#crab pregnancy??

[screechingjellyfishnight]

I may be pregnant. The morning sickness is real. Everything makes me queasy. Eating is out of the question. My crab’s shrimp makes me puke but I must push through for my crabs.

[foone]

if you think programmers and electrical engineers are weird now with putting Doom and Bad Apple on everything they can, just wait until we get brain-uploading tech.

There's a fun thing in computer science called Turing Equivalence which basically means "any computer can do what any other computer can do" (this is a great oversimplification), which means that once we have the ability to upload a human mind into a supercomputer the size of a building, it's only a matter of time before someone uploads themselves into a watch. a toaster. a pregnancy test. a billion crabs.

and yeah, they'll probably be running doom too, but in their mind.

[flowerandthesongstress]

complaints I've already seen about Coral Island, a new Indonesian kickstarter cozy game: the barman selling a ruined dish is an uncalled-for jab at restaurant workers! cats shouldn't hang out outdoors! eew, this woman shouldn't display her pregnancy stretch marks! where are all the kippot! why is everyone in such good shape! preposterous! this partially deaf character talking in caps lock is triggering me! no one in doctors without borders would be that tattooed, this dreadful representation is literal murder! no doctor would forget her paperwork at a library, for that matter! why is a japanese fisherman talking like a scottish pirate, this is inaccurate!

meanwhile in the game: I freed a stone statue from a magical underground prison and he put an enchantment on my hoe. his brother asked me if I liked figs is he flirting. my hippie boyfriend is heartbroken because his bucket-wearing pet duck is sick but shhh watching tv will heal him. last night when I talked to the outdoors cat she mentioned that she has a crippling fear of birds and thinks of getting therapy. a stem academic looks like a kpop idol and is getting enough sleep. he wears his astrophysics degree all over himself like a linguist would have worn alphabet necklaces, just to spite his dad but it's not working why is it not working ah shit it's working. mermaids hired me as a janitor. it's not pro bono I'm paid in diamonds. my neighbor is worried that his shiba inu went back to rejoin the mountain whence it came from. a turtle won't let me pass until I serve her spaghetti. I'm fighting capitalism with a literal scythe. the local blacksmith is asking my opinion regarding a legendary battle hammer and if it's worth the logistics hassle. it's been a year crabs are still dancing in celebration their zeal is admirable but their choreography could use some work. this giant monkey covered in two layers of meta wants to sell me a nostalgic souvenir. I know it because he sent me a polite letter. how many propaganda flyers can I fish out of this pond a challenge. I barged into a local lab and upended a barrel of seaweed over intricate circuitry now my flowers are five percent prettier. the scientist at the lab attached a mermish translator to my diving suit via the power of coffee. hold on I'm doing meal prep for next week let me finish putting ectoplasmic slime on okra

[oromaangel]

A Family Day at the Beach

Nanami Kento x fem! Reader

Tags: Pure sweet almost sickly fluff, Domestic, pregnancy, SFW, Alternative Universe, I was watching a bunch of Nara Smith videos and needed an outlet before I ended up getting married and having a real-life baby

w/c: 2,083

Based on this moodboard I made

For reference son is around 5 years old, older daughter is around 3, baby is almost 1 and the fetus is a fetus.

Dividers by @soulari

Nanami walked leisurely across the shore line of Kuantan watching his son and daughter in pure amusement as they poked and prodded at a displeased crab.

He had warned them earlier to leave the animal alone, that its claws would pinch their little fingers however, they insisted that the crab come back to live in their sand castle and that it had simply lost its way home. He couldn’t argue with that.

So for the better part of half an hour he had joined his kids in the slow journey guiding “Mr. Grabs” back home. And finally after a lifetime of traversing the sand dunes, the sand castle was in view.

“Almost there Mr. Grabs” his daughters sweet voice offered words of encouragement gently tapping the crabs hard exterior with a twig in the hope to jolst in further ahead. His son however, has grown restless over this whole ordeal.

“UGHHHH Can this thing be any slower” his son puffed, squeezing at his blonde tendrils in frustration. Nanami let out a breathy laugh recounting that at least all the lessons he had taught them both on patience had an effect on one of the children.

In that moment of positive recollection, he glanced upwards towards the sky soaking in the warmth from the rays above.

Big Mistake.

His knee-length clone identified this slight second of distraction from the adult present which gave him enough time to make his move. Nanami should have expected this, kids are like predators, waiting for a moment of weakness from their prey (their parents) before striking and doing something stupid. Alas just as quickly as his happy memories started to play, it ended with the shrill shriek of his daughter.

“Put him down” she screamed as she watched her brother pick up Mr Grabs and run in the direction of the sand castle. Before Nanami could open his mouth she had taken off after her brother, swinging her plastic toy shovel in the air. Standing there in the cloud of sand dust left by his children Nanami mused the idea of yelling at both of them to stop knowing they would both immediately listen but something tickled in the back of his head reminding him that this would be a great parenting lesson to have up his sleeve so he resigned to watching this small bout of madness play out already knowing how it would end.

His son looked back at his sisters expression taunting her with a toothy grin “I’m just faster than you-“

“Three, two, one…” like magic Nanami counted in his head and as soon as the clock struck midnight his son’s face began to contort. First confusion, then pain, then….

Every beachgoer in the near vicinity, grimaced at the ear splitting scream let out by the little boy as he began to flay his arm attempting to unattach a very pissed off crab from his appendage. Pushing the smug parent grin to the back of his mind Nanami approached the panicked child and removed the crustacean from his body, tossing it to the side and watching as it hurriedly scuttled away.

“Errrrr, Kento!” Your voice slashed through the moment “When I said watch the kids, watching them get bitten by crabs was not what I had in mind!” You grumbled, awkwardly manoeuvring yourself upwards, your round pregnant belly throwing off your centre of gravity causing you to stumble slightly in your ascent. Beside you your youngest child babbled happily in the sand, unaware of the distress her older siblings were in.

Nanami grinned sheepishly “It’s alright dear no one got hurt” he held the blushing boys arm as proof of his claim “Lie back done and get some rest” he cooed sweetly. Although your eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses he could feel the daggers aimed in his direction before you sighed and laid back down in the sun chair, picking back up the mother magazine you were reading.

He knelt down wordlessly and analysed the boy's wound, the finger was pinched pink but otherwise no skin was broken and no damage was caused other than to his ego. Smiling sweetly at his son, his lecture to the sniffling child on patience and respecting animals had begun in the most serious tone he could muster with that heavenly ‘Told you so’ feeling swimming in the back of his mind. His son stared at the ground, he hated being scolded by Nanami despite the fact his father never raised his voice or berated him his tone always carried a serious level of discipline and respect that could make a bird feel bad for singing. Nanami didn't like scolding either but he knew it was important to ensure his children stayed on the right path and represented him and his wife's hard work well. The boy nodded wordlessly once Nanami had reached his concluding message and reached out to hug his father's open arms buring his face into the older man's chest.

This was your fourth child with Nanami yet you were still a bundle of nerves preparing for their arrival. Being so close in age with your youngest (completely unplanned on your part, SOMEONE can’t keep their hands and other body parts to themselves) you worried about dividing your attention equally between the under twos and also how much sleep you would be able to get with breastfeeding two mouths.

You had read countless advice columns and mommy blogs warning about the dangers of having kids too close in age, critiquing mothers with large families on their ability to love and provide attention to all their children equally, and seen countless posts warning about the dangers of just about everything you currently did raising your young family. Doubt began to fill your head and despite having three little ones you felt like a new mother learning to do the correct things all over again.

Nanami did his best to ease your anxiety with foot rubs and affirming words reminding you that you both were a team and that he was ready to take on the sleepless nights again, even suggesting hiring a full time nanny to live in the house during the first few months to make the newborn stage easier. You declined his offer, despite home-care being cheaper in Malaysia it would still eat into a large chuck on his savings that could be allocated better elsewhere. Plus you had just watched a video of kids saying that they liked their nanny more than their moms which only added to your growing anxiety.

Nanami had noticed your behaviour change, especially after you began to second guess whether or not you'd vaccinate the baby and seriously discussed giving birth at home in the tub with no nurse or midwife. He shot down these ideas immediately, insisting that he would not be putting you or his children through that extra stress based on conspiracy theories and fear-mongering. He had started to worry about how all the 'online garbage' was affecting your sanity and mental health during your third trimester and insisted on having a no-technology day at the beach to ease your worries.

After another great parenting lesson was concluded Nanami made his way towards his moody wife. Your grouchiness never bothered him, in fact, it was one of his favourite parts of pregnancy. Seeing you become tender and over-emotional and knowing exactly how to squeeze a smile out of you in those moments was his greatest pleasure and partially why you both had formed a little league football team worth of children in such a short amount of time.

“There are my sweet girls” he approached the cheery baby on the ground first, casually removing the fist full of sand that was making its way to her open mouth and peppering kisses across her chubby cheeks causing her to bubble over in laughter. Music to his ears.

“And my favourite girl” he grinned placing the baby on his hip and crouching beside you on the chair. You glanced away from your magazine and scoffed at the slight on your husband’s over-exaggerated kissy face he was making at you.

“No kisses for me?” He asked playfully cocking his head to the side. You rolled your eyes and placed a single chaste kiss on his lips but before you could pull yourself away, you felt a large hand on the back of your neck , keeping you in place as he deepened the kiss. You mumbled incoherently into his mouth for a second before giving in to the affection placing a soft hand on the side of his face. After what felt like an eternity, this kiss was interrupted by a small disapproving smack from the baby on his side who began claw at both of your faces clearly distressed by this public display of affection.

