers/authors ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ remember to like and reblog the works you enjoy in order to support each writer!! ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ however, make sure you read the information on each story themselves such as triggers & warnings ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ also, if you'd like me to remove your fic from this list, message me! ✧*:·˚

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

♡ﾟ･🍓 down bad (so so bad) by @lovelyhan seungcheol x pet-sitter!reader (ft. exo's sehun just 'cause LOL) | friends to lovers, lots of denial, a twinge of fluff, smut, graphic sexual content (MINORS DNI), 5.7k

-it’s not like you’re curious about how the word would taste in your mouth whenever seungcheol calls himself daddy while talking to kkuma. nope. definitely not.

♡ﾟ･🍓 thirst trap by ^ choi seungcheol x reader | established relationship, fluff, smut, implied hand kink?, graphic sexual content (minors dni!!), 2.8k

-whne your boyfriend posts a deliberate thrist trap for millions to see, you end feeling just a little bit sulky.

♡ﾟ･🍓 seungcheol blurb by @sluttywonwoo choi seungcheol x reader | smut

-s/o is having a rough day so seungcheol takes his time eating her out

♡ﾟ･🍓 the morning by @venerex gn!reader x scoups | mentions of previous sexual activity

-the sunlight from your bedroom windows makes you squint as you try to open your eyes, blinking away the sleep while the light vibrations from someone’s texting hum through the room –

♡ﾟ･🍓 always better by ^ scoups x f!reader | oral (f receiving), overstimulation, talks about preferences in bed, reader has stretch marks

-"you mean like, something like spanking?"

♡ﾟ･🍓 distracted by @bluejeanstrash choi seungcheol x reader | suggestive conversation, mild smut

-you get distracted by seungcheol’s arms during your dinner date. that’s it.

♡ﾟ･🍓 love no longer by @vnti-vntiety-recs dom!s.coups x fem!reader | smut/slight humor?, MDNI, 18+, mentions of drinking, sexual acts, face fucking/deep throat, a lil man handling, rough cheol, asphyxiation, overstimulation, lying for a bet, 5.1k

-what happens when your friends dare you to break up with your boyfriend over text?

♡ﾟ･🍓 dating seungcheol feels like... by @ssentimentals choi seungcheol x reader

-being in a cocoon of safety and care.

♡ﾟ･🍓 open your eyes by ^ seungcheol x gn!reader | friends to lovers au featuring mutual pining and a bit dumb seungcheol

-'all this time, it was always, it has always been you.'

♡ﾟ･🍓 boyfriend headcannons by @sweetkpopmusings boyfriend!seuncheol x gn!reader | fluff, 1.3k

-seungcheol is 100% boyfriend material and the bestest boy.

♡ﾟ･🍓 baguette by @bwinnies choi seungcheol x reader | fluff , some cursing , food is mentioned (they’re in a grocery store) , seungcheol may make u kinda weak ngl, 1.2k

-to choi seungcheol, you are the epitome of perfection.

♡ﾟ･🍓 seungcheol boyfriend habits by @odxrilove choi seungcheol x reader | headcannons, fluff, established relationship

-zips your jackets up whenever it's cold

♡ﾟ･🍓 towards the sun by @cheolism choi seungcheol x reader | angst and comfort, insecurities. mentions of depression, anxiety. seungcheol talking abt his own struggles with depression. quiet anger, crying. seungcheol loves you sm and spoils you accordingly. childhood sweethearts, promise rings. you two worship each other <3 tons of metaphors.

-sometimes you wonder if seungcheol will one day regret being tied to you.

♡ﾟ･🍓 frozen cold proposal by ^ seungcheol x reader | cursing, bickering but nothing serious. a little brother is mentioned. a lot of choi seungcheol stubborness, 1.5k

-seungcheol is stubborn and decides to try and make soup over the fire. you stumble upon a surprise in his pockets when trying to huddle against him for warmth.

♡ﾟ･🍓 all through the night by @sluttywoozi choi seungcheol x fem!reader | M (18+), 4.5k

-you've been working too hard and sleeping too little, an unfortunate habit of yours. not to worry, cheol has a way of getting you to sleep.

♡ﾟ･🍓 argument by @sweetiesicheng seungcheol x reader

-"no, you're not listening to me! it was just for two seconds, and my manager wanted us to have the photo taken,"

♡ﾟ･🍓 kick in the right direction by @httphannie football player!seungcheol x fem mascot!reader | fluff, comedy

-t's obvious choi seungcheol has a crush on you but no one expected him to launch a football at you.

♡ﾟ･🍓 bad habits by @honeykyeom frat president!seungcheol x gn!reader | 18+ content, (oral (male receiving), teasing reader and teasing seungcheol, college party setting)

-you and seungcheol had been talking for awhile, almost 2 months; you could say you knew his style and type.

#choi seungcheol #choi seungcheol x reader #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol smut #scoups x reader #scoups smut #scoups #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt scoups #fic recs #fic rec

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apparentlytheproblem · 8 months

Text

if was your boyfriend, never let you go keep you on my arm girl, you'd never be alone

druig recomendations

perfectly busy - @tokkiotears

lemme just say, HUSBAND DRUID OML. and I'm just a sucker for a confident and king Druid behavior. absolutley adoring this to no ends, smn send help, I forgot how to function. the not really complete without you got me. oh god. just o h g o d. i just feel like i should comment on the narrative, it was so well done and just hit the spot i didn't even know I had.

warnings-

not proofread, annoying men, druig in a button-up with the sleeves rolled up

"this isn't over" - @peterparkersnose

bro this slapped in so many different levels, like excuse me. And druig who shares books and annotates? and smug druig? godamn. the sexual tension- smn keep him away from me before i fall in love.

warnings-

angst, privacy invasion, accidental nudity, sexual tension, falling in love with something you could never have-?

sunshine - @itsapeterthing

firstly, i fell in love with the writing, its so stunning. it has such a fun and flowery vibe surrounding it which makes me just gush oml. it was just so sweet. AND how he gets flustered- literally hit all my marks and exceeded them. i hope you never stop writing these, they make my soul lighter.

warnings: eternals insulting druig as always, fluff

how could they not know? - @saintlike78

to start of, i love a vocal man who can tell you that he missed you. the scene itself was so soft. just love sick druig running back to your arms and you're wearing his shirt mwahh. i find it hilarious how no else has even noticed this happening before, my oblivious fools. its so adorablee.

warnings-

nothing but fluff really, dialog heavy.

hold - @redheadspark

bro, my love, angel, the gif itself got me a blushing mess, you have no idea what the fic did to me sheesh. i love a man who was so acceptable about her fear and so re-assuring, that's so perfectly written. i also love how the author has written these thoughts in her head as well as the internal debate. it just left me in awe i swear.

warnings-

Just a hint of angst but mostly fluff

warmth - @stranger-nightmare

these are one of my favorite's that I've encountered. the end was just lovley. Just the plot of this drabble has me on my knees. it was wonderfully thought and wonderfully written. the author has left no crumbs.

warnings-

one case of swearing, a lil bit of fluff, a whole lotta angst, nakedness but it’s not in a sexual way

boyfriend headcannons - @luventi

just a bunch of head cannons which i thought were amazing. overall its just so cute and has me screaming, crying and throwing up. honestly very underated.

warnings-

druig x gn eternal!reader, au where everyone is alive and happy and together, there will be dashes of suggestive content admits all the fluff so be warned!

shy lover - @writing-wh0re

[ it didn't have a title so I gave it this, I hope the author doesn't mind]

felt that this was just a must included, i don't wanna really have to summarize this cause there wasn't a single line that did not fail to have me hypnotized. just lovley work

warnings-

Smut18+, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Male Performing Oral, Praise Kink (both), Begging Kink (?), Slight Cocky Druig, Cum kink (?)

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pray4byron · 2 months

Note

Hey I was wondering if I could have head cannons with Lucifer, Alastor, and Vox and their reaction to their s/o wanting a divorce. Break some hearts 👍

𝐯𝐨𝐱, 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬/𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

a/n: as someone who primarily writes fluff, i literally read this and audibly gasped, and felt like an awful human being writing this :’) ehehehh.. enjoy!!

warnings: angst, profanity, divorce, arguments

proofread: what do you think? ofc not!

tags: hazbin hotel, vox, angst, lucifer morningstar, fanfic, alastor

𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫

during this whole interaction, he’s entirely stone cold, well… except for his normal grin. you can’t read his emotions, not even a bit.

he’ll hum, and squint his eyes at you, before snapping his fingers, causing divorce papers to appear in front of you

i’m unsure of how he’d feel about it, if anything at all, unless the marriage was simply transactional, but it’s safe to say he wouldn’t show it

𝐯𝐨𝐱

unlike alastor, he did show it.

he was fucking furious. he gave you everything. he gave you a free home, he gave you money, he gave you expensive clothes, he even fucking gave you some of his spotlight.

vox would end up getting very mad at you, for well, a lot of reasons; but mainly cause, he loves you.

he isn’t ready to let you go, but also isn’t ready to admit that, you’re causing him so much confusion and putting him through a change he isn’t used to, so admittedly, he takes it out on you.

vox will fucking divorce you now, he’s petty now. he’ll probably go off and fucking diss track you like he did with alastor in s1e2, however the question is, do you respond?

