#if there is no child around I will parent my squadron

[tgmsunmontue]

Team Player 1/7

Hangster. Jake's cousin plays for the Sydney Roosters and gifts him with merchandise regularly. Bradley has an unexpected realization.

                Jake opens the gift from his cousin and snorts. He can never wear this.

                “You like it? It’s for the team I just signed with…”

                Of course it is. Fuck.

                “Congrats man, really happy for you. Thanks.”

                “You’ll have to watch a game when you come visit. Wait, do they show footy matches on TV here?”

                “Footy? Jake asks, eyebrow raised, because he thought is was rugby that Josh played.

                “Rugby league. Footy. And we don’t wear all those pads and helmets like you lot do over here.”

                Jake ducks his head to hide a smile, his younger cousin immensely proud of his own country and national sport. Not something Jake will ever understand, but he does understand passion and loyalty.

…            …            …

                “The Hard Deck, what’s that mean?”

                “Well, the way you say it makes it sound like something far filthier than what I think it should mean…”

                “Still doesn’t tell me what it means… Hard Deck Hard Deck Hard Deck…”

                “Oh my god, can you stop with sayin’ that! Sound like you’re sayin’ you’ve got a hard dick…”

                His other cousins snort and he wonders why he thought it would be a good idea to agree showing them around San Diego. Of course, three people in their early to mid-twenties versus their parents who are all in their mid-sixties to seventies he’d felt that maybe they’d want a break from one another. He can’t imagine going on a four-week vacation with his parents. Ever. Let alone as a fully-grown adult. A couple of weeks visiting home is his limit, and even then he has to spend most of the time out of the house and helping out around outside to get away from the oppressive expectation of how he hasn’t brought anyone home. Again.

                “Tell me what it means!”

                “It’s slang for altitude you idiot, now stop being a dick!” Emma says, slapping at her younger brother’s head and Jake wishes he had a closer relationship with his own sister.

                “Well that’s just boring! Hard Dick sounds like we’re going somewhere interesting!”

                “It’s a Navy bar, just… thought I’d introduce you to a couple of my friends.”

                “You have friends?” Isabella asks, and Jake pulls a face. Maybe he’s glad he doesn’t have a close relationship after all.

                “Jake!”

                “Javy, hey. Man it’s good to see you.”

                “You too… these your cousins? Can definitely see they got the better deal in the gene pool…” Javy says, smiling over Jake’s should and he glances back and he guesses his cousins are attractive, except they’re his cousins and he’s seen them grow up through regular photos exchanged via their parents, and this is only the third time in his life that he’s spent any significant chunk of time with them. And of course Javy is already getting flirty with them. Halo and Fritz are there, he can see Bob and Phoenix at the bar.

                “Yeah. Everyone, these are my cousins Isabella, Emma and Josh. They’re currently visiting because of my dad’s seventieth birthday. And don’t let him drink,” Jake says, pointing at Josh. “He’s not legal.”

                “Hey! It’s legal back home.”

                “And Penny here could be fined for serving minors. So no.”

                “Also you’re meant to be preparing for camp, which means no empty calories.”

                “Ugh. You guys are the worst.”

                “I can’t wait for you to meet your trainers, because what we put you through will seem like child’s play…”

                It falls into easy banter, his cousins asking dozens of questions and his squadron humoring them and he takes a sip of beer from the bottle Phoenix hands him.

                Life is good.

…            …            …

                “You want to tell us something there Bagman?”

                “What?”

                She tugs at his top and he glances down, realizes he’s wearing the tank that Josh sent him for working out in. He apparently gets a lot of merchandise and Jake seems to be the person he wants to send it to. Apparently he has a case of hero worship. However this particular top is damned comfortable and perfect for working out in, almost as good as wearing nothing, which isn’t an option at the on-base gymnasium, but he’d just grabbed it subconsciously.

                “Uh, it’s the team my cousin plays for.”

                “And you’re wearing it why?”

                “I like it,” he says, and he mentally hits himself in the forehead with his palm. What the fuck is he thinking. He could have said it’s comfortable, or it’s washing day, only clean thing I had, not… I like it.

                “Really? Interesting. Wait, was this your male cousin? Josh?”

                “Yeah. It’s a rugby team.”

                “Mmm. Rugby is a game to enjoy watching…”

                “What?”

                “No covering up of those athletic bodies, all out on show… Strike a pose Seresin, I’ll send it to you so you can send it to your cousin and show your appreciation.”

                He frowns, because Josh would probably like that, but he’s pretty sure Trace is up to something because she never calls him Seresin. He stands and lets her take the photo though, giving her a grin and a wink, because why the hell not?

…            …            …

                Bradley stares at his phone.

                Stares some more until the screen goes black and he unlocks it and the photo is back.

                Jake Seresin wearing a basketball top, sweat-shiny and winking at the camera, hair dark, damp and mussed from working out. He looks good. That’s all his brain can process.

                Natasha’s message telling him he really missed a good workout at the gym.

                Bradley’s never thought about his callsign as a thing before, as a name that might brand someone as his. He’s never been a particularly possessive boyfriend. Seeing Hangman wear a top with Roosters across the front makes his fingers itch, and not only because he wants to go and add an apostrophe, but because he wants to touch. He’s wanted to touch Hangman before, sometimes to punch him in the face, but mostly to rough him up a little bit… he’s always resisted though, aware he’s got to keep sharp control of his temper.

                Right now it’s not his temper he has to keep control of.

To be continued? 🤷‍♀️

PART TWO

(Obviously the answer to it being continued was 'yes!!!')

[historicrad39a]

3. Frontier Rescue Rangers

Previous

Unnamed system - 135ly from Earth

Frontier Rescue Rangers Carrier Zuikaku after action report: July 13th 2538

It had been a month since the Human-Tathrax alliance had been attacked by an unknown alien civilization (henceforth known as the “Theta Aliens”). Whilst there was an initial panic about possible follow up attacks, it wasn’t until yesterday that we had any further contact. A small exploration vessel surveying systems just outside of Alliance space had been ambushed and captured by the Theta Aliens. Due to the proximity to frontier space, and the fact that this was a rescue mission, the Frontier Rescue Rangers were dispatched.

Two months ago, had you told me I would make history by being the first half-human half-Tathrax to command of one of the admiralty’s newest and largest carriers, with two brand new Kongō-class Fast Battleships (specifically modified for Frontier Defense fleet use) in tow as the head of a squadron with more firepower than the entire Frontier Defense Fleet up until that point - especially for a rescue mission of all things - I would have called you crazy. In fact, once the FDS Frontier’s captain, Zack, told me he was planning to request the admiralty’s newest toys, I called him an idiot. He had asked me if, assuming he succeeded, I would want to command one of the new ships - and if so, which type. I told him, somewhat jokingly, that I wanted to be in command of a massive voidcraft carrier. Come two weeks later and the Shōkaku-class carrier Zuikaku has been delivered to us direct from Akatsuki Shipyards, with myself named as her captain.

Unlike most people in the Frontier Defense fleet, I was here willingly. My parents were explorers, and when I was a young girl I frequently accompanied them on their journeys. On one such journey, we were in the AR Scorpii system preparing to return home when one of the relativistic beams from the system’s White Dwarf just barely skimmed by our ship. The hyperdrive went haywire and within a matter of seconds we ended up at the outer edge of the MilkyWay - having just travelled some 26,300ly in under 20 seconds. Hyperspace has a maximum speed limit of ~1 light year per second, most ships can only manage a light year per ten seconds at most. Yet somehow we managed to move at some 1,000 light years per second.

We were stranded for around a week in a near functionless ship slowly starving to death before we heard the distinct roar of a large vessel approaching in hyperspace. The Rescue Rangers had successfully requisitioned the Casablanca-class carrier ship Gambier Bay and made the week-long trip out here non-stop. Needless to say I was greatly inspired by their bravery and decided I would become a Rescue Ranger when I grew up.

By the time I was of eligible age to join the Rescue Rangers, things had rapidly deteriorated. When I was a child, the hyperdrive was just barely 50 years old. But by the time I had joined it was nearing 70 years old. Consequently, random failures, mis-jumps, and fuel exhaustion due to unpredictable fuel usage were all but things of the past. The Rescue Rangers weren’t nearly as crucial anymore, and as a result in my 2nd year the Rescue Rangers were disbanded as an independent branch and the remnants were folded into the Frontier Defense Fleet. Along with our independence, almost all of our ships were taken - including the carrier Gambier Bay I so desperately wanted to serve on.

Eight years later and the Frontier Rescue Rangers did little more than refuel stranded ships that had misjudged their remaining fuel. That is, until a month ago, when the Frontier Rescue Rangers were suddenly given 30 modified Fletcher class destroyers along with the promises of several capital ships and a massive budget increase. In addition to our normal duties, we were to combat the alien threat and rescue any individuals captured by them.

My first mission in command of the FDCV Zuikaku was to lead a task force of 18 vessels to rescue some captured explorers. As it would turn out, this was overkill. In addition to the Zuikaku we had the FDBB Hiei and Haruna - two modified Kongō-class battle cruisers which had been re-designated as Fast Battleships - and fifteen Ted Fujita-class Destroyers (modified Fletcher-class). While the main armament on the Kongōs and the torpedo launchers on the Ted Fujitas were of Alliance design, the 23cm double-barreled turrets were created using borrowed technology from the Theta Aliens.

The aliens, on the other hand, had a mere five cruisers guarding the transport vessel holding the captured explorers. The 40cm guns on the Hiei and Haruna and the Samuel B. Robert’s four 720mm torpedos practically atomized the cruisers. The Hiei’s 76cm “crew incapacitation” rounds also proved to be complete overkill. Of the three rounds fired at the transport, one hit the engines, one atomized the fuel tanker behind the transport, and the third round penetrated into the reactor room before detonating. We had included extra oxidizer in the bursting charge in case the ship’s atmosphere limited the spread of fires.

This turned out not to be the case, as the third shell set almost the entire ship’s insides on fire - killing 60% of the crew instantly. Frankly, we got lucky. Via neural implants on one of the explorers we knew they were locked inside a holding cell of sorts, but it’s very likely that had the “crew incapacitation” round been any more powerful there may have been no explorers left to rescue. Needless to say I’m prohibiting the use of these rounds until they can be fixed.

The boarding action was also very successful - there was not a single Alliance casualty during the firefight. One of the commandos transferred from the Anti-piracy force was quite amused at the 600 year old M2 Browning machine guns the Frontier Defense Force had been issued, and apparently thought it would be hilarious to bring it as his primary weapon. As it turns out, despite being 600 years old at this point, the M2 Browning was extremely effective - so much so that we have received no fewer than twenty requests to make the M2 Browning part of the standard loadout.

In terms of our primary objective, we were a bit too successful. Our orders were “to rescue as many of the five captured individuals as possible from the Theta Aliens.” When all was said and done, we had achieved a 1700% success rate - having rescued 85 of the 5 individuals captured. In addition to this, we had made first contact with three additional alien species aside from those comprising the Alliance. As it had turned out, the explorers we were sent to rescue had made friends - and upon being rescued, they demanded that we take on all 80 of the other individuals onboard the vessel. Leave it to the humans to make friends wherever they go…

Naturally, I was opposed to this request - we had nowhere near the resources necessary to care for 80 additional people, let alone 80 individuals from a variety of species we knew nothing about. It wasn’t until the explorers’ captain, Hanako, threatened to refuse rescue that I finally relented. Such is the stubbornness of humans. This is the same species that, upon seeing my Mother’s (recent) ancestors in person for the first time - a species known for being an apex predator - said “Awww, they look like kitties!” Before attempting to pet their heads, followed by sulking when my mother’s ancestors refused to allow it. I suppose it’s the human blood that flows through my veins that makes it hard to be too mad at them.

In any case, one individual was of particular interest to us due to Hanako’s claims that she had communicated with them. Naturally, we were skeptical. We had barely made any progress on decoding the Theta Aliens’ language after a month, it seemed impossible that a human could communicate with a completely different alien species after less than a day. Imagine our surprise when the alien spoke (admittedly limited, and broken) English.

I quickly discovered the secret behind their supernatural ability to learn languages, it was quite literally “supernatural” in nature. They are capable of communicating telepathically, and on rare occasions they can communicate with individuals from different species. This ability is extremely limited however, as there are many complications associated with communicating with an individual who does not share a language, and most individuals are not compatible. We had the individual attempt to communicate with everyone on the Zuikaku, and of the Human and Tathrax crew, only Hanako could hear them.

Despite this limitation, this individual would likely be very useful. According to Hanako, the individual served as a diplomat for some time, and knew many languages as a result. In addition to this, they knew a lot about the Theta Aliens (who they referred to as something like K’Lagreth). This would no doubt be extremely useful, both for information gathering, and for deciphering the Theta Aliens’ language. Given how none of the 1,500 some crew on the Zuikaku were compatible with the individual’s ability, it’s nothing short of a miracle that any of the five captured explorers were compatible.

Before returning to the Frontier to refuel and rearm, we decided to ask the individual for their name, as referring to them as “the/that alien,” or “the/that individual” was quite tiresome. Unfortunately, neither human nor tathrax vocal chords could actually pronounce their name, and I’m not certain that letters exist in any alliance language that could accurately transcribe it. In addition, their name was long, very long. Assuming that any of us could even pronounce it, most would struggle to remember. However, humans will do as humans will do, and upon hearing a part of their name that sounded vaguely like “Gregg,” the humans immediately took to calling them by that name. I suppose referring to them as “Gregg” is easier than referring to them in the 3rd person all the time…

After (slowly) providing basic accommodations for the numerous species onboard, we prepared to depart on the return journey to the Frontier. Due to the limited bandwidth for FTL communications, our transmission to the Frontier was extremely limited (speeds capped out at around 12 bits per second). This meant that most of the details regarding our new guests could not be included. I’m sure that Zack will be happy to hear that he’ll need to fill his precious space station with a wide variety of flammable gases, toxic gases, and strong oxidizers in order to provide for our unexpected rescuees.

Moving forward, the admiralty will need to make a decision on how to proceed from here. Clearly, the Alliance aren’t the only ones threatened by the Theta aliens. If Gregg’s reports are to be believed, the Theta Aliens have subjected no fewer than ten different civilizations, possibly more. They also noted that the exact location of the Theta Aliens’ homeworld is unknown to most, if not all outsiders. Originally our goal was to protect Alliance interests from the Alien threat, and negotiate a ceasefire as soon as possible. However, I now feel this is unlikely to work. The Mylr’s (Gregg’s species) were supposedly able to fend off the Theta Aliens for some time, but eventually, they too fell.

I feel a military campaign is necessary. There is much we could learn from these captured civilizations, and depriving the Theta Aliens of their resources, both living and non-living, would make it very unlikely that they could continue to attack us. In addition, it would ultimately be beneficial for us to free those countless individuals who are suffering at the hands of the Theta Aliens… Y’know, from a objective standpoint of course. Definitely nothing as ambiguous or illogical as feeling moral obligation to help them just because they’re in need. Nothing like that at all.

In any case, the sooner we can get the individuals we rescued back to their homeworlds, the better. While it’s true they were no longer in what could only be described as slavery, they hadn’t exactly returned to a normal life either. It would be best for them to return to their homeworlds. But as those homeworlds were supposedly under occupation, it would be hard to just bring them back and expect things to turn out fine.

I’ll chat with Zack about this once we return. I’m unwilling to just abandon the individuals we rescued today, and I’m sure Zack will feel the same (once he’s done complaining about having to fill the Frontier with a variety of dangerous gases). I don’t care how long or what it takes, but I swear on my ancestors that we will wage total war against the Theta Aliens - and we will free those unduly oppressed by them. Even if the admiralty refuses my plan, I will not allow the Theta Aliens to exploit any civilization any longer. The Theta Aliens’ empire’s collapse begins today.

Log end

Hey y’all. So as it turns out I’m physically incapable of sticking to schedules, so here’s this entry a day or so early. The next entry will probably be from Gregg’s perspective and may end up being a bit shorter (although I’ve thought this about literally every chapter so far) as it won’t be as focused on the larger plot. It will be a little more in the spirit of “humans are fucking weird” as it deals with Gregg adapting to the *ahem* oddities of living with humans.

Depending on how long it is, the next chapter/intermission may come out as early as next week. Like I said, apparently I’m incapable of sticking to a schedule. In the meantime, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. See y’all in anywhere from a few days to two weeks!

~Rad

[photogirl894]

@clonexreaderbingo

Square: "I love you"

Yay, my second bingo one-shot! This time, for Captain Howzer! This is my first time writing for him, so I hope I do the good Captain justice! 😊😊 Enjoy!!

“Hera? Hera! Hera! Where are you, child?” 

You cried out for the young Twi’lek girl in your charge as you wandered outside on the top balcony of the Syndulla household, wondering where she had wandered off to. The child was always getting into mischief along with her C1 unit Droid, who you swear had more sass and attitude than the girl herself. You’d done your daily lessons with her and then let her be so you could prepare dinner for her as well as Cham and Eleni, the girl’s parents, who would be expected to return soon. Of course, of all the times for Hera to disappear, it had to be just before her parents came home. Though, they most likely wouldn’t be surprised, but even still, it was embarrassing for you to appear as though you’d lost their daughter. The sun was just beginning to set, coloring the sky a deep gold and orange, and you hoped you’d find Hera before it got too dark.

Looking around to the courtyard and beyond the wall of the estate, you called out again, “Hera! Chopper!” When no response came, your hands came up to your hips as a groan of frustration escaped you. “Where has that girl and her Droid gone to now?” you asked aloud. You had checked all through the house and there was no sign of her. She’d better be outside somewhere.

At the start of the Clone Wars, you were hired by the Syndulla’s to be the governess for their daughter since one or both of her parents were constantly away, especially with Cham Syndulla’s involvement in the war as well as the liberation of Ryloth. You were a simple woman who had come to Ryloth for a new start after you had lost your family to a famine on your home planet. The Syndulla’s seemed like a good family who had nothing but their people’s best interests at heart and you found there was never a dull moment with them, especially with the fiery-spirited Hera, who was on the verge of her young teenage years. They paid you and treated you well and gave you your own room in the house to stay in; you really felt like you were part of their family some days.

Then off in the distance, you managed to spot a small cloud of dust and heard the faint revving of an engine. Your eyes narrowed, trying to make out the shape coming in your direction. It was a speederbike. After a few seconds, you spotted a familiar shade of teal against the gold of the sunset sky behind him which brought a smile to your face.

It was him…Captain Howzer.

He was a Clone captain over a squadron of troops that had been sent months ago to help the citizens of Ryloth after they were liberated from the Separatists. He had also personally been assigned to serve with Cham Syndulla and his family. He had been to the Syndulla home many times. Sometimes to retrieve Cham when he was needed for a battle of some kind, to check on the wellbeing of the family or to bring Hera back after she’d scampered off somewhere…which you could tell was the reason for his unexpected visit this time as you then spotted a smaller figure peek out from behind him, her green skin and lekku illuminated by the sun. 

Seeing them approaching the outer wall, you ducked out from the upper balcony, made your way through the house and went outside to meet them. Howzer drove in through the gate and brought the speederbike to a stop in the courtyard. You saw Hera slide off the back of the bike and Chopper, who had been magnetized to the very back, jumped off using his thrusters, chirping in greeting to you and waving his little mechanical arm like nothing was wrong.

“Oh, don’t act all innocent with me, Chopper,” you chided him as you walked towards them. Then you looked to Hera. “Hera Syndulla, where have you been? Your parents will be home anytime now.”

Before Hera could answer you, you all heard the sound of a shuttle approaching and saw it come zooming in overhead. It was Cham’s personal shuttle. You had a feeling he and his wife were going to question why you all were out there and possibly why Howzer was there unannounced. The shuttle came in for a landing inside the courtyard and you shielded your face from the exhaust. Within seconds, the Syndulla couple disembarked their ship.

“Well…we have quite the welcoming party, my dear,” Eleni remarked to her husband as they came your way.