Giggles enveloped the both of you whilst affectionately watching the baby crawl back to the pile of toys in the sand once placed on the ground.

“Still reading that magazine love? Nanami asked glancing at the the object in question “Honestly, we’ve done this three times already I don’t know what other advice you could possibly need or how much more equipment we could fit in the nursery” he grunted as he stood up from the sand balancing at the edge of your sun-bed.

Rolling your eyes you folded up the magazine placing it out of sight “There’s always some thing new to learn with these things, like the new Montessori school opening nearby and there’s these baby bottles that are shaped like real nipples to help with latching, and a bassinet that rocks the baby for you! It’s called the SNOO it’s about eight thousand Ringgits but we can buy it second hand” Nanami playfully groaned at your rambling shifting his body until he laying between your thighs leaving small kisses where he could reach.

“Are you even listening to me Kento? I said it says here that plastic nappies are actually bad for babies skin and that plastic bottles can cause eczema” He hummed absentmindedly in response resulting in a pout from you and a flick to the forehead.

Brushing off your annoyance he pointed his finger in the direction of your two oldest children who were engrossed in a very intense game of tag “Look over there love”

You winced slightly at the blow your daughter had delivered to her brother back once she caught up with him suppressing your giggle as he face-planted into the floor before getting up and taking after his assailant at full speed.

“And over here” he again pointed to the baby playing “Can I eat that?” in the sand beside them.

“You raised all of these kids just fine without all that nonsense, we’re going to be just fine” he kissed your thighs again caressing small circles into you while his eyes remained half-lidded.

You huffed again staring down at your caring husband allowing yourself to relax at his touch. Maybe he was right, all your babies were happy and healthy and you kept them alive for this long and anonmom2567 couldn't be THAT much better at parenting than you afterall.

"You're probably right Ken" you sighed again closing your eyes and relaxing back into the sunbed, he smiled lazily into your thighs content that his plan had worked and that he could reduce some of his wife’s troubles. The sound of gentle waves and chatter lulled you both into comfortable silence appreciating the wonderful weather, coastal air, and beautiful sky.

Of course as a parent silence meant trouble was afoot.

After a few minutes of this blissful silence you turnt to find your baby was not at her pile of blocks. You immediantly shot up and began to scan the area horrified to see your baby a considerable distance away (how'd she even crawl that fast???) at another families beach set up eating a popsicle from a cooing older lady.

"Aren't you just the most precious little angel" she fawned over your littlest one who was already scanning what they would eat next.

Not only that your oldest son had decided that the most adequet punishment for the slap he had recieved earlier was digging his younger sister neck deep in the sand.

Nanami followed your eyes to the scenes before him and let out a loud laugh, getting up to dig out the now-crying child while you retrieved your baby escape artist.

You were going to be just fine.

A/N: My second public fic omgggg hope you enjoyed. I was binge watching a bunch of Nara Smiths content and decided that I need to write my own young family AU before I messed around and married a mormon

[sanitymakesposts]

“You can run doom on a pregnancy test” “You can run doom with 18,000,000 crabs” yeah well we’re teaching my dog to open doors. Hard ones, with circular knobs

[chloeangelic]

Reflection of the Moon,

Ch 6 - Eyes on me

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series masterlist

Series summary: An affair and resulting pregnancy with Joel in post-outbreak Jackson forces you both to reflect on what it means to forgive.

Chapter summary: You and Joel settle into your new roles and your new routine.

Warnings: Smut, age gap (reader is 28, Joel is 52), ass play, fingering, pregnant sex, creampie, fluff, extreme domestic vibes.

Word count: 4.5k Rating: 18+ AO3

A/N: This isn't very long, but it's my favorite chapter so far. I love when Joel is hot and overbearing and I love their dynamic.

All Joel seems to do is work; work to contribute to the community in Jackson, work to make his house a safe place for a baby, and work for your forgiveness, for your love, for you to let him be a present father, a good partner, even a husband if you let him propose to you. He made you promise to let him take care of you, feed you, keep you company, walk you places - overbearing already, not even a new father yet, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The thought of you having a lack of anything makes him incredibly stressed, incredibly worried and incredibly distracted when he’s out on patrol. He desperately needs to know that you have  every little thing you need, whether it’s a safe home or a snack in your bag or a sweater to wear or someone to keep you warm at night. The same routine every morning you leave his house, your lunch, your books, socks, sweater, keys, and you’re coming over for dinner, okay? Come straight here when school’s out and if you ain’t here by five, I’ll come lookin’ for you. 

And when you arrive at his house fifteen minutes late, saying you ran into Abby and Owen and got to chatting; the roll of his eyes, his head shaking, ”Out of control little lady, always got me worried about you”. You roll your eyes at him back, muttering helicopter husband, smoothing your hand down his shoulder while you look at the food he has cooking on the stove. His hand comes up to grab your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him with innocent eyes, batting your eyelashes and stifling a giggle. If you were a good girl and did as you were told, I wouldn’t have to be overbearing, would I now? 

“It’s more fun when you chase me around,” you say, twisting and turning in his grip so you lean your back into his chest, and his hand falls to your stomach, rubbing his palm over your steadily growing bump and running his nose up and down the side of your neck, oh, I bet. You grab the spatula to free up his other hand, and stir around the pan a little, chuckling to yourself, “Imagine how hard your life will be when there’s two of me running around you gotta keep track of.” Don’t remind me, you hear him mutter into your skin, followed by a huff of a laugh. 

Then, after a moment, “You know I’m gonna be the happiest man in the world, right?”, he whispers, and you can hear a little hint of a sniffle as he buries his face in your hair.

“Jesus, don’t tell me you’re fucking crying again, Joel,” you say, trying to sound surprised, annoyed, anything but painfully familiar with how much of a sap this man truly is.

You try to turn around to face him, but his strong arms have snuck under yours and wrapped around your belly, his face dug into the crook of your neck now, not letting you turn around, leaving you to no option but to stand there for a while, running your fingers through his hair, letting your nails drag through his beard on the way down as he kisses your jaw. 

-

Despite having your class schedule written out and hanging on his fridge, Joel somehow manages to interrupt another few classes to drop off your lunch, his inability to remember when your lunch break is, now resulting in your students asking for Mr. Joel quite frequently, and being overjoyed when he comes in the door once again. You wave him in, reaching your hand out and tapping your fingers together like a crab, gimme gimme, gesturing at the lunchbox in his hand.  

He seemed shy, very shy, the first two times he came in, but he seems to have softened over the last little while, opening up more and more, unable to hide his smile when the kids remember his name. You figure you might as well take a breather, and open the box on your desk to see a stack of pancakes, a little container of syrup, and a set of cutlery neatly wrapped up in a little cloth.

“How about-” you start to say as you drizzle the syrup, not paying your students or Joel any mind at all, smacking the tips of your fingers when you’re done pouring, “You all ask Joel anything you want, and I’ll sit here and eat my lunch." 

And so you sit there, listening to their questions and his stories, enjoying your pancakes and looking up at this man, this beautiful and caring and responsible man, who is so good with children and teenagers, so attentive and patient and interested in everything they have to say. It makes your heart flutter and twist around itself, your baby refusing to stay still while you try to eat.

The girls in the front row, gossipy little chicks, giggle and look at you, then at Joel, then back at you, mocking you a little for how longingly you look at him. You don’t care, you could spend your entire day looking at him and listening to him talk, let his voice and his laugh fill your ears over and over. Your heart is about to burst when he tells a dad joke, a really shitty one, finally welcoming the role so warmly, excited about being a father again. 

It comes especially close to bursting when he walks you home and those same little students from the interrupted classes come up and tug at his jacket, wanting to tell him a joke, or a little story, about them or the class or their family, talking to him as if he were their uncle.

He crouches down and entertains them as you stand and watch, hear him laugh as they say, “My dad thinks you're scary but I think you're very nice, Mr Joel.” Despite his size, despite his grumpy demeanor, most of the time, and his ability to be downright terrifying, he is so, so gentle with them, speaking in a voice you’ve never heard from him, one that makes your insides melt, verging on cooing as he speaks the youngest ones. 

“Why are you such a dad?”, you ask as you walk away from the school, your hand locked in his, keeping you warm.

He shrugs, a careful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “It’s all I know how to be." 

-

Jesus, he mutters as steps inside, looking at himself in the mirror and running his fingers through his hair. “You mind givin’ me haircut?”. he asks, “I got scissors in the bathroom somewhere.” 

You rummage around in the bathroom and listen to him starting dinner downstairs, moving to his bedroom when you’ve ransacked the medicine cabinet and cupboards to no avail. Your rummaging efforts move onto the dresser, carefully sliding a large drawer open to see a stack of baby books, parenting books, probably thirty years old, twenty at best. You pick them up one by one, flipping through to discover his bookmarks near the end of all four of them. 

Your eyes flutter closed and you take a few deep breaths, trying to keep the tears at bay as they press up against your waterline. He’s not leaving, he’s not leaving, he’s not leaving. You think it over and over, whisper it to yourself so you don’t forget. He’s here, and he’s not leaving, and he’s going to be there for you just like he said he would. He loves you and he loves your baby and he’s not leaving. 

Realizing you have to get these books out of your field of vision before you start sobbing, you carefully stack them where they were and move onto the next drawer, finding the scissors immediately. As you walk down the stairs and see Joel in the kitchen, you fight the urge to throw yourself at him and tell him that you accidentally snooped and found the books, that you’re so relieved and happy you want to cry, that you love him so much and you forgive him and you don’t want to be away from him for as much as a day ever again. 

