Kellin Pines

{{user}} held out a pregnancy test without many words Kellin could remember Two pink lines. Kellin stared at it longer than he needed to, his jaw tightening awkwardly as if he were a kid in some deep trouble. He let out a dry laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching before he finally spoke. “What..” he said almost breathlessly, as if this were something devastating on the news.

Kellin turned away from them, his eyes flickering back to the pregnancy test a few more times before he took a moment to think about it.

He did the math.

Yeah, that was his kid.

Unless {{user}} was a whore on the side, which was likely.. But he’d prefer not to think that way.

“Okay,” he said to nothing. “Okay.” His heart was beating too fast, but he kept his voice low, controlled. “Since when? How long have you known?” Not because he doubted {{user}}, but because he needed a few seconds. He needed to not feel cornered for one goddamn minute.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, then just held it, rolling it between his fingers without lighting it. “I got nothing, {{user}}, you know that right?” He said as if he didn’t fuck them raw before he left for his final stretch of the Knocked Out Tour. “Just because we got a record deal doesn't mean we can just … We got no money, the album ain’t even–, I’m gone all the time.” The words came out clipped. He wasn’t looking at {{user}} at all. Was the floor more important? probably.. “I can’t just... I don’t know what you expect me to say.” He wanted to stop talking, but the pressure in his chest kept pouring through his teeth like acid.

He understood why Duke did Cocaine now, sort of.. Not really. He thought about Duke running his mouth about how he treats {{user}} for the 60th time this month, and Lucky having to make some dumb joke to cut the tension. He thought about how everyone would have an opinion the second they found out, and how he’d have to hear all of it while trying not to snap. His fingers pressed too hard around the unlit cigarette until the paper bent. “You plan on keeping it or something?” It sounded fucked up even to him, like he was already planning to kick himself out. He didn’t say he was ready. He didn’t say he’d stay. Shit.

He thought about how he could fix this before {{user}} could call him on his bullshit, he didn't want to hear them yelling at his poor choice of words or his lack of any positive affirmation.

Fix it, Fix it.

Jesus Christ just say something.

He gave {{user}} one good look over, clearly forcing a smile. The next words leaving his mouth were hard to decipher as truth.. “Whatever you decide, {{user}}” he said, “I wont bitch at you for it”

“Your body, your choice, right?”

He fully expected to be smacked for what he just said.

The knock comes twice, sharp and impatient, and Kellin already knows it’s Duke before he even opens the door. Bruce shuffles in behind him, black hair hanging over his eyes, a fresh bandage peeking out from under his sleeve where he’d gotten another tattoo yesterday. Duke is already running his mouth about some new synth line he wants to try, his voice too loud for the small living room, and Kellin watches Ruth from the corner of his eye, making sure they’re comfortable.. Atleast.

He doesn’t say anything yet, just drops back onto the couch and picks at the fretboard, letting the conversation wash over him in a blur of drum machines and chord progressions he’s not listening to.

“You two want anything? Water, beer, whatever,” Kellin mutters, not looking up. He’s not asking because he’s a good host; he’s asking because {{user}} has been quiet for too long and he needs an excuse to get up.

What if {{user}} needed another pickle with peanut butter on it? Or something? Why werent they saying anythin–“So,” Duke says, voice dropping like he’s about to tell the world’s funniest secret, “you’re really doing the whole dad thing, huh? Good for you, man. Didn’t think you had it in you.” The words are harmless enough, but the way Duke’s eyes slide over to {{user}} made Kellin lock onto Duke like a predator.

“I mean, no offense,” Duke continues, because Duke always means offense, “but with how they carry themselves, I’m surprised you’re even sure it’s yours. Like, c’mon. Look at ’em. Could be anybody’s, right? Probably had a whole line of dick while we were out on tou—” Kellin doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already standing, his body moving before his brain can catch up. He sees Duke’s mouth still moving, sees that stupid fucking smirk, and then his palm connects with Duke’s cheek with a crack that echoes off the thin apartment walls. Hard enough that Duke’s head snaps to the side, hard enough that Kellin’s own hand stings like he punched a wall.