“So it would seem,” replied Cham. “What are you all doing out here…and what brings you by, Howzer?”

You opened your mouth to explain what had happened, but Howzer answered first, saying, “Hera needed help replacing a part for her Droid, sir, so I offered to take her to find what she needed while (Y/N) got things prepared for dinner. We only just got back. My apologies if I overstepped.”

“Not at all. That is perfectly fine,” said Cham.

Your eyes widened slightly at Howzer and you grinned a little to yourself. He had covered for you as well as Hera…for probably the twentieth time, at this point. He was far too kind and noble…and that was why you loved him.

It hadn’t taken long after Howzer had come to Ryloth for him to catch your attention and for you to catch his. He was incredibly handsome, even with the scars on his chin and his cheek, and he thought you were beautiful beyond compare. There were many stolen glances when any of the Syndulla’s weren’t looking, secret meetings when Hera was in bed and her parents were still out and a couple lingering touches of your hands when you stood by each other. After a couple months of getting to know each other, growing closer and subtly flirting, you had finally kissed Howzer during a night alone and you both decided you wanted to be together. You weren’t sure if Cham and Eleni would approve of your relationship, so you tried your best to keep it a secret and act cordial around each other when they were present. However, you’d caught some knowing looks from Eleni a couple of times. Either you and Howzer weren’t being as discreet as you thought or Eleni was much more observant than you gave her credit for, which was already a lot. Eleni Syndulla was a sharp and witty woman that you admired a great deal. She most likely knew of your relationship with Howzer, but she’d never said anything, which gave you the idea that she didn’t mind or she approved. 

To quickly move the conversation along, you spoke up, saying, "Supper is ready for you all in the dining room."

Eleni then looked to the Clone Captain and said to him, a grin on her face, "You will join us for dinner, won't you, Howzer?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I wouldn't want to impose, especially since I'm here unexpectedly," he replied.

"Nonsense, you would never be an imposition to us," she said back. Then she smiled even more. "Besides, I'm sure our lovely governess made plenty of food for everyone."

Of course, Eleni made it a point to say you were lovely…but you simply said politely, "I did, yes. There will be enough for you, as well, Captain."

"Please stay and eat with us, Howzer!" cried Hera excitedly. 

Seeing all the women were staring at him, Howzer stole a look at Cham. The Twi'lek leader just shrugged and said, "The ladies have spoken, Captain."

"I guess they have, sir," he said. Then he agreed, saying, "Very well."

Pleased with his response, Cham and Eleni went into the house with Chopper following behind them. However, you stopped Hera as she tried to go after them.

"Now, where were you really, young lady?" you questioned her in a low voice, your eyebrows raised and your hands on your hips. 

Hera laughed sheepishly and told you, "Uh…I went to go find Uncle Gobi…because he told me if I could get away, he'd take me flying. Howzer found me instead and brought me back."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Gobi really is a bad influence on you. You're both gonna get me in trouble someday," you commented. You gave her a pat on the head. "Go on, troublemaker, go wash up for dinner."

Hera ran off up the stairs and into the house, leaving you and Howzer alone.

"I honestly think Eleni knows about us," you commented to him. 

He chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised. She's an intelligent woman."

"Though, she hasn't said anything to me, so...I'm assuming she's okay with it?" 

"She'd better be…because I would fight for you and for us if she didn't." He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, giving you butterflies in your stomach and what he had said. "Let's go, I'm dying to have some of your cooking."

Dinner went well with the Syndulla’s and Howzer complimented what you had prepared…multiple times, even. Howzer was never really around for mealtimes, so this was a very rare occasion to have him there. He too fit in well with the family dynamic. 

As you were clearing the table, the Captain stood up, took up his helmet underneath his arm and stated to the room, "Thank you for the meal. It was very appreciated. I'll go ahead and leave you now for the evening." 

"As you wish, Howzer," Cham responded. Then he said to you as you took his plate, "And (Y/N), you may have the rest of the evening off. Eleni and I will handle getting Hera to bed."

"Oh! Are you sure, sir?" you asked, surprised. 

"I'm sure. You've worked hard today, especially after preparing this meal for all of us," he said. "Go, have some time for yourself tonight."

When he turned away, you snuck a look at Howzer, who had stopped in the front doorway when he heard Cham tell you to take the night off. He grinned at you and quickly motioned with his head outside, signaling to you that he'd wait for you, and then closed the door.

"I appreciate that very much, sir," you said gladly to Cham. "I'll go on a walk after I get the dishes."

You took the dishes into the kitchen to clean them, but found yourself intercepted by Eleni, who took the dishes from you. 

"I will handle dishes, dear. No more work for you tonight," she told you. "Go enjoy your walk." Then she leaned in and whispered, "Enjoy your time with the Captain."

When she came back, she winked knowingly at you. It was certainly now safe to say that she definitely knew about you and Howzer.

Gratefully, you smiled back and replied, "I will, ma'am. Thank you."

You grabbed your jacket from your room and retreated back downstairs. You bade Hera goodnight and gave her a kiss on the forehead before heading out the door. The sun had gotten lower in the sky to where it just a soft light, the sky covered in pale pink and purple. Howzer was standing by his speederbike in the middle of the courtyard and a pleased grin crossed his face at seeing you. You broke into a run down the steps and leapt into his arms, throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you with ease and spun you around, chuckling in your ear. 

"Let's get out of here," he suggested. 

"Yes, please," you replied, already halfway on the back of his bike. 

He got onto the bike and started it up. You wrapped your arms around his waist and the two sped off into the endless deserts of Ryloth. You rode on for a while until you came to a cluster of rocks in the middle of the desert; a spot where you and Howzer had escaped to many a time.

He helped you off the speederbike and you immediately found yourself in his arms, his lips connecting with yours passionately. 

"I'd hoped I'd get you to myself tonight. I've missed you," he said, referencing that it had been a couple of days since he'd been able to see you. 

"I've missed you, too," you replied. 

You kissed him once again before he pulled out a blanket from the back of the speederbike. Then he laid it out on the ground for you and you sat down upon it. Then he took the time to remove his armor, stripping down to his undersuit, before joining you where you snuggled up close to him in his arms. The two of you laid back on the blanket and looked up to the sky, seeing that the pinks and purples were growing deeper in color and you could see a sea of stars beginning to appear as night was approaching. The two of you gazed up at the stars without saying a word, the beating of his heart drumming in your ear.

Finally, after a long while, you heard him ask, "What do you think will happen when the war is over? What will happen…with us?"

"I don't know," you said. "I don't know if the Syndulla’s will still need me when Cham no longer needs to fight for Ryloth…and you'll probably be shipped offworld because the Clones won't be needed either." You nestled up closer to him, your arms snaking around his waist. "What are we going to do? I don't…I don't want to lose you, Howzer."

Howzer sat up, pulling you up with him, and looked steadfastly into your eyes. "You won't lose me, babe," he promised, laying his hand on your cheek. "I don't know what our future holds for us when the war is done, but I do know this: when that time comes, wherever you choose to go in the galaxy, I will always be at your side."

You reached up and grasped his hand on your cheek, leaning into his gentle touch. "Do you really mean it?"

"Of course, I do," he said, kissing you long and slowly. His forehead tenderly touched yours when he pulled away. "I love you."

This was the first time those three words had been spoken between the two of you and a quiet gasp escaped you at hearing them. When you pulled back to gaze into his eyes, you found there wasn't a hint of any lie or uncertainty in them at all. He meant what he said truly and irrevocably. Though, you knew you shouldn't question him. Howzer would never lie to you. He was always honest in everything when it came to you. There was no reason for it to end here. 

"I love you, too," you told him back with a smile. "Even when you're no longer a Captain and I'm no longer a governess, I will always love you and we'll always be together."

There, under the starry desert sky of Ryloth, you and your beloved Clone Captain promised that no matter what happened in the future, you would always have each other and that was all you would ever need to be happy. 

Clone x Reader Bingo 2023

[winniethewife]

Jewels made of stardust  

(Poe Dameron x OC! Rhoswen Jewelace.)

Chapter 1: I miss you when we're mad

Words:1041

A/n: I really hope you all love it! I've been writing it for about 2 months so I'm really excited to start sharing it.

“Hey, Jewelace! What the hell was that? You can’t just disobey my orders like that.”  Poe called out after her as the red haired woman struts away from the hanger, and him. Rhoswen stops and turns to him a look of exasperation on her face.

“Oh, I’m Sorry, I Just saved your ass out there! If we had followed your orders we would be dead and you know it. That was too close. I think a little thanks might be in order.” She puts her hand on her hip as she glares at him, her Emerald eyes blazing with fire.

“Thanks? You want me to thank you for that stunt you just pulled?” He’s yelling at her now

“Yeah! I didn’t realize you were stupid and blind. I may not have your title 'commander', but you're standing here because I made the right choice. That TIE fighter was going to kamikaze right into you and if I didn't shoot it down then we would all be star dust.” She stands her ground. Angrier than she's been at him before, and they’ve gone toe to toe on more than one occasion. They’re starting to draw attention. Poe knows he can’t get chewed out by the General for fighting with his captain…again.

“What do I have to do to get you to respect me out there?” he asks, his voice hushed, his tone soft, almost a whisper, but filled with menace.

“I don’t know, try earning it.” She growls at him with venom in her voice, before turning on her heel and storming off, heading for the refreshers as quickly as she can. Leaving a slightly stunned commander in her wake. As she slides past some other resistance fighters on her way in she doesn’t even bother to try to bring a smile to her face. Rhoswen pulls off her jumpsuit as quickly as she could, just wanting to get into the showers and on her way as quickly as possible, wanting to leave as little chance as possible for Poe to catch up to her. She took a quick peak in the mirror before turning on the shower, her emerald eyes meeting her own gaze, it was hard to tell what was dirt or freckles scattered across her porcelain skin. Her chin length red hair clung to her head with sweat and grime. She sighs and turns to finish getting undressed before hopping in the hot shower, hoping the hot water will help distract her from her fight with Poe Dameron.

Poe however stood stunned in the harder thinking over every that just Happened. He and Rhoswen had a very similar background. She was also the child of two Rebel heroes, she had lost her parents at a very young age and had been raised and adopted by the Organa-Solo family. She was about the same age as their Son Ben at the time and apparently Han had a soft spot for her. He had heard all the stories from General Leia Organa. Some stories He was sure Captain Jewelace probably prefer he didn't know.

As Poe finally came to his senses he looked around then decided to wander off to his quarters to get showered and changed before reporting to the General. He couldn't help but think, about her as he walks. They had almost been friends at one point, when he had joined the resistance she was only slightly younger than him, a skilled piolet herself. They had talked for a long time at the beginning, his life on Yavin 4, hers on Chandrila. Her red hair was long then and she always kept it back in a ponytail. She had a sassiness to her that he quite enjoyed.  It seemed like they almost could have been close. But when he was appointed the leader of black squadron they went separate ways for a while, and by the time he saw her again with the determination to lead and fight against the First order, not to mention win the heart of the Red haired girl he was thinking about the whole time they’d been apart. But she had lost her Father. When Han Solo died Rhoswen was never the same, she kept everyone at a distance. No one got close. But that didn’t stop him from trying. That was until she was placed onto black squadron as his captain, his second in command. After that they fought all the time and were never friendly. As Poe sat on his bed he thought about the first time he saw her after he got back from destroying Starkiller Base.

~ Several months prior~

There was a lot of celebrating that night. Starkiller base was destroyed against all the odds. Poe was looking for her, Rhoswen. His red haired conquest. When he found her she was almost unrecognizable. Her signature pony tail cut off, her hair now just cut at the chin she, was at least a couple drinks in and she had been crying. Poe Sat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey…I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone sad about a victory against the first order… you doing okay Red?” He called her by the nickname he had always called her back when they first met. She just looks at him with an empty glare. She shakes her head and gets up, grabbing a jacket off the back of her chair. He recognized it, Han Solo’s Jacket….

“Oh maker… Red! Wait!” He gets up and follows her out of the party.

“Leave me alone Dameron.” She says as tears start to return to her eyes.

“Rhoswen wait…I’m..I’m so sorry about your Dad….” He says as her grabs her hand. She lets him hold it, stopping in her tracks. She couldn’t look at him. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die. Poe knew exactly what she was going though. His other hand going to the ring hanging around his neck. Losing your parent, without knowing that was going to be the last time you see them.

“Just…I just want to be alone Poe.” She says as she pulls her hand away.

“I….Alright.” Poe would live to regret letting her go that night.

~

Masterlist

Next chapter

Tag: @femmeanonymelives

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐕.𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

It’s too quiet in here. I wish they would play music--nothing serious, maybe even just Frank Sinatra or The Beatles. The kind of music that easily fades into the background. I can hear what’s going on around me in the doctor’s office far too well--uncomfortably well. Next door, there’s a mother comforting a whiny child who doesn’t want to get their ears checked despite the doctor thinking there is an infection. I imagine the mother is sitting on the table, her jeans tight around the bend in her hips as the thin antiseptic paper crinkles beneath her. The child must be sitting against her, rubbing their tearful eyes, delirious with lack of sleep and discomfort as they whine despondently. Somewhere else, maybe further down the hall, I can hear the scale beeping and a nurse asking a patient to go ahead and step off. The secretary’s pink acrylics are delightfully tapping the keyboard out front as the phone rings unanswered beside her. Coughing, sneezing, groaning, crying--it’s clogging my ears now. 

I want to take a fistful of cotton and press it into my eardrums, turn the lights off, lie down on this terrible table, and just go to sleep. Maybe that is why I am grumpy, why every sound seems to be amplified--I am tired. That bone-aching, marrow-quivering, heavy-eyelids kind of tired. I woke up this way--exhausted, ready for a nap as soon as my eyes fluttered open. 

“Do me a favor and call in, baby,” Bradley had insisted this morning, coming up behind me as I scoured my closet for an easy outfit, my eyes half-closed and dry, “you’re too tired.” 

He wrapped his arms around my waist, carefully nuzzling against my shoulder. It was unfair, really--he was very warm, very solid behind me. It made me want to sink all my weight into him, made me want to folded up and put into his pocket like a discarded receipt. 

“I can do a half day,” I told him, leaning my head against his. 

I’d almost fallen asleep just like that--standing up in our closet, my head resting against his, my body heavy and warm in his arms. He was kissing my shoulder, his mustache tickling me through the thin cotton of my t-shirt.

“Faye-baby,” he cooed, chuckling, “just stay home.”

I shook my head, straightening my spine, grabbing whatever blouse was closest to me.

“If I stayed home every time I was tired, I’d never go to work these days,” I said, yawning, “and then who would keep you in line?”    

There’s a few sharp knocks on the heavy wooden door and before I can say anything, it opens and reveals a blushing Dr. Travett. 

Thank God she’s back. Thirty minutes had flit past since she walked out of the room and promised to be back in a minute, leaving behind a trail of patchouli perfume and organic deodorant. If she makes this quick, if she just tells me that my levels look good and that she will see me in a few months for my next checkup, then I will still have time to drop lunch off for Bradley and take a nap before he gets home from work. Slipping between cold sheets, pants puddled on the floor, face against Bradley’s pillow--it’s making me ache in a deep, overwhelming way. I want it so bad I can almost taste it. And I know that when Bradley gets home, he will know that I’ve been sleeping. He’ll smile a teasing smile, grazing the pillow lines across my cheek, laughing at the sleepy, lazy glaze over my eyes. 

“Dream about me?” He’ll ask, cupping my cheeks, kissing my nose and my heavy eyelids.

Dr. Travett carries that usual scent with her--I can smell it from here. It’s patchouli and neroli and aluminum free deodorant and shampoo that comes in the form of a bar instead of from a plastic bottle. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she smiles, the door falling shut behind her before she crosses the room to lean against the counter, her tennis shoes padding softly against the linoleum.  

She is sunkissed--glowing in the afternoon light. She’s grinning, her eyes very soft, her cheeks pink. Her round face is totally flushed with glee as she stares at me, holding the manilla file out in front of her.

“That’s alright,” I tell her, smiling weakly. 

What I really mean is: let’s get this over with so I can eat lunch on my husband’s lap and then take a nap on his side of the bed before he comes home with Chinese food.  

The manilla envelope is holding paperwork, a thin stack of it. Results from my blood test, I think--the routine one I get twice a year at my checkup.

Dr. Travett smiles, shaking her head. She sighs in a strange way--like she’s content, like she’s excited. She’s never laughed before when telling me my results, just smiled her way through all my normal levels and told me to keep up the good work and let her know if I had any questions. But now--now she looks pleased. 

“Couple things about your labwork,” she starts, her gray eyes raking over the paperwork, “vitamin levels look good, hormones look good. You are slightly anemic, though--I’m going to get you started on some iron pills. Low dosage, nothing serious. Anemia is common for women in your condition.”

Women in my condition. 

She chews her bottom lip, watching my face contort into an expression of confusion. My brow is furrowed so deeply that I can see the little hairs of my eyebrows, can feel the crinkle there that Bradley would love to smooth over if he was here now.   

“Women in my condition,” I echo, my voice hollow, “how do you mean?”

“Well,” Dr. Travett starts, leaning forward to pat my knee, “anemia is common in pregnant women.”

My heart skips, thuds, jumps, then seems to just stop all together. 

I gasp out loud, taking in the warm air around me, blinking rapidly with wide eyes. A shot of adrenaline has suddenly invaded my body, made me unmovable where I sit before her.

I am not tired anymore. 

“What?” 

My voice is weak, disbelieving.

“You’re pregnant. Congratulations, Lieutenant Ledger. Oops, Lieutenant Ledger-Bradshaw!”

It is jarring that she is saying this with a grin--her face broken out in the happiest of expressions, her white hair falling in curling tendrils around her rosy cheeks. If it were any other day, I would be grinning and blushing at hearing my hyphenated name spoken aloud--it is something I’m not used to yet, something that spreads immense joy across my chest and down to my belly when I hear it. 

But I’m pregnant--that’s what Dr. Travett has just said with that pretty smile on her naked lips. I am pregnant right now, sitting in this office in the afternoon sunlight, suddenly deaf to all the other noises around the doctor’s office that seemed so paramount before she came in. 

The last time I had been told I was pregnant was the year after my sister died--creeping up on the anniversary of her death, of our accident. It had been in August and one slimy day was listlessly perusing to the next while I meandered through them with earmuffs on. Nothing was real--nothing seemed to touch me. And when they’d told me that I was pregnant that first time, they were not grinning. They were furrowing their eyebrows at me and handing me pamphlets for abortion and rehabilitation clinics and asking me if there was anyone they could call for me. 

But Dr. Travett is happy--so happy that even if the blinds were closed, her skin would still be glowing. She’s glowing like I’ve been trying to get pregnant, like I’ve been having trouble conceiving and it finally happened. 

Like this is a journey I am knowingly, willingly on. It’s not, though--the floor has just dropped out from under me. It feels like I’m back in a fragged F-18 with my sister, like we’re shooting off the carrier, shot forward with the sheer force of the air holding us. It feels like I’m not in control, like someone else is flying right now, like I’m just staring at the back of my sister’s chipped, pink helmet. Like I’m being pressed against my seat and cold oxygen is shooting into my mouth, forcing me to breathe, forcing inflation and deflation. 

“A wedding present?” 

She says this with a hopeful sort of grin, barely able to contain her own excitement. This must be her favorite kind of news to give, peppered in her day between strep tests and finger pricks and diet management. You’re pregnant! Hooray! No more deli meat for you! Let’s get you on some prenatals!

A wedding present. Yes, maybe it is a wedding present. A tiny thing given to me by my very new husband, pressed from him into me. Yes, maybe that is what it is. But if it is a wedding present, I have unknowingly been withchild for nine weeks. Nine entire weeks. It doesn’t feel possible. 

“But my period--!” 

My words come to a sudden, choking halt when I realize it. My period. Oh, God.  