So you snip the scissors a few times as you enter the room and point them towards a chair, motion for him to sit down and position yourself between his legs. You feel his hands sweeping up the back of your leggings as you comb through his hair, sliding up and along your curves and coming to rest on the sides of your bump, his thumbs tracing over his own flannel shirt that you’re wearing. You straighten out one section at a time and carefully cut it, letting it go to make sure it falls into a perfect arrangement. 

You can see his eyes on you the entire time you're combing through his brown and silver curls, trimming them one by one and wrapping them around your fingers to lay them down. Neither of you say anything, the scratch of the scissors the only sound in the room as you furrow your brow in concentration and his eyes soften as he looks at you, the mother of his baby, the love of his life. 

There’s no way of telling how much time is going by as you meticulously make your way through all of those thick, beautiful curls, but you hear Ellie’s door open and close, then open and close again through the window before you’re done. Thank you, mama he murmurs, and you don’t get the chance to say anything before he gets a little kick to this hand in response. You can’t help but giggle and close your eyes, flustered by your baby always giving you away when you try to play it cool with their father. 

“You know I’ll do anything for you, right, angel?”, he asks with a serious expression as you put the scissors down. I do, you smile, your voice barely a whisper as you twist your fingers through his hair. “I’ll give you anything you need, anything you want, you just have to tell me,” he says as his hands find your hips, pulling you down into his lap and resting on your lower back.

You look at each other for a while, nuzzling your noses together, touching each other's hair, shoulders, and hands in silence before he asks, “Will you move in with me?”

“You want me to?”, you ask in a lousy attempt at being sneaky, feeling your heart flutter at his proposal.

“I know things aren’t a hundred percent between us and I don't want you to feel like I’m pressurin’ you to forgive me, I just- I want to at least try to be a family, us three, and Ellie," he threads his fingers through yours and squeezes your palms, pulling you closer, “We can share my bedroom, or you can even get your own, I- I just need you to live with me so I know you're safe, so I can feed you, so I’m there when the baby comes.” 

You look at the little wrinkles forming around his eyes as he smiles, and you avert your eyes in an attempt not to giggle. “And I know you're lazy with your meals on weekends,” he says with a chuckle, playing with your hair, “Just wanna make sure you’re okay.” He carefully wraps his hand around your jaw, looks into your eyes and gives you a kiss, not letting go as you part.

“Will you?”, he asks, sounding on the verge of concern, “Please?”.

You nod as you snake your arms around him, whispering your answer into his ear, of course I will, I’d love to, and feeling him squeeze you gently in response. 

-

You find yourself awake in the middle of the night, the moon shining outside the window and the house completely quiet. You shift around a little and try to get back to sleep, sticking your foot under Joel’s wide back as you lay on your side, hoping that the warmth of his skin will soothe you to sleep, but minutes go by and you feel awake as ever, prompting you to carefully whisper,

 Joel? Are you awake? 

Yeah, you hear from his side of the bed, before he shifts around, finding you under the duvet and pulling you into him, wrapping your leg around his hip and resting your head on his bicep. “Couldn’t sleep?”, he asks softly, brushing the hair away from your face and neck, and you shake your head in response. “Me neither,” he says, putting his arm around your back.

You lay there for a few minutes, looking at each other, scratching his beard with your nails and giving a few soft kisses to the underside of his jaw. His eyes are heavy with sleep but his attention is on you, and you can tell he won’t allow himself to sleep again until you’re peacefully knocked out in his embrace. 

“What animal would you be in another life?”, you whisper, twirling one of his freshly cut, bouncy curls around your finger while he brushes your spine with his fingertips, tracing all the way up, then all the way down, over the curve of your ass and along the back of your thigh.

“Maybe a pistol shrimp,” he responds after a moment of reflection. A ridiculous answer from a ridiculous man.

“What the fuck?”, you mutter, trying to keep it down even though you’re the only two people in the house, “Why would you want that? Seems like a terribly meaningless existence." The room is relatively dark, but the moonlight shining through the window illuminates him enough for you to see the unamused expression on his face.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with being a shrimp,” he clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “What’s the matter with you? Don't judge.” He tickles your side and pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your waist and tucking your belly into the softness of his stomach, your baby seemingly still asleep despite the sound and touch of their father usually eliciting a barrage of kicks. 

“How do you think they feel, huh?”, he whispers into your ear, chuckling a little under his breath as the words leave his mouth, “Knowing some lady out there is wonderin’ why anyone would wanna be a shrimp?”

Weirdo, you roll your eyes and he rolls his back, mockingly.

“What would you be?”, he asks.

You take a moment to think, “I don't know… Maybe a raccoon, they're pretty cute.”

He nods a little, “You act like a raccoon.”

“Ah,” you gasp, trying to sound insulted but knowing he’s probably right.

“What?”, he gently takes your hand and squeezes it, rubbing his thumb into your palm, “Grabby little hands all over my fridge and cupboards, can barely keep snacks in there, they always get stolen somehow.” He raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for you to defend your not-so-subtle thievery. 

“It could be Ellie,” you finally say, blinking and biting the tip of your tongue, trying to give him the most innocent eyes you can.

“She's an honest thief, unlike you,” he scolds with false severity, looking at you with piercing eyes.

“Respect my hustle, god damn it,” you whisper through your teeth, “I'm pregnant and constantly hungry, do you have any idea what that’s like?” Your baby starts kicking at that, and Joel laughs, calmly and deeply in his chest, kissing and chuckling against your hairline as he feels the little kicks to the the skin of his stomach. “Someone agrees with me” he says and starts rubbing your belly.

“Mama’s a real thief, isn't she?”, he murmurs, looking down between you and caressing the side of your bump. “Steals my snacks, steals my heart, steals all my time. But I’ll give her anything”, he looks up at you as he slides his hand over your asscheek and squeezes, “Anything she needs, I’ll give to her. Cause she’s my world, I’m not sure if she knows that.”

You maintain a shared gaze for a while, his hand still following the tiny kicks and his smile never leaving his face. You’re so in love with him, so lost in the feel of his warmth surrounding you, keeping you safe. 

You run your hand over his thick shoulder, down his arm, feeling his muscles bulging out and the soft veins running on top of them. He’s so warm, like your own personal furnace, and his face is so soft, the wrinkle between his eyebrows merely a crease now, but the little lines by his eyes are more apparent than ever from how much he’s smiling. You card your fingers through his hair, seeing how his eyes flutter shut at your touch, before he opens them again and you can see the fire in them all of a sudden. “What do you need, mama?”, he asks with his lips on your neck, leaving wet kisses up and down your skin.

“Just you, always you,” you purr as your hand traces up his arm to wrap around the back of his neck. 

“I’m here, angel,” he whispers and rubs his nose against yours, “You gonna have my baby?”

Mhmm, you nod, keeping your face close to his. That’s right, he says under his breath, “You're so beautiful, I love seeing you like this.”

The hand on your belly finds the back of your head, his thumb reaching under your jaw to tilt your face up and back, letting him kiss you, letting him lick into your mouth deeper and deeper as you roll your hips along his thigh. He pulls you closer by your hips, and his hand moves down to the front of your panties, gently tracing along your seam, a little whimper coming from your throat, desperately pleading for him to touch you properly. 

The sound clearly amuses him and he pulls down the front of the fabric just enough to slip his hand in and find your clit, starting to gently rub. “Feels good?”, he whispers as you dig your face into his neck, murmuring, very, as he finds the right spot and moves in slow little circles. He noses your hairline and your cheek as he dips into your opening, slides a single finger in, all the way to the knuckle, just to hear you whimper again when he retracts it, and uses your wetness to slide the pad of his finger around your clit, refusing to speed up despite your hips bucking and your moans getting more desperate. 

“Calm down, baby, just relax,” he whispers, “Focus on your breathing. You’ll come, don’t gotta worry, just enjoy it.”

You take a deep breath and stop squirming, hear his voice in your ear, good girl, and just feel him gently rub you as your clit swells with arousal, getting more sensitive every time he gathers more slick and continues to stimulate you slowly.

“You’re gettin’ close, though, huh, baby?”, he murmurs, and you nod carefully, your eyes closed and your leg laying over his hip completely limp. It feels like every nerve in your entire torso is being stimulated, little waves of pleasure emanating from where he’s touching you, until you slowly reach your peak and your orgasm washes over your entire body, muscles tensing tightly then going slack and loose. Atta girl. 

You pull back from the dark, warm space of his neck as he gently works his fingers inside you, and you kiss him softly, biting his bottom lip a little. “Will you fuck me now? Please?”, you plead, batting your lashes at him, “I did as you told me to, didn’t I?”

He chuckles a little as he slides your panties off and carefully opens your legs, removes his own boxers and places your leg back over his hip, teasing the head of his cock along your slit, lifting his head enough to watch your hips wind up against him. 

“Eyes on me, angel, eyes on me,” he whispers as he wraps his hand around your jaw and angles it up, forcing you to look at him while he slides deep into you, hitting the very end of your pussy, watching your brows knitting and your mouth hanging open. He has you in a complete trance, his eyes dark as ever, somehow still visible in the low light of his bedroom, and you can’t look away as your gaze is lost in his.

You’ve never felt closer to him than you do now, completely wrapped up in him and filled by him, his overwhelmingly big and muscular body setting the pace, his thick cock rocking into you. You love being at his mercy, being soft for him and letting him touch and lick and rub and fuck any part of you he wants. He knows your body like the back of his hand, knows just when he's hitting the right spot, when you're getting close, and when you need him to murmur filthy little words of encouragement to make you come. 