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫

the most healthy one out of the pack.

he’s upset, he’s heartbroken, it’s his second divorce, the one where he finally thought he’d be set for life.

lucifer will try to hold back his tears as much as he can as he talks out the details with you.

but at the end of the day, he wants you to know he has all the love and respect for you, despite the circumstances, but the doesn’t mean the pang in his heart is near faded…

honestly, you guys probably had a divorce that ended on semi-good terms, but tbh, he’ll still probably always have a lil smth for ya, even if he does move on and find someone else

i do not permit for my work to be reposted, translated, or stolen. all rights go to signedmio. characters are not mine, unless stated, and belong to their rightful creators.

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tarjapearce · 8 months

Text

Crimson Crown (Pt. 2)

Royal! AU Miguel O'Hara x Princess! Reader

Special thanks to @pinkiemme for this amazing fanart for this fic ❤️✨

WARNINGS: Historical background, lil bit of research on medieval fertility rites, made up holidays, fluff until angst comes. Tension, arranged married, slow burn, sibling bonding, Peter B. Parker being a lil more serious.

Summary: A hopeful moment gone sour.

Pt. 3

Ever since mankind has had use of reasoning, wars have been waged over the simplest motives. Power display, conquer the prospect of new and better lands, and of course egoistical purposes such as spite, bloodshed, hatred, revenge, and love.

In the far lands of Enethor, war was part of the staple list of things to do if you were part of the land. The four kingdoms that shaped the continent had been long time witness of how entire bloodlines died and rebirthed. How whole kingdoms separated, only to be conquered later by those with enough power to rewrite history at their will.

Enethor was separated by four kingdoms. Erunia, Therelia, Onerim and Arachne.

Erunia, the land of iron and silver. Home of the artisans that had taken the kingdom's warriors abroad in their distinctive red wooden ships. Cradle of silver refinery and alchemy. The ultimate underwater explorers.

Monarchy in Erunia settled with the most recent bloodline, The Fisks, in charge of King Wilson Grant Fisk. A bloodline that had been reigning for the last fifty years, and made the once forsaken by war kingdom into one of the most technology advanced right after Arachne. Even though it's ruler was deemed ruthless, he was more a cautious, cunning and strategic man whose only god was money.

Erunia's economy was based in exportation, silver refinery, iron smithing and of course, private security. Meaning, mercenaries for hire to anyone with enough money to afford them.

The latter of course was a loud secret between the other nations, most acted according their righteous morals, but secretly sent their servants to hire Fisk's services. The little business had earned him the name of 'Kingpin'. He was a feared yet somehow respected king.

Theleria was the smallest of the four. The Land of medicine, arts and gold. Rich soil, perfect for growing a vast array of medicinal plants, and perfect for gold minery. Even though its land was reduced, the bloodline was one of the eldest and purest among the other kingdom's monarchies.

The Blanchards. Settled two houndred years ago, they had watched the fall and rise of nations, in the expense of their own territory. In long forgotten history, Therelia owed half of Erunia's land and Onerim's islands. But as The Rapture War ensued, Onerim's islands were released from The Blanchard's reign.

The Rapture war took place in the Rapture sea, a cemetery of ships and long honored and forgotten warriors, and after another twenty years in war with Erunia's old sovereign, another part of the territory was lost. Theleria had spent the last houndred years trying to recover from the blows the belic conflicts had put the kingdom in.

The Fallen Reign, the other nations called it. The last and final blow that weakened them considerably was the most recent war against Erunia. Fisk had made his intentions of taking over the West Passage for himself, but the prince life was the higher price The Blanchards had to pay to keep it.

The passage role was to connect Erunia and Arachne as well the merchant ships that came from other lands. Without it, a good part of the economy would slowly but surely collapse. Theleria produced the finest aesthets, fabrics and medicines for the continent.

Its festivities had been the reason many people from other lands to come and celebrate and also increase the tourism affluence. Paint Day, would be a day to honor the aesthetic, the fine arts and good taste. Many would give hand crafts to their beloved, as a token of love and appreciation.

Some even had the common belief that if that person gave a token back, meant a good omen for a future together.

Fertility Day honored the future parents. The streets would be dressed up in wreaths of mugwort, mistletoe and seeds of parsley would be the hot sale of the day. Some women would tie a little sprig around their bellies, others would plant the parsley seeds as it was believed that if it sprouted, a child would grow into the woman's womb.

The Festival of Embers was a memorial day, used to honor the memory of those who had fought in the previous wars and also, the prince funeral. People would leave flowers and medicine over their lost ones graves, so the least fortunate could later pick up the elaborated potions. It was a way to heal others, while letting the grieve to follow it's course.

And finally, Winter Day. A holiday used to welcome the first days of the winter season. Warm and comforting food would be served, duvets would be sold cheaper and of course, the pastries would be a staple. It also had a romantic connotation, just like Paint Day. People gave a small sweet bun full of jam to represent their hearts with a clear message "my love is as sweet as the jam, and as dense like the bread".

Onerim on the other hand had just the Independence Day. The land of pearls, where the fawn was as feared as respected through the realm. It wasn't a secret that many considered the kingdom as failed and misbegotten, since its ruler Sergei Kravinoff had taken the throne after killing his father and rebirthed as Kraven.

And still, people around were wise to avoid picking a war with him. His warriors were ruthless and they held no compassion towards their victims. A savage, King Blanchard had called him once. But his prejudice wasn't only skewed as they were opposites, his view from the world only revolved around hunting, the bloodshed.

Onerim's economy was based on controlled fur trades, weapon commerce such as spears, traps and other trinkets perfect for unsuspecting close killing and gold.

The south east area from Enethor was rich in minerals.

And finally, Arachne. The biggest kingdom of the four. Half of the continent was occupied by it. None really know how the curious shape of the realm was created. Mother nature had her secrets after all, but certainly, Arachne was the most prominent; in all sense of the word.

Despite being a relatively new kingdom, with a hundred year mark of existance, Monarchy wasn't settled until sixty years ago, the first ruler Tyler Stone, had ruled under a relatively prosper and steady command. However, the king had died under mysterious circumstances, and a new ruler rose. George O'Hara.

Most speculations turned into the royal family, the rumor of King Tyler being poisoned by his own half brother, George so he could take over wasn't the only unhinged thing people said. But it was denied as George died of heart attack a couple of months later and the queen, Conchata perished two years later, out of sickness.

Others believed that Kingpin had his fair share of guilt. That there was a complot for Tyler to be dethroned and the lands on the west extension of Arachne to be sieged and won for Erunia.

But whoever the conspirator was, would deeply regret to overlook past one detail. Miguel. Miguel O'Hara. The young and brilliant king that had continued his father's legacy in a way that not many had expected. Clad in black obsidian, iron and red zarconite, Miguel had lead his army into the depths of war. Kraven surely knew bloodshed, but The Battle for the Alchemari sea and its shores declared Miguel as the new King of Sieges.

The foreign army's blood that came with conquering intentions dyed the shore red, just as his eyes. The Red King was born as his message to the others who had the same ideals was clear.

This is my kingdom.

And so it has been for the last seventeen years. Thriving in an alarming rate in technology, the army grew, as many others soldiers from around the world joined him. Miguel had gathered an army of exceptional people with different skills that once trained under his command, would form the completest army a sovereign would only dream of.

Spies, people that excelled in close ranged combat, archery, weaponry and of course intellect. People who were ahead of their time could earn a spot in his army, after a scrutinizing training.

Arachne prospered in many areas, technology, fawn and flora, weaponry; importation and exportation of goods, minery of obsidian, iron and zarconite and of course fishery. The capital, Nueva York, was the main prosperous land, and where Miguel's castle resided.

A fortress in that one would be lost if one didn't know it like the back of a hand.

The world recoiled and guarded itself as much as it could, when the drums of war echoed for Arachne. To kill or to be killed. Red and blue marching behind The Red King. Some died, but would gladly do so, when the king had taken them in and gave them a purpose.

Festivities weren't really a thing, but people celebrated in their own ways. Unlike Theleria, Arachne only counted with three holidays.

New Rain Feast. A celebration to conmemorate Miguel's first battle won at the Alchemari Sea's shores. It was said that after he won over, the rain had washed over any bloodshed. Erasing from history those that had dared to foray his territory and giving hope towards a new future.

Rain was a good omen in the vast kingdom.

The Armistice Day was used to celebrate the memory of those fallen in battle and the successful treaty among international lands.

And the most expected of them all, The Rainbow Festival. It was more like a huge fair for merchants to sell their goods in the capital, that somehow had ended up with music and a new invention for people's amuse. Fireworks.

Only those close to the king knew how much he exerted himself to keep his people safe. He lived and breathed to maintain them all safe. Your arrival however had caused little to no disruption in his routine.

But it was certain that he wasn't looking for a bride. He had got so much more than he actually bargained for. And for your mother to offer you as the last resource only proved not only their good faith and sincerity towards him, but how others saw him. Your parents feared him. Good. Fear kept people in check and prevented then from doing stupid things.

Your surrender was a clear act of desperation. A token, really. A token that would eventually be queen, even without you both getting married. He needed that passageway open for his merchants to not disturb the economy. He could seize your kingdom if he so desired, but he was a man of word, and so far your parents had kept their end of the promise too.

Of course he'd be civil enough so far to keep you comfortable, and when Peter had told him about your concerns regarding him, he knew that sooner or later he'd have to make an approach. Not that he didn't want to. He was just too busy with external affairs that often forgot even about himself.

Peter would often find him sleeping over the documents sent to him, reports, finances from the different main districts through the nation and possible alliances with far lands.

He'd sometimes would have to be dragged off by Jessica to at least eat something. Lyla, one of his advisors often nagged him to look after himself.