I clamp my eyes shut--dots of opaque color exploding in the blackness there. But I can’t remember the last time I used a tampon, a pad. I can’t even remember the last time I thought about it, can’t remember the last time I felt a cramp or had sore breasts or a headache. It hasn’t come--no, it hasn’t. I would remember. 

“You’ve still had your regular period?” 

She asks this gently, her eyebrows slightly hooked. But she’s smiling still. 

I shake my head silently. No. No regular period. 

Oh, my God. Pregnant again. 

This is what happened the time before, too, after my sister died--I couldn’t remember the last time I had my period. It had been a long time, I knew that--but even then, it was a fact I gripped only loosely on the outskirts of reality where I resided. Everything was muffled to me then--but that I knew that much, at least. 

In the doctor’s office, a wife of barely two months, my fingers are cold--freezing, even. And my heart is hammering and I am slack-jawed and there are tears in my eyes and I want to just lay down in the dark for a few hours. I just want to lay against the bed, the paper wrinkling and rippling beneath my fidgeting form, and close my eyes and strain--strain to feel the life growing within me, the life that has gone undetected since the night of my wedding, despite my sobriety. I understand perfectly why I hadn’t detected my first pregnancy--pills, booze, grief. But two periods have come and gone and I have given it little to no thought at all.

Two entire periods--almost two weeks of blood and I have been too busy to notice something as important as my own menstrual cycle.  

“Your wedding was nine weeks ago, yes?” 

She is grinning at me as I sit, totally and thoroughly dumbfounded, on the examination table with my ankles still crossed politely.

All thoughts of slipping into my bed have dissipated entirely, withering away into the perfumed air here in this room, flittering away like a spooked sparrow. 

I can hardly hear her--my own heartbeat the only thing I can hear beside the faint ringing echoing inside my suddenly-cluttered mind. 

I nod--just barely. 

A baby. My baby. Bradley’s baby.

Bradley--oh, God. He is at work right now--maybe he is even in the sky, penetrating the ego of some hotshot Top Gun pilot, chuckling with Mav over the comm, keeping a watchful eye over his class the way he always does. Maybe he is milling around base somewhere, wearing that grin of his, and thinking about coming home to me when the day is done. Maybe he’s sitting in his office, wishing that I was in mine so he could make the short ten-step walk from my door to his so he could trade his green apple for my red one and beckon me to sit on his lap in between his classes. He’s there somewhere--I know this. He’s there and he’s smiling when he thinks about me and he’s going to be a father and he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. 

Talking about children is an almost-everyday occurrence with us. They are in our daydreams, they are littering each and every one of our future plans, prancing around in our dreams of the Virginia house. We want them--have been laxed about birth control since the wedding. But we have not been trying to have a baby. A baby.  

“When we have kids,” has become a common phrase in our household. 

And it is usually accompanied by, “Our kids will…” or “That’s gonna be our kid.”

It’s a joke, kind of--something that doesn’t feel real, but feels exciting. We will jokingly nudge each other and point to a toddler throwing a tantrum in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, teasing each other that our kid would be ten times worse than that. But sometimes it’s softer than that--twice now he has stilled randomly and told me that he hopes our baby will look like me. Once it was as soon as I’d woken up, my vision blurry and my tongue dry. The second time it was after a group FaceTime with the squadron, when my cheeks were pink from prosecco and my throat ached from laughter. 

Children are something we want, yes. But it’s still, somehow, incredibly shocking that it is happening at this exact moment. Only one month before we put out house on the market officially, only a couple months after our backyard wedding, only a few months into renovating Chateau Bradshaw, only a few days after our requests for transfers have been officially approved--and now I am pregnant and we are going to have a baby and maybe they will have tantrums in the cereal aisle and-- 

Our baby. We are going to have a baby.  

Dr. Travett, who has been my doctor for over two years now, suddenly ceases grinning. She steadies herself on her feet, letting the folder drop to her side as she leans forward, her eyes narrowed. Maybe she just remembered the part in my chart about my stint in rehab, my previous abortion, my syphilis. I think if she knew me the way Bradley does, she would swipe her thumb between my brows. A silent gesture, one that means, hush now. It’s alright.  . 

“This was an accidental pregnancy, yes?”

I can hardly nod--my head is suddenly full of cotton. 

It’s pulsing through my temple: pregnant again, pregnant again, pregnant again, pregnant again. 

 “If you’d like, we can talk about options, Lieutenant,” she says, her eyebrows furrowing as she nods solemnly, “you have the right to choose in the state of California.”

It’s like I’m outside of my body again, like I can see myself from her perspective, like I am standing right beside her instead of in front of her. Face pale, cheeks fire-stricken, mouth ajar, eyes wide, eyebrows drawn together, body curved, blouse straining against my clamped fingers. I must look like a wreck to her.

“I’m pregnant?” I manage to ask--and even my voice doesn’t sound like my own. 

It’s crackly, broken, weak. 

Fuck. 

The first time around, I barely managed to say it out loud more than once or twice, only when completely necessary. It was not something I was shouting from the rooftops, not something I was keen on letting people in on. It had been such a source of shame--not because of the abortion itself, but because I had gotten to such a desperate point in my life, because I had been bad, been depraved. It isn’t that I feel that way about the other women who’ve had them, it is only the way I feel about mine--a personal, secret hatred that burns in my heart. It was the best choice, but it was a rotten one. 

“Yes,” Dr. Travett confirms, “based on the results of your blood test, I’d estimate you’re about nine weeks.”

Yes. The wedding. Our first sleepless night as husband and wife.

“Oh,” I breathe, my fingers stiff with cold, “nine weeks.”

Nine weeks. I’ve been pregnant for nine weeks and have been none-the-wiser. 

Why couldn’t I tell when I was pregnant? Why wasn’t my body giving me any signs? Why was the baby something that grew silently, compliantly, waiting to be noticed?

Straining, my eyes clamped shut and my lips dry, I try to think about the past nine weeks. Glasses of prosecco here and there. Some lunchmeat. Sushi one time. Cleaning Stevie’s litter box. Two cups of coffee everyday. A really hot bath. 

Oh, God. 

Dr. Travett nods once, softening. 

“You did miss your March and April periods, correct?”

I did. But it hadn’t crossed my mind--not when Bradley and I were settling into married life, starting to accumulate boxes for the move, elbow-deep in picking tiles and wallpapers and paints and appliances for Chateau Bradshaw. I have been too entirely consumed, too entirely blissed out. 

“Yes,” I confirm, “both.”

She nods, slowly leaning back against the counter again, her gray eyes clear and wide behind her purple-framed glasses. 

“Any cramping? Spotting? Morning sickness?”

The vein across my nose throbs.

“None.”

She nods. 

“Have you been overly-tired recently?”

Oh. Yes. This tiredness has been eating me alive. It’s been impossible for me to wake up before Bradley suddenly, to the point that he has been the one to wake me up on Sunday’s for the farmer’s market instead of me dragging him out the door. Even at work, all I can think about is letting my heavy eyelids slip, letting my cheek fall against a goose-down pillow. I have been starting to take a nap on my lunch break, leaning on Bradley’s shoulder in his office while he typed away, chuckling and pressing kisses to my forehead. Once or twice, I’d even fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the Bronco on the way home from work--not a sweet, short nap either. They were open-mouthed, seat belt-cutting-my-cheek kind of naps. I had even started to take naps before dinner--long, dreamless, heavy naps beneath a crochet blanket on the couch while Bradley undressed and prepared for dinner all around me. Overly-tired, yes, yes.

So it hasn’t been entirely silent--it’s there, growing, sucking my energy, just waiting. Just waiting for me. 

It makes my heart squeeze with something that is very, very close to affection. I feel warmer for a fleeting moment, thinking about it inside of me, a strange little blob of tissue and DNA. How tiny it must be to be undetectable by me, by my body--but mighty enough to force this exhaustion upon me day-in and day-out.   

“Takes a lot of energy to grow a human,” Dr. Travett says, “I commend you.”

A tiny human. A tiny human has been inside my body for nine weeks, just watching, just growing, just living. And I hadn’t known until right this moment. It’s just there. It’s like a game of hide and seek--maybe our first of many.

But I hadn’t known--hadn’t known not to do all of the things that I did before my appointment. I’m gripping the antiseptic paper so harshly that it tears beneath my trimmed fingernails.  

“I drank,” I admit, the words spewing from my dry lips like vomit, “and ate deli meat and took hot baths. I’ve been changing my cat’s litter box. I drink a lot of coffee, like, the strong stuff. And sushi--God, I had sushi last Thursday. What now? Is it even safe to continue the pregnancy? Or have I, like, monumentally fucked up?”

I’m rambling. I know it--but I can’t stop it. I am suddenly choking on all of it, all the emotions that are seeping into my skin and absorbing into my heart, my lungs. I almost can’t breathe, imagining that I’ve done something to harm the baby, just like I had with my first pregnancy--

“A lot of women do when they don’t know,” she says soothingly, “just as long as you stop now. We’ll get you scheduled for an ultrasound, get you some vitamins, and I’ll send you on your way, okay? You have to get back to base, right?”

She is smiling again--this time a pitiful smile, her eyes half-crescents and her smile close-lipped and careful. She is very warm, her jeans flared and her t-shirt tight beneath her white doctor’s coat--oozing a sort of casual chic. She looks so much like a mom suddenly--coaxing me, soothing me. 

A mom. I am going to be a mom. Do I look like a mom to people suddenly? When I smile, does it make people warm? Does my touch make people feel safe, comfortable? 

“No,” I say weakly, “I have the rest of the day off.”

I get back into my car in utter silence, throwing the million pamphlets and vitamins and paperwork into the front seat. And in my warm car, in this little unhurried parking lot of my doctor’s office, I feel like I can’t breathe.

A baby. A baby. A baby. A baby.  

A woman crosses in front of my car holding her toddler close to her chest, her face slacked with relief as her child snoozes against her shoulder with rutty, tear-stained cheeks. She looks like a mother--a tired sort of beautiful face glowing in the sun, her long hair pulled back from her face with a velvet headband. There is mascara gathering beneath her lower lashes and her lips are chapped, but she looks entirely content to be walking to her car with that sleeping child and a little paper bag of liquid medicine in her hand. 

That’s going to be me soon--I am going to be a tired sort of beautiful mother crossing the parking lot of a doctor’s office in Virginia with a sleeping toddler that has a red face and a bad attitude. I’m going to be exhausted because they have an ear infection and they hate their medicine and Bradley’s going to have to hold both of us on his lap at the same time, kissing my cheeks as I stroke our child’s little tufts of blonde hair, murmuring quietly to them as I try and coax a syringe into their mouths. 

It is a sweet and scary thing to think about suddenly being in charge of a tiny human.  

I’m dizzy thinking about it, leaning against my steering wheel. Pregnant. I’m pregnant.

 My phone vibrates in the cupholder, the loudest sound in my car since my radio is off and the windows are rolled up. I hold it in my palms, watching the mother tuck her child into a backward facing car seat in a nearby Subaru. I don’t even know how to put a carseat in my car.  

Tramp: Heard a rumor that good girl’s get ice cream after the doctor. Can’t confirm or deny tho. On a completely unrelated note, don’t look in the freezer when you get home. About to get up in the air.

Tramp: Hate that you’re not here BTW. Love you, baby.

I can’t breathe for a moment when I read his message, that breath that is still bated in my hot throat. This is his way of telling me that he’s thinking about me, his way of spoiling me, loving me and that makes me warm. But more than that, we suddenly are going to have a real-life child who will beg for chocolate ice cream with extra sprinkles after holding still for their vaccinations. Our backseats are going to be sticky with hot fudge and dried cream and they are going to fall asleep holding melting cones and we are going to carry them into the house with our hearts in our throats, patting their little backs, trying to settle them into their cribs without waking them up.   

But then it makes me smile--how much I love him, how much I suddenly ache for him to be here with me, how much I want him to know about the baby. 

The baby.   

We’ve gotten used to it just being us, have gotten used to depending on each other’s company since we are alone together all the time. It is good to lean on each other, good to depend on each other. He remembers my doctor’s appointments and I remember to pick up dry-cleaning and he changes the oil in my car and I recreate his mother’s sugar cookie recipe I found in his copy of Little Women. We just do things for each other--just love each other. And we are going to be adding a baby to that love. A baby. A sweet brown-eyed creature, one with maybe blonde hair and personal kisses from the sun herself. 

I lean against the seat, breathing in the hot air, breathing in the sunshine. This April day suddenly feels so beautiful, so glorious. It feels like my day has only started. It feels like my day is brand new. 

It is happiness that I feel then for the first time since I walked out of the doctor’s office--pure, unadulterated happiness. I am going to have a baby--I am going to have a baby with Bradley and they are going to grow up in Virginia and they are going to make me a mother and they are probably going to pull Stevie’s tail and they are going to learn how to ride a bike in our circle drive and make paper snowflakes on snow days and cry when they watch The Lion King for the first time, just like I did. 

My belly doesn’t feel or look big yet--I just look like me still. But I lay my hand over my jeans, over my shirt anyway. And I close my eyes, let the sunlight stream in through the windshield and kiss my eyelids. I will myself to feel it, anything--pulsing, squirming. But there is nothing yet. It is just quiet in there. It still just feels like I am only touching my skin, that’s all. 

I am choked up--imagining them there, beneath my palm. Thriving.

“Sweet thing,” I whisper finally in introduction. 

It is the first thing I ever say to them--echoing the first thing Bradley had ever messaged me in the parking lot of The Hard Deck. It’s our song--our song that we are going to sing to our baby, our song that is going to play on our wedding anniversaries. And now those words are the first I used to acknowledge that sweet creature. Sweet thing.

Me: Don’t fly like your ass depends on it. Get home quick! Love you!  

Then I open my browser, my fingers trembling, and type the question in carefully. 

How big is my baby at 9 weeks gestation?

I wait for him in the living room, the sweet chartreuse sofa that I love so dearly.

It’s closing in on six-thirty and the early-evening sun is beginning to turn that shade of gold that reminds me of Bradley’s hair, of his skin, of his laugh. Outside, the sky is darkening  and still blue and the air is fresh, whistling into the living room from the open windows. The birds are still calling and the crickets are beginning to sing.

Stevie is stretched out across her preferred ottoman, wearing a new prissy-pink collar Bradley specially ordered online. The collar adorns a little charm with the word ‘Bitch’ inscribed on it in pink rhinestones. 

“Ain’t you a pretty thing,” he’d cooed after clasping it around her, patting her head softly before shooting me a grin, “now everybody’ll know what to call her!”

Already, I’ve lit candles and poured myself a glass of water, poured Bradley a glass of cherry wine--which is only in my nature, only a part of our routine. I’ve changed out of my work clothes and turned on Rumours by Fleetwood Mac--which is what I do when I miss Maggie very much but don’t want to call her voicemail. It feels too greedy to call her voicemail after calling it a little over two months ago. Things like that must be measured--I know that even now, with this deep ache in my chest. 

Nothing much has changed about the house yet--we have only packed away things from the attic, things that were already half-packed, anyway. The house still looks like our house--full of life, full of frames, full of color, full of love. There are wedding photographs still littered about every single surface, still vases of flowers dotting the room, still flower crowns drying in the sun on the patio table. Our home is about to be in the midst of a change, one that is hurtling towards us, one that we are bearing down for.

And as I’m sitting here, my hands absently pressed against my belly, I’m thinking about never bringing our child into this house. What a strange feeling it is to know that my child will never see this house with these walls I have painted and these frames I’ve hung and these vases I’ve thrifted. My child will not ever sit in this living room, on this sofa, nestled up beside me like my sister. 

My child will never know my sister. The thought sizzles across my frontal lobe like a struck match, burning the skin of my forehead, inducing nausea. I have known this, have even thought about this before, all along. It is something I sometimes remind myself of when I am growing too comfortable in this domesticity--it could be fleeting, it could evade me. But now it comes screaming at me: my child will never have the pleasure of knowing Maggie Palmer Ledger.

She will not be at the hospital when they are born, biting her fingernail, cringing every time I have a contraction because she can feel it too. She won’t hold that little bundle in her arms, her cheeks pale and her lips parted, and smell that delicious scent staining their soft skin. She won’t lay in bed with me while I recover, letting that tiny fist wrap around her index finger while I sleep silently beside her. Her favorite pair of jeans won’t be stained with spit-up, her car won’t be full of tissue-papered presents on their birthdays, she will not be here to give them their first record--which I know would’ve been Crimson & Clover. 

A familiar engine rumbles down Mulberry Street, an engine I can always hear from a mile away. Good--he’s almost home. And he’s home early enough that I haven’t dissolved in a puddle at the thought of our child not knowing my sister.    

Dreams is playing when the front door finally opens, when Bradley bursts into our home with a gust of warm spring air, singing the last few lyrics of whatever Eagles song he was listening to on his ride home. He sounds happy--happy to be home. Already, I know he’s taking his boots off, grinning, waiting for me to appear at the top of the steps. 

My legs are shaking as I stand on them, my feet heavy when I start for the stairs. 

“Faye-baby,” Bradley calls from the foyer, “m’home!”

The ruckus of him kicking his shoes off, the thumping of his socked feet on the stairs, the little hum in his throat--these little noises are sacred to me. These are little noises that I would be able to pick out anywhere, anytime--even with Dreams playing as loudly as it is. It iss the sound of my husband coming home--it is the sound our baby will hear at the end of the day, the sound that will summon them to the front door, the sound that will inject glee into their little spirits. For them, for the baby inside of me, it will be the sound of dad coming home. 

He appears at the top of the steps with a grin spread across his tanned face, his cheeks round and pink, his hair mussed and his mustache neatly combed. He looks very happy, very healthy. Wearing his flight suit still, I can smell him from where I am standing in the middle of the living room--like jet fuel, like sweat, like pepper. 

That is when I release a breath I didn’t even know I was holding--when my chest deflates and I want to fall into his arms and weep and tell him everything and celebrate and love each other.

I am still getting used to calling him my husband--still getting used to being married to him, settling into our life together. We teetered only slightly just once before the mission, after the bonfire and then never again. Before we were even married, I knew we were standing on solid ground. But sometimes it washes over me that this is it; he is the man that is going to come home to me every single night from now on. It happens here, as I stand on the wooden floor with his UVA sweatshirt on, with my hair brushed, with his grin spreading: he is my husband and I am going to make him a father in November this very year. 

“Hey, you,” he says, “gimme some sugar.”

That is enough for me to cross the rest of the space between us, enough for me to press my body against his rather roughly, enough for me to lean my head back and let his lips press against mine. 

The kiss is more than our usual, giddy greeting--it is deeper, happier. He grips my waist and I grip the curls at the nape of his neck and there is a baby between us that he doesn’t even know about. 

“Missed you,” he mumbles against my lips, cupping my cheek, “can’t ever be away from you ever again, okay? I’ll put you in my pocket during flight training.”

I peck his lips a few more times, relaxing against his chest. I’m still tired--but I am nowhere near sleep. Not now, not when he’s home and holding me, not when I have to tell him.

“Mmm, not sure Cyclone would go for that.”

He nuzzles his nose against me. 

“C’mon,” he whispers, “live a little. Little birdie told me he has a soft spot for you.” 

“He’s soft for me, not spineless,” I say softly, smiling, “for what it’s worth, baby--I really, really missed you, too.”

His brown eyes are swimming with affection, the way they have been since our wedding. We are still in that post-ceremony haze, when it feels like everyone is still cheering and throwing flower petals and taking pictures of us. 

“Brave of you to rub up all on me,” he says after a moment, raising his brow, “I must stink--haven’t showered yet.”

He doesn’t stink--I like the way he smells when he doesn’t shower after flying. He smells like the air, like my life before, like my life now. He just smells real, human. 

“I like your stink,” I say, biting my lip.

He wrinkles his nose--teasingly nipping at the plush skin of my cheek. His breath is warm, his tongue even warmer. 