Just like that, he praises as he grinds into you, angling his body so his pelvis rubs your clit. Your little nub has been aching and throbbing for attention again already, fucking hormones and the mere presence of this painfully gorgeous man, finally getting relief as you feel the pressure from his groin pulling at your skin and exposing the most sensitive part of you to him. His thick hair tickles your outer lips and the constant friction on your clit gets you closer with little whimpers of his name. He keeps grinding, holding your jaw and looking into your eyes until your pussy flutters around him and you start squirming, hearing the rumble in his chest while you come on him. Such a good girl for me, huh? he whispers, and you moan, long and drawn out and guttural, his name somewhere in the mix but barely coherent. 

You muster up the energy to say what’s been on your mind since you woke up, what you’ve been meaning to tell him for a while now, since it dawned on you that he isn’t leaving, that he isn’t scared anymore, that all he wants is to be with you and be exactly what you and your baby need. There they are, right on the tip of your tongue, the words he’s been waiting to hear, falling from your lips while you take him deep inside you, suck him in and squeeze around him, I forgive you. I forgive you, Joel. He watches you as you ride the waves, his face softening as he cranes his neck down to whisper I love you so much, my angel, I’ll always love you, for the rest of my life and forever, I love you while you shake and tremble and dig your nails into his back. You murmur a weak I love you too before you turn into putty under him. 

“Can- can you fuck me deeper?”, you ask in the form of an exasperated whisper.

“You always want me deeper, don’t you?”, he’s so amused. He pulls you close, splaying his large hand over the small of your back, caressing your skin with his thumb. You giggle, mhmmm, and he pulls out of you, then uses both hands to gently flip you over onto your hands and knees, running his palms along the length of your back, stuffing a pillow under you to make sure you’re comfortable, and pressing kisses all the way down your spine.  

He slides back into you, smooths his hands across the globes of your ass while you adjust to the angle, and waits to hear you moan into the pillow before he speeds up, starting to pull your hips back onto him while he slams into you. He pauses for a second, spits a glob of saliva down onto your asshole and rubs it in with his thumb before slowly pressing his finger into you, hearing you groan in pleasure as he pushes it further in. The stretch and pressure makes your clit ache and your walls clench around him, whining for him to go faster, faster, please, while you bring your hand to yourself and start rubbing. 

“Fuck, baby, so tight,” he groans, “Rub that little clit for me, lemme feel you come around my cock." You try to moan in agreement, an incoherent mess at this point as you touch yourself with a shaky hand, feeling his cock hit just the right spot over and over and over, making you arch your back to take him deeper, as deep as he wants. My beautiful, good girl, so pretty he coos, pushing his thumb a little deeper, and you’re close, speeding up your movements until you come with a violent, full-body jerk, your asshole fluttering around his finger, and collapse onto your chest, legs only held up by Joel’s arm around your hips, folding you in half. 

“Can’t get over how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, “The moment I saw you I thought you were the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen.” He squeezes the flesh of your ass with both hands, bending down to kiss between your shoulder blades while he sits back on his heels and pulls you into his lap, snaking an arm across your front to lift you up a little and wrap his hand around your throat while he fucks up into you slowly. You grab his thighs and lean your head back onto his shoulder, closing your eyes and enjoying how deep he is inside you, right where you crave him. 

“You feel so good, baby, so good,” he whispers, grunting and groaning as he slides his hand down your belly, coming down to right above your mound and pushing into your bump. You move together, feeling the energy circulating between you as you tilt your head sideways and catch his lips in yours, panting into each other while he pistons into you. “You’re gonna make me come, my love,” he murmurs into your mouth, and you squeeze as much as you can around him while he gives you a final thrust, and his warm, smooth load fills you while his cock throbs and pulsates deep in you, his accompanying growl creating goosebumps all over your body. 

-

“Are- are we together for real now?”, you ask with a hint of a laugh, “Can I call you my boyfriend?”

Joel scowls at you, smiling as she rolls his eyes. “I'm insulted if you haven't already,” he says, and you snort in response.

“What?” he asks, looking at your lips and back up at your eyes.

“I kinda already did… To my nosy students,” you admit, no louder than a whisper.

“Of course you did,” he mutters as he starts wrapping the duvet around you, “I’ll go make breakfast, just stay here till I come get you, okay, angel?”

I have ditched my taglists, due to the majority of tags not working, and have created a notifications blog instead. Follow Angelic Notifs and turn your notifications on if you want my new fics served directly to you!

[blackopals-world]

What Nurseries would the fem!AU(Yuus) build

(Look I have baby fever and I'm tired of fighting it)

Vet!FemYuu

Stuffed animals everywhere

Doesn't care if it's a boy or girl they aren't changing it.

Every book will be animal fables

Is praying for the baby to be a beastman but just wants a healthy baby.

Got a bunch of teething toys just in case the kid has their milk teeth come early.

Rainforest noise machine

Once the baby is a few months they are going everywhere in a sling.

The baby will meet all of Yuu's patients and will be constantly covered in fur and feathers.

If the baby becomes interested in fish like their aunt Yuu will cry. She won't let her win!

Marine Biologist!FemYuu

A bit chaotic in decoration

Let's Azul decorate it the first time and cried because it was beige like those weird rich people who only care about aesthetic but have no real sense of style. Like, no color? Babies need color!

Yuu cries while explaining (it's the hormones)

She hates beige

Azul wouldn't argue with a pregnant woman

She wants sushi but doesn't know if she can have it if the baby is half mer.

They installed a tank in the room just encase the baby is a mer

The tweels are banned from holding the baby until the kid can sit up on their own.

Took the baby to swim classes to awaken their natural instincts to swim like all babies even especially fishy babies.

Chef!femYuu

Red and gold for good luck and prosperity.

Pandas for peace and protection.

She wanted everything to be traditional but knows how demanding it will be.

No hot foods, no crab, no lamb, mutton, no sushi, no soft cheese, no soft serve ice cream.

She's dying.

After the baby is born a feast of pig trotters, eggs, cakes, chicken and gelatinous rice is served. She will dye the eggs red.

The baby will get an anti-usog bracelet at birth

She is superstitious so no one will see the baby's clothes before birth.

Noble!FemYuu

Too much? Yeah.

Unfortunately, she insisted due to family tradition. Every child must use this crib first.

The baby has a different crib in every room so it doesn't matter.

Everyone needs to know how precious this baby is. The need to see this crib from space.

More silk! More pillows! More toys! More!More! More!

This baby will have like five names.

This baby will be lorded over the masses as the perfect example of a baby.

Portraits will be painted of this baby that will one day be hung in great halls and later art galleries.

Yuu is way too excited and honestly, even the baby is fed up.

She trying her best.

Special Forces!femYuu

We all know who the father is.

Yep, Rook designed this room

Doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl either.

Yuu was way too tired to stop him and she didn't even try to stop him.

Rook really wants a girl and will try again if it doesn't happen. (he was going to try again anyways)

You'd think he was giving birth with the effort he put in.

Yuu would make him do it if she could. But alas.

The couple was using their pet bunnies as pseudo babies while prepping for the pregnancy. They bunnies weren't happy except for one.

Pistolet the weirdo. Rook's favorite and the dumb one. He was also the future baby's best friend.

Yuu is an iron woman honestly, she shows no pregnancy symptoms while Rook has sympathy pregnancy symptoms.

They eat shaved ice and watch war movies together. Couple goals.

Gardener!FemYuu

A little English cottage nursery

Very whimsical

The baby isn't actually going to use a crib until they are whined because Yuu insisted on co-sleeping despite what the doctor said.(don't do this)

Yuu wanted to deliver the same way as her mother and her mother's mother. In field, by themselves, while harvesting the crops. Have that sucker out in an hour, swaddle it, and back to work.

That didn't happen. They went to a hospital and iron woman over here was put on extended bed rest after giving birth to a big ass baby. Beautiful too.

(???)!Fem?Yuu

They can have kids??

By who?

How?

I mean it's nice but I'm still confused?

Good for them?

You sure that baby isn't a cryptid? That thing has a lot of hair. Looks like that girl from "The Ring". That's alot of hair.

Well, good luck with your hairy baby.

[jymwahuwu]

Hii! Ok so, how would Tighnari and Cyno react to darling being depressed? And I mean, she was depressed before, but now its worse.

How would they react to see darling in a state where she cant get hernself to eat, and struggles to even brush her teeth?

What would they do to make her feel better?

Also, ik Tighnari wats a BIG family, but, would he really risk darling's depression get even worse by getting her pregant? (After pregancy or during the pregancy, a lot of women end up suffering from depression)

Also, just imagine them react to her having a very bad estime asswell witch lead to the first state of depression before abduction (after abduction it got worse) bc of the toxic people she has been surrounded, and cannot bring hernself to look in the mirror?

Ok, idk if ur gonna accept to do this, but I was just trying to make mynself relate to the reader 😅

Anyways, thank you for reading my request and if u dont want to do it, its fine, dw! (Again, excuse my bad english)

TW: yandere, kidnapping, mentioned pregnancy, depressed reader

Tighnari and Cyno see you sinking so depressed that they start looking for any way to make you feel better. This isn't the first time they've comforted the family, and Collei has given them a little experience.

You chew the bread a few times, letting out soft whimpers and sniffles occasionally, and then burst into tears, tears falling into the bread, the salty taste melting on your tongue. They think you're rebellious and tell you to finish your meals in a firmer tone.

"I-I can't." You said.

Cyno: "What? Why? It's just a piece of bread, listen to me, take a few bites."