And now, you. A new addition to his list of worries.

You were pretty, sure, but love was something he didn't actually consider in a long long time. He had his own concubines, but even those had been neglected to the point of avoiding his chambers. He wasn't precisely gentle with them either.

Gentleness wasn't something that rendered The Red King. He lived up to his image as a cold, irritable yet polite man that would do anything to keep his kingdom safe.

But soon, priorities would have to be rethought as he grew older. One of them awaited for him in the dining hall. Just as he had instructed.

His armor seemed like a staple into his wearing. It was rare when he was without it. His mind prepared psychologically for the events. He was tired, but still. Hungry. The kiss he had given your hand was out of impulse, but said impulse was enough to make you light up and his heart to give a small shimmy at your reaction.

He still could provoke emotions that wasn't fear or a severe longing for death. And that amused him.

"Princesa"

You stood up, and bowed your head.

"Please, take a seat."

You obeyed, and were seated to his right. Food was soon brought.

"Hope your staying has been comfortable enough?"

The table was being occupied with different lots of food made out of fish. After all, fish and seafoods were the main protein in the capital. Stews, soups and so many other things you had never seen or tasted before.

"It has been, yes. Thanks to you, your majesty" Your lips curved into a bashful smile as the servants donned your plate with a small soup first.

The silence settled in as he begun eating. And that's where you noticed, the protuding fangs on each side of his mouth, tearing and chomping down the meat. It made you wonder if he was used to eat like this.

The only sounds in the dining hall was him scarfing down the food as you ate yours. He was too deep in his task to actually mind your awed stare his way as he ate.

"Your Majesty?" Your sweet voice made him stop as he was about to devour a stuffed fish. Red eyes darted your way, and the fabric piece of napkin you held before him with a small giggle.

"I didn't know one could have such an appetite"

He gulped and cleared his throat.

"Food is exquisite, my lord. Can understand your urge, I've never tasted something so scrumptious like this."

He drank from his cup, the food soothing his nerves and sudden thoughts.

"Glad you like." His tone although monotonous was genuine, like his words.

You'd think he'd had his fill, but another round was brought. This time you were served a lighter seafood stew. This time he ate with a bit more moderation despite his hunger. Of course a man his size had to keep himself well fed.

"I'm quite happy for you to take considerations in such things like art." You mumbled after finishing the contents of your plate.

"Can't be all bloodshed, right?"

You smiled with a soft nod.

"Do you favor a certain branch of arts, my lord?"

"Like?"

"Painting, sculpting, scripture, smithing?"

He pondered for a minute, doe eyes seized him with keen interest.

"Smithing, perhaps."

"It suits your likings." You nodded, "I mean, I can tell by the way your armor is built."

"And what could your highness tell from it?"

"That you saw its building yourself. That is a special armor for you, cause I know no other king that would put that much of effort into his battle armor."

His lips curved slightly but pleased.

"You favor paintings, that much noted. What else do you like, princesa?" He drank from his cup again as Jessica marched in with a small box with a vial. A green-ish liquid contained in the glass.

He nodded at Jessica as she left. Then gulped down the little flask. Face contorting into a disgusted gesture for a brief moment.

"I do like embroidering and gardening."

"Gardening?"

"Of course. I was instructed in the arts of holistic medicines back in my kingdom."

"So you're a doctor?"

You giggled and his tiredness slowly felt melting.

"Kind of. Mother wanted me to be the head of our art academy, but father insisted to keep my medicine studies. Somehow both worked. But medicine proved to be more effective. You can't heal injured soldiers with art, after all."

He chuckled and nodded.

"I've heard that you have been visiting the library. Anything you actually need to find?"

"Oh, I apologize if I've come out as a snooper. I just wish to know more about your kingdom."

"Is that so?"

"Don't get me wrong, my lord. I wouldn't want to embarrass you before your council at not knowing a bit more of your culture in case my opinion or input would be asked."

His eyes twinkled in amusement. A wise desicion indeed.

His lips were about to speak when the jumble of familiar voices approached.

" Your Majesty, Prince Gabriel has arrived" Peter announced with a soured expression, one that Miguel knew wasn't a good thing.

Prince Gabriel?

You looked between him and Peter as said Prince barged in behind the commander. Armor similar to Miguel's but his wasn't as opulent, a smaller crown, hip adorned with a black sword, and of course a grail in his hands.

"My king, my lord, my... My Miggy" He hiccuped and approached him slurring his words, careening steps guided his tipsy self closer to where Miguel was, but stopped as his green eyes settled on you.

"And whose this?"

"Gabriel" Miguel warned

"Ohh, a new concubine?! About time!"

Your eyes widened in surprise and your mouth settled in a tight line. Of course he would have concubines. Mostly kings did. Even your father did.

"Gabriel!" His voice froze him in the spot. You stood up, almost abruptly, hands fisted on your dress, heart beating miles per second as your chest grew tighter within.

"Thanks for your time, your majesty. I shall go back."

You bowed and left, Peter trailed after you after Miguel's order. Both just looked where you had disappeared.

Gabriel sat down with a goofy smile that soon vanished. Miguel's glared holes his way

"You're done acting like a fool, Gabriel?"

"You're done playing the horny idiot?"

"Dame paciencia... She's a princess, Gabriel." (Give me patience)

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because" His voice rose and seethed but quickly caught himself, "Fue tan inesperado para mi como lo es para tí" (It was as unexpected for me as is it for you.)

"You're marrying her?"

"Yes."

"Why? We don't need that sort of problems now."

"Thats precisely why I am marrying her. To avoid future troubles."

"What do you mean?"

Gabriel took a mouthful of shrimps as he sat where you had been sitting minutes ago.

"Her kingdom owes the West Passage."

"Wasn't it closed?" He mumbled through a full mouth, Miguel scrunched his nose in disgust as he swallowed.

"Can you not talk for a second?"

"Right, right"

"It was closed due political shit with Erunia."

"Kingpin?"

"He's getting annoying at this point."

"So they closed it because they feared an invasion, I guess."

"Thats why I'm marrying her."

"That's cold, Miggy."

"But necessary."

Gabriel sighed and looked at his older brother. Despite his age, a few white strands protunded from his head due the perpetually stressed state he always seemed to be.

"So, marriage instead of protection."

"Correct. We can't risk our economy to be surpassed by a crime lord as Kingpin or Kraven."

"Why don't just absorb her kingdom as an extension of ours?"

"¿'Tas menso?" (You dumb?)

"What? Just a suggestion"

"No. They just fought a war. The Prince died. There is enough bloodshed as it is."

"That smug and cocky boy?"

"Sounds familiar?"

Gabriel pouted and sighed.

"You're not nice. What if she finds out about it?"

"I'm sure she's well aware of the mess."

Gabriel shrugged and popped another shrimp in his mouth.

"You'll apologize to her."

"Naturally. Enough torment she gets by getting married to you, Miggy."

Gabriel scrambled away with a laugh as Miguel approached him.

"¡Cálmate!" (Chill!)

"Imbécil." He swatted his head, "Any news?" (Dumbass)

"Not good ones, I'm afraid"

------

A concubine.

"Your Majesty!" Peter trailed after you.

The word had been engraved into your mind.

"I beg your pardon, my lady. Prince Gabriel is-"

"It's fine. You don't have to apologize on behalf of another's ignorance."

Peter gulped and sighed as he walked before you.

"I'm really sorry that this happened, your highness. Prince Gabriel is... quite the card when he's under the effects of mead"

"Well, a drunk's words are sober thoughts aren't they?"

Peter frowned and stepped back.

"I know this is an arranged marriage, ser. I know what it implies. Love isn't into the list. And I respect that. After all, this union was born from the need to keep our people in peace and our countries thriving. Nothing else."

Peter blinked.

"I shall take my studies and meals in my room tomorrow, if that's okay. I don't... wish to be disturbed."

Peter bowed and left you be.

Despite your chambers being warm with the fireplace, you felt cold. Colder as you removed your current clothing into the sleeping ones. Just when you had thought that he was being genuine with you, the hope had been crushed cruelly. But of course you had provoked your own tristful mood by idealizing something you weren't even sure of.

-------

Miguel's frown only deepened as Peter's expression.

"What now?"

"She wishes to not be disturbed for tomorrow"

"Of course she does..."

Miguel rubbed his face and rested his chin on his palm.

"Your brother-"

"I know he messed up, Peter"

"I don't think you're understanding. Miguel."

"I do understand." He pinched his nose bridge.

"I've know you since your father trained us to protect you"

"How long has been that? Eighteen years ago?"

"Twenty for me. I've known you for twenty years, Miguel. And for the first time in your life, you're not being honest with yourself."

Miguel’s brow quirked at him.

"Meaning?"

"You're making reckless desicions even if they come with good intentions. But in that recklessness you're hurting people without realizing. "

"Can't hear you when you're talking full of yourself"

"Act tough and proud all you want, but I wouldn't be surprised if she just rather go back to her own country-"

"It's arranged, Peter."

"You're such a jerk. It's not... You know what? Whatever."

Peter turned around and prepared to leave.

"Commander."

Peter stopped and grunted, annoyed.

"I hate it when you do that."

"Did she say something?"

"You're underestimating her"

"Explain."

"No. Ask her yourself."

"Must I remind you who are talking to?"

"I'm talking to you as a friend."

Miguel sighed and let him continue.

"I'm not saying be moonstruck with her and forsake the kingdom and damn your responsibilities. But the least you could be doing is keeping your allies close, she might not be what you wanted at all. But she understands her duty as well. Don't take her as a fool."