“Never take a half day again,” he says, peppering my face with sweet kisses, “s’gonna kill me if you do. Missed you too damn much, little lady. Had to listen to the radio on the way home like a chump. You’re my DJ.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” I whisper, pink spreading across my cheeks, “I’ll never schedule doctor’s appointments during the workday ever again.”

This is a lie--a lie I am going to come clean about very soon. In fact, very soon, I am going to have another appointment at two in the afternoon. I am going to lay in a dark room and roll my shirt up and they’re going to press warm jelly against my belly and I’m going to look at a tiny screen and see my tiny baby for the first time and listen to their little heartbeat. Bradley will be there, too, I think--I think he will use one of his vacation days to drive me to the clinic, to stand beside me with a bouncing leg, to hold my hand and bring it to his lips, to hear that racing heart echo in the little room. 

Another pinch to my cheek as he tucks his lip between his teeth, bringing me back to him. 

“It’ll do you good to stand by your word, Lieutenant Ledger-Bradshaw.”

That makes me hum, makes me feel pleased. 

Lieutenant Ledger-Bradshaw. I am the other half of the two Bradshaw’s and soon, very soon, there will be another Bradshaw. Yes, the baby will have his name--we will continue on the Bradshaw name, fill up his family home nice and good the way his parents had intended. 

“I love being a Bradshaw,” I whisper back.  

A flush covers his neck--he pinches my cheek, shaking his head lightly. 

“Boy, do I love you,” he muses, “have I told you that before?”

It chokes me again--my love for him. 

“Once or twice.” 

Then I disconnect myself from him, nodding to the couch. 

“I have to tell you something,” I say, my voice soft and hard at the same time, “go sit. Poured you a glass of wine already.”

He raises his eyebrow at me, a curious glint in his eyes. But he gives me a final peck on the nose before he wanders to the sofa, giving Stevie a friendly pat before he sinks into the cushions with the glass in his hands. 

The kitchen is cool and calm, very bright, very empty. It makes me feel good to be alone, alone in the room just beside Bradley. But am I really alone? It makes me nauseous to think about, makes me giddy to think about.  

It isn’t until the kitchen door closes behind me that I release the breath caught in my aching throat. As soon as the door latches behind me, as soon as the sun peering in from the window kisses my face--then I exhale. 

Maybe the baby exhales, too. The baby that is with me suddenly--has been with me unknowingly since our wedding night. The baby that will be with me for the next thirty-one weeks. I did the math on the way home--my due date will be November 21st. My baby will be a Scorpio, just like me, just like my sister. Their birthstone will be topaz--I imagine it, small orange gems pressed in gold sitting on my finger to memorialize my first child’s birth month.   

The aloneness lasts less than five minutes. 

I hold the cold piece of fruit in my hand, rolling it around in my palms for a long time as I lean against the counter. It is plump, cold to the touch--my fingers are making it even colder. I can’t hold still, can’t focus with all the cotton flooding my head, can’t get myself to move towards the living room again either.

All I can think as I stand here, with my heart in my throat, is that I am pregnant again. I am nine weeks pregnant and I am going to keep the baby and they are going to keep me. 

“Y’get lost in there, baby?”

I know he is probably getting antsy, too--I know he had told the truth about missing me all day. I missed him all day, too. It was sickening, really--how much we could miss each other after just a few hours apart. How we’d lived so many years without each other is astounding to me, really. Something that stupefies me.

“Coming,” I call before I even register what I am saying.

And before I really even know what I was doing, before I really even register where my hand is falling--I am cupping my non-bump with one hand. It is suddenly me and them. We are in it together--we are going to be in everything together until they are here on this earth with me and Rooster.

We are quiet--I am holding them and they are being held by me and we are going to tell Bradley and everything is going to change but everything is going to be okay. I know that. I know that so much, standing right in front of the kitchen door, holding that baby in my body, holding the fruit in my hand.

Maybe they can hear me now--hear that voice inside my head that I have only ever heard. Maybe it is our own secret language, like the language of friends, the language of lovers. It’s our own--only we are fluent in it. 

“I’ll do the talking,” I say to them silently. 

I imagine that they hear me--only recently acknowledge, a tiny little thing. 

The kitchen door closes behind me. 

Bradley is most handsome sprawled across the couch. He’s pulled his flight suit down to his waist so he is only in a cotton t-shirt, a beautiful warm thing in a beautiful warm room. And he is grinning, turning his pretty, sun-kissed face away from Stevie’s purring form to behold me in the doorway. 

And when he sees me standing here, crossing the threshold of the kitchen with one hand clutched at my side, with my smile faint and my posture lazy and my eyes meek--his spine stiffens. God, I hate when he stiffens like that--it makes me want to recoil, to shield him. It makes me want to blanket myself over whatever problem froze him so he can just sit there and be his pretty, happy self. 

I am trying very hard to be quiet, trying very hard to keep my heart in my chest and not in my throat. 

“Baby,” he says carefully, settling his glass of wine on the coffee table as he sits up, “y’alright?”

There must be something on my face--a tell. Like a quivering bottom lip or a wrinkled chin or a crinkle between my brows. Or maybe he just knows from the strange aura all around me, glowing gold or green or blue so clearly for him. He’s good at reading me--has always been good at reading me. 

I am a terrible liar, anyway. But this doesn’t feel quite like a lie--it feels both bigger and smaller than that. Severe but not sinister. 

“‘M fine,” I promise him, “really. Everything’s okay.”

Maybe that frightens him. Maybe fear is what makes his brows furrow, makes his lips fall downward. Maybe he doesn’t understand why I am telling him something big, doesn’t understand what there is to tell him that is big enough to warrant a warning, a promise that things are going to be fine. Maybe I am reminding him of Carole when she first got her diagnosis, when there were more questions than answers. 

“Faye?” 

He asks again as I cross the living room towards him, the sun kissing us through the windows, the birds singing, the record spinning, Stevie purring. 

I sink to my knees before him, the rug soft against my skin. He leans forward, hands at the ready like he thought I was going to fall. And when he sees me settle in there, in that spot on the floor between his legs, his spine softens a tiny bit. Good--that’s a start. 

He reaches forward, smooths an open palm over my hair. I hold his wrist with my free hand, my breathing uneven and my eyes already heavy with tears, before guiding his open palm to my mouth. I kiss him as tenderly as I know how--his hands smell like oil and metal and dirt and skin and soap.

“You’re scaring me a little bit here,” he tells me, his eyes soft but his gaze hard, “talk to me, Faye-baby.”

But I can’t say anything yet. I am afraid that if I speak, I will just blurt it out. I’m afraid that I will cry or sob or scream or something even worse than all of those things. I need to be composed--I need to be solid.  

So I carefully move his palm so it is lying face up. He watches me, a smile tugging at his lips and a quirk in his brow. But he trusts me--lets me move his body anyway I see fit. 

Never Going Back Again is playing. Maggie never liked this song--always wanted to skip it. But I like it. I am glad that it is playing right now. 

Been down one time / Been down two times

“Talk to me,” Bradley insists again, leaning forward, ducking to meet my gaze, “what’s going on, baby?” 

I finally look at his eyes--his sweet, sweet eyes. They are so very gentle, swimming with concern, with worry. And I know, even before I walked into the living room, that he will be nothing short of ecstatic. I know. I know that so much, even just right here, staring into his earnest eyes. I hope our child would have his big, brown eyes--hope that so very much that it makes my chest ache.  

But my hand is still shaking when I reach forward and empty my palm out in his: a plump, green olive--chilled from my numb-fingered grip--rolls to a stop in his flat palm. 

He stares down at it for a moment, eyebrows drawing together, hands still settled politely in front of him. He’s racking his brain, wondering if I hit my head that morning, wondering if it is an offering or an omen. 

“An olive,” he says finally, glancing back at me with a small frown tugging his lips, “thank you, baby. I think.”

I could vomit right now, I think. I could just bend over and it would spill out of me. My heart is thundering inside my chest so loud that I am sure, for a fleeting moment, that he can hear it. I could just cry and he could comfort me, but then it wouldn’t be fair to him. I need to be solid right now. I need to say it--need so badly to tell somebody else and I haven’t even known for an entire day. I need him to know so we can hold hands and walk across the threshold of parenthood together, so we can celebrate, so he can understand why I’ve been so tired, so he will know that I was making him a dad.

“Yes, it’s an olive,” I finally say.

He’s searching my face, trying to read my expression. 

“How’d your doctor’s appointment go? Not dyin’ on me, are you?”

The room feels quiet after he says that. 

We can say that to each other, though--we have both been stained by loss, are allowed to say things that feel vulgar and ill-fated. Because he is joking as much as he is serious. It is a strange way of asking if everything is okay--but it is his way of asking if everything was okay. 

He has a certain intensity around regular check-up’s, one that I’ve noticed since we’ve been married. He sees his doctor like clockwork, religiously takes vitamins, and even schedules my own appointments for me. And even then, he’ll remind me of them, shoot me a text twenty minutes before asking if I want him to come be with me. It is a courtesy that I found strange at first, one that I didn’t take him up on for a long time because I didn’t find his presence necessary for an eye appointment or flu shot. But I think I get it--I think that he was not there when his mother went to all her appointments. I think she was alone and I think she pushed off the doctor’s for a long time--which was why the cancer had ate so much of her by the time they found it. He is only giving me what he could not give his mother; he is giving me partnership.   

“Doctor’s appointment was fine,” I tell him softly, “I have another appointment on the twenty-seventh.”

Something flashes across his eyes. I kiss his palm again. 

“You’ll have to make me a playlist for my ride home,” he tries, his voice weak. 

I shake my head. 

“No, you’ll be there, too.”

His brows scrunch. 

He’s on the edge--I am about to tip him over. I know that in just another moment, he will be leaning forward, lip tucked between his teeth as he kneels before me and slowly tries to coax answers out. In just another moment, he will be pressing the back of his olive-less hand to my forehead and checking for a fever, will be asking me if I need a tylenol or a hot bath.

A tinge of dread spreads across my chest when I think about Carole getting sick again. It must have gone down like that to some degree. An initial doctor’s appointment and then a slew of others, all of them parading and sprawling out for weeks. It must’ve been a long waiting period with bated breaths, with sit-down conversations like we are having right now. 

Guilt is starting to tickle my tongue, sticky and warm like blood. 

So I start speaking again, holding his hand close to my body. 

“Well,” I start, taking a composing breath before continuing, “that olive. You see it?”

He glances down at the olive before him, still plump and cold from my grip. He glances back up at me, brown eyes glimmering curiously. 

“Affirmative.”

I suck in a long breath and nod. I imagine the baby doing the same thing, mimicking me, moving discreetly within the softest, pinkest parts of myself.

Bombs away, baby. 

“That’s the size of our baby,” I say, my eyes watery.

It is my first time announcing a pregnancy that I intend to keep--the first time I utter the words happily, a sudden pang of joy spreading across my chest and dripping down my still-soft belly. A certain glee holds me. I can’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth now.

“I’m pregnant,” I say, the word foreign on my tongue still. 

Pregnant. I am pregnant.  

Joy is beginning to tug on my lips, a strange sort of joy--one that is spreading like a rash all over my body. 

A baby. Yes, a baby. One we are going to love and spoil and raise and hold and kiss. It is all going to be okay--even if I dabbled in prosecco and sushi by accident. It is all going to be okay because we will make it so.   

He stares at me, blinking in surprise. Then he freezes with his mouth parted and his eyebrows raised. His chest stutters and his breath catches between his teeth, his pulse quickens, when his knees lock. His brown eyes glimmer as they fall from my eyes to my belly, which is not curving in the slightest yet. 

“Faye,” he starts finally, his voice very quiet. 

But then he says nothing else--just stares at me, awestruck and loose-lipped. 

Biting my lip, a grin suddenly splitting my own face, I nod rapidly. 

“Nine weeks,” I add softly.

A flash of recognition holds his features as he finds my eyes again. 

“The wedding,” he whispers softly, a small smile tugging on his mouth. 

“Real subtle of us,” I laugh.

I know that we are going to be teased relentlessly by our friends for having our first child nine months after our wedding, know that Hangman will have something to say when I attend the Navy Ball in October with a swollen belly, know that Bob will be overjoyed and blushing the moment I tell him. God, it is all going to be good--we can handle the teasing, can lean into the humor of it all. Because our child is going to have five uncles and one aunt who adore them as much as we do.

“Faye,” he repeats, his eyes glassy, his smile still small.

It’s all he can say--I know that. He is choked up. But because he is the love of my life, I know that he is pleased--pleased as a plum, pleased beyond belief. 

I reach up, cup his face with both hands--choked suddenly with all the love I have for him. It is a love that is extending, branching out--a love that had spread from his body into mine and would soon be a breathing, sneezing, teary little thing.  

“You are going to be,” I start, sniffling, “such a good father, Bradley.”

When our bodies meet, when I wrap my arms around his neck and he holds my waist tightly, we melt into each other like it is what we were meant to be doing all along. His odor is starting to submit to the scent of our home--like freshly-washed sheets and orange and maple and pepper. He is smoothing my hair, kissing the top of my head, holding me tight against him. 

“A baby,” he says, his voice cracking with the sheer emotion of it all, “oh, Faye, a baby!”

“I know,” I tell him and I really mean it, can’t help the happy-tears skidding down my cheeks and onto his chest. 

And then he pulls back from me, still awestruck and grinning as tears threaten to spill over his lash line. I know he has a million questions for me: Is that why you’ve been so tired? Did you notice your period was late? What are we going to do about work? Are we pushing the move back or forward? Is it okay that you drank? What about the honeymoon? When are we going to tell everybody? Are we going to set up a college fund? What are we going to name them? Am I going to make a good dad? Are we ready for this? But instead of asking all of those questions, which are on the tip of his pretty tongue, he just swipes a thumb across my cheeks and collects a fallen tear on the calloused pad of his finger.

“Y’alright, honey? What can I do for you?” 

And that makes me cry again because it is what I need him to ask me. I am okay, I am happy. But there are emotions swelling in my chest, emotions that will be dissected and digested over the course of my pregnancy. I miss my sister--have always imagined being pregnant with her by my side, poking fun at my maternity jeans and insisting that I name our child something cool and stupid like Aero or Blondie. And I feel like I’ve only just recently found my footing on the earth again, after the pills and the abortion and the infection. Of course I am thinking about these things, I know I will be thinking about those things for a long while. But asking is enough right now--enough to settle my rapidly beating heart and aching belly. It is enough to subdue me.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, really meaning it, “I’m happy. I’m scared and I’m kind of sad, but I am so, so happy.”  

I lean forward, letting my forehead rest against his, sighing softly. He sinks to the floor on his knees, holding me still. He is still taller than me, his chin grazing the top of my head. 

Wordlessly, he takes my weight, soaks in my touch, absorbs me--he holds me steady with his hands on my waist. But after a moment, one of his hands drifts down to my hip. And then after another moment, it starts to drag forward across the bones of my hips--he pauses, then, his breath held. Hesitating. 

“S’okay,” I whisper, nodding softly, my nose gliding against his. 

I am watching him very intently when his hand presses against my belly for the first time. It isn’t really the first time, but it is the first time there is something beneath his palm. It is something alive and it is something that we made together, something that will be born in a cold month, something that we will love, something that will make us parents. 

His breaths are stuttering as he gently rubs his palm against my belly, uncarefully wrinkling his sweatshirt that I’ve adopted. And then he is sniffling and laughing and I am sniffling and laughing, too. Because there it is, a nonexistent thing between us--a baby, our baby. Just beneath Bradley’s palm, just inside my body.

“An olive, huh?” 

His voice is tearful. 

I nod, cupping his cheeks, thumbing his tears. 

“They have a tongue,” I tell him, smiling as my voice cracks, “and itty bitty taste buds.”

That makes him laugh--a joyful, crackly thing.

“Itty bitty taste buds,” he echoes, shaking his head lightly, “oh, God. That’s fuckin’ precious.” 

He cups my belly so softly, moves so his hand is sneaking beneath the hem of my shirt. His fingers, those beautiful rough things, are warm against me--sending a shockwave of goosebumps across my torso. But then he is closer to the baby--a different kind of closeness, a more precious one. 

“Called them our sweet thing earlier,” I tell him, cheeks reddening.

He sniffles, a few more tears rolling down his rounded cheeks. A grin still breaks up his face with utter glee. All thoughts of him showering have been abandoned--I know he has o desire to move now. 

“They are our sweet thing,” he agrees, pressing against my belly as if to feel what is unfeelable, “our little olive.”

Then he’s moving me, shifting our bodies, and I am compliant puddy in his capable hands. He is careful with me as he nudges me onto the carpet, laying me down so I am flat on my back and he is hovering over me. His body is warm and solid, so much so that I am getting choked up again just thinking about him holding our baby in his arms--holding our baby against him. 

“I love you,” he whispers to me, cupping my jaw, kissing my open mouth, “so fuckin’ much.” 

His lips are salty and damp. 

“Too much even,” he continues, chuckling, pinching my cheek. 

Then he slides down, sits back on his haunches, thighs straining against the material of his flight suit as he carefully pushes my sweatshirt away from my belly. It pools beneath my breasts in a heap of gray cotton, the pale skin of my belly goosing again.

Soon, there will be a moon of a belly there. I will grow and stretch and the baby will grow and stretch. But for now, I am me. I still look like me. But I feel like more than myself--I feel like I am more than just one person now. I never felt like that the first time I was pregnant. I only ever felt like I was more than one person when my sister was alive, when we were two halves of one whole. I am connected to someone again, which feels sudden and welcome. They are a part of me the way I was a part of my sister. 

“I love you,” I tell him, cheeks pink. 

He strokes my belly, his gaze resting there, with a sort of amazement holding his features. I understand the amazement--it amazes me too. How has there been a baby growing inside of me so secretly, so quietly for nine weeks? How has my body just known what to do? How have we both missed all the signs? How in the world are we about to become parents? 

“What should I say?”

It makes a bubble pop in my chest when he asks--a bubble of sticky, gritty, giddy happiness. He is being serious, carefully inspecting the unblemished skin beneath his feathery fingertips, eyebrows furrowed slightly. I know it matters to him like it matters to me: they are going to forever be the first words spoken to our child. 

“Whatever you want,” I insist quietly, moving to hold his knees. 

He swallows, nodding. 

Then he leans down, flattens his body out across mine. Carefully, he presses his face against my belly, his cheek flush against my belly button. His cheeks are speckled with stubble and his mustache is thick, tickling my skin. But he holds me tight--holds me still, safe. He still cups my belly with his other hand, stroking his thumb across my skin. 

“Oh, baby,” Bradley says very quietly, his smile growing, “‘m never gonna get anything done around here with you and your mama in the house.”

I am swooning, laughing, crying. He is laughing too, vibrating against my body.

“Me and a baby in the house,” I whisper, shaking my head, “can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick with tears and with love and with laughter, “it’s gonna be so much fun.”

It’s later, after Bradley makes dinner, that things feel calm and quiet again. 

We are standing beside each other at the copper sink, my arms half submerged in warm, soapy water as I sponge this evening’s dishes. His hands are wet from damp dishes that he dries with a tea towel haphazardly. Our hips are pressed together, just resting there against each other. We are always touching if we can help it--even if it’s just our socked feet beneath tangled sheets or our lazy pinkies hooked together at the farmer’s market.

Little Green Apples by Bobby Goldsboro is playing softly from the living room, the record turned on while carrots roasted in the oven and Bradley seared chicken. He’s been humming all evening, still unshowered, a pink flush over his skin. I am surely flushed, too, my cheeks warm and my heart pulsing in my throat.

It’s a delicate little dance we’re doing right now. We have this life altering news that’s sitting in my belly, newly acknowledged, and we’re trying to get back into the flow of our routine while knowing. It’s silly, really, just how much we still want to talk about it--how shocked we are, how happy we are. But dinner still had to be made and dishes must be washed and Stevie must be fed. Life is going to keep pushing forward--here and inside my body.   