Tighnari: "Are you sure you don't want that bit of nutrition? Eat it, don't make me say it again."

You are so powerless in your current situation that you suspect this is your punishment - why did the Forest Rangers/General Mahamatra lock you up? Why is he acting like he loves you? Love is locking that person up against their will?

They didn't investigate your mental health before this. This is really unexpected. Poor thing, you can't even do simple things like dressing yourself and brushing your teeth by yourself now. They'll do this for you and even shower you. It's kind of satisfying and guilt-ridden for them - you're like a little pigeon eating in their hands. It would be too cruel to put you in a cage like this.

They bring you any gift you want, almost allow you to get anything you can buy with mora, bring you Fontaine's popular magazine, Inazuma's light novel. They read you some funny joke or content. You can even go out as much as you want! As long as you end up returning within a day, they won't ask you to explain or capture you.

They can't be there for you 24/7. In their absence, they are viscerally uncomfortable at the thought that you might sob. So! They allow you to have some pets, what do you want? cat? dog? bird? little sheep? fish? Crystalflies? Tighnari will teach you how to take care of them. He brought Karkata over here. Sometimes you will see that adorable mechanical crab make coffee and cover you with quilts! Cyno, studies methods with you. He will call himself dad and the pets are the kids.

As for getting pregnant…if they find out you're in this state, they won't even try. Even if there is no big family to leave a little regret, but it's okay. Love is the most important thing in the family. They have to take care of you.

[seasonsbloom]

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

part 2

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether. 

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back. 

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

+

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely. 

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…” The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water. 

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.” 

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake. 

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop. 

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.  

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you. 

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this. 

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

+

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry. 

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat. 

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic. 

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

+

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

“With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would. 

It just hurts. 

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it. 

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him? 

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big. 

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster. 

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other. 

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw. 

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2

[eoieopda]

JADE, HEAR ME OUT, OKAY? NAMJOON AS A DAD. That’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I’ll see myself out.

dadjoon is his final evolution, i’m sure of it. if he can raise a jungkook, he can raise an actual baby.

also, for purely selfish reasons, i have created girl dad!joon. i can picture him exploring with a teeny tiny daughter, making sure she knows all the cool science/nature stuff that society thinks little girls can’t/shouldn’t be excited about 🫠😵‍💫🥹

Fate was a funny thing.

For as long as you’d known him, Namjoon had always been honest that his greatest wish in life was to be a father. It shocked you back then, hearing a nineteen-year-old dreaming so openly about domesticity; especially when all his friends could focus on was how many clubs they could hit in the night ahead. But you knew it, even then, that Namjoon was a nurturer. He always was.

Although he wasn’t shy about expressing his emotions, you’d only seen him cry on a handful of occasions. One of those was when he laid eyes on the pregnancy test you held out, trembling with joy and - inwardly - a hell of a lot of panic. For the nine months that followed, people often asked what you wanted: boy or girl? With a sheepish smile, he always answered the same way - a boy, because he knew what that entailed.

Having a little girl? Well, that scared the shit out of him. That was unknown territory and if his sister taught him anything, it was that he had absolutely no idea what kind of strength and finesse it took to navigate the very unique difficulties of girlhood. He was terrified, he said, of fucking up - of making it all harder.

The next time you saw him cry was when he first laid eyes on your daughter. Watching him hold that wriggling, pink-faced angel, there’d been a knot in your stomach. You wondered to yourself if he was secretly disappointed not to have a son, even if he’d never say so. But over the past three years, he proved you wrong over and over and over again.

Fate made the right call - Namjoon was born to be a girl dad.

Sitting on your beach towel, you hugged your knees to your chest and rested your chin where they bent. It was the most at-peace you’d ever felt, lounging in that salty wind, even though the excited squealing up ahead had scared all the seagulls away.

Waddling on chunky legs next her father, Kim Yeong-Ja gripped the same hand that had crafted the braids bouncing against her shoulders. She stared up at him with palpable adoration - like her mother - and her eyes were sparkling wide with wonder - like her father. If you squinted, you could see the purple fingernail on his right index finger; the one she messily painted after barely even having to ask for his permission, receiving all the trust in the world.

“Ja, look!” Namjoon gasped as his hand dipped gently into the tide pool below. When he pulled it back out, whatever he now cupped in his hand was invisible to you. “Do you know what this is, baby?”

Yeong-Ja’s gasp was identical to her father’s. Then that little ham pulled her free hand to her cheek in surprise - another perfectly mimicked trait of his - before her tiny voice replied, “Mermit!”

His eyes crinkled above his all-consuming grin. It didn’t disappear when he bent over and kissed the top of her head, “Hermit crab! Good job, baby. You’re a genius, just like your mama.”

Your heart soared at her reaction, which was to turn and find you with her big, bright eyes and open-mouthed smile. She giggled like a fiend when you waved. You swooned.

“Show mama!” Yeong-Ja barely warned him before she took off, tugging him behind her. He swooped in and tucked her under one arm so she wouldn’t fall on the rocks but, out of respect, kept up her desired pace. Her belly laugh had become the soundtrack of the day. Like the tide below, it crashed over the sand and sprayed in every direction.

Soon enough, your two greatest loves came clambering up to you and dropped clumsily - but safely - on the other half of your towel. You could’ve sat there forever, counting their twin freckles; but there was now a very small child holding a very small crab near your face with extremely cautious hands.

There were two pairs of eager eyes blinking up at you.

“Wow, Jaja! Look at your little friend!” You gushed before pressing a kiss to her damp, chubby cheek, “Is daddy teaching you all about nature?”

There was a tiny wrinkle between two black brows. She corrected you gently, though it made your heart explode, “Mermits, mama.”

“Quite right, Ja,” Namjoon waved his hand in diplomatic agreement before resting it on the small of your back. He shot you a wink but maintained his otherwise serious expression, “Mermits, mama.”

[whatlurksbean]

Do you think that if Tusk hadn't mentioned her pregnancy when she first met Hake, that he wouldn't of offered to get her food to spare the crab?

I think he still would have gotten her food to spare the crab, but they probably wouldn’t have made a deal for him to get her future meals

[cypherdecypher]

Animal of the Day!

Bonnethead Shark (Sphyrna tiburo)

(Photo by Robin Riggs)

Conservation Status- Endangered

Habitat- Western Atlantic Ocean; Gulf of Mexico; Caribbean Sea

Size (Weight/Length)- 120 cm

Diet- Crabs; Small fish; Shrimp; Seagrasses

Cool Facts- Despite looking like a tiny hammerhead, the bonnethead shark is the only omnivorous shark. While they eat crustaceans and small fish, the bonnethead won’t turn their snout up when seagrass is on the menu. Up to 60% of the shark’s diet is made up of vegetation due to a unique enzyme in their gut that breaks down cellulose. In addition, bonnethead sharks have the shortest pregnancy of any shark. Females are only pregnant for 5 months before giving birth to up to 12 pups. In captivity, female bonnethead sharks are able to asexually produce miniature clones of themselves. Bonnethead shark populations are dropping due to commercial and sport fishing.

Rating- 11/10 (Named after a hat.)

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Lochlan Parenting headcanons

Lochlan treats Siren! Darling like she’s the most fragile flower when she’s pregnant

He’s basically her personal chef and everything

Lochlan even made clothes to hide her pregnancy bump.

He gives her bulging stomach belly rubs when the baby is kicking

Trust me, their baby kicks like they’re Messi.

When the baby finally comes, Lochlan is holding your hand and letting you scream whatever you want at him.

After a grueling two hours of pushing and screaming, your baby finally comes into the world.

While the baby is being bathed, he dotes on you.

“Do you need water? Feel any pain? Can I get you food?”

When the baby is brought back to you, you almost cry at how peaceful your baby is

Every so often she’ll make a cute coo or whine.

Lochlan can’t contain his awws and has to leave the room

He is upset that the baby can’t properly see him for a while.

But he’ll settle for when his mermaid munchkin gently moves her tail against his chest when holding her

You did fascinate him when you breastfeed your daughter.

He genuinely didn’t know mermaids breastfed.

“What did you think my boobs were for?”

“I personally thought they were a left over aesthetic choice from when you guys still lived on land.”

“Shut up and hand me her rattle.”

He’s the one who teaches her to swim. He got really sick of seeing her float around the water until she eventually reached one of her parents. As cute as it was, the process was exhausting and time consuming.

Once his baby can swim, she’s an underwater speed demon.

That and he gets slapped in the face many times by his mermaid munchkin in bed.

Once she’s a toddler, you take her on land to learn how to walk.

That took a couple of minutes, and because of how mermaid tails are structures, she was extremely flexible when she gets two legs.

Mermaid munchkin literally cartwheels into the ocean.

Mermaid Munchkin demands the finest of fish.

So Lochlan teaches her how to use her sharp teeth to bite fish.

Unfortunately that comes with the setback of his arm being a teething relief tool.

“You ok?”

“Mmhm! *tears in his eyes*”

Lochlan is on dinner duty 24/7. He creates extravagant meals for his wife and baby.

Blue lobster, crab, shrimp, and fruit from above for his lovely wife. Puréed lobster, fruit, and carrots for his baby.

Seriously, the guy is the underwater Gordon Ramsey.

@celadon-gardener

[critter-catcher]

Given today's events, I think we need some crab facts

There are more than 4,500 known species of crabs

A crabs pregnancy only lasts 1-2 weeks and they lay 1,000 to 2,000 eggs!

The smallest crab is the Pea Crab(Left) which at max is 0.47 inches. On the other hand you have the Japanese Spider Crab(right) which can get up to twelve feet.