"I know she isn't a fool"

"I'm telling you this because I'd never want my daughter in the same position as she is. You think this is easy for her?"

"A kingdom isn't ruled on its own, Peter"

"Precisely my point you idiot! You can't rule it all on your own! Unless you pay with your life." Miguel glared at him but Peter just rolled his eyes.

"I've done this alone for the last decade and some more"

"Yeah, and look at you. A mess that is always mistrusting people."

"I've got my own reasons."

"God, to be a brilliant inventor you're such a dumbass sometimes. Just apologize to her, alright? I'm getting tired of being your personal courier."

Peter left him be. Of course he had seen your reaction, he should send Gabriel away another two weeks for scouting for his stupid little act, and of course he hated Peter being right.

This is exactly why he didn't meddled in these sort of things. But he was a man of honor. And certainly he had enjoyed the little talk with you, so he would take Peter's advice at heart. Disrespectful as he was. He'd keep you close.

----

Tag list

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#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #t writes✨#atsv miguel #spider man 2099 x reader #royal au #princess reader

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amourcheol · 9 months

Text

paris (teaser)

❝You and Jeonghan, jazz-filled corners, hidden history, and the city of love.❞

historical! au | exes to lovers! au | angst, fluff, smut | approx. 45k words (teaser wc. 1.4k words)

s u m m a r y : disgraced by hollywood for the last time, you, a once superstar-turned-alcoholic, escape to the city of love to seek sanctuary from the ruthless tabloids. your sanctuary comes in the form of film noir superstar yoon jeonghan, the enigmatic man who taught you the art of acting, lust and love before your fame. when he asks to meet you once, just like old times, you cannot refuse. what is meant to be a simple date turns into a path of passion, pain and everything that comes with fooling around with your ex in the jazz-filled corners of paris.

c o n t e n t s : actor! mc, actor! jeonghan, mc is incredibly bitter and makes bad decisions, agent! seungkwan who is tired of fixing them, jeonghan is the suavest, sultriest mf, mentions of parisian landmarks in this fic, also a bit of french peppered throughout, greek mythology art references, tons of fluff which is also layered with angst, this will be very hurt-comfort, hella ansgty but will have a happy ending mature warnings -> alcohol consumption and abuse, smoking, this is basically sexual tension with plot, slightly drunk making out, oral sex (f. receiving) unprotected sex (refer point to bad decisions), very soft angsty sex, body worshipping, petnames (chérie, mon ange, darling, angel), overall emotional rollercoaster, more tba!

p l a y l i s t : here!

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @sysymei @alaypsy23 @belladaises @jjeongddol @sparklyshuji @forcoups @ilovesungjun @wonwoo24 @scandal-in-bohemia @hopefulchick @superbbananananana @onedumbho3 @fragmentof-indifference @cuntycheol @rubywonu @if-i-like-i-reblog @yoonzinoooo @jungwoos-luvr @crookedwolfruins @leclercloverbot @alexai (let me know if y’all want to be tagged!)

a u t h o r ’ s n o t e : after three years ... four rewritings later... she may finally see the light ... i am releasing the teaser now but will post the fic when i’m back from holiday! i hope you all enjoy the lil extract <3

read this fic here!

SHIT. YOU COULD NOT DO THIS TODAY.

Suddenly, you wished he was a mere figment of your imagination, because then he would not have to see you in your drunken, disordered state, looking for art that was not there, looking for the past in the present.

But then he began to move.

This very real presence walked closer to you, and you felt your entire body constricting, because Yoon Jeonghan was in front of you, the greatest star in the world was approaching you, the man of your distant memories was coming too close.

“Wait,” he then said, and your throat was closing up, you were blinking rapidly, chest growing heavy, and you needed him to get away. He came closer, and you knew then and there you were going to die on the cold floor of the Louvre, marble eyes on you—

And then your own gaze was glistening, and when he noticed it became harder to contain yourself. “_____, are you all right?”

“Yes!” you got out, but then you proved yourself wrong when a few tears slipped out, staining your cheeks.

The man wasted no time, closing the last space between the two of you as he reached out. Instantly, you repelled from his touch, almost flinching from his surprise. “No!” you rasped out, bringing out your own hands to create distance, taking a step back. “No, you don’t need to do that…I’m fine.”

You breathed sharply through your nose. “I am fine.”

Hastily you turned to the empty space where he last was, before you followed him like a madwoman around the hall. He watched you, your back almost to him. “What…what are you…” you paused, trying to normalise your shaking voice. “What are you doing here?”

You could feel his inquisitive stare upon you. “I could ask you the same thing.”

That question was not being answered. “I asked you first.”

Because you could not see him, you were not aware of his reaction. Still, it was enough for him to answer, “Well, in the Louvre, or in Paris?”

You gritted your teeth at that. “I think everyone knows why you’re in Paris at the moment.”

“Do they, now?”

You could not help it.

Casting a momentary glance at him, you were taken aback to find his gaze upon you. “Are you aware, at least?” he asked you.

Despite his simple questions, your impending headache, you had to clamp down on your remarks. “Of course I’m aware,” you muttered. “The papers are all over the press tours you’ve been doing.”

A perfectly groomed brow arched at your comment. “I’m surprised you follow the papers at the moment.”

You knew exactly what he meant. “One must keep check of the stories they gossip about,” you only said, focusing back on the empty space. “Those journalists cannot be trusted.”

“Hmm…” you heard shuffling amongst his clothes—no doubt crossing his arms. “I have read the stories.”

A scoff. “I suppose you believe them, don’t you?”

He noted the cruelty in your response. The actor did not take it to heart.

“I have always believed in the stories you told me, chérie.”

This time, curiosity controlled your movement.

Curiosity had you turning back, forcing you to observe his expression, catch his lie.

But you found no deception.

No, there was only sincerity—pure as the moonlight shining on the two of you.

Chérie.

The last time someone had called you such a sweet name was too long ago.

How ironic, that it was the same man beside you who had bestowed you this very endearment.

A shuddered breath left you.

You could not do this now.

You were going to say as much when Jeonghan interrupted you.

“Were you looking for something in here?”

Your furrowed brows had him humming. “I thought as much.” Gently, he jerked his head beyond your figure. “Strangely enough, I was looking for it as well.”

Confused, you glanced back at the empty space, where that certain, mysterious sculpture was supposed to be. “That is why I came to the Louvre,” you heard him say.

There was still suspicion laced in your features. “How do you know that we are thinking of the same piece?”

That ghost of a smile crept up again. “You act as if you don’t remember.”

Your sigh was a little sheepish. “I do,” you said, reminiscing on the memories. “But the name…”

No matter how hard you endeavoured, your memory of the sculpture was too hazy for your half-drunk mind.

You searched him for an answer. “I’m sure you have not forgotten.”

“No…I have not.”

You waited. His silence had you insisting, “Well?”

When you saw a slight glimmer in his whimsical gaze, you knew that he had something else in mind. The implications had you biting your lower lip, anxiety blooming.

The nerves grew when Jeonghan spoke.

“I will tell you if you see me tomorrow.”

You blinked back.

“There’s an exhibition opening here tomorrow afternoon,” he continued, taking a step towards you, careful not to startle you again. “It’s centred on the sculpture we both wanted to see, but it’s been moved to another hall.”

He confused you a great amount. “How do you know that?”

His stare went beyond you, to the wall. “It says on the plaque.”

Sure enough—when you looked back, there was the notice. Because your French was adequate at best, you did not understand it fully. You simply had to trust his linguistic abilities.

That you could do—you were aware of Jeonghan’s fluency in the language of love.

He cocked his head, a few strays cascading the side of his face. “You and I could see it there.”

The offer had shaken you. “Why?”

“Why?”

You knitted your brows suspiciously. “Why do you want to go with me?”

The film noir star watched you then, you shuffling uncomfortably under his scrutiny. God, you forgot how intense his eyes were—in fairness, you had not been the subject of his stares for a few years.

He locked his gloved hands behind his back. “Because you need a break, _____. From everything.”

He offered you a smile. “Let me be the one to give you that. If only for the day.”

You could have crumbled before him.

It was at this stage you cursed yourself for being in such a state. Perhaps if you were sober, you would have carried on this conversation in a more respectable manner, taken more caution.

It was incredibly difficult, composing yourself around the man.

“I can’t…” you inhaled sharply, trying to form the words. “I cannot do midday…too many people, you know…staring, judging…”

“Ah.” He nodded, parting his mouth in thought. “Then tomorrow night?”

Stretching your mouth, unsure, he assured, “They will not follow you here at this hour.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

This time, he sighed, surprised at your anxiousness. “I see you’ve not changed, then.”

You narrowed your gaze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

But the actor did not seem like he was going to elaborate.

He instead took another step towards you, a mere two feet left.

“Do you trust me?”

You tilted your head back.

What kind of question was that?

Do you trust me?

You did not trust anyone. Not after this whole debacle back home, when almost all your friends within the industry had contributed to your downfall. Hollywood was filled with traitors, the worst being the people who haunted the journey of your disgrace at every moment.

It was impossible to place any ounce of faith in another.

As you watched his eyes settle on you, you noticed an emotion you had not witnessed in forever.

Tenderness.

Tenderness with no ulterior motive—gentle acceptance, as if he recognised your position. As if he recognised your change, the apprehensive nature of your questions, your pauses. It physically hurt being stained with such compassion, when you had been begging for it from the world all those weeks ago.