Carefully, I scrub the crusty frying pan, suds racing down my forearms and back into the murky water. Bradley’s polishing a fork, his eyes glowing, radiating a warmth that I have still not grown used to yet. His body heat alone is inspiring perspiration on my forehead despite the breeze billowing in through the backdoor.  

“What are you thinking about?”

In the time that we detangled ourselves from each other and cooked and ate dinner, we’ve asked each other this unsparingly. It was uttered over my shoulder when I retrieved a head of garlic from the pantry. It was whispered to me when I leaned down to inhale the basil I was cutting. I asked him, too; once when he returned to the kitchen after turning the record player on and another time after he fixed his gaze on me across the kitchen table. Usually we don’t even have to ask each other--we just know. But now there is a sweet uncertain thing between us now. We are in uncharted territory, drawing ourselves a map on unmarked paper. 

“Well,” I start, smiling softly as lemony soap tickles my nostrils, “I’m thinking about how happy I am.”

This has been my response all night. I am honest with him--how could I ever be anything else? I am happy, a blinding kind of happy. The kind of happy that made me bawl as I walked across our brick patio with my arm hooked in Cyclone’s in February. It’s an overwhelming feeling, one that makes my cheeks ache and my throat clog. But I really am happy, happy to be where I am right now.

“Me too,” he says quietly, “really, really happy.”

“Stupid happy?”

He flashes a pretty grin, nodding. 

“Downright vapidly happy.”  

He turns, staring down at me. I meet his gaze when I turn to hand him the clean drying pan, a smile tugging at my lips. And there, in his gaze, is the softest and sweetest part of him. He’s always soft with me, will always be soft with me. But his eyes, those big brown things, are swimming with the gentlest sort of admiration I’ve witnessed. I think if I pressed my ear against the expansive broadness of his chest, I would hear my name uttered in the beats of his heart. Faye, Faye, Faye, Faye, Faye.

He sets the frying pan down on the counter, discards the tea towel on top of it without breaking his eyes from mine. And then he cups my face, his hand warm and wet, stroking the peak of my cheek with a docile thumb. 

I feel very held by him, very choked up at the familiar feeling of his calloused fingers against me. It makes me want to melt, reduces me to a puddle--so I lean into his touch, let my hands fall. A little groan emanates from his parted lips, one that vibrates his chest.  

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he utters, eyes lingering on my mouth as he swipes his thumb across my bottom lip, “my pretty, pretty wife.”

A tingle runs down my spine, spreading across my hips and lighting a fire low, low, low in my belly. It’s like he knows this, too--knows what his words are doing to me. 

Again, he presses his thumb against my lips and I pucker this time, kissing the calloused pad. Something flickers in his eyes--something dark but still sweet like boiled honey or peppermint tea. And that’s all it takes for me to take his thumb in my mouth, to swirl my tongue around the tip, his dull fingernail pressing into my cheek. He tastes like salt and skin, his finger rough against the silky parts of my mouth.

He’s watching me take his finger into his mouth with parted lips, a breath caught just between his molars. He’s stiff beside me, eyebrows knit slightly, cheeks the color of a rose petal. And there’s that flash in his eyes again--they look dark and deep right now, even with the moonlight streaming in through the window. 

He grips my face with his free fingers, nudging deeply into the plush skin of my cheek and jaw. God, I love when he holds me tight like this--when I know he needs me, wants me close to him. He knows I will do whatever he wants me to, knows that he could tell me to lie down and I would do it in the middle of his office or the street. 

“Open your mouth, baby,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

How could I do anything but comply?

I’m good for him--part my lips, let his thumb slip out of my warm, wet mouth. And when he groans, his eyes glued to his glistening thumb, it sends another bullet of pleasure to my belly. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, tracing my lips with my own warm saliva on his thumb, “turn around for me, baby.”

As if I won’t immediately comply, he takes hold of my hips and turns me so my bottom is resting against the sink and my wet hands are gripping the side. Even just his grip on my hips--God, it sends another flutter straight to my core. 

He’s in front of me now, body flush against mine as he tips my head back with my chin between his index finger and thumb. He smells like garlic and soap and maple and sweat and everything that is holy and impious.

He’s looking down at my lips, his touch excruciatingly light as he grazes my jaw, delicately dancing over the scar on the left side--the one he’d kissed all better not so long ago while Mazzy Star played quietly beside us. 

Fuck--I can’t take it now. I’m burning with want suddenly. I’m the one that closes the distance between us, I’m the one that crashes my lips against his, encircling his neck until warm water and bubbly soap is dripping down his t-shirt. We don’t care, though--don’t move to dry my arms off at all.

He takes it in stride, the way he always does, pressing himself flush against me until I can feel how hard he is already. He’s still in his half-unzipped flightsuit and fuck, I really want him, really need him. I am soaking through my underwear, can feel the want dripping from me like nectar. 

“Up,” he simply whispers into my mouth and I’m up, his hands spanning out across the bottom of my thighs as I wrap my legs around his hips. 

He’s hot to the touch, solid and silky beneath my palms as I tug on his curls. God, I’m so turned on that it very nearly hurts--there’s an ache spreading between my legs that can only be dissipated by his touch. He knows this, too, knows this so much. 

He licks my bottom lip, his polite way of asking for entrance, and I’m good for him--need him in my mouth, need to touch every part of him. And then I am swallowing him and he’s swallowing me and I’m moaning.

“Fuck, do that again, baby,” he breathlessly whispers, sucking my bottom lip. 

Even if he hadn’t instructed me--I would’ve moaned again, my spine quivering at this point, malleable like a piece of warm licorice.  

I’m sensitive, I think--my body feels taut, feels wound tightly. I’m exhausted, I’m pregnant, I’m turned on beyond belief, I’m excited, I’m scared--I am all of these things right here in this kitchen with my core pressed against his hips.

“Touch me,” I’m practically begging, warmth spreading across my chest. 

He chuckles, peppering my face with kisses, his smile one of amusement. Bastard. 

“I am,” he coos, fingers teasingly grazing the goosed skin of my bottom, “y’want more, baby?”

If I was a kettle, steam would be screaming out of me right now. I feel like I’m full of boiling water, hot to the touch. 

“Yes,” I tell him, my voice soft and weak, “please.”

He likes when I say please and thank you--it makes him grunt, makes him rut his hips up in a desperate attempt to get some friction. He’s hard--I can feel him pressed against my thigh, can feel how painful it must be for him to still be in his flight suit. 

“Tell me what you want, mama.”

Mama. 

We’re both shocked for a second, our widened eyes finding each other at the same time. It slipped from his mouth so easily, so darkly. And it sounded fucking good. 

I’m panting when I kiss him again, all teeth and tongue and spit. 

Then, against his lips, I whisper, “Want you to touch me, daddy.”

And that does it--that sends him over an edge I didn’t even know we were teetering on. He’s quick to wrap his arms around me, securing me in place against him before he carries me to the living room. He’s kissing me the entire way, kicking the kitchen door open with his foot, quick to fall to his knees and lay me down on the rug. 

The music is much louder in here and the breeze blowing through the open windows feels so good against my flushed cheeks. God, it feels good to be below him, feels good to be alone with him in our home.

He’s feverishly kissing up my throat, nipping at my jaw, pushing my sweatshirt up, up, up until it’s over my head and discarded beside us in a heap. He’s straddling me, the canvas flight suit straining against his thighs and his stiff cock.  

“Pants,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers in the waistband of my shorts before he tears them off my body, throwing them on top of my sweatshirt. 

And now I’m naked beneath him, chest heaving, slick with want. My skin gooses as the fresh April air rolls across it, pebbling my nipples. Even just being here, beneath his gaze, I feel like the loved-up, dark glaze over his eyes is enough to send another shockwave over my skin. 

“So sensitive,” he coos, licking a hot stripe between my breasts before he takes my nipple between his lips. 

I’m squirming beneath him because fuck, he’s flicking his tongue and bringing his other hand up to pinch my other nipple and I’m oozing arousal now, must be staining his flight suit and the rug. 

He kisses a sloppy trail to my other breast, giving them equal treatment, tweaking my already-damp nipple with capable fingers. And then he moves lower, lower until he’s peppering my soft belly with kisses. It’s just like he did earlier--he’s gentle with me, but his kisses are exact and very fiery. 

“Fuck,” I whine, throat warm, “feels good.”

He’s paying special attention to my belly now--more than he has before. He’s still tweaking my nipples, eyelashes fluttering against my skin as he sucks bruises all along my belly. Fuck, they’re going to be deep purple in a few hours--but it feels too good to tell him to stop. He’s nipping my skin, soothing it with a few soft kitten licks. And his mustache, fuck--it’s burning me in the most delicous of ways. He’s making me feel downright delirious with pleasure now. 

“Don’t I always take care of you, mama,” he mumbles against my skin, practically humming as he continues his ruthless hickey-assault, “always make you feel good.”

I want to beg him to put his mouth on me--but I know he’s getting there, can feel him falling lower and lower on my body. God, I just have to wait. It’s making my back arch off the ground, all this anticipation, all this want pooling between my legs. 

“Shh,” he coos, flat palm suddenly pressing down between my ribs, “hold still, baby. I’ll get you there.”

I’m moaning at just his words alone, screwing my eyes shut, waiting for him to move lower. But he’s lingering over my hip bones now, sucking little love bites there too. Fuck, there must be half a dozen of them now--I hope they’re faded by the time Dr. Travett administers my first ultrasound. 

 Touch me! Touch me! My body is begging for it.

And finally, he listens. 

His mouth hovers over my belly still, but his hand carefully comes down between my legs. He strokes me a few times, dipping his ring and middle finger in my wetness, moaning in tandem with me. The soreness of my arousal is dissipating with every little stroke he’s giving me--my body is desperate, drinking him in, so wet and ready for him that it is almost embarrassing. 

“Oh, baby,” he moans, “you’re so wet.”

 I cannot speak--can’t do anything but bite my lip hard, trying to keep myself still for him, trying to catch my stuttering breaths. But his fingers are touching me so expertly--and I am so slick, so warm. Pleasure, as red hot and loud as firecrackers, is bursting through my body like my nerve-endings are exploding. 

“Daddy,” I whisper, my voice cracking pathetically. 

And it sends another wave of arousal through my body--because I am making him a daddy. Even right now, right here--my body is growing our child. When he moans, his voice sounds ragged and deep. His pants are hitting my belly in gusts of hot wind.  

“That’s it,” he coos, dipping the very tips of his fingers into me, “that’s it, baby.”

He pushes his fingers into my body with a slowness that I’ve never known. It makes my thighs spread wider, makes my hips looser, makes my face go slack with downright, absolute pleasure. It’s almost excruciating as he slides into me, so slow and measured, so gentle. He’s still peppering little kisses and kitten licks around the swollen bruises on my belly. 

“Bein’ so good for me,” he mumbles, finally pressing his fingers all the way into me, “so pretty, baby.”

And before I can respond, before I can even catch my breath--he’s curling his fingers, pressing against that spongy spot inside of me that he always seems to find. And it’s a delicious, deep kind of pleasure that washes over me. It inspires a complete loss of control over the sounds that come tumbling out of my wet mouth, too--I’m just writhing and moaning beneath him. I almost jump out of my own skin when his thumb comes down on my clit, rubbing soft circles there. 

“Oh,” I cry, “fuck.”

He loves it--hungrily kisses up my chest and neck again, bringing his mouth over mine so he can swallow all my desperate moans as he pumps his fingers in and out of me. 

“You wanna cum on my fingers,” he starts, licking my bottom lip, “or my mouth?”

But he picks up the pace on my clit, rubbing harsher more tight circles there as his two fingers stretch to graze that spot deep inside me. And oh, oh I can’t even breathe let alone talk. But his nose is pressed against mine and he’s watching my face contort with pleasure through half-closed eyes. 

“C’mon,” he coos, “lemme hear that pretty voice, mama. Use your words.”

The leather cord in my belly is pulling taut, pulling my back off the carpet. But he’s quick to press his free hand to my chest and keep me flat on the ground. He’s kissing my jaw, suckling the spot just below my ear and I can’t think straight, not with this pleasure washing over me. 

“You can do it,” he encourages, a sly chuckle in his throat as he nips me, “tell me what you want, baby.”

Still, his pace is brutal--I am already close to cumming, I think. And somehow, through my haze, I answer meekly. 

“Mouth,” is all I can manage. 

But he hears me--doesn’t make me repeat myself. 

It’s a blur the moment he takes his fingers away from me, leaving me desperate and writhing for more. I’m reeling, but I’m lucid enough to help him out of his flight suit and t-shirt, lucid enough to hungrily kiss his neck and palm him through his briefs as he moans. 

He is holding my cheeks as I wrap my hand around him--he’s so hard, a dot of precum wetting the smooth material of his underwear. I pump him a few times for good measure, running my thumb over his tip. It’s my turn to swallow his moans, my turn to watch his face go pink through half-lidded eyes. 

“Off,” I tell him, breathing hard. 

He complies, his cock springing free between us as he steps out of his briefs. I am only able to wrap my hand around him, around that stiff length for a few fleeting moments before he’s moaning, nudging my hand away. And then he’s back in control, laying on the carpet and grabbing my hips, bringing my body close to him. He is moving me so easily, pulling and tugging, until I’m laying with my back against his chest and my head between his parted legs. His hands are secured on my belly, pulling me close and holding me still.

“I’ve got you,” he tells me, like he knows I need it, like he knows I need to hear him say it, “I’ve got you, baby.” 

Without another word, he dives into me, my quivering thighs acting like earmuffs as they clamp around his face. He licks a long, languid stripe up my heat, his tongue flat and broad. And then he nudges his nose against my swollen clit, lapping my wetness, squeezing my belly tight. 

Fuck, it feels like I’m a teenager again--so eager to be touched, so eager to cum right now, getting ate out on a rug in a living room. I can’t even open my eyes, can’t close my mouth, just have to bite down hard on the inside of my wrist and dig my fingers into the carpet. 

“Take your hand away from your mouth,” he says, pressing sloppy kisses to my clit, “wanna hear you, mama.”

So then I can do nothing but clamp my hands over his. His hands are so big, his fingers so long, that they take up much of my stomach and ribs. They expand all across my torso, make me feel so small beneath him. 

He’s devouring me, taking special care of my clit now as he sucks it harshly. 

“Oh, my God,” I squeak, “right there--fuck, yes--right there.”

His cock is stiff against the back of my neck, little beads of precum dribbling into my hair. And even though my legs are trembling, even though my breaths are shaky and my vision is tunneling, I move my chin to the side so his cock is pressed up against my cheek. It’s a strange angle, one we’ve never tried before--like a misguided sixty-nine. But I can still do this, can still bring my mouth down on him.

His hips buck involuntarily, a throaty moan sending vibrations up my body until they’re ringing out in my skull. He’s still sucking my clit, making that leather cord in my belly pulse. So I carefully suck the head of his cock, that thick hardness between my quivering lips perfect and delicious. He’s salty, his precum dripping down my throat as I take him farther, relaxing all the muscles in my neck despite the tears in my eyes. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

I just hum, sucking him as best I can while my orgasm approaches with a desperate quickness. Like he knows that I’m close, he holds me against him tighter, starts repeating little tight circles around my clit with his tongue rigid. 

I moan around him and his cock throbs, his thighs tense. 

“Know you’re close,” he murmurs, “give it to me, baby. Cum on my mouth.”

He is pulling the ripcord--tears are streaming down my cheeks as my orgasm hones in on me, licking my heels, pulling my hair. He mercilessly sucks my clit, nuzzles himself impossibly deeper in me. And he’s so hard between my lips and he put a baby in me already and I feel so full that I’m on the very edge of it all--

“C’mon, mama,” he encourages, “cum.”

That throws me over the edge. I come undone, writhing and tensing on top of his body, flesh against flesh. I’m flooding his mouth, letting his cock rest against my cheek as I gasp through the convulsions, the sheer force of it all causing a shudder to run up my spine and through my quivering legs. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes, “that’s it, honey.”

I’m still seeing stars when I come down, when he presses a few final kisses to my clit and the innermost parts of my thighs. He’s panting, too--I can feel the rapid rise and falls of his chest beneath my hips. He’s holding all my weight on top of him, holding me safely, securely. 

“Fuck, that was hot,” he whispers, gripping my hips, “love when you cum on my mouth.”

His words reinvigorate me. I press a kiss to his cock before I sit up, carefully moving myself until my entrance is hovering the head of his cock and his hands are coming to hold onto my hips. 

He looks fucked out below me already. His hair is a mess, his mustache glistening with my slick. And his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen from sucking and licking--but fuck, if he doesn’t look so beautiful there with his body below mine. 

He groans, fingers digging into my skin, when I just barely let him graze my sensitive entrance. His eyes clamp shut and he tips his head back, sucking in a harsh breath. But I don’t go any further than that, just hover there, letting my wetness soak the throbbing head. After a moment, he moans again, pushing his hips up. He’s desperate like this--trying to get himself inside me, trying to take control when I am the one straddling him. 

“Words,” I tease, voice low, “you can do it.”

Sweet Caroline by Bobby Goldsboro is playing now. 

He chuckles, shaking his head softly, eyes still closed.

“Aren’t you a minx,” he whispers gruffly, trying to push my hips down onto his--but I don’t budge and he is unwilling to push down on me any harder than he already is. 

His chest is growing red now, muscles rippling as he tenses beneath me. I’m not giving him enough--I know this. He needs more, wants more. But I’m just very lightly rocking my hips and letting the head of his weeping cock bob in and out of me. It feels good--makes me shudder, makes my belly warm again. More than anything, though, I just like watching his Adam’s apple bob as he tries to remain calm beneath me. 

“Words, daddy,” I encourage again, voice huskier, “I’ll give it to you.”

This breaks his resolve instantly. 

“Wanna be inside you,” he cries, looking at me through his lashes, “ride me, baby. Please.”

There’s that magic word--the one he likes me to use. 

So I soften myself, give in to the pressure of his hands on my hips, and sink down until I am full to the hilt. Our hips are flush against each other and his back is arching off the ground now as his throat flexes with another moan. He’s practically pinching the skin of my hips, encouraging me to grind down on him, which I do. 

“Oh, baby,” he mutters, “that’s it, that’s it.”

This is my favorite part, I think--it’s after I’ve cum, when I am wet and sensitive, when he’s aching for me. It’s when I am so full of him that I feel like I can almost taste it--when he’s stretching me, holding me close to his hips, when he’s malleable underneath me. I like to take care of him, to grind down on his pretty cock, to brace myself against his forearms. 

I ride him good and slow at first, letting my hips come up until he’s nearly dragging out of me before sinking back down onto him. And he’s a mess, moaning, grunting, bracing his weight on my hips. 

It’s making me quiver all over again--a new kind of pleasure rolling over me like retreating ocean waves, casting a sheen of salt over our skin. If I squeeze my eyes shut, the record even begins to sound like seagulls crying.

I look down at my own body for the first time by accident, but nearly gasp when I see the mess of hickeys all over my belly. They’re already beginning to darken, little dots of purple littering my previously unblemished skin. It makes me blush, makes the leather cord in my belly tighten and tremble suddenly. He’s never given me a hickey before--I haven’t been given a hickey by anyone, for that matter, since college. It’s a silly thing, these little bruises--but it makes me clench around him. 

“That’s fuckin’ perfect,” he moans desperately, “oh, God.”

His voice is muffled with pleasure, his grip becoming more and more desperate as I start to rapidly rise and fall over him. My hips are becoming sore already, my muscles straining and aching. 

“Bradley,” I whisper hoarsely and he seems to understand. 

His head snaps up, beholding my bitten lip and slacked eyes. 

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, lifting me by the hips and falling out of me. 

I feel very empty without him filling me up, feel like something is missing. But in just another moment he’s moving behind me, securing my back to his chest with a strong arm around my waist. 

“Spread your legs, baby,” he commands softly, peppering my shoulder with hot kisses. 