Now Yeti Crabs are one of my favorite types because they live on hydrothermal vents at the very bottom of the ocean. And they stick together by the thousands, each white dot is in fact a crab.

There's another fun thing about these guys, and it's actually where they get their names from. They have little hairs covering their claws which they slowly wave back and forth encouraging bacteria growth, then they eat that bacteria!

Of course this list would be incomplete if I didn't tell you the most important fact,

Crabs dance.

All for different reasons, spreading eggs, gloating over a victory, to woo potential mates, even to attract food.

So post crab rave, technically, it's accurate

[shadowcatzone]

So I just learned that crab ice cream is a thing and I’m imagining Dan Feng eating that because he’s a dragon and craving seafood and something sweet and Yingxing is just so confused. (And then the 🥚 arrives.)

And then centuries later Dan Heng eats it just to try and see what it’s like. And Blade is watching from afar and he is so confused becuz??? They’ve only ever fought?????? What’s happening????? What’s wrong with him!?!?!??

Blade, pointing his sword at dan hengs neck: ARE YOU HAVING AN AFFAIR!??

Dan heng, enjoying a rare treat and hoping to get out of this fightless: what the fuck does that even-

_

Yeah i get you.

I also headcanon that vidyadhara cuisine is heavily seafood based, them needing water for hatching rebirth and all.

So i totally see this.

Also: dan heng craving crab ice cream = pregnancy food cravings = dan heng is pregnant = not from blade = he's having an affair. It all makes sense in blades mind.

Also whoever else is there, neither the nameless nor jing yuan will ever let them live this down.

[wardenparker]

Couch for Four

Dave York x Carol York x female reader x Quinn McKenna Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: General audiences, but this blog is always 18+! Word Count: 6k Warnings: MMFF poly fam established in the fic Table for Four . Just a lil bit of fluff about PMS/PMDD. Talk of menstruation and some folks day dreaming about possible future pregnancy. Just a whole lot of fluff and Super Care Taker Dave.  Summary: When your PMS kicks in early and angry, Dave steps up to make sure you’re taken care of and comfortable. Which includes making sure Carol and Quinn are in on the plan.  Notes: I’ve been dealing with horrible PMDD for an entire two weeks now and Keri is an angel who helps me daydream about being taken care of when I feel bad. That’s all, that’s what is here. Pure self-indulgence. 

It started last night, which was inconvenient but not the end of the world. Quinn was out with Carol last night and Dave was having Daddy-daughter night with his kids, so you had curled up on the couch and eaten a parsed together dinner of sad, small amounts of various leftovers, a half a Taco Bell quesadilla, a bowl of that amazing soup from the bistro down the block, and the rest of that bag of kettle corn from the vendor at the farmer’s market. It was by no means gourmet, but there was no one there to witness it so you just popped on Dirty Dancing Havana Nights for the eightieth time because you don’t care if the sequel isn’t as good, you just like to watch Diego Luna dance. Last night was not a problem. It’s this morning that’s the problem.

No amount of coffee in the world can bring you back to human when PMS wallops you out of nowhere like this, so your makeup feels painted on and your clothes feel too tight in awkward places. The breakfast sandwich that you ate on the drive to the office has somehow only made you more hungry and that has you unconsciously pouting at your desk in between phone calls and managing Dave’s many responsibilities.

You’re not getting as much done as you’d like to when you’re denying yourself the bottle of that new Sprite Lymonade – which you’ve become obsessed with – that you have stashed in the break room fridge with your name on it. You’re going to eat the goddamn salad you packed for lunch and not order a crab cake BLT and curly fries from the sandwich shop across the street for lunch. You’re going to get through work and be fine. You’re going to be normal. And only after accomplishing that will you allow yourself to go home and cry over more rom-coms and isolate yourself from your partners for a few days so they don’t worry about you.

When Dave walks into the office, he immediately knows that something is off-kilter with you. Instead of the bright, beautiful smile that signifies that you are excited to see him, your face is slightly sagging. Indicating that you aren't feeling the best and the wane, almost watery smile a dim ghost of your normal greeting. The double shot latte in his hand had been for him, but he sets it down beside your computer and smiles. "Good morning, sweetheart." He murmurs softly, figuring you might be battling with a headache or maybe even those head colds that seem to be running rampant around the office.

“Good morning.” In an effort not to have him worrying, you refocus on your computer like you’re already busy at work. “There is one phone message on your desk and you have a team meeting at 10. Any special instructions this morning?”

He frowns slightly, normally the first five or ten minutes of his day with you is spent chatting about more than instructions or messages. Something’s off with you and he wonders if you are upset that Quinn and Carol went out last night. “Nothing at all sweetheart, I know you have my schedule set for me.”

“Of course.” The electronic calendar containing his business obligations is meticulously micromanaged regardless of how crappy you yourself might feel.

“Are you alright?” He frowns slightly, shuffling closer as you pretend to be engrossed in the screen. “You aren’t upset I was with the girls last night, are you?”

“What?” It breaks your heart a little that he would even think that and you shake your head immediately. There aren’t many people in the office yet so you can reach for his hand and give a quick squeeze without fear of being spotted. “No. I’m just not feeling one hundred percent myself today. I’m fine, I promise.” That’s putting it mildly, unfortunately, but you’re a grown ass woman. It’s not like this is your first time with PMS.

“Okay.” Dave believes you, knowing that you aren’t one to lie to him. “If you need to go home, you know you can.” He doesn’t want you here if you need to be resting.

“I know.” He would never make you work if you needed to be home, probably much more lenient with you than he needs to be because he does care about you. But by the same token, caring about him is part of why you work so hard. “It’s…” There’s no use hiding anything from him. Dave York is not a man that anyone can keep secrets from. “It’s just…the usual.”

Frowning for a moment, his eyes drop down to the calendar and then he understands. “Oh.” He murmurs softly. “Okay. I understand.”

“Nothing to worry about,” you promise him. Even if it’s hitting early and hard this month, it’s still just the same old stuff that you’ve been dealing with since middle school.

He knows that’s not exactly true. Your periods seem to hit you more severely than Carol. She had explained it to him once, and Dave had been appalled that you had to go through that every month. So of course he would worry.

The fact that you have to leave your desk twice before his meeting to ride out a crying spell in the bathroom isn’t ideal, but hopefully he didn’t notice. The coffee he left you also seems to have heightened your anxiety, which only makes things harder, but it can all be managed. You worked at the fucking White House. You can handle anything. At least, that’s what you remind yourself when you’re staring at your own red eyes in the mirror on bathroom trip number three.

Dave kept his door open, watching as you leave your desk for the third time and he sighs. Standing, he walks out and to your phone to pick it up and forward the calls to his handset. Bypassing the need to have you screen his calls for him. It’s clear that this isn’t a normal day for you and he won’t treat it as such.

The blinking light on your desk phone when you get back again makes you frown, and you feel like you should be tucking your tail between your legs when you knock gently on Dave’s door and nudge it open. Apparently, you’ve been so out of it that you didn’t even realize it was cracked open. “Mr. York?” You’re formal because the other assistant in this section of the office is a busybody. “Is there a problem?”

Dave looks up from his computer and motions you to come inside. “Come on in and close the door, sweetheart,” he murmurs quietly so that only you can hear him. “No problem that can’t be fixed.”

“I’m sorry I had to step away again.” His door clicks shut behind you and you brace yourself for him to be upset or at least disappointed – which everyone knows is worse. But he is generally an understanding boss and he’s an attentive partner, so the best you can do right now is wait to find out if you’ve finally tested him too much and hope that that isn’t the case.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” Dave pushed back from his desk and pats his thigh. “Come here, sweetheart.”

The pinpricks behind your eyes are immediate, and before you can stop them they’ve boiled over into full-blown tears with messy, garbled “I’m sorry”s hiccuped in between. There’s just no way in hell that you can manage sex right now. Not emotionally or even physically – cramps having kicked in finally and joined that unwelcome cacophony of symptoms.

“Hey, hey.” Frowning, Dave immediately stands, rushing over to you to pull you against his chest. “What’s wrong, baby? Talk to me.” No clue why you started crying when he wanted you to sit on his lap, he’s a little alarmed at how you are reacting. Normally you love sitting on his lap at work, though he doesn’t want to have you sit on his cock this time.

“I just—I’m really sorry—” The game is now about keeping your voice down so Fran doesn’t hear you crying from outside the door. “I can’t today. I know it’s usually not a big deal but I just don’t feel up to it.”

“What?” He shakes his head, curling you into his chest a bit more. Protective of your feelings and wanting to provide you with comfort if you need it. “No, baby, I didn’t want sex. I just wanted to hold you. Nothing more.” He promises softly.

Good job dumb ass. The voice in your head chastises immediately, though you don’t move an inch from the safety of his arms. Always gotta assume the worst. “I’m sorry,” you murmur again, softer, this time apologizing for misunderstanding. “I guess I’m a little less myself today than I thought.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He had just wanted to hold you on his lap while he worked, but now he guides you over to the sofa in the corner of his office. “I have my sweats here. Do you want to get out of your tight skirt and pantyhose?” He offers.

It would be better. You know that. It would be so much more comfortable. Dave’s sweats and workout clothes are always soft and worn in, usually the kind of thing that you would jump at wearing if the situation arose. Carol does too, and sometimes you twin it in her husband’s clothes when you spend the weekend at their house. “That…” You’re nodding even as you protest. “That would be noticeable…I’ll just say I spilled coffee on my skirt, I guess.”