It hurt, having someone who understood you.

You, however, should not have been surprised.

Yoon Jeonghan had always been like this. Especially when you both were together.

You could have smiled.

What a time that was.

As if he could read your mind, the film noir star began, “You remember, don’t you? That I’ve never let you down?”

You decided to let yourself slip—you could always blame it on the alcohol.

“What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #yoon jeonghan imagines #jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #jeonghan x reader #svt smut #svt imagines #yoon jeonghan x reader #seventeen hard hours #svt hard hours #yoon jeonghan #seventeen angst #jeonghan angst #yoon jeonghan angst

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miryum · 2 years

Note

Hi, beautiful! I hope you’re having a FANTASTIC day! Can I request a TMR! Minho x reader Fic., whereas he is EXTREMELY protective of them. On one occasion, Thomas entices them with his mischief, and the reader ends up becoming hurt (i.e, bruised eye, etc). Minho finds out, and the reader is a LITERAL barrier between Thomas being a pinpoint for Minho’s wrath. Thank you so much!

Hi bae! I'm having a great day! How about you? I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You swung a leg over the bench and sat down at the table. Plopping your breakfast tray down, you said a good morning to your table of friends.

Newt, Thomas, sometimes Alby (if he wasn’t busy), and your boyfriend Minho. Immediately when you joined them, Minho’s arm was around your waist, pulling you into him.

“You slept in.” He commented, shoving the remainder of his food into his mouth. As a runner, he was up early than you and started his breakfast sooner.

“I wish it was longer.” You grumped, starting to eat. Switching the conversation, you asked, “Newt, what job are you gonna show Thomas today?”

Newt scrunched his nose, “The Builders.”

You gaped. “I’m a Builder! How dare you dislike us! Gally, I understand, but me?!”

“I was talking about Builders in general! You’re a perfectly good Builder! You’re my friend! I-”

“As much as I would love to hear about your pitiful lives,” Minho interrupted before standing, “You’re not pitiful, promise,” he quickly added, “but I hafta go. Bye, love you.” He leaned down and you kissed him quickly on the lips.

“Love you too.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Minho slowly started to back up, begging you to keep safe. “Do things that I wouldn’t do like eat, drink water, focus on your work. If anything happens, go to Newt. Watch out for Thomas- he’s an idiot.” He kept on talking as he got farther away, unaware that you couldn’t hear him.

Minho disappeared into the maze, Minho still waking backwards and talking., him still walking backwards and talking to no one about how you should stay safe.

Life as a Builder was interesting, to say the least. With Gally at the helm and being surrounded by the most rowdy and destructive boys in the Glade, things could get violent. But you helped with measurements and planning things out. In the end, it all worked.

However, on this particular day, Thomas was trying out the job. You had knelt down to grab your pencil that slipped from your ear when an elbow rammed you in the eye.

“Ow!” You fell back, your hand immediately going to your already bruising eye.

“Shuck!” Thomas cried out, “I’m so sorry, Y/n! I didn’t mean to! I’m so so so so sorry!!!”

“It’s fine.” You groaned, “I’ll just go to the Med-hut.”

“...Should I tell Newt?” Thomas asked. You then realised what the boy was thinking.

How would Minho react?

Everyone in the Glade, even the Greenie Thomas, knew Minho was obscenely protective of you. Maybe a little too much so. This wasn’t the first time you got injured. There was a time when you were climbing a tree and fell. Once Minho knew of your sprained wrist, he went ballistic.

First there was the coddling and the endless questions of, “Are you okay? How can I help?” Then there was the anger- both towards the people who didn’t catch you and the tree. He wanted Gally to chop it down in revenge. And finally, there was the meeting he had called (much to your embarrassment) to tell every single person that you wouldn’t be working for the next three weeks as you healed. (Once he went into the maze, you snuck out and kept working.)

Luckily, a black eye wasn’t as bad as a sprained wrist, so maybe he wouldn’t be as mad?

You were very wrong.

Minho crashed into the Med-Hut the minute he heard the news. “Where is she?!” he demanded.

Jeff silently pointed to you. You were in a chair, holding a clump of ice to your eye.

“Are you okay?! What happened?!” Minho frantically ran to you and you stood, trying to calm him. The coddling.

“I’m fine! I promise! It’s just a little black eye- nothing that won’t heal in a day or two.”

“Can I see?”

You removed the ice, unveiling the bruise colouring your eye. Minho looked sympathetic at first, holding your face in his hands. Quickly, however, the sympathy turned into anger.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was low and dark. The anger.

“I… punched myself.” You knew the second it came out of your mouth, it was a bad lie. Minho gave you one stern look and you admitted, “Thomas. But he didn’t mean to-”

Before you could finish your sentence, Minho was already out the door.

“Thomas!” His yell carried through the Glade, stopping everyone in their tracks. The second you came running out behind him, everyone knew what was happening and turned towards a panic-stricken Thomas.

Minho strode towards Thomas, his steps long and purposeful. “I knew there was something terrible about that buggin’ piece of klunk slinthead-”

You planted yourself in front of your boyfriend. “Slim it!.” You said, glaring up at him. “It wasn’t Thomas’s fault. It was an accident and it could’ve happened to anyone.”

“But it happened to you.” Minho growled. He side-stepped you and started advancing towards the poor boy who was cowering behind Newt.

You quickly took your place in front of Minho again. “Please don’t hurt him.” You pleaded, “For me?”

Minho sighed and you could see you were getting through to him. “Fine.” He rubbed your arms, “But I don’t like you getting hurt.”

“You go into the maze every single day.” You countered, “How do you think that feels to me?”

“Fair point.” Minho rested his forehead on yours. “How about we both be extra cautious from now on?”

“Deal.”

“But I’m still calling a meeting.” And the last step, a meeting.

“Really?!”

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gracefireheart · 15 days

Text

Once again, did some fanart of @lenny-link TF2 x SU AU, but tried making more fusions! :]

First one is Andalusite [Heavy + Medic] (who I've drawn before already), second one is Iolite [Cheavy + Medic], and the third one is Ametrine [Demoman + Soldier].

[Below the keep reading line, I'll show off the fourth fusion I drew as well, but ended up just-- disliking to hell and back o(-( Also, some notes and such about each fusion]

First off, here's the fourth fusion I did, which was Cat's Eye Tourmaline [Scout + Sniper]. (Side note: I picked out Tiger's Eye as Sniper's gem)

After looking at Steven's fusions with other gems (since Scout's a half-human half-gem in this AU fusing with Sniper who's a full gem), I did notice that basically all of them (besides Obsidian) had some kind of oddity to them. Like Smokey Quartz has three arms instead of four or just two, Rainbow 2.0 is the first gem with male pronouns and has a tad bit strange legs, and Sunstone isn't as humanoid as the other (non-corrupted) gems and fusions.

So I wanted to show that off here, but uh, I just ended up giving up on it in the end o(-( Mostly 'cause I had no clue how I wanted to color them based on the Cat's Eye Tourmaline gem, but also 'cause the overall design ended up leaned a bit more towards Sniper's design than I intended it to do.

Anyways, onto the notes for the other fusions.

Andalusite [Heavy + Medic]:

The duo that imo would probably fuse the most out of the TF2 crew, whether for battle or to just relax together (like reading a book or whatever). So with that, Heavy and Medic would have had plenty of time to refine how their fusion would look like, and making sure both of them like how they look together.

For their fusion weapon, I was thinking about them either having something like Garnet's upgraded gauntlets (the ones with spikes jutting out of it's knuckles), or letting the gauntlets have claws or something.

Iolite [Cheavy + Medic]:

I mostly did this one 'cause of one of the drawings in Lenny-Link's original piece, which made me thinking of Lapis and Jasper fusing into Malachite and all that, which lead me to this. I wanted the design to 1. Make it look chaotic due to the two people that are fused here, but also 2. Make it lean a tad more towards Cheavy's looks to make said guy think that he's the one mostly in control of the fusion, only to have Medic take over take over and do something to trap the fusion and/or get them the hell away from the TF2 crew. Something something angst idk lol

Decided to make Cheavy a [blue] Topaz. Since Heavy's a Topaz as well. I don't have any other reason than that :') Also, I placed his gem on the side of his right shoulder.

The eye goggles change color depending on who is in control. If the two weren't fighting for it, it would be one eye blue and one eye magenta. But since they are, whenever Cheavy's in control, the eyes are blue. And whenever Medic's in control, the eyes are magenta.

Ametrine [Demoman + Soldier]:

Originally, I was going to have them be a Morganite, but decided on Ametrine instead as it fit their color scheme more. Also originally, I was going to give them a knight helmet, but I wanted to draw their hair, so I instead gave them a bandana covering their possibly one eye. Possibly.

Assuming Soldier's helmet (with or without the horns) is Soldier's gem weapon like Jasper's helmet, I thought it would be neat if their fusion weapon [(horned) helmet + sword] would be something like a Morningstar, which they would be able to duel-wield without much trouble.