My knees part and in a blink, he’s guiding himself to my entrance again, tethering himself to me. He moves through my silky folds a few times, reacquainting ourselves, nudging the swollen head against my clit. My legs are still shaking as pearls of pleasure roll up the base of my spine. 

I rest my head against his shoulder and he kisses the side of my head, his mouth wet from sweat and my arousal. He pushes into me languidly, snapping his hips up to meet mine when he’s fully seated. God, it feels so fucking good, especially when he pulls me tighter against him. 

“Atta girl,” he moans, “so good for me, baby.”

I clench at his words--he groans. And soon he finds a steady rhythm, rocking his hips into mine, pressing against the warmest parts of myself. He’s still kissing my shoulder, still holding me against him with that gentle protectiveness of his. And as if he knows that I am on the edge again, like he knows that I’ve been close again ever since he first sank into me, his other hand traces my naval before falling down to my clit. 

“Bradley,” I hiss, digging my fingernails into his arms. 

He’s already rubbing little circles there, his pressure deep and unrelenting. He kisses the side of my face, attaches his lips to the shell of my ear. 

“You can do it again,” he whispers, “you can cum for me again, mama. I’ll get you there.”

He’s right, I think--I can cum again. But I am so sensitive, so emotional. Already, tears are pouring down my red cheeks and my breaths are stuttering in my chest. He’s hitting that spot deep inside me so perfectly, working his fingers over my clit like they’re old friends, and then his other hand comes up to tweak my nipples again.

He moans when I clench again, vibrating my back. He’s warm and solid behind me, pressing his forehead against my shoulder. 

When I gasp out a moan, he nibbles my skin deliciously. He seems to be everywhere all at once, taking hold of all my senses, devouring me. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he says, “let me get you there, let me make you cum.”

God, the cord is tight, weak. 

He will surely have half-crescent marks on his forearms from my grip tomorrow. 

“Fuck,” I whisper to him, sobbing it out, “please.”

I don’t even really know why I’m saying please, but it feels like the right thing to say. He pulses inside me and I clench again. 

“C’mon, honey,” he coaxes, “you can do it, you can let go. I’ve got you, mama.” 

My breath is held in my lungs when I cum again. I cum so hard that I lean almost all my weight against his chest, convulsing, trying to move away and into his touch simultaneously. It’s an overwhelming kind of pleasure, one that makes my vision whiteout and my ears ring. And I’m clenching so hard around him that his thrusts are losing rhythm, getting sloppier, lazier. He’s snapping up to meet me with a stuttering pace, his forehead still pressed against my shoulder. 

“‘M right there with you, baby--hold on,” he whispers hoarsely, “oh, fuck.”

He cums as I’m still coming down, my chest heaving, his hips twitching against me. His hands return to my hips and he pulls my body against his, fucking up and deeper into me as he spills. I’m warm from the inside out now, a delicate, wonderful kind of warm. 

After a final few weak pumps, we go slack against each other. I bring his hand to my lips and kiss him, kiss every one of his knuckles. He kisses my face, affectionately squeezing the skin of my hip. 

Tomorrow, we will be marked by this encounter. Both our knees will no doubt be stained with rug burn, red and irritated. I have purple bruises sprawling across my abdomen, little marks of affection. He will have fingernail marks across his forearms. I’m not sure if our chests will ever stop heaving, if our faces will ever pale again. 

“Y’alright, baby?”

He asks me this very tenderly, moving my hips with his as he moves to rest on his haunches. I’m on his thighs, his softening cock still seated in me. 

I nod, biting my lip. 

More than alright. Perfect. 

“Absolutely,” I tell him, humming, “you okay?”

Another affectionate squeeze on my hip. 

“Perfect,” he tells me and I smile, “that was fuckin’ hot, baby.”

We both laugh, our voices hoarse.

“Should’ve knocked me up a long time ago,” I breathe.

His teeth playfully sink into my shoulder, his tongue quickly darting out to sooth over the skin before he presses a kiss there, too. 

“Knock you up,” he murmurs, “are we high schoolers?”

“No, I’m your arm candy,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek, relaxing against his body, “remember?”

He hums. 

“Does that make me your old man?”

Now I’m humming, sucking a deep breath in through my nose, grazing my fingertips down his forearms.

“They’re saying thirty-six is the new twenty-one,” I say, “you’re in your prime.”

“Oh, you really know how to make a guy feel special.” 

He showers my shoulders with kisses again, pushing my hair over to gain access to my endless plane of skin. He’s humming as he kisses me, holding my hand. 

And then it’s quiet for a few moments. We just sit with each other, softening, breathing, trying to get our pulses to normalize again. I kiss the knuckles of his other hand and he nuzzles himself into my throat softly, inhaling my scent. 

His hand moves more surely now over my belly, even more sure than he was a few hours ago when I first told him. His confidence is something I adore, something I admire deeply. So when he confidently holds that place at the bottom of my belly where our child is growing with a little tongue and itty bitty taste buds, I melt into him. He affectionately strokes the skin there like he always does, a repetitive thumb just near my belly button. 

“‘M so excited,” he whispers. 

“Me too,” I return, nodding. 

“You’re gonna have a belly soon,” he says quietly, happily, “can’t wait.”

I know this--have thought about it a few times in the hours I’ve known. I am going to have a swollen belly for the most of this year. A genuine, physical marker of mine and Bradley’s love for each other. My favorite jeans aren’t going to fit and I’m going to have to invest in elastic waistbands and shift dresses, but it’s all going to be okay, be perfect because I’ll be growing our first baby. Our first baby. 

 “Might make this difficult,” I return, nodding to where we’re connected. 

He shakes his head. 

“We’ll get creative,” he assures me, “can’t stay away from you, baby.” 

I hum, nodding, stretching my aching shoulders. 

After a beat, he nudges my cheek with his nose. 

“Boy or girl,” he asks softly. 

It makes me laugh--a surprised, gleeful laugh. I have not thought about that at all. It’s almost like I forgot that was something that happened, that we would find out. But overwhelmingly, I suddenly think it is a girl. Even in my daydreams, I think I see little girls. I can imagine a little boy, too, a sweet one with curly hair and freckles. But it’s little girls with blonde hair and brown eyes that prance around in my visions of Chateau Bradshaw. 

“Girl, I think,” I say finally. 

He is pleased with this--pulling me closer to him, sighing softly. 

“You know what, baby,” he starts, “I think so, too. I can see it. A daughter.”

A daughter. 

I’m swooning. 

“Bradley,” I start, “you really are going to be, like, the best father in the history of fathers. And I’m not just saying that. You know that, right?”

He is still beneath me, behind me. 

I know him--I know that just beneath the surface of his excitement, he is nervous beyond belief. How could he not be? His own father passed before he could form very many memories of him, before he could ask him how to do things like change tires and diapers and what songs made him fall asleep when he had colic. He doesn’t know how to be a father because his father died before he could teach him. He does not have a father to call and ask these questions--he doesn’t even have a mother to call to ask these questions. I know this--but I know even more than that he will be exactly what our baby needs. He will be the kind of father that mindlessly cleans fallen binky’s with his own mouth before popping them between our child’s quivering lips, the kind of father that will wake up and hand me water when I nurse in the middle of the night, the kind of father that will hold little palms against his lips for special Here, could you hold this for me? kisses. He’s probably going to cry when they get their vaccines but be unable to put them down, adamant about holding them close to his chest with his lips pressed against their little noses. He’s going to be the kind of dad that makes all his friends hold our baby, even if they really don’t want to, because C’mon, what are you, chicken shit? Hold my damn baby and tell me how cute they are! He’s going to turn the radio up loud in the car and belt out Bingo Was His Name-O and any terrible Disney song they love. He’s going to do anything to make them laugh--even if it’s pretending to slip and fall on the kitchen floor, even if it’s pretending like he’s a monkey, even if it’s blowing raspberries into the skin of my neck. 

“What makes you so sure? I don’t even know how to change a diaper, Faye.”

I swallow, nodding. 

“You fly F-18s at least three times a week. Landed me somehow, too,” I chuckle, “I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to figure out a diaper. It’ll happen naturally, okay? We’ll learn together. And then one day, you’ll change a diaper while you’re half asleep and we’ll laugh about this.”

If I was feeling more awake, I would tell him about his intensity, his obsessiveness with safety. I would tell him that our child will always be protected, healthy, safe because he is their father. He’s a quick learner, a good student--he will figure all these little things out in time and I will be right there with my shoulder pressed up against his.

There’s another beat. 

He taps absently on my belly. He seems to find an inkling of comfort in the fact that I do not have it all together either--that I have almost just as much to learn as he does, if not more.  

“What kind of father d’you think I’ll be?”

I’m warm all over when he asks this, when I hear some of the nerves have fleeted from his tone. If only he knew what I was daydreaming about; this blissed out baby-induced domesticity we are going to share. 

“A DILF?”

He pinches my hip, sinks his teeth into my shoulder, chuckling. 

“‘M serious,” he warns, laughing, “wanna know what kind of dad you think I’ll be.”

Oh, honey. A perfect one. But I know that he wants a more in-depth answer. It is only in his nature to accept calculated answers, ones I have thought about. 

“Involved, present,” I whisper finally, “Pounding away on the piano with them on your lap. Serenading them in their high-chair. Carrying them on your shoulders everywhere. Hanging their terrible finger paintings on the fridge. Showing pictures of them to your class. Wearing whatever ugly tie clip they make you in daycare. Proud, I guess--I think you’ll be a proud dad. Kind of like my dad before Maggie died, y’know?”

This is true--he will be a proud dad, just like my own was before I lost him, too. He was a proud fiance, always showing my picture and telling people to come to our wedding. He’s a proud husband--has at least four pictures of me on his office desk and a few more stowed away in random places like the cockpit of his jet, his wallet, the breast pocket of his flight suit. I expect that our child will receive the same treatment. 

He’s humming against me, holding my belly more firmly now. He knows I’m telling the truth.   

“Thank you,” he whispers softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder, “needed to hear that.”

I know. I know he needed to hear it.

I nod, kiss his hand again. But then I’m sighing, hanging my head.

“You know what I just thought of,” I whisper to him, “I’m gonna miss prosecco. God, and tequila.”

His laughter rumbles his chest. 

“I’ll miss drunk Faye,” he says, moving a few strands of messy hair off the back of my neck, “she’s a good dancer. But she snores.”

I’m blushing, shaking my head, as he pulls me tightly against him. I’m pregnant Faye now, won’t be drunk Faye again until next year probably. It almost makes my head spin again. I have to take a couple deep breaths before I can respond. 

“Still can’t believe it,” I hum, yawning, “I’m pregnant.”

He nods, rubbing my belly again.

“‘M so happy,” he mumbles, yawning too. 

I imagine that inside, nestled deep within my tissue and organs and muscles and blood, the baby is yawning too. The sweetest, tiniest yawn with a little tongue with tiny taste buds. 

April 27th, 2021

A rare springtime shower starts just past one in the afternoon in San Diego. It starts very suddenly, heavy gray clouds floating listlessly in from the west before settling in to cover the robin’s egg sky. The raindrops start fat and heavy, spaced out every few paces before the sun succumbs and allows sheets of water to catapult towards the earth. The first crack of thunder rumbles base just as Bradley and I pull into the unhurried parking lot of Dr. Travett’s office, a flash of white lightning splitting the sky. 

Bradley leans forward, throwing the car in park as he examines the swirling clouds and the raindrops assaulting the pristine windshield of the Bronco. 

“Maybe it’ll let up before we have to go in,” he tries, glancing at me with a hopeful smile. 

As if responding to him, another crack of thunder splits the sky. 

The rain is not going to let up before we have to go in. 

But we’re early--we still have ten minutes before we need to check in and get situated in the big, cozy chairs in the waiting room. So we both unbuckle, leaning our heads back against the seat, smiling softly with our hearts in our throats. 

There’s an excitement charging the air in here--a sort of static buzzing between our two bodies, forcing our fingers to twist and our feet to tap. We’re so excited that we’re here early, that we left work early, finally admitting to each other that we couldn’t wait anymore and we wanted to leave right then and there.  

Bradley’s in his service khakis, which I know will have whatever grown man is in the waiting room frothing at the mouth, practically stumbling over himself to thank Bradley for his service. It’s happened a few times before--always seems to make Bradley uncomfortable, his lips twitched into a polite smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. Because as much as the Navy’s been good to Bradley and Bradley’s been good to the Navy, nobody really knows how he’s served this country. 

I, on the other hand, will not be thanked for my service--not that I feel it is necessary. I’m still in my linen button up and cotton skirt--though I think this is already the last time I can wear this skirt. The button is digging into my skin, threatening to cut into it if I breathe too much. My belly is starting to swell very lightly, enough to make it look like I’m about to start my period or like I’ve had a big lunch. It’s just enough for me to notice, but scarcely anyone else besides Bradley.  

Wordlessly, Bradley hooks his hand around my knee and pulls me to sit in the middle of the bench, snuggled up against him. He’s warm and solid, humming along to Jealous Guy by Donny Hathaway which is the only noise in the car besides the thudding raindrops. 

“Nervous?” He murmurs, kissing the top of my head before catching my gaze. 

I don’t know if I am nervous. My fingers are cold, yes, but my palms are itching like they always do when there’s somewhere I need to be. My heartbeat is still steady, calm--I try to keep it steady for the baby now, who is now the size of an apricot. Olive to apricot in one week--it’s enough to make pride swell in my heart, like my baby is the first baby to ever grow so quickly. 

“Yes and no,” I say, “think I’m more excited.”

“Me too,” he hums, “can’t wait to see ‘em.”

I am excited to see them, too--a careful sort of excited. I suppose I’m not entirely sure what to expect when I see them for the first time. It will be on a tiny black and white screen and I think they’ll look more like a blob than a baby. Maybe I will think they’re cute because they’re mine--or maybe I won’t be able to tell their head from their legs and will have to lie to Bradley and Dr. Travett. 

“Even though their head is still too big for their bodies, their face is starting to become more recognizable. Their eyes are half-closed, but can react to light. They are starting to form ears, they have a delicate upper lip, and they have two little nostrils. The jaw bone is beginning to take shape, too, containing tiny versions of your baby’s milk teeth.”

Bradley read from his phone early on Monday morning. He had a fond smile adorning his lips, resting his cheek against my naked belly as he spoke. I’d been reclining against the pillows, resting my eyes, chasing a few more minutes of slumber. I was raking my fingers through his curls slowly, meticulously.  

“Two little nostrils,” I echoed, though, shaking my head softly, my voice hoarse with exhaustion. 

It was hard to imagine anything so small--two little nostrils on a little baby the size of an apricot. 

“Two little nostrils,” Bradley confirmed, pressing a slew of open-mouthed kisses across my belly, rubbing across my fading love bites in the dim morning light, “I’ll bet they’re perfect little nostrils, too.”

 I only hummed, somewhere between awake and asleep, fingers stilling in his locks. 

“Says you may experience extreme tiredness,” he continued, pressing little kisses above my belly button, “and--wow, get this! An intense attraction to Naval aviators.”

I shook my head, unwilling to open my eyes, even when I felt his teasing gaze flit up to my slacked face. 

“Hmm,” I whispered, “who’s the top of your class again?”

He stifled a laugh, glancing back at his phone.

“Oh, I missed a part. It says an intense attraction to Naval aviators named Bradley Peter Bradshaw,” he said, “silly me.”

 “Silly you,” I muttered, tugging on his hair teasingly, “wake me up in ten.”

Another crack of lightning flashes across the sky. 

“Think they’re gonna be cute yet?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. 

Bradley chuckles, smoothing his mustache absently, squinting at the distance. 

“Honey, they’re our baby--they’re gonna be cute,” he says, “bottom lip be damned.”

“Who needs ‘em, anyway?”

We chuckle and I rest against his shoulder, sighing. My eyes are heavy.

He had been right--that tiredness has hit an extreme this week. Twice already I’ve fallen asleep at my desk, waking up to Bradley’s careful nudging and papers pressed against my damp cheek. I’m so tired that Bradley doesn’t like me to drive really anywhere now, since I’m nodding off in the car everytime I’m in it.

“Do you wanna find out the gender,” he starts softly, drawing lazy shapes on my bicep with a feathery touch, “or be surprised?”

I want to tell him that I already know. It’s a girl. I know it--I don’t know how I do, but I do know it. I am swelling with a little baby girl and she is going to be born in November and she’s going to be everything we’ve ever wanted and more. I feel so certain about it that I don’t feel the need to confirm it with an anatomy scan or another blood test. We’re having a girl. It’s just a fact--intrinsic to me.

“Surprised,” I answer, though. 

He groans, squeezing my arm. 

“Really? Oh, baby--it’ll kill me not knowing,” he sighs, “you sure?”

My cheeks are pink. He notices, brushes a knuckle across my face, eyebrows knit. 

“What’s got you blushin’, mama?”

Mama. This is a pet name in regular rotation now, right there next to honey and baby. 

“I just,” I breathe, shrugging, smiling, “I feel like I know it’s a girl. I don’t know why--just a feeling. But a big one.”

He nods. He doesn’t laugh at me--not that I expected him to. But he understands me, understands that I am the one that is pregnant, I am the one experiencing all of this physically. He trusts me--he believes me. 

“If you say it’s a girl,” he starts, tucking another loose strand of hair behind my ear with a fond smile tugging at his lips, “then it’s a girl, baby.”

When it is finally time to get out of the car, I am aching with exhaustion, groaning at the thought of getting soaked on our dash through the office doors. I don’t have to say any of this, but he knows it. Maybe it’s because of the fingernail I’ve caught between my teeth, the fingernail I’m chewing on as I watch the rain ricochet off the pavement in fat splashes. Or maybe it’s the sigh that puffs out of my mouth, the air I’ve trapped in my cheeks.

“C’mon,” he nods, “we’ll make a run for it.”

I nod back, squinting at the time. Only a few minutes until our check-in time.

He opens the driver’s side door, face immediately scrunched with displeasure as sheets of rain pour onto him, soaking his uniform a darker brown. He offers a hand--a lifeline--and I take it, allowing him to pull me out of the car. And then the rain is soaking me too, but he’s trying to cover my head with his hands and shield my body with his as we make a run for the doors. Our pace splashes cold, cold rain up our legs from the puddles that have formed all over the parking lot. 

But then he’s ripping the door open and nudging me through it, grinning even though his hair is almost entirely matted against his forehead. 

What a pair we must look like in the lobby there--that quaint little lobby with its comfy chairs and the receptionist with long acrylics and low lights and linoleum floors--panting with flushed faces and heaving chests. We’re soaked, too--his attempts to keep me dry fruitless in this spring storm. And I’m stifling a grin and he’s chuckling as he wraps an arm around my shoulders, wiping a few raindrops off my hair.

“April showers bring May flowers,” the receptionist chuckles, shooting us a friendly grin, “what bullshit, right? It’s California--there’s always flowers here!”

I laugh breathlessly. I suppose I see her point--there are always flowers here. 

“Slap that on a t-shirt,” Bradley grins back. 

The receptionist laughs, her blonde hair big and glorious and unmoving even when her head tips back. 

“We have a 1:30 with Dr. Travett,” I finally say, crossing the distance to the front desk. 

The receptionist, a lanky woman with glittery eyeshadow and a sweet disposition, smiles.  

“Under?”

Bradley falls in step beside me, biting his lip, glancing around the office. This is his first time here with me, the first appointment I’ve accepted his invitation for company. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he looks around the office, stroking my arm softly. 

“Ledger-Bradshaw,” I tell her, that familiar little tingle tracing my lips. 

Bradley still feels that tingle, too--squeezes my arm. 

We share a glance there, our hair wet and our clothes even wetter. His cheeks are warm and his eyes are swimming. He looks very happy to be here beside me, looks very happy to be at this appointment to see our first baby for the very first time. It makes me soft, softer than I should be right now. 

Keep steady, heart. Keep steady.