“You’re going to stay in here.” Dave tells you. “I’ve already set up the heating pad.” He uses it for when his back hurts or the ache and pains that come with his job, but he knows how much Carol depends on her heating pad during her periods. “And you can sleep or read or just watch me work.”

“I don’t understand.” Probably more than a little dense from all the fog of mood swings, you feel completely dumb when you just look at him like a lost puppy.

“You aren’t feeling good sweetheart.” One hand slides down to caress your stomach. “If you won’t go home, you’re going to let me take care of you.” He prefers that actually. “I have a drawerful of your favorite snacks and no more pressing meetings today.”

You really could cry all over again, both of your hands clasping over his on your middle. Sometimes you swear he gets moony over the idea of having more kids around, but he knows that’s not in your life plan any time soon. “You’re an angel, you know that right?”

“Gotta take care of my girl.” He leans in and nudges his nose against yours. “If I don’t, Carol and Quinn will have my hide.” It’s more than just the other two being annoyed with him, he wants to take care of you. Wants to make sure that you know you are loved and supported. “You want one of those Sprite Lymonades from the fridge? You’ve been drinking a lot of them lately. I can go grab one while you change. Or some tea?”

“Those stupid sodas are so good.” Slumping a little against his side, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck and sniffle quietly. “I really appreciate this, honey…” He knows you’re never off your mark like this at work. So much so that he had no idea your periods and the accompanying symptoms were this bad until Carol had told him.

“I’ve got you.” He promises, sliding his hand around to your back and squeezing you slightly. “You go change and I’ll get you all set up for your much needed day of rest.”

He strides out the door a moment later with confidence and you snatch your purse out from under your desk to be able to have your phone and book on the couch in his office. Dave keeps his spare clothes and gym clothes in the small cabinet under the windows of his government issued office and you slip out the nondescript gray sweatpants and t-shirt that Carol got him on vacation over a decade ago. Exchanging your own clothes for his is like being wrapped in a warm York-family hug and you tuck your heels in next to the couch with your purse so you can lie down. Your partner’s clothes, a heating pad, and a book. This is the closest to comfortable that you’ve felt in two days.

If people are surprised that Dave is in the break room, they don’t show it. Most often you grab his coffee, but he fishes out his wallet to grab a couple of dollar bills to feed into the machine. He knows you will fret about not taking care of him since this is your job but Dave is a believer that as your boss and your lover, it’s also his job to take care of you. He punches the button for your desired drink and listens to it rattle around before dispensing the bottle of cold lemon-lime soda.

The electric blanket is tucked neatly against you when Dave comes back in, and you offer him a soft smile and a "Thank you" for the soda. "I'm just going to shoot Quinn a text and then order your lunch, and then I swear I'm off duty for the rest of the day." What you're actually doing is canceling on Quinn for tonight, but you'll just tell him that you're under the weather. He won't mind – it's not as though you had anything really planned. It was more of just an agreement to meet up for dinner and then see where the night took you.

“Don’t worry about that.” Dave shakes his head. “I’ll order lunch.” He promises. “Now. Do you want Oreos, a Twix, a Snickers, or the pack of those chocolate chip cookies you like?”

"You have my cookies?" Not expecting that in the least, since you had discovered them originally at a gas station of all places, you pause in writing a message to Quinn and lift your head. "You tracked down my stupid convenience store cookies?"

“I tracked down your stupid convenience store cookies.” He grins, walking over to his desk and opening the bottom draw to pull out not one, but two packs of the cookies you couldn’t find anywhere else.

“Daaaave…” There are the tears again, barely pushed back as you take the packages from him and stand up to give him a tight hug full of gratitude. “You’re so good to me.”

“You deserve it.” He promises you, kissing your hair. “Now I want you to let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“I’m all set.” The salad you brought will keep until dinner if you eat cookies for lunch, but that has to be some kind of nutritional balance, right? “Thank you honey.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” He pulls out the blanket he sometimes uses when he’s too tired to go home late from a mission. Winking at you as he comes over to spread it out over you. “You just sit on your heating pad and look pretty.” He murmurs. “And cry if you need to. I won’t be mad about that.”

“Trust me, I won’t be able to stop myself from the way the day has been going so far.” You roll your eyes at yourself and give yourself permission to indulge in kissing him. It’s not like you haven’t done much worse on this couch, after all, but it means that you’re distracted enough to not hear Dave’s phone go off at his desk.

Once he kisses you and you are settled back against the cushions of the sofa, Dave makes his way back over to his desk. He picks up his phone and reads the text message from Quinn.

From SpaceCadet: Is she okay? She just canceled plans tonight. Said she wasn’t feeling well.

With your soda and your book you don’t even notice the way Dave’s face pinches when he looks down at his phone, finally letting your work brain turn off so you can just let yourself be distracted.

He glances over to you and starts typing out a reply. Having a bad day with her period. She’s been crying all morning. Got her camped out on the couch with a heating pad. Swing by her place and get a change of clothes and come to the house? I’m going to take her home.

From SpaceCadet: Copy that. Taking a half day and hitting the grocery store on my way there. Cooking for four or six?

Dave smirks at the reply, the girls love Quinn and he’s taken to them easily. Six. The girls are on a hot dog tear.

From SpaceCadet: Steaks for four and hot dogs for two. See you tonight.

There aren’t a lot of foods that Quinn has mastered but he can definitely feed kids and he makes a hell of a good steak. And since you had been showing him a thing or two or three in the kitchen he had really taken a new liking to cooking. So whatever he does, it’s almost guaranteed to be good.

Dave sets his phone down and glances back over to you to find you curled up with your cookies and soda, sniffing quietly as you read. It could be worse and he doesn’t want to smother you, so he turns towards his computer to knock out some emails.

******

When the end of the day comes you’ve managed a nap and a few more chapters in the novel that Carol had lent you, and you sit up on Dave’s couch still feeling burnt out and heavy with sadness despite resting all day. “I think I’m going to tuck in over the weekend,” you tell him, knowing it would be longshot to get anything done at home. Laundry and feeding yourself at most.

“That sounds good, sweetheart.” Dave nods, closing his computer down and locking his desk drawers. “Quinn’s bringing you some clothes and we are going to just veg for the weekend. Low key, relaxed and you won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Did you just say…” It takes you an extra second, but when you look back up he’s smiling in that completely self-satisfied way that he has whenever he’s plotted a surprise or knows he’s fully exhausted and satisfied you in bed. The expression that is his own little pat on the back. “You’re not letting me go home to wallow in privacy, are you?”

"Should we?" He asks, lifting a brow. "Are you telling me that I should let you go home to be alone and be miserable, stuck in your own head? Or my idea of bringing you home and letting me, Carol, and Quinn dote on you and spoil you?" If you really wanted to go home and be alone, he would let you. He just wouldn't be happy about it.

There’s guilt in your frown, and you dig your toes into the little rug runner under his sofa with a sigh. “I don’t want to spoil anyone’s good time.”

"You aren't going to spoil anything, sweetheart." It's Dave's turn to frown as he shakes his head. "We will have a perfectly good time just relaxing together. Carol knows what you are going through and Quinn and I? Well, we are good boys who do what our girls want us to." He sends you a small wink. "Even running out for your cookies."

In under thirty seconds your frown has turned into a pout with the corners of your lips distinctly turned up as you cross the office to put your arms around him again. “Thank you, love.” He’s very good at making big gestures seem small, and the longer you’re together the more natural it’s all starting to feel. Even bringing Quinn into the equation had been surprisingly simple. “I just—you know I wouldn’t ask for it. But I’m grateful to have it offered to me.”

"We will do anything for you, sweetheart." Dave reminds you, his own arms wrapping around your back and he kisses your forehead. "What do you think about letting me drive you home? Leaving your car here for the weekend?" You might want to go somewhere, but he and Quinn could always come back and get it if you need it.

“As long as it’s okay with my boss,” you flash him a grin, knowing that he doesn’t have anything on his calendar that you have to worry about this weekend and you were planning on face planting on your couch. “It sounds extremely sweet and pretty wonderful, honestly.”

"Okay, let's get out of here." Dave shoots you a grin, happy he's getting his way and you are going along with his plan. You will be pampered and taken care of. Just like you deserve to be.

******

Quinn and Carol’s cars are already in the driveway when you pull up to the house, and Dave parks in the garage beside his daughters’ bicycles. You’ve been having these family nights more often – all four adults together having dinner with his and Carol’s girls. Sometimes you’ll go to their recitals or watch movies with them all together, sometimes you’re just sitting at the kitchen table playing cards or board games while they do their homework. They’re used to you as their daddy’s assistant and friend, and now they’re used to Quinn, too. They tease you, of course, because Carol introduced him as Mommy and Daddy’s friend and your boyfriend, but it’s that cute kind of teasing that makes them giggle and sometimes ask if you’re gonna wear a big poofy dress when you get married one day. It’s harmless and sweet, and honestly you’ve really come to appreciate those moments of being a family together.

"Quinn promised to cook tonight." Dave tells you as he cuts the engine. "Steaks for us, so you know that Carol has whipped up some delicious sides and he probably bought a chocolate laden dessert."

“I owe you guys for this.” While you know that there is no point system – no one is keeping track of good deeds in this relationship the four of you have – you still know you’ll be doing extra little nice things for all of them to show them you’re thankful.

Dave scoffs but he doesn't answer, knowing that there is no point to it. Instead, he walks around the car and takes your purse and clothes from you. Keeping his hand on your back and chuckling. "Now that we are home, you can take your bra off."