I've got other lil' ideas as well for this AU, like how Jeremy/Scout was the one that gave these gems their nicknames (Spy, Sniper, Engineer, etc.), how Medic grew a fascination for the organic lifeforms of Earth and how exactly they healed/was able to treat their wounds, and how- instead of Spy being all dead and gone Rose Quartz style when Jeremy was born- Spy is a lot weaker than he should be due Jeremy getting half of his gem. But uh-- I don't wanna go too overboard when this ain't even my AU :')

Either way, I'll probably go and relax a bit before drawing some regular TF2 stuff. But I might do some more fanart for this AU whenever I feel up for it. 'Cause genuinely, I love this AU sm <3

#“Oh. I probably won't draw anymore fusions 'cause it takes a lot of energy to design.” I said. like a liar.#my art #Team Fortress 2 #TF2 Fanart #TF2 Heavy #TF2 Medic #TF2 Cheavy #TF2 Demoman #TF2 Soldier

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joelsgreys · 1 year

Text

bailé con mi ex l (javier peña x female reader)

summary: After a night out at the club with your friends, you confess to Javier that you danced with your ex-boyfriend and he doesn’t take the news too well.

pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

warnings: 18+ only, minors dni. Protective, jealous and slightly possessive Javi, he is a lil toxic, but just a smidge I promise; innocent-ish reader; angst, bits of fluff sprinkled in here and there. Not proofread for spelling, sorry!

word count 2.2k

a/n 📝 wooo, Vee finally popped her Javi cherry. testing the waters with this one, I also have a couple prompts from a while back to still write. it is based on a Becky G song, yes I know she and this song did not exist back in the day (I think? Idk what year she was born tbh) but ANYWAY I just really like the lyrics and plus it’s fiction so who cares lmao. Translations at the end ✨

Tú no me creerás, pensarás que hay algo más

es difícil de entenderlo, pero no sería capaz de enganãrte

y si te lo cuento

es porque tengo muy claro lo que siento

It was half past one o’ clock in the morning—you had told Javier you’d be home by midnight at the very latest. But a night out at one of the more popular clubs in Bogotá celebrating a close friend’s birthday meant that none of the girls were going to allow you to leave that early without giving you some kind of shit about it, so you had stayed just a little while longer and tossed back another drink or two before finally calling it a night. Your friends still gave you grief about it, but knowing Javier, he would be worried, especially since cartel violence in the region had begun to escalate over the last several months, worsening to the point where Javi didn’t even like you going out to the produce market all by yourself in broad daylight.

You tried to be as quiet as possible as you pulled your keys out from your purse, fumbling around with them in the dark until you’d finally found the right one to unlock the front door of yours and Javier’s shared apartment. You slipped inside and the moment that you did, the lights flipped on, causing you to whirl around and let out a startled little yelp.

You turned to see Javier standing there, fully dressed in his jeans and a tight red button up shirt with his set of car keys clutched in hand. “Javi,” You breathed out his name as your hand flew to your chest. You shot him a glare. “Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me! What in the world are you doing? Why are you dressed—do you have any idea what time it is right now?”

“Do you have any idea what time it is right now?” Javier retorted, raising an eyebrow at you. Part of him seemed to be upset, but the other part of him seemed more relieved than anything. He tossed his keys down onto the small, hallway table and walked over to you, taking your face between his large hands as he kissed your forehead. He let his lips linger on your skin as he reminded you, “You told me you would be home by midnight, amor. You can’t tell me that and then come home almost two hours later. You know how bad things are out there right now. You could have at least called me to let me know you’d be late.”

“I’m sorry, I know. It’s just that the girls were shoving shot glass after shot glass right into my hands and time just got away from me,” You said, placing both of your hands right over his. Your eyes met his dark brown ones and you flashed him a sincere, apologetic look. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t mean to make you worry, Javi.”

He sighed. “Well, you’re home safe now. That’s all that matters to me.” Javier dropped his hands from your face and led you into the living room. “Can I get you anything, baby? Are you thirsty?”

“Actually, I’d love a glass of water,” You admitted, kicking off your black, high heeled shoes before dropping down onto the supple, brown leather couch. You watched him as he padded over into the kitchen. “I didn’t get as drunk as I thought I would, you know.” You added jokingly, “I think my tolerance for tequila is through the roof now.”

Javi laughed as he pulled a glass from one of the kitchen cabinets; he then filled it with water from the jug he’d pulled out of the refrigerator. “But you still had fun, right?”

“God, I had so much fun,” You told him with a grin. “I danced all night, Javi.”

“With who?” He’d asked the question casually, but you could detect the seriousness behind it.

Your smile faded slightly.

At first, you hadn’t planned to tell him. But Javier was the love of your life, and you would never dare to keep any kind of secret from him.

Still, you knew he wouldn’t be all too happy with what you were about to confess.

Javier walked back over to you, handing you the glass of water. He frowned, noticing the hesitant expression on your face. “What is it?” He placed his hands on his hips, peering at you curiously. “You didn’t dance with any guys, did you?”

“Just one,” You admitted, softly.

Javier froze a moment, his shoulders going rigid.

“What?” Through gritted teeth, he demanded to know, “Who?”

The moment your ex boyfriend’s name fell from your lips, the color drained from Javier’s face. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Setting the glass down on the table beside the couch, you quickly jumped up and held up your hands in defense. “Wait a minute, before you get mad about it, just let me explain—”

“What the hell is there to explain?” Javier nearly growled at you. “That you went to some nightclub and danced with another man? One who happens to be your fucking ex-boyfriend? Es en serio?”

You went up to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Javi, please. Just wait one second—”

He snatched his arm away. “Don’t touch me!”

Your heart sank and you backed away. “Really? You’re not even going to let me explain myself?”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Javier replied coolly. His eyes flickered up and down, giving you a quick once over from head to toe. “I would have never thought that you would be such a—”

Javier stopped himself, knowing all too damn well that he was far too angry to think clearly before letting anything come out of his mouth.

But it was too late.

He could see the hurt that flashed in your eyes.

“Such a what?” You crossed your arms over your chest, the blood in your veins running frigid. You then raised a knowing eyebrow at him. “Such a whore?”

“I didn’t say fucking that,” he muttered, averting your gaze.

Blinking back the tears that burned your eyes, you roughly shoved past him and went straight into the bathroom. Trembling, you began looking for a clean washcloth so that you could start taking off your makeup.

The sound of the front door slamming violently just a minute or two later caused you to wince.

Certain that Javier was gone, you sank down onto the cold white tile and began to sob.

A couple of hours later into the early morning, you were sitting on your bed in nothing but one of Javier’s shirts.

You had cried and cried, releasing your emotions until your eyes had gone dry.

You’d hoped Javier would come right back home and talk things out with you, but by the time four o’ clock rolled around, you had given up on that hope. Letting out an exhausted sigh, you were just about to reach out and switch off the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed when you heard the sound of the front door opening and then closing.

You swallowed harshly as the sound of his footsteps approaching drew closer and closer.

Javier walked into the bedroom, looking surprised to see you sitting there, still awake at this hour. He spoke in a cold tone that let you know he was still upset with you. “I thought you would be asleep by now.”

Even from where he stood, you could smell the heavy stench of cigarettes and scotch all over him.

“I was waiting up for you,” You murmured, quietly.

Javier kicked the bedroom door closed behind him and let out a long sigh. He said nothing else to you as he kicked off his tan boots and began shrugging out of his shirt, tossing it aside.

“Where were you?” You asked him, your small voice breaking through the silence.

“I needed a drink,” he responded curtly with his back to you.

“We have drinks here, you know.”

“Yeah, well I needed something a lot stronger than what we’ve got.”

Finally, Javier had no choice but to turn around and face you.

The second he did, a fresh tear slipped down the side of your face.

Javier’s stomach sank deeply and the expression on his face immediately softened.

“Bebe—”

You lifted both your hands to your mouth, muffling a broken sob.

“Hell, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he walked over, taking a seat beside you on the bed. He reached for your wrists, gently tugging them away from your face. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset at you, alright?”

“Do you really think that of me? Do you think that I’m a—?” You’d said the word once, but couldn’t find it in yourself to utter it again.

“Of course I don’t, mi vida. I was just angry, I wasn’t even thinking.” He paused, noticing the way you were trembling and reached up to cradle the side of your face in his palm. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second. Wouldn’t you be angry at me if I came home from a late night at the club and told you I had danced with one of my exes?”

“Probably,” You admitted, feeling the envy boil in your lower belly as you thought about him holding another woman in his arms. “But I would have at least given you the chance to explain yourself. I mean, have I ever given you a reason not to trust me, Javi?”

Javier opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

He’d fucked up.

“Well?” You prompted him. “Answer me, Javier. Have I ever done anything to make you think that you can’t trust me?”

“No.” His hand dropped from your face. He spoke again, guilt lacing his tone. “You’ve never given me one single reason not to trust you.”

You let out a small, shaky sigh and brought your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “He was at the club with his friends tonight,” You began to explain to him. You noticed the way Javier stiffened slightly; although you knew he didn’t want to hear about how you had danced with your ex-boyfriend, you decided to continue on anyway. He needed to know. “He came up to me and he said hello. We had a drink together and then he asked me to dance with him.” Unable to help yourself, you let out a small breathy chuckle. “We danced to quite a few songs, actually. It was just like old times.”

Javier’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists.

Before he could say anything, you lifted one of your own hands to stop him. “He was a great guy, Javier. We had a good relationship, but it just didn’t work out. It wasn’t meant to be. When we broke up, it was amicable and we wished each other best and now, a couple years later, we both have the best. He’s with someone he loves and I’m with someone that I love too.” You offered him a tiny, watery smile. “I don’t have eyes or space in my heart for anyone else but you, Javier. Seeing him again and dancing with him tonight made me realize that I would never even dare to think about jeopardizing our relationship. I love you more than anything, and I would never do anything to betray you.”

He stared at you, mouth agape.

Oh, he’d definitely fucked up.