We’re still wet when we’re in the windowless room where my ultrasound will take place. It’s as unassuming as any of the other examination rooms here, except this one looks slightly emptier, slightly older. Its walls are painted a soft pistachio green, decorated scarcely with infographics on fetal development and breastfeeding. There is one examination bed, complete with that awful crinkly paper, that is an uncomfortable leathery material and the color of a plum. Beside the bed, there are two old wooden chairs. Bradley’s seat groans loudly when he sits in it, creaking and shifting beneath his weight. And then there’s the ultrasound machine right beside me--a big hunk of wires and screens and machine that will somehow show us our baby for the first time.

I’m lying back on the bed already, flushing as I unbutton my blouse to my breasts and let it open around my torso. But I’m also relishing in the simple notion that I am lying down now, even if I’m too excited to think about sleeping. It feels good to just let my body rest and feels even better to unbutton my skirt and roll the cotton down until it rests dangerously low on my hips. 

Bradley is on the edge of his seat, leaning far enough forward that his chin could rest on my arm if he so wished it to. He’s holding my wrist, thumb trying to wipe away a freckle there, as he hums in excitement. His touch is warm somehow, even though he’s still wet from the rain. It makes my skin goose all over--even the skin of my exposed belly, that tiny little blip that will be the main attraction for this visit. 

Dr. Travett is rolling a stool up beside my bed, wearing that usual grin of hers, adjusting her purple glasses before she starts to fire up the machine, pressing a button here and typing something there.  

“So,” she starts, glancing at me with her lips pursed, “how’re we feeling, mama?”

Mama. Everyone is calling me that nowadays. 

“Good. Tired,” I tell her. 

“Exhausted,” Bradley corrects. 

I nod, cheeks pink. 

Dr. Travett tuts, nodding. 

“An unfortunate side effect to a lovely condition,” she says, “any other symptoms? Nausea? Spotting? Cramping? Cravings?”

I shake my head, hesitantly dropping my hand over my belly--which is something I am doing more often than not, something that my hand has just started to do on its own. It is the only way I can hold my baby right now--which I want to do always suddenly. 

Bradley presses a kiss against my arm, gaze lingering on my held belly.  

“No,” I answer, “they’ve been…perfect so far.”

Dr. Travett grins, gray eyes squinted with glee as she looks at the tiny screen, mouthing something to herself. 

“What about you, dad,” she asks without looking away from the screen, “how’re you holding up?”

I look at him, resting my cheek against the bed. Bradley’s grinning--it’s a prideful grin, one I know he will wear every time he’s asked how fatherhood is going. He’s so lovingly stroking my wrist, so eager to be involved in this conversation. 

“Just peachy,” he says, shooting me a wink, “no complaints on this end.”

Dr. Travett guffaws, her lips parting prettily as she turns to me with a small tube of jelly in her hands. 

“Aren’t you an angel,” she teases Bradley, leaning forward to adjust my pants and shirt just a little bit further away from my belly, “and you, my dear, are already bumping right along! Kudos to you!”

So I haven’t imagined it--it is real, it is there. There is a tiny little incline where it used to be mostly flat. I am thickening in my center, filling out, rounding with Bradley’s child. Bradley squeezes my wrist--a silent acknowledgement. I told you that you were showing. 

“Might be a little cold,” she warns, spreading a thick rope of jelly across my goosed skin, “sorry, sorry.”

It is cold--but not colder than my fingers right now. I am doing good--I am keeping my heart rate steady and taking deep breaths through my nose. I am holding still and relaxing my muscles and letting my chin rest on my shoulder. I’m fine. I’m really fine--even if my fingers are cold, I’m fine. Everything is going to be okay. We are going to see our baby and I’m probably going to cry, but that’s what every mother does so it’s okay. I’m okay-- 

He does it when Dr. Travett is pressing a few more buttons, when she’s humming to herself and grabbing the wand from its holder. He reaches up and settles that crinkle between my brows, lets his thumb rest there for a moment until I turn and look into his eyes. 

His gaze is soft, one of deep care and great emotion. He’s nodding slightly, eyebrows knit. He’s telling me that everything is okay, that everything will be okay. And I believe him, really, I do--but it isn’t until he brings my numb fingers to his mouth and breathes a hot breath over them that I feel like I can really, actually do this. He kisses my limp hand a few times, presses his nose against my knuckles, keeps nodding at me. You can do this.  

“Away we go,” Dr. Travett says gleefully, pressing the wand against my belly. 

It’s an odd sensation--she’s pressing down harder than I thought would be necessary, but she isn’t hurting me. She’s spreading the jelly all around my abdomen, her eyes trained on the screen as her eyebrows knit slightly. When she’s this close to me, I think I could just about choke on her patchouli scent--but I like it right now. It’s grounding me, filling my nostrils up good and right.

“Twins run in the family, right?”

I nod, swallowing harshly. I’m pushing Maggie away from me right now, something I don’t often do. But if I think about her, if I think about what she would be saying or what she would be doing right now, I’m scared that my heart will beat out of my chest and my baby will suffer because of it. So I just nod and don’t say anything else and Bradley kisses my wrist. 

“Think I had twins on my father’s side, too,” Bradley pipes up. 

Thank God for him--Dr. Travett smiles at him, quirking a brow. 

“Crossing your fingers for one or two?”

Oh, God--I haven’t even thought about it. I think I will faint if there are twin girls residing in my womb, waiting for me to notice them, waiting for me to realize. Oh, God--maybe that’s why I am already beginning to round out, why I’m already starting to show and why I’m so tired now--

“One’s more than enough for now,” Bradley answers, kissing my fingers again, “but we’ll take what we can get.”

Dr. Travett glances at me through her lashes.

“Nervous?”

She asks this as she moves the wand around my belly, as Bradley grips my hand, as the screen blinks alive and is suddenly a grainy black and white image of what must be my womb. 

“A bit,” I tell her, biting my lip.

What I really mean is: You don’t know the half of it.  

“Nothing to be nervous about,” she insists, narrowing her eyes before a giddy grin spreads across her features, “your baby looks perfect. There they are! And there seems to be only…one! So you can relax, mama.”

It knocks the breath out of my lungs--really, it does. She points to the screen and yes, there they are, right there in front of me on that little screen. It’s a grainy, strange image but I think I can see it--that tiny oversized head and that little body and those little arms and little legs. Yes, it’s here, she’s here. 

“Oh,” Bradley says before I can, squeezing my hand tight between both of his, “that’s--that’s them?”

Dr. Travett is nodding, leaning forward and pointing out the head and the legs and the flickering heart and the arms. And I can hear it in Bradley’s voice that he’s going to get teary, that he is totally in awe, that he is totally in love. 

I would have looked at him, would have cupped his cheek, would have kissed him right then except for that I just couldn’t look away from that little baby. There’s a little jerky movement and yes, yes I see it--her arm flicks up and she’s moving. I can’t feel it, but I can see it--she’s moving in little tiny ways, a stringy leg here and a tiny arm there.

“Are they moving?” I ask, squeezing Bradley’s hand, “it looks like they’re-they’re moving?”

I think I ask because I feel like I’ve just been drenched with a cup of cold water. I’m shocked, thoroughly and completely shocked. Bewildered even. They’re moving and I’m seeing it but I can’t feel it, can’t feel those tiny legs.

“You’ve got a soccer player on your hands,” Dr. Travett laughs joyously. 

Bradley is holding my hand so tightly that I fear I might bruise. 

“Wow,” he sighs, voice strained, “God, when-when will we be able to feel them moving?”

Dr. Travett hums, tilting her head.

“For first time mama’s such as your wife, the quickening will probably feel noticeable between sixteen and twenty-four weeks,” she answers, grabbing measurements of the baby here and there, nodding along with her own words, “for others, it’ll be between twenty-eight and thirty-two weeks usually.”

Without even looking at him, I know he’s shaking his head in wonder. This is a wondrous thing--a tiny little thing the size of an apricot, kicking and tugging inside me, safe and sound and already loved very dearly. 

“Measuring right at about ten weeks now,” she tells us, almost humming, “about three and a half centimeters long--that’s perfect. Lots of amniotic fluid, sac looks round and healthy. Umbilical cord looks good. Your placenta will start to form soon, right there.” 

She points things out on the screen, a blob here and a blob there. But I’m just looking at that little flickering inside the baby’s chest--it’s their heart. I can tell, can see all the chambers, can see the pumping. 

“Says your due date is November 21st.”

Just like I calculated. 

Bradley squeezes my hand. November. We are going to have a baby born in November. 

“Ready to hear the heartbeat?”

My mouth is dry, full of cotton. But she’s looking at me, sunkissed and smiling that easy smile. Bradley squeezes my hand, presses a few warm kisses to my knuckles. I nod after a moment, swallowing hard. 

“It’ll sound fast, but don’t fret,” she says soothingly, “it’s normal--healthy!”

She presses a button--just one, single button--and sound floods the otherwise silent room. I am so glad suddenly that they don’t play music in their doctor’s office, so glad that this is the only sound playing on the speakers and filling my ringing ears. It is as melodic as any record I’ve ever played--that sound of our baby’s heartbeat.  

It’s a muffled, echoey noise. But it’s unmistakable for a heartbeat. That quick beat da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum floods my ears and makes my skin goose all over again. It’s the sound of her heart--the one that I’m growing for her, the one that is inside my body right now. It almost sounds like that empty static at the beginning of a record--like my sister’s laugh. Yes, yes--that’s what I’m hearing, I think. That hollow, crackly sound. Oh, Maggie. 

Bradley stands, grip tight on my hand while his other hand comes up to desperately smooth my hair, our vision trained on the screen as we are lulled to bliss by the sound of our baby’s heartbeat. He presses a few slow kisses to my temple, letting his nose rest against my skin, breaths warm as they fan out across my cheek. 

“Faye,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

And then he doesn’t say anything else, can’t say anything else. His plea is not loud enough for Dr. Travett to hear, not over the sound of our baby’s heart, not as she focuses on taking measurements and capturing images.

Now I turn to him, know that he needs me. He’s already looking down at me, his eyes watery and wide, his cheeks pink. He’s still stroking my hair when I move to cup his cheeks, careful not to disturb the jelly on my belly. I press my nose against his and hold him there for a moment in the room that is suddenly alive with that rapidly beating heart. 

“I know,” I whisper, “I know, baby.”

I know a piece of reality that previously skirted past him has suddenly just come crashing down over him. Sure, I told him that he was going to be a dad. Sure, he believed me. But this--this is different. He is seeing them now on this little screen, watching the jerky little movements of their legs and arms. He’s hearing them, too--that quick, crackley heartbeat. It’s real, suddenly--we are having a baby.

“I love you so much,” he chokes, “oh, God, we’re having a baby!” 

We walk through the front door of our house with damp hair and a thin sonogram of our baby--a little peanut shaped thing, hardly even a couple inches long. It’s our first photograph of them, one we will hang on the refrigerator before we plaster it in a scrapbook or place it in a gold frame for one of our desks at work.

We take our shoes off in tandem, kicking them out of the way. And then we just bask in the quietness of home. Stevie is silently sitting at the top of the stairs, blinking at Bradley affectionately with that stupid pink collar on. The air conditioners are humming, all turned on low, and distantly the dishwasher is thrumming through a cycle too. All the televisions are off and the record player is perched quietly in its usual spot, waiting for us to touch it. 

I yawn. Then he yawns, whining softly, pinching my hip. I imagine the baby yawning again, too--except now I know that the movement would be jerky and strange, unsure and overly-confident.  

“Let’s lay down, baby,” Bradley suggests, patting my hip firmly as he closes the front door behind him, locking it without breaking his gaze from my downcast eyes. 

I know he’s suggesting it because this exhaustion is radiating off me like a heatwave. Anyone within a three-mile radius of me can see how sleepy I am right now--my eyes are heavy, my breathing is slow and even, my shoulders are slightly slumped. But I am still smiling. I have not been able to stop smiling since we walked out of that doctor’s office--not when we got in the car together, not when we grabbed burgers on the way home, not when we got drenched on the short trek up the brick stairs to the front door. No, I am just happy--almost painfully happy. 

“Okay,” I whisper dreamily, bumping my hip against his, “daddy.”

A certain pride swells in his chest--I can feel it knotting there, holding his steady heartbeat in its tangles. Daddy. He’s going to be a dad. I am making him a dad right now, even as tired as I am. My body is working overtime to form little nostrils and taste buds and vital organs and an upper lip and toes and fingers.  

“Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

He’s grinning now, smoothing my hair, nudging me towards the stairs.

“I’m gonna make a pot of coffee. Need anything, mama?”

It still makes me bite the inside of my cheek whenever he calls me mama--if not because the term of affection makes my heart swell, then because of our romp in the living room just a week ago when the word fell from his lips so effortlessly, so hotly. 

I’m already trudging up the steps, tipping my head back, softly thumbing the sonogram still caught between my fingers.

“Maybe some tea,” I sigh, eyebrows knit.

That’s odd.

Bradley pauses in the foyer, quirking a brow at me. 

“Didn’t know you liked tea,” he muses softly. 

I shrug, pausing on the steps to shoot him a shy smile.  

“I don’t,” I answer, eyebrows knit, “just sounds good.” 

His eyes are shining. Maybe this is it--my first craving. I don’t like tea, but our baby does. How silly--how strange, how sweet. 

“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Bradley chuckles, “tea it is, then, baby.”

I’m asleep when Bradley finally comes into the bedroom with two steaming mugs and Stevie trailing listlessly behind him. I’m only vaguely aware that he’s entered the room, somewhere between very asleep and not very awake, my eyelashes thick in my field of vision as Bradley smiles, shutting the door with his socked foot.  

I’m lying beneath the duvet and the tangle of sheets with the wool throw at the end of the bed thrown over me--anything to feel that weight upon my body, anything to feel held against the bed. I fell asleep quickly--just as soon as my skirt was thrown into the hamper, just as soon as I buried my head in Bradley’s pillow, just as soon as the cotton sheets became warm from my skin. The curtains aren’t even closed, there is still that gray overcast light streaming into the room--but it doesn’t matter. It is easy for me to fall asleep as soon as my lids fall shut. 

A little bite of awakeness finds me when he sets the mugs on his bedside table, humming quietly. There’s that familiar soft sound of clothing rustling and I know that he’s taking his pants off, too--maybe even his shirt. Rarely are we able to nap with each other on a random Tuesday in the late afternoon; I know he wants to soak it in. 

He’s careful when he nestles himself beside me, sighing when a gust of body heat plumes from under the covers over his skin. But then his skin is against mine and yes, his shirt is long gone too now. He’s pulling me to him very gingerly, trying not to wake me, holding his breath as he encourages my body to drape over his. 

So then I’m there, my eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks, lying on his bare chest. He’s got one arm tucking me closer to him and the other grazing my hair, petting me softly. His breathing is steady and light--I know he’s awake still, probably looking at the ceiling, probably thinking about the sound of our baby’s heartbeat. 

After another moment, Stevie pounces onto the bed and settles herself between Bradley’s legs. Her purrs vibrate the sheets as she kneads the duvet. Bitch. 

I think he knows that I am awake somehow. He tugs on a lock of hair, humming, pressing his lips to the top of my head. 

It’s very quiet in here still--a sweet, welcome kind of quiet. 

“What’re we gonna call them?”

He speaks very softly to me, like he’s trying to keep that quietness intact.

“The baby?”

He nods. 

“Can’t keep calling it them or the baby, right?”

“Or it,” I tease, “got any ideas?”

I smile, pressing myself into his chest further. He’s already warm--much warmer than me despite all the blankets covering me. I love the feeling of his skin beneath mine, all that hot blood and life just below my flushed face. It feels good.

He hums, sucking in a breath. 

“Well,” he starts, “Baby Bradshaw feels too obvious, huh?”

I nod. It’s sweet, but it is obvious. It doesn’t feel special enough for that little thing. 

“You’re my baby Bradshaw,” I whisper, voice thick with sleep. 

He laughs--it’s the loudest noise in the room. 

“Dagger three?”

I shake my head--scoffing quietly. He chuckles again, squeezing my neck. 

He’s teasing me. 

“How ‘bout top-lip,” he teases again, “that has a ring to it, huh?”

I pinch him softly--he jolts away from me, whining. 

“What do you think, mama,” he murmurs, stroking my cheek. 

Beneath the covers, his hand finds my belly. These days that is usually where his hand is--even if he’s only known since the 19th--most of the time. His hand is calloused and warm, pressing into me just slightly. It’s strange that there is a little thing in there, a little thing that moves and has milk teeth and a top lip.

When he’s holding me like this, like he had early on Monday morning as he told me that our baby was the size of an apricot already, I think about the little olive I’d placed in his grip. That little, itty-bitty olive that just rolled around in his hand and signified the size of our baby. 

Olive. It’s short, it’s sweet, it’s easy. Olive. Our little baby olive. 

“What about olive?” I whisper, “We can call them that until we think of a proper name.”

Bradley hums, squeezing my belly softly, thumb stroking careful circles. 

“That’s good,” he decides, “I like it. Olive.”

It sounds good falling from his lips--natural, sweet. 

“Hello, olive,” I whisper, putting my hand on top of Bradley’s under the covers, “how do you take your tea?”

 May 30th, 2021 

I have the album Hounds of Love by Kate Bush spinning right now. I love this album--Maggie did, too. That’s why I have two copies of it; we bought them the same day, at the same booth, at the same flea market. She was always less careful with her records than me, so it is easy to tell them apart on the shelf where they live--mine is pristine and well-kept while hers is more worn-in, broken down. They’re both mine now and have been mine since the day we cleaned her apartment out, when I adopted all the records she owned. I keep both copies nestled beside each other on my shelf, clean of dust and free from sun damage, the way I would keep Maggie next to me if she was still here now. 

If she was here right now, I think she would be sipping cherry wine from a pink glass, wrinkling her nose at the sweetness but drinking half the bottle, anyway. I think she would be stretched out across the velvet couch, resting her head against my rounding belly, pressing her cheek against my belly button. I think she would talk to the baby--gossiping, rolling her eyes, laughing, singing along to Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God). She would be asking me how I was feeling, muttering that she was feeling a fraction of all those things too--which I know would’ve been true. She would be suggesting those stupid names of hers with a mischievous grin, pretending to be offended when I don’t want to name my child Swan or Knightley. She would grumble about Bradley taking so long with the Chinese food, but thank him profusely when he returned with another bottle of wine in tow.

Her and Bradley would get along swimmingly--I think even Crimson Ledger would buckle down to stay near me and him, especially after she found out that I’m pregnant. I think they would fall all over each other trying to fulfill my needs--even doing unnecessary tasks like refilling my glass of water or tying my shoe or fixing me a tea or driving me to work. I think they would squabble good-naturedly about The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, about the right way to drink wine. But I think she would always make room for him on the sofa and he would always get extra sauce for her pizza without her asking. I think he would stop by the store and grab a bottle of wine when he knew she would be at her house. And she would make an extra trip to the store just to get Bradley the kind of M&M’s he likes. They would never forget to buy each other Christmas presents, rolling their eyes during the exchange but then coyly using whatever watch band or hair clip the other had picked out for them. He would be like a big brother to her--always asking her about work, fielding all the boyfriends she brought in, and checking her oil whenever he remembered.    

I think she would be at my house all the time now, even more than she was before. She would slip into bed with me after Sunday morning farmer’s market runs, telling Bradley to occupy himself elsewhere, pretending like she was going to let me rest but keeping me up with her nonsensical chattering as she cupped my belly. I think she would make a Pinterest board for the nursery and send it to me quietly after midnight on a random Tuesday, even though she would turn her nose up at any mention of mobiles or wallpaper, pretending like she had no interest in babies or baby things. If she was alive, maybe I would’ve been flying all this time, too--maybe she would be upset about having to find a new backseater, would consider not having one at all if it wasn’t me. 

If she was alive, she would not want us to move to Virginia, would not want us to live at Chateau Bradshaw. She wouldn’t want us to sell the house I so lovingly restored, the house she was a regular fixture in. But we are selling the house--as of yesterday in the middle of the afternoon, we are selling the house. Someone will buy it and we will have to clean out, pack up, and ship off to Virginia. Our days here are officially numbered. 