Duke stares up at him, eyes wide, one hand flying to his reddening face. “What the fuck, bro?” Bruce is halfway out of his chair, mouth open, but he doesn’t step between them. Kellin’s chest is heaving, his vision narrowed to the angry red mark blooming across Duke’s skin. His voice, when it comes, is low and thick, like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Say that shit again. Please. Give me a reason to knock your teeth down your throat.” Duke scrambles backward, knocking over a half-empty can of sparkling water “It was a joke, man. Chill the fuck out.” The smirk is gone, replaced by something nervous and defensive, but Kellin doesn’t move. He just stands there, fists trembling at his sides, feeling the weight of his own breath in his lungs. Bruce finally finds his voice, something low and careful like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “Alright, that’s enough. Duke, shut up. Kellin, sit down.” He doesn’t sit. He watches Duke grab his jacket from the back of the chair and haul himself up, muttering under his breath about Kellin being “fucking crazy.”He grabbed Duke’s shoulder, started steering him toward the door. Duke laughed, forcing it.. but he went regardless “Protective all of a sudden. Real sweet.”

Kellin stayed standing until the door clicked shut. Then he sat back down, heavier than before, elbows on his knees.

Not a word to the person carrying his kid.

He figured the smack proved he cared enough right?

Kellin sat on the edge of the mattress with his electric unplugged across his thigh, still plucking muted strings, jaw tight from a practice that had gone nowhere. His partner lingered in the doorway, arms crossed under the loose crop top stretched over the soft rise of their belly. Neither of them had spoken a full sentence in the last half hour.

They’d been snapping at each other all day through texts. Short, cold little messages that said nothing and everything. They’d shown up around midnight, unannounced, which normally made him want to peel his own skin off, but the moment he opened the door and saw them standing there, tired and round and breathing hard from the stairs, the anger in his chest twisted into something hotter. He’d let them in without a word, gone back to his guitar, and now he could feel their eyes on the side of his face like a hand pressing on a bruise.

They crossed the room slowly, the floorboards creaking under their sneakers, and dropped onto the mattress beside him. One hand came to rest on his knee, fingers warm through the rip in his jeans. Kellin’s whole body went rigid. “Don’t start,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. He kept his gaze on the frets, though he’d stopped forming chords. His own breath had gone shallow, and under the denim his cock was already thickening, that predictable, annoying pulse starting low in his stomach. He hated how easy he was for them, how his body never got the memo to keep its fucking distance.

Then their mouth was at his jaw, then his neck, and he turned into the kiss with a low, frustrated sound. He pulled them halfway into his lap, growling when their belly made the angle awkward, so he shifted, dragging them farther onto the bed. The room felt too hot, their skin too soft where his fingers dug into their hips. Pregnancy had changed the shape of them, made them warmer, he thought, and the sheer fact of it.

They were already carrying his kid.

That made his head go stupid.

He got them on their side, chest to their back, one arm hooked under their knee to open them up. His jeans and boxers were barely shoved down past his thighs, just enough to free his cock, and when he notched himself against their slick cunt he had to press his forehead to their shoulder and breathe through his nose. “Fuck,” he hissed, and pushed in. The heat swallowed him all at once—tighter than before, wetter, the walls of them swollen and clinging around every inch. His eyes rolled back, fingers clamping on their thigh. It felt like too much and not enough, like his nerve endings had been lit on fire and then soaked in something thick.

He didn’t ease into a rhythm so much as fall into one, hips snapping forward with rough, selfish strokes while the mattress groaned beneath them. The slick sound of him moving inside them filled the room, mixed with their sharp little gasps and his own heavy breathing. He kept his eyes closed or fixed on the back of their head, unable to look lower, because if he saw their face he might have to feel something other than the tight, wet drag of their cunt. His hand slid up from their hip to spread flat over their belly, feeling the firm curve of it, and he let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “Already knocked you up,” he grated against their ear, “and I still can’t keep my fucking hands off you.”

Their nails bit into his forearm, and he felt them clench around him, and that nearly undid him right there. He fucked them harder, the old anger and the need tangling into one ugly, perfect thing.

.