Before meeting you, Javier had never been the kind of man to do relationships—because he’d never known how to do relationships.

Before you’d walked into his life, all Javier knew was meaningless sex with escorts and informants, one night stands with coworkers—regardless of who he fucked, he had always been able to walk away the following morning without any sort of attachment. It’s what he wanted, or at least, it’s what he’d thought he wanted.

And then Javier met you.

You weren’t the type of woman who he’d normally set his sights on. You didn’t walk around almost naked like half the women in Colombia, you didn’t smoke, you rarely ever even cursed and only drank when your friends pressured you into it—you had this kind of sweet innocence written all over you, and normally Javier would never look twice at a woman like you because a woman like you looked for a boyfriend; not a fuck buddy and certainly not a one night stand.

Javier Peña had never been boyfriend material.

He didn’t know how to be in a relationship.

At least not a healthy one.

Even now, he struggled to be the partner that you deserved. He met your physical needs without a single problem, but your emotional needs were something of a challenge for him. Still, Javi loved you with every fiber of his entire being and he was more than willing to keep on trying to be the man you needed him to be in every way possible.

“I’m sorry,” Javier murmured again after a while. He reached out, placing his hand on your bare thigh. “I am so sorry, baby. Perdoname, preciosa. Please.”

You placed your hand on top of his, giving him another little smile. “Of course I forgive you, Javi.”

Relieved, he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. As he began to deepen the kiss, his hands reached out, tugging at the hem of his shirt were wearing.

“Javi, it’s four in the morning,” You giggled against his lips.

Javier chuckled. He pushed you back against the pillows and swung his leg over to climb on top of you. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

“True,” You grinned up at him before pulling him down towards you for another kiss.

;Translations

lyrics:

You might not believe me, you’ll think there’s something more

it’s difficult to understand, but I could never betray you

if I’m telling you this, it’s because I know exactly how I feel

fic:

amor - love

es en serio? - are you serious?

bebe - baby

mi vida - my life

perdoname, preciosa - forgive me, precious girl

#javier peña #javier pena #javier pena x you #javier pena x y/n #javier pena x reader #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fluff #javier pena angst #pedro pascal characters #javier pena one shot #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x y/n #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic

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chaichaiiskai · 5 months

Note

NO PICKLE X MALE READER??? I GOT YOU.

pickle x prehistoric! shot male reader who's like his most precious s/o and overprotective during the prehistoric times and then now in the future. it can be fluff with a bit of angst.

almost the same height as baki or something.

notes: okay okay okay, I'm so sorry I'm late on this but I now have the brain capacity to write somethin' worth readin'...

yandere-ish! possessive! pickle x prehistoric! male! reader

warnings: violence, blood, body horror (not to reader), pickle is a lil' yandere ngl—, possessive and protective behavior, angst, kidnapoing, mention of smut but no explicit descriptions, male reader, amab reader, mxm, mlm, homophobes dni, mdni, 3.7k+ words (I went a lil' ham ngl)

Unexpectedly, the Jurassic research team had never expected to have a primitive man at their fingers, suspended in time and saline— not just one, but two. However, strangely enough, they both looked distinctively different, one was much taller and muscular than the other, causing the researchers to question the periods in time in which both had existed. That was quickly disproven despite this, seeing how the two of the men were encased in the very same saline rock, back to back as if they'd been frozen in time in the middle of protecting each other from an outside threat. On the outside looking in, it was quite poetic in a way, a clear display of humanity in its ideal form, hardened in resin. It was almost a shame that they would be carefully melting away the rock to get a better view of the two men encased in the saline.

The biggest theory amongst the researchers was that the two men could potentially be siblings, the taller one being the oldest brother while the younger was the shorter one; even if they didn't explicitly look alike. There was also the theory about them being father and son, there was no definitive answer— yet.

And so, with as much excitement as most scientists who were ready to discover something new, the thawing process had begun on the saline rock that held two great mysteries.

It took a bit of time for the researchers to thaw the rock with pure caution, wanting to keep the two beings intact as much as possible and so, they'd decided to thaw one side at a time— starting with the smaller man first. About two days later, they had managed to thaw him out completely and get him onto a gurney that surprisingly creaked and squeaked under his weight. They hooked the man up to monitors and machines, eager to see what exactly was going on with him, and to their shock— there was a faint heartbeat which required more close surveillance from them. The man looked almost as if he was stuck in a peaceful sleep, seemingly unable to wake up.

Half of the research team found themselves debating on whether or not they would apply modern technology to this man, wanting to reanimate him while the other focused on melting away the rest of the saline and getting a better look at the beast of a man while keeping the smaller man under surveillance.

And to their astonishment (and horror) the beast woke as they had managed to melt the saline away, stopping about halfway past his torso. One could only imagine the look of terror on the faces of the small, everyone was small compared to this creature, scientists as they stared up at him. He simply stared back, unmoving, but blinking, glancing around briefly at his confusing new surroundings that looked nothing like what he knew when he was younger.

Project Pickle was a success, but could the same be said about Project Cucumber?

Despite the looming and watchful eyes of the eight foot tall man who watched each and every one of them as they worked, the scientist continued to melt away the saline while Pickle remained still. Based on instinct alone, he did not sense any imminent danger, therefore, he saw none of the people in the room as immediate threats.

That did not last long, when he was completely free, he began to look around more, almost as if he was looking for something specific, tendrils of dark locks swinging as he looked rather perplexed. Then, he briefly sniffed the air, pupils dilating as his gaze zeroed in on the high security door that kept him tucked away in a metal box he didn't care to think about. And he began to walk towards the door, unknowing of what he was doing exactly, and stared at it, sniffing the air once again.

Surprisingly, the military personnel that worked as security on the premises didn't even bother to move, not even when the beast of a man snatched the door clean off it's securely bolted in to get a peek inside. He then crouched under the doorway to walk through it, almost like he was walking into a cave and made his way towards the gurney that held Cucumber's sleeping form. The scientist in the room all audibly gasped, shuddering in fear as he took some steps forward, standing at the foot of the gurney that still held your body.

The silence in the facility was deafening, even a single needle would be heard if it were to hit the cold tile floor.

And that's when Pickle moved, grabbing a hold of your calf to give it a squeeze that would have surely shattered the bones of a modern hero. Coincidentally, it had only caused your eyes to shoot open, a sound of anger coming from your mouth that was accustomed to a growl as you sat up, grabbing at the hand of the being who'd rudely woken you from your sleep. Only then when you were awake did Pickle loosen his grip and your eyes met for the first time in over hundreds of millions of years. The moment was wholesome to the two of you, but somewhat eerie to those looking on the outside in.

From then on, Pickle and Cucumber were given their own special area where they spent all their time together. There was one thing that was quite noticeable about the pair, Pickle did not like it when people got too close to Cucumber, often growling and baring his teeth at anyone who came too close. On the other hand, he would let the scientist get close to him so long as they kept their distance from you. Their interactions were simple enough, no words were exchanged but there was the occasional grunt and groan as they seemed to speak to each other in their own silent way. The original theories of the scientist believing that you were siblings was proving stronger and stronger with each day.

That— however, would soon change upon witnessing an... interaction between the two of you.

One late evening, the scientists were simply busying themselves with their research, not even paying much attention to the two men in their makeshift habitat. That was until the sound of growling, hissing, and other wild, animalistic noises coming from one of the monitors that was watching over the Projects. Curiously, the several scientists turned to look at the screen, mostly with mystified looks on their faces.

It looked like Pickle and Cucumber were battling, roughhousing in the dirt of the carefully constructed enclosure, biting and scratching at one another. Almost immediately, the scientists were ready to jump into action to find some way to subdue the two of them before something horrible happened and ruined their research, but nothing could have prepared them for what came next.

The winner of the wrestling match was Pickle, and he was eager to claim his prize. The scene that played out on the monitor was enough to make every single personnel who was watching blush like roses in a garden.

Welp, there goes their family theory... The last thing they had ever expected was that these two primitive men would be engaging in a romantic partnership, yet here they were— the sounds the two of them were making was proof. And surely, they should have all looked away, but they couldn't seem to look away, only doing so when the two men had both tired each other and decided to fall asleep, cuddling together as if they hadn't just violated each other in the most criminal and animalistic way. The two of them looked almost innocent in a way, Pickle easily dwarfed Cucumber in the spooning embrace but at least the two of them seemed comfortable.

From then on, the researchers that watched you both seemed to look at your interactions under a new light, noticing the romantic undertones with everything the two of you did together.

Pickle had a refusal to eat things that he did not actively hunt and seeing how there were no animals in the enclosure, he did not eat. And fortunately, considering the differences in biology, the primitive man was able to withstand being without food for a much longer period of time than what modern day people could do now.

A few weeks after being thawed from your saline sanctuaries, and constantly being observed by the weirdly skinny people with their weird furs, you were beginning to become more and more curious yourself. So much so that while Pickle was sleeping and one of the massive walls moved, your eyes immediately flew towards it and watched as one of the skinny people came into the room cautious and careful, holding something in their hands that seemed to be carrying other things. In interest, you stared at them, watching their every move, staying completely alert as they set the thing with things down and scurried away behind the moving wall.

Pickle was still slumbering deeply as you stared at the new thing in your enclosure before slowly approaching, sniffing around so that you could safely close the distance. As you got closer, familiar scents filled your nose and a sound of approval, similar to the sound of a chirp, was heard before you picked up a familiar fruit, peeling it off its skin and beginning to happily indulge in the fruity flavor. You sat beside the thing of things, the bowl of fruit, and happily ate the delicious treat, crossing your legs in a comfortable manner.

