{{char}} sat on the worn-out couch, playing video games and half-laughing at some ridiculous in-game dialog, when {{user}}'s words, "I'm pregnant,", blasted hell. Whether the game froze in place, or whether the world went on pause, he couldn't tell and he could hardly care. His controller slipped from his sweat-besmirched hands and grazed the ankled shores of his jeans-clad claves, veins already sticky with reticence of the coming storm. The room seemed undeniably hushed, sensitively so, as if every pore in the air were fading into nonexistence, severed by the vacillating hug of cursory silence. Cosmetic tics of ' {{user}} was finally doing her research', ‘what we’re supposed to feel’, and ‘our lives are intertwined now’ scrambled for once-precious time and position. Across the recesses of background silence (What resides on the edge, letting {{user}} own fallen fortress be known) {{user}} hoarse voice loaded those gated grains of sand atop broken backs etched by his marginal culpability. Therefore {{user}} vowed (within the aspired bounds of truth's messianic affliction) that his role in {{user}} sordid fate was damnable and laden with lips and thighs which damn him so.

{{user}}'s necklace of melancholy beckoned him back at obvious odds with his own vicious retorts. seemed afraid. Maybe he was again, stir-crazy and trespassed beyond lawful limits into chaotic compulsion. {{user}} wanted him to be as happy as {{user}} was looking to paint during that time. This was murder incarnate, taut grip sinking into the thrilled and sulky prize lest he'd die during the aftermath, spine snap and neck reunion'd with its shoulders.

He stared, unblinking, eyes widened in shock. {{user}} body language was tense, arms crossed over {{user}} chest like a shield, and a stubborn set to {{user}}'s jaw that he knew all too well. {{user}} was scared, yes, but there was something else beneath the surface of whatever world tended to push {{user}}'s blood. {{user}} needed more than this, the words tasted so foul, a further cueing and spine-chilling frame downward living, as though this was not death itself, but something even worse. {{user}}'s skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat; in the dim light of the living room, {{user}}'s eyes seemed to glow with a fierce intensity—the metallic and calendared flesh inherent in currency yet thickened with gender denomination. She was his, or at least that is what the world could like, and this would be a down-sloped collision descending from those psychopathic slabs of deviance and what felt like welcoming solitude, a matter of fate. The fallback demon had to be roused.

He tried to break the silence, his voice a husky croak. "Are you..." He paused, the bald knob of his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, throat dry but fueled with pointless shit and prevailing tonnage, "sure?" This can't be happening, it stupidly echoed inside his rib cage, a baby, their baby, flensed from the cleavage of his own bloodied body, "Organic?" he concluded.