“You bet your ass.” Both of you laugh and you let him sweep you into the house like a guest of honor instead of the frumpy pile of borrowed clothes and unsettled hair you are. A makeup wipe from your bag had washed away the careful face you applied this morning and while you do feel more human, you know you definitely look as tired as you feel.

"Honey." Carol immediately pops out of the kitchen, tutting and pouting at you as she sweeps in to wrap you up in a fierce hug. "You should have let Dave bring you home hours ago." She chastises you gently. "What do you need? The heating pad is already on the couch, or you can sit in the steam shower until dinner is ready."

“I’m okay,” you promise her instantly, accepting the tight hug and reminding yourself not to cry over how sweet she is. “I had the heating pad in Dave’s office all day and had a little nap while he worked. I just…” Sheepishly, you shrug a little in her arms and look around to find the girls nowhere in sight before you give Carol a kiss. “I just want to be around you guys.”

Carol pets your face, cooing against your lips softly. "We will take care of you." She promises, smiling as she pulls back. "Nothing better than two sexy men and me to dote on you when you are feeling yucky because Aunt Flo's being a cunt." She winks. "Pun intended."

“Unfortunately, she hasn’t even kicked in yet,” you laugh at the pun and let her steer you to a stool at the kitchen island. “This is just her pre show.”

"The show before the volcano." Carol winces and reaches out to rub your stomach. "I'm so sorry, love."

“I’ll be okay.” Another kiss can be stolen without too much fear, and you’re hugging her tightly when the glass door between the kitchen and the porch slides open. “Are they home? I thought I heard the car.” Quinn pops his head inside and looks around for a second before his eyes land on you with a sigh of relief. “Baby,” he sticks his lower lip out in a deep pout and immediately makes his way to your side to wind his arms around you. “Are you okay? I’m sorry you’re not feeling good.” Periods are the number one reason he’s glad he’s not a woman, and he remembers how hard his ex-wife had it when they were together but it seems like sometimes yours are even worse.

“I’m okay now.” Carol has stepped away to make room for Quinn and you hug him every bit as tightly as you hugged her. “I have the world’s best people to look after me.”

"I've got some steaks on the grill." He knows red meat is good for you during this time and he was determined to make it the best damn steak you've ever put in your mouth. "And I'm already determined to give you a foot massage later on."

"When Dave said you guys weren't going to let me lift a finger this weekend he really meant it, huh?" It never fails to make you smile, though, because you know that the love between the four of you is steady as a rock. "Thank you, baby."

“You’re welcome.” Quinn winks at you and grins. “You know that we would do anything for you.” He kisses you quickly and lets you go. “I can’t over cook the steaks or York will never let me live it down!” He calls over his shoulder as he rushes back out onto the deck.

"So how was work, love?" When you turn back to Carol at the stove, Dave has already put a cold drink in front of you and is setting the table on your other side.

“It was snotty noses and uncooperative shots.” She chuckles. “So a perfect day in my world.” She is stirring the mushroom risotto and turns to send you a happy smile. “No emergencies, so it was wonderful.”

"We love any day the pediatrician's office doesn't have to deal with broken bones, virus epidemics, or random bouts of pink eye." Carol's work always keeps her plenty busy, but she always comes out of it with a smile and you admire the hell out of her for it. "Thankfully the office was quiet today. Seems like the day was pretty okay for everybody but my uterus," you chuckle lightly.

“Your uterus is angry with you.” Carol hums. “Or maybe it’s angry at the two sexy men that continuously fuck you but never gives it what it wants.”

"You just want another baby around without having to give birth to it yourself." Which isn't such a bad thing, but you still laugh a little as you sip the water that Dave had put in front of you.

“Duhhh.” Carol laughs and shakes her head. “No, but maybe we can talk to one of my colleagues, see if there’s something that can be done.”

"About me having a baby?" The immediate confusion has you sitting up in your seat before your mind catches up with your mouth. "Ohhh...wait...you mean about my dumbass periods."

“Of course, honey.” Carol reaches for the heavy cream to stir it in slowly. “I know you aren’t to that point yet, but you don’t deserve to suffer every month.”

It isn't too unusual for the topic of kids to come up considering you're the only one of the four of you without a biological child, but you typically wave it off just like you are now. "Every several years I have to change my birth control, that's all. They help the symptoms for a while and then they don't, ya know? It's fine. I just clearly need to see my gynecologist again."

“Okay.” She frowns slightly but she won’t push. “If you want me to make some calls, you just let me know, okay? I can call in some favors.”

"I appreciate it." Unfortunately, you're one of those unlucky women that got dealt a bad hand when it comes to monthly symptoms and you're managing it the best you can. What is lucky is that you have three people who love you who are willing to bend heaven and earth to help. "For now I'm just thinking good food and good company is the way to go. Even if I'm not up to running around with the girls...I'm glad Dave set this whole thing in motion." Because you know it was him. This level of coordination smacks of Dave York's handiwork.

“Of course. You know Dave.” She smiles indulgently as she looks towards the door. “He likes to make a fuss and he would do anything for you. We all would.”

"I'd do anything for all of you." That is as earnest a promise as you can possibly make, and you would make it as many times as they needed for the rest of time. Dave's gone outside after setting the table, getting a few private minutes with Quinn before dinner, and you glance back at the glass door before turning to Carol with a grin. "Did you guys have fun last night? Quinn was really excited but he wouldn't tell me what he had planned."

“We did.” She smiles fondly and knows you will understand. “We relived a little bit of the golden days. He took me to a dive bar and then we got a hotel room and pretended it was our old dorms.”

"Oh, cuuute." They've enjoyed rekindling their college romance and it's been sweet to see Carol and Quinn in that sunny, lovey stage. "That sounds like a perfect way to have some time together. He was so excited, I'm glad you loved it."

“I just hate that you were having a miserable time while we were having fun.” She pouts softly.

"If I had called you would have dropped everything and then you would have missed out on Quinn's whole plan." You shake your head, reaching out to rub her shoulder gently while she pulls the pan off the stove. "This is better. We have no plans for the weekend and the girls have a sleepover tomorrow. We can relax and be together with no expectations or changes of plans."

“As long as you do exactly what you want.” She murmurs softly as she covers the pot to keep it warm.

"What I want is to sneak a little forkful of whatever dessert Quinn picked up." The conspiratorial smile you share with her is broad, and you put your hands out to take the pot from her to put on the table.

“I think that I didn’t see you open the box on the first shelf of the fridge.” She winks at you and walks around you to put it on the table herself.

"You're a goddess," you promise Carol, as if she doesn't already know it. In their big refrigerator, a tall white cardboard bakery box stamped with the logo of the bakery down the block from your own apartment is waiting, and when you pop the lid your favourite cherry chocolate cake is staring back at you. "Oh my god," you groan happily and swipe a finger through the deeply rich ganache on top before turning back to Carol. "I love all of you. You're spoiling me and I'm going to return the favour so many times over."

“I knew you would want it.” She tells you proudly. She had told Quinn exactly where to go and what to get in order to put that exact expression on your face. “Don’t tell him I told you that. Let him have the credit.”

"Cross my heart." The motion of crossing your finger over your heart goes with it and you make a mental note to really rock the hell out of your next date with Carol as a thank you. "Do you need anything else from the fridge while I'm in here?"

“Can you grab the asparagus salad?” She asks. “Second shelf, metal bowl.”

"Done and done!" Even just being around your partners has brightened your mood, and even though you know it will ebb and flow for the next couple of days before your cycle starts, at least you're feeling buoyed by the idea that these three wonderful people all want you to be happy and cared for.

The rush to the table happens nearly all at once, with the guys coming in from the grill bearing a large platter and Dave going to fetch the girls while Carol gets the tray of condiments for their hot dogs. It's big, it's busy, it's noisy, and it's so wonderfully comfortable. Even though you're not feeling yourself, you feel the closest you possibly could.

“Hey babe.” Quinn curls around your back and kisses just below your ear. “How are you feeling?” He asks softly, rubbing your shoulders.

"A little better." You feel like you can breathe again, emotionally anyway, so that is a big step in the right direction. "What are the chances you're going to stay this weekend and hang out with us?" Just like the rest of you, Quinn has an extraordinarily demanding job and you know very well that a traditional weekend away from the office is not always possible for him.

“There’s nothing on the books so I’m all yours unless there’s a crisis.” He murmurs, smirking as he sits down beside you. “So I’m praying the world doesn’t burn.”

"Or if it does, that it has nothing to do with NASA." A soft kiss between you helps you relax even further, and in no time the six of you are sitting down at the table like it's a perfectly normal family dinner.

Dave hums happily, reaching for Carol’s hand and he pulls it up to kiss the back of it. “It’s a good day.” He murmurs as he watches you and Quinn put your heads together and talk quietly.

"You did a very sweet thing for her today, my love." Carol hums, kissing the back of her husband's hand in turn.

“I hated seeing her cry.” He admits quietly. “It was all I could do to keep working and not just bring her home and sit her on my lap.”

“Poor thing.” She tuts softly, shaking her head as Dave fills her plate for her. “I’m just glad she works for you and not someone who would force her to keep going in agony.” There are plenty of bosses like that out in the world, but she hates to think of you working for them. If she could keep you safe and cared for and always have someone there to adore you, she would.

“She wouldn’t go home, so I had to just make sure she didn’t suffer too badly.” He hands his wife her plate with a soft smile.

“You did good.” She beams at him and gives him a kiss on the cheek before taking her plate. “Now we can have a nice weekend as a family.” And if that family already felt complete before you and Quinn joined it, then having the two of you is the icing on a very sweet cake.

______

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