The eyes of your lover soon fluttered and he felt around on the ground, using his touch to try and find you, and when he is unable to, an angry growl is the only sound he makes before getting onto all fours, glancing around like a predator on a hunt. That was until he felt your presence and smelled you again, along with some strangely familiar scents and so he crawled in the direction of whether the scent was strongest.

If there was one thing to give credit on, it was the enclosure that the scientist has carefully constructed for the two of you looked like a forest, filled with trees and dirt and patches of grass, but there was an area where you often would relax— a clearing where the trees were a bit more sparse and the dirt was more abundant. That was also where Pickle and Cucumber were able to see the wall move and keep a close eye on the scientists and researchers who entered the enclosure.

The man crawled his way towards where he could smell where your scent was strongest and soon stumbled upon you hunched over, back facing him, and shoving things in your mouth, stuffing your cheeks with your newfound feast. Be that as it may, upon sensing Pickle's presence, you paused and in your squatting position, you shuffled your feet around, pivoting so that you could face Pickle. Soon enough, you flashed him a grin, mouth drenched in sweet juices as you beckoned him over with a hand.

He trusted you completely, but the same couldn't be said about what you were consuming, his eyes peeking between you and the fruit as he slowly crawled towards you. As soon as Pickle was within reach, you were quick to pluck one of the grapes from its stem and shove into his mouth, almost as if you were nonverbally saying 'try this!'

Caught off guard by the strange thing shoved in his mouth, he nearly spit it out but you quickly gave him a pleading look, puppy eyes causing his shoulders to slump, holding the grape in his mouth rather awkwardly. Huffing in frustration at him, you pointed a clawed nail towards your mouth and pretended to chew before pointing at Pickle, a look of concentration on your face as you nodded at him, hoping he'd get the message— he did.

At first, you couldn't tell how he'd felt about the grapes based on his facial expressions alone but that soon changed when his eyes widened, and then an approving sound followed.

"Hm!"

You couldn't agree more, grinning as you plucked a few more grapes, making a sound similar to a laugh when Pickle basically unhinged his jaw as you threw grapes in his mouth, one by one like a childish game.

This was another thing that the researchers had noticed, the two of you were easily amused by the simplest things, acting rather childishly despite both being full-grown adults. It was almost endearing in a way, watching the two of you, mostly you, feed each other fruits, enjoying yourselves with no active threats of danger in your lives. It was almost something to be jealous of... And that was when the researchers' curiosity seemed to spark, and perhaps an experiment would lead to some interesting results, as dangerous as they may be, but it would take an intricate amount of planning for every possible outcome.

Weeks pass.

At the exact same time every day, more bowls of fruit are brought for the two of you, the amount of fruit only seeming to double in sizes each and every time. The two of you actively seem to enjoy the fruit, the grapes being an especially popular fruit between the two of you. You were often feeding Pickle and yourself the fruit, happily enjoying them each and every time.

And just as usual, one of the skinny people brought in more bowls of fruit, with even more fruit than you could ever imagine. And naturally, you both dug right in, enjoying the sweet flavors wholeheartedly. That was until the world began to spin around you and Pickle, your vision growing spotty and blurred. Before either you or Pickle can register, your body's hit the ground and the last thing you see is Pickle attempting to crawl over you, wishing to protectively drape himself over your body but you lose consciousness before seeing if he's made it.

Much to the surprise of the researchers, the tranquilizers they'd injected into the fruit had finally worked! And now they could perform their experiment in peace— a great number of security personnel piled into the enclosure and grabbed a hold of your body, carrying you out of the enclosure and shutting the door behind themselves, carrying you to somewhere else within the facility.

The door was then properly amped up with the greatest technology the facility could offer, mostly looking to measure the strength of Pickle and his partnership with you.

When the next day came, Pickle awoke, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the enclosure he was entrapped in. He slowly sat up once his senses were back at their full use, though his body was still a bit drowsy and tiredly glanced around. Naturally, he was wondering where you were, causing him to click his teeth together in a particular way, calling out for you in his own special call.

And when he got no response, usually an excitable chirp, he got on all fours and began to crawl around the enclosure, sniffing and looking for where you could be hiding. Having been in the enclosure for so long, your scent was still lingering and he knew that you liked to play games— hiding from him, but with each passing second of him calling you and climbing up a few trees to find your usual hiding places, his panic was becoming more and more apparent. And before anyone could register the true terror of Pickle, the man stood on his two feet and roared at the fake sky, the power from it was enough to shake the entire enclosure.

The pure, unfiltered rage could be felt even through the security cameras currently being observed.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

Another growl followed before Pickle could be seen barreling towards the moving wall // enforced door with great speed and animosity, almost as if he knew that they were withholding his beloved from him. A line of personnel were on the other side of the door, prepared for what was to come next, and when he came in contact with the door, slamming his head into the metal, a noticeable dent from the outside was created but the door did not immediately give out. Another roar of anger came from him as reared back and began to repeatedly pound his fists into the door, dent after dent being put into the door that would not budge like the one he'd destroyed after waking up.

On the other side of the facility, you weren't doing any better, having woken up about an hour after Pickle, you were surprised to see the new enclosure, confused on where you were and most importantly— where Pickle was. Nothing smelt or felt familiar and you couldn't sense him. And unlike Pickle, you didn't immediately react with rage, instead, you reacted in a rather panicked way, climbing up the nearest tree for a better vantage point. When you saw no sight of Pickle, the anxiety began to set in, not even considering the possibility that he was still somewhat close by and that you'd been forcibly separated from him by the researchers who were still observing you both with keen eyes, notebooks and pens in hand.

They keep you separated for days, watching as Pickle's rage only grows and your anxiety seems to be eating away at you, almost deteriorating you at a rapid pace. Watching your differing reactions was proving to be even more interesting than they'd originally hypothesized. And while doing this experiment, the scientist had not revealed themselves to either primitive men, but about four days after the experiment started, one of the researchers had offered that they go back to sending in the bowls of fruit to see how they'd react.

Naturally, they chose to give you the fruit first.

And when the wall opened, your gaze immediately snapped up and you moved faster than they'd anticipated, hurriedly approaching the person with the bowl of fruit on all fours. The scientist is horrified at first, watching as you stare at him with pleading, puppy-like eyes. And then, you open your mouth before closing it, almost as if you were trying to say something but were hesitating.

Every scientist was on the edge of their seats, not expecting your reaction in the slightest.

Your mouth opens and closes a few more times before you finally speak, though the words are a bit broken, syllables are a bit hard to comprehend for you at the moment.

"Hmm...hm...hi—him." You move your hands above your head and begin to mess with the air, almost as if you were playing with long hair, obviously talking about Pickle.

"Wh...wha...wha...here..? Whe—whe...where?"

You did not get the reaction you wanted, watching as the scientist dropped the bowl of fruit and ran away, the wall shutting quickly behind him. As soon as the door fully closed, you lunged at it and slammed your fists onto it, broken words soon following as you pleaded, eyes beginning to water.

"Plee...plea— plea..? Please?!"

The sight of you whimpering and pounding your fists on the door is nearly enough to make the scientists sympathetic, watching as you crumble in on yourself, clearly suffering from some kind of abandonment issue. So much so that you were willing to speak their language to try and communicate. They wondered if you could learn more words and perhaps even sentences in the future. Perhaps they should have separated the two of you since the very beginning.

On the fifth day, Pickle had stopped pounding on the door, the amount of dents he'd left in the door was a concerning amount and the personnel had even grown fearful that he'd end up breaking through it soon, but they were fortunate that it seemed he'd given up. And instead, he simply sat down in front of the door, crossing his legs and his arms over his chest, waiting for the wall to open, almost as if he was expecting it.

It never opened.

Not that day.

Not the next day.

And not the next day.

The doors would open often for you, the scientists would bring you fruit and strange things while they spoke to you, trying to get you to talk to them again but your eyes were always wandering behind them, looking for Pickle in hopes of seeing him again. You do not remember the last time you'd been with him for such a long period of time, your anxiety seemed to build with each day.

"If you can just say one word— we'll bring you back to your mate, okay?"

The scientist said, waving their hands around as if that was going to help you understand what they were getting at. You simply furrowed your brows at them, trying to understand the weird noises they were saying to you. The language barrier was obvious.

As one would expect, the scientists were frustrated by the progress, trying to express to you their desires and what they wanted. They were getting nowhere.

Pickle had remained seated like a statue in front of the door, unmoving and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had to find you, and he wasn't going to let this strange thing stop him from doing so.

Though he may not be the smartest, he knew that his fists had worn down this strange stone wall and just a few more shoves would soon bend to his will. And so, suddenly, he stood up and got into a fighting position, bringing his fist back before shooting it forward at the speed of a bullet that breaks the sound barrier with a clap and the door goes flying, crushing the line of personnel on the other side against the nearest wall, turning them into mush.

He steps out, a blank, uninterested stare on his face. An alarm soon goes off at this, seeing how he'd just brutally murdered some of security, but that didn't stop Pickle from continuing to walk, eager to find where you are, wanting nothing more than to have you back safe in his arms. And if that means crushing the skulls of small people, he wouldn't mind, so long as he got back to you.

#— chai’s asks. !!#male reader #x male reader #— anonnie. !!#amab reader #baki hanma #baki the grappler #pickle baki #pickle x reader #pickle x you #pickle x y/n #pickle x male reader #mlm #mxm #yandere baki hanma pickle

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