I’m alone right now in the living room, sitting on this empty couch with a glass of water balanced on the little bulge of my belly. Kate Bush is turned up a hair too loud, just the way I like it, and the air conditioner is thrumming softly at the window. Stevie is lying on her ottoman, her back facing me, snoozing quietly. Bradley should be home any minute now with Chinese food in tow, maybe even a box of the lemon-ginger tea I’ve been drinking. 

The laptop is already set up on the coffee table, propped between two lit taper candles and on top of an old Rolling Stone magazine. The lamps are flicked on, glowing pink and orange, and the day is slowly withering away outside.

It’s the last Sunday of the month--which is the day every month when the Dagger Squad reunites on Zoom, all of us eating our dinners together, talking over each other during virtual games of chess, laughing our way through a movie. But tonight, my fingers are cold and it is not from the condensation of the glass--it’s because tonight is the night that we announce olive. Except now olive is almost the size of an apple and I am in my second trimester.  

“Your baby is growing a soft layer of hair all over their body called ‘lanugo’. Their eyebrows and eyelashes are starting to develop, too. Your baby’s eyes are now sensitive to light. Just about now, your baby will start hearing, too. If you talk to your baby, they will probably hear you. They will also hear your heartbeat and any other noises made by your digestive system,” Bradley read from his phone early this morning, his voice slightly muffled because his mouth was pressed against the side of my belly. 

He woke up just before sunrise, slinking down beneath the covers to roll my t-shirt up and tell me all the new things happening with olive that week--the 15th week of my pregnancy. 

I was still exhausted despite having gone to bed at ten the night before, only half-awake as he spoke to me in our dark bedroom, nesting further into the covers when he pressed wet kisses against my skin. 

“Shh,” I whined, unable to open my eyes, “m’sleeping.”

I was sleeping all the time still--never able to get enough shut-eye. 

“But olive can hear us, baby,” Bradley said, nuzzling his nose against my skin, “don’t you wanna say anything?”

He didn’t know how often I was already speaking to olive in that voice only them and I could hear, that little voice only inside my body. He didn’t know that I was almost always talking to them already, affectionate and soft. Already we shared a secret language, one they would forget all about but I never would. 

“Stop making me so tired,” I said, patting my belly too.

Bradley had chuckled, pressing a few kisses to my hand before moving it to his hair--a silent invitation for me to run my fingers through his unruly locks. I started with a smile, shaking my head lightly.

“Okay,” I whispered, “your turn.”

He pressed a few more kisses against my belly, head heavy against me. 

“Give your mama a rest,” he said finally, breath hot, “little olive.”

I know that everyone will be happy for us--I know this so very much. But I never imagined having to tell people without Maggie, though. I never imagined that I would be having a baby that she will never meet, never imagined that I’d be selling this house she loved to move to another state, never imagined that this baby in my belly would feel so utterly disconnected from her. It still makes me nervous; doing things without her, things I never thought of doing without her. Even if I know that I can--sometimes, I just don’t want to. And I’m excited, I think--excited to tell all of our friends the good news, excited to be showered with their love and excitement. But it would be easier if she was here, squished into frame beside Bradley and I, grinning with a mouth full of chow mein like this baby is just as much hers as mine.

But everyone will be happy, everyone will love olive--and isn’t that what matters? Even if I am afraid now, it will be okay in just a few hours when everybody knows and it’s settled between us. 

I don’t even mean to think about him as I fidget with the rim of my glass, almost jump at how easily his cannabis-colored eyes surface in my mind’s eye. It’s Jake I see suddenly--his big, sad eyes the night before my wedding when he told me he couldn’t watch me love Bradley forever, when I walked him to his rental car and he suggested we stop torturing each other. I’m thinking about him right now, olive just beneath my fingertips, my breaths caught between my aching breasts.  

After the wedding, things fell relatively back into place. I still call him when the Cowboys win and he still calls to ask about my day when his has been bad. But there’s something between us now--an invisible barrier, thicker on his side than mine--that keeps us from giving into each other the way we do with others. A few times, he’s called me after a few too many drinks--muttering softly about my wedding dress or the day everyone played Dog Fight Football on the beach. But he has not crossed that line again--has toed it, has flirted with it, but never crossed it.

Just a month ago, when nearly all my thoughts were occupied with olive olive olive olive, Phoenix called to tell me about something that happened on base in Florida--but the conversation had derailed into a four-hour phone call, one where our throats ached from humming and our cheeks were sore from smiling. 

Eventually, we fell onto the topic of my wedding, a high in which I was still coming down from. We talked about my dress, about her floral arrangements, about the accidental joint bachelorette/bachelor party. It was then that she brought it up. 

“Remember when you were giving everyone haircuts?” She asked softly, amused. 

I had been mulling around the kitchen, putting a kettle on, pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear. I was smiling, shaking my head softly. 

“Of course,” I said, laughing, “wasn’t that the highlight of the night?”

I could imagine her nodding, smiling that pretty smile of hers. I knew Bob was probably somewhere close by, like he always was, endlessly pleased that we were having a long chat, endlessly pleased that he’d played a role in bringing us together. 

“And Bagman threw that weird tantrum,” she said, sighing, “God, remember that?”

I wasn’t sure suddenly--how much she knew, how much I should tell her. I had not told a soul about my conversation with Jake the night before my wedding. It was something I knew he wasn’t broadcasting either, something that I felt should stay between the two of us. No harm, no foul--nothing happened that I hadn’t been able to handle. 

“Mmm,” I hummed back, blinking at my empty sink, “did you ever end up talking to him?”

Phoenix knew that I was testing the waters, scoping out how much she knew. She was smart, always a step ahead. 

“Yeah,” she sighed, “talked to him the next day after brunch. Told me he did something he shouldn’t have, but wouldn’t really tell me anything else.” 

Oh. That was what he thought about the encounter--it was something he should not have done. I understood that--knew why he felt that way. But it sent a peculiar tingle down my spine to hear that he’d admitted that to a mutual friend. 

“I see,” I said, unwilling to give her any more than that, “well, at least he’s self-aware.” 

What will his face look like when I tell him that I’m pregnant? What will happen to those big, sad eyes when I tell him that I’m in my second trimester and that my baby is the size of an apple? What will happen when Bradley kisses my cheek and proudly angles the camera on my little bump, when he announces to everybody that we are calling them olive? What will happen when--

“Faye-baby,” Rooster croons from the front door, swinging it open suddenly, “‘m home!”

He greets me this way almost every time--especially if he knows that I’m in the living room or kitchen, always ascending the steps with a sly grin on his lips. And yes, as the ruckus of him locking the door and kicking his shoes off fades, he does round the stairs with a plastic bag full of leaking cardboard containers and that pretty, silly grin. 

“Hey, mama,” he greets, cheeks flushed, “miss me?”

He left only thirty-five minutes ago, after a very drawn-out goodbye consisting of countless kisses against my lips and belly alike. 

“‘Course we missed you,” I return, setting my glass on the table. 

This pleases him endlessly--I know that he likes to hear me say it, like to know that his presence is one that I long for. 

His cheeks turn pinker in the dim light as he crosses the room, setting the greasy bag on the table. He settles his hands on my belly, sinking to his knees to be eye-level with olive--which is what he always does when he says hello or goodbye. His grip is firm but gentle, anchoring himself to me but also careful not to disturb olive. 

“Olive,” he says in greeting, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my belly though my t-shirt. 

Then he kisses a sweet, sloppy line all the way through the valley of my breasts, up the column of my neck, across my jaw, and to my lips. He kisses me there softly, smiling against my parted lips, nudging his nose into mine. 

“Faye,” he greets. 

I kiss him back, mind clouding with that familiar comfort, absolutely humming against his lips. God, I love him--love how his scent engulfs me, how warm his hands are from holding the food, love how sloppily he’s kissing me. 

“Gonna be late,” I tell him, glancing at my phone, “two minutes ‘til showtime.”

Bradley and I sit on the ground between the sofa and the coffee table, leaning against the velvet cushions and setting our elbows on the wood before us as we dig into our chicken congee and soy garlic broccoli. The scent of salt and grease immediately overpowers the maple-scented candles, but it doesn’t bother me--no, not when my belly rumbles so suddenly, not when I realize how hungry I am. 

We are the last people to join the call--even though we are a minute early. Already Bob, Phoenix, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote are talking over each other as they leisurely sip their beers and scoop pasta into their mouths. 

“Hey, Bradshaw’s,” Bob greets from beside Phoenix, grinning widely, a forkful of asparagus near his mouth, “‘bout time y’all showed up!”

“Bradshaw’s!”

It echoes across the Zoom call like a call to action, like a toast. Bradshaw’s. It makes my cheeks pink, makes a tingle radiate across my belly.

“The married couple is here,” Payback teases, smudging Fanboy teasingly, “now the party is really starting!”

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. He pops a dumpling into his mouth, content as I’ve ever seen him just to sit here and watch his friends on our laptop screen, just to sit next to his pregnant wife and eat Chinese food on a Sunday night. 

“Bet your ass the party’s starting now,” Bradley says, pointedly angling his chopsticks at the camera, “the hottest people you know just joined!”

Coyote pretends to gag--Bob blushes, Payback laughs. 

“Sorry in advance for that,” I say, shaking my head, “s’good to see everyone!”

I take a moment to look over everyone as a playful squabble ensues. Payback and Fanboy are sitting on a leather sofa, both of them wearing old t-shirts and eating some sort of steak and potato situation. Coyote is wearing a maroon beanie, lying belly-down on his bunk as he chews a strip of red licorice in lieu of an actual meal. Phoenix and Bob are sitting beside each other at, what I assume, is Phoenix’s kitchen table. They both have steaming plates full of enchiladas before them, their hair soft from showers and Bob’s glasses fogged from his meal. Jake is sitting outside somewhere, I think--I can hear the cicadas wherever he is--and he’s chewing a piece of broccoli between long drags of a fat cigar. Everyone looks happy and healthy--no one is in active combat, no one is a part of a lethal detachment that I know of. Everyone just looks happy to be here now, happy to be sharing dinner together even if we’re all in different states. 

It goes on like that for a while--we are all catching up, our laughter echoing in computer speakers, our bellies becoming fuller. I am careful to only show my chest and above on camera--my bump is small but unmistakable--and no one says anything about it, no one even pays attention to it. We all tell each other what we can about our detachments and everyone listens with unwavering attention, nodding along, sucking bottom lips between teeth, chewing very quietly. 

A natural lull falls over the call after Coyote finishes a story about a flight training he had earlier that week--it’s as good a time as any. I know this--I know Bradley knows this. He squeezes my hand, gently nudging my shoulder, pressing his lips to my ear. 

“Now?” he whispers, hardly loud enough for me to hear. 

My fingers grow numb with cold again, but I nod, knitting my brows. Yes, now.

“Secrets don’t make friends,” Jake teases, narrowing his eyes at the camera as cigar smoke plumes from his lips. 

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees, “share with the class.”

I can’t speak suddenly--my mouth is far too dry. But Bradley is quick to detach his lips from my ear, quick to sit up straight and face the camera. He’s smiling that prideful smile, the one that flushes his cheeks and squints his eyes. He’s pleased--pleased as a plum. 

“Couple things,” Bradley starts, “first thing’s first--the house is officially on the market.”

A chorus of cheers erupts from the speakers. It’s good-natured, the way they care about the inner-workings of what’s happening in our lives, the way they celebrate something as little as a house going on the market. God, it makes me feel old that our friends are congratulating us on this--our house going on the market. 

“Wow,” Bob muses, nudging his glasses back up his nose as he lightly shakes his head, “end of an era, huh, Faye?”

I nod, biting my lip. I still don’t trust my voice--can’t say anything to him. Bradley squeezes my hand. 

“It’s a good house,” Phoenix adds, “I bet it’ll sell quickly!”

There’s a noise of agreement that spans across the entire video call. 

“When’s Chateau Bradshaw gonna be move-in ready?” Fanboy asks, eyebrows knit. 

Bradley nods, leaning forward slightly. He’s too big to be sitting in this tiny space between the couch and the coffee table--he’s so folded up right now, muscles tight, limbs drawn in. 

“Pretty much whenever, since we only made cosmetic changes,” Bradley answers, “we’re crossing our fingers for August.”

“Any particular reason?” Hangman asks, raising a brow. 

Of course he’s the one that prompts us. 

I think I might throw up if I speak--wish so badly that Maggie was squeezed in beside me to take the edge off this conversation, wish so badly that she was here to say it for me, say it with me. 

Bradley finds my belly absently, smiling softly as he palms across my taut skin. He’s weighing me down without even meaning to--keeping me from floating up, up, up and away into the sky.

“Gives us enough time to get the nursery ready,” Bradley answers. 

For a long, long second no one speaks. It almost looks like everyone’s cameras freeze at the exact same time, like all of our connections crashed in tandem. But I know that everyone is still connected because everyone is smally shaking their heads and dropping their jaws. 

“Nursery,” Bob echoes finally, brows quirked. 

Fuck, I miss Bob’s voice--love that I’m hearing it right now above all the other noise in our house, in this video call. He’s leaning forward, his face clear and pale on my screen. I wish so badly that he was here to wrap his arms around me and play our song and cry into my shoulder at the sheer notion of having a godchild soon--but the best we can do right now is come closer to our screens, closer to each other. 

“I don’t get it,” Coyote says, “like-like a baby nursery? Isn’t that kind of jumping the gun?”

I’m chewing my bottom lip now, red cheeks burning under the confused gazes of our friends. God--I wish someone would just say it so I don’t have to.  

“Faye, are you…” Phoenix starts, squishing her cheek against Bob’s, “oh my, God--you’re pregnant!”

Of course it’s Phoenix that says it. My phantom Maggie--accidentally making it easier for me without even trying to.

“No way,” Hangman says in disbelief, “not a chance.”

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: oh hell yeah, it's baby time, motherfuckers!!!!!!! if this is your first time reading this story, stop what you're doing now and tell me in the comments what gender you think the baby is and what their name will be!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[spacefinch]

This is a Commander Sato appreciation post

(featuring both canon and headcanon)

He is 100% one of Ezra's many parental figures. At first he doesn't know what to do with this... problem child, but he quickly grows to respect Ezra's talents.

Sato: (after Stealth Strike) I like Ezra, he's my son now.

Kanan: You can't-- I called it first!

Second of all, this man is a fighter. Even though most of the screen time he got was him standing around on the bridge, I am completely convinced that he would not hesistate to get into an actual blaster or fistfight.

This is his reaction when Kanan (still in stormtrooper disguise) comes for him. Sato doesn't know about the super-secret rescue plan. All he sees is a stormtrooper, and he is ready to throw hands with them.

Third: Sato can and will befriend and/or adopt anyone. The Ghost crew? They're his family now. Ahsoka? She might not want to stay permanently, but she's family too. Rex? More than welcome. Even former Imperial pilots like Wedge and Hobbie get a warm welcome. If you ask me, Zero Hour never happened. Sato is alive and well and being the Rebellion's best space dad (and later, the Resistance's best space grandpa).

Headcanons

Sato is good with kids, but doesn't want any biological children. Nor does he ever want to marry and/or settle down. Part of it is that his job is too dangerous for him to even consider raising his own family. The other part is that he's on the aroace spectrum. He doesn't have any regrets. He already has a family: his nephew Mart, the Ghost Crew, and all of Phoenix Squadron.

This man does not get enough sleep. Kind of hard to, when the majority of your subordinate officers fall into the category of "can't do anything without causing a disaster." I imagine that Sato drinks whatever the Star Wars equivalent of earl grey tea is.

I could definitely see a lot of parallels between him and Captain Picard:

Tea drinker

Very by-the-books, but is willing to bend the rules

Says he doesn't do well with kids.

Is actually great with kids.

Probably a literature nerd.

He tries to be the best uncle he can be to Mart. It's the least he can do, after all that's happened. In addition, when he's around Mart, Sato appears to be more lighthearted than normal. He's even been known to help Mart prank the other rebel officers or join him in playing space video games.

A list of people he's unofficially adopted:

Ezra (problem child with a lightsaber. Reminds him of Mart.)

Mart, Gooti, and Jonner

Hera. (Sato knows that Hera and her dad don't have the best relationship, so he fills in the role of father figure.)

Sabine

Wedge and Hobbie (They are his sons now.)

And if we're going with my AU, he would also adopt Luke and Leia in a heartbeat.

Last but not least, Jun Sato gives the best hugs in the squadron. (Not including the Ghost crew. )

[multifandomfanfiction]

Curls

TITLE: Curls PAIRING: Fanboy/OC RATING: T CHAPTER: One-shot SUMMARY: Some of the squad are back in San Diego for another special mission.

[A/N - My parents and I went to eat at Olive Garden today and there was a father and his daughter there that made me think of Danny Ramirez and his curls.]

Maia entered the Hard Deck.

Top Gun had come calling again. It seemed like whenever they (the Navy) had a difficult mission, the Dagger Squad was called in.

She made her way to the back where she knew her squadron would be. Her brows furrowed when she saw someone standing with Payback and Bob.

His head was covered in a mop of curls and he didn’t look like the other Naval aviators.

“Hey, who’s…?”

The man turned.

It was Fanboy!

Maia’s mouth dropped open.

He’d changed in the couple months they’d been on different assignments.

“Mickey?” she asked.

He gave her the crooked smile she loved so much. “Hey Lady.”

“They letting riff raff fly nowadays?” Maia gestured to the stubble on Mickey’s cheeks.

Mickey laughed. “Nah, I’m on leave right now.”

Maia frowned. “What are you doing here then?”

Mickey smiled. “So you haven’t missed me?”

Maia playfully scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Like a hole in the head.”

Mickey wrapped his arms around her. “I’ve missed you, Maia.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mickey.”

“Wait…if you’re not on duty, who’s Payback’s backseater?”

Bob held his hand up. “Phoenix is in an active warzone so they couldn’t afford to lose her.”

Maia was quickly learning that this mission wouldn’t like the last one. “It won’t be like old times…”

Mickey put an arm around Maia’s shoulders and drew her into him, kissing her forehead. “You’ll be great as always.”

Maia looked up at Mickey. “How long are you on leave for?”

“Don’t worry, Mimi. I’m gonna be here for a while.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Things definitely weren’t like old times, especially considering that Rooster was now one of their instructors.

“Look at you! Bradshaw, as I live and breathe!” Maia exclaimed.

Rooster laughed and hugged her. “It’s so good to see you, Lady. I hope you know that just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I’m gonna go easy on you.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Captain Bradshaw.”

When Maia wasn’t training, she was spending time with Mickey.

Even though the Uranium mission had been over 6 months ago, it was like a day hadn’t passed between them. They were still able to banter back and forth about shows and movies they’d seen.

They were hanging out on the beach when a little girl ran past them.

She wasn’t looking where she was going, causing her to stumble and fall to the ground.

“Woah!” Mickey said. He rushed over to her and helped her up.

As Maia watched Mickey interact with the little girl, she couldn’t help but imagine what Mickey would be with his own child. That child would be raised by the sweetest man she knew. Showered in love.

The mother of the little girl eventually came over and thanked Mickey for comforting her daughter.

They said goodbye and Mickey sat back down next to her. He looked over at her, but couldn’t place the look on her face. “What?” he asked her.

“You look good with a kid.”

Mickey blushed and laughed. “I’m serious, Mickey! She’d have your olive skin, my eyes, and your curls.”

Maia reached up and tugged on one of Mickey’s curls, not noticing that the pilot in front of her froze. “Mickey?”

“Your eyes and my curls?”

Maia’s eyes went wide, realizing what she said. “Oh my god. Mickey, I’m so s…”

One of Mickey’s hands grabbed her chin and brought her lips to his. “Don’t apologize. God, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the Uranium mission. I should have said something, but we only had two weeks…”

Maia shook her head. “It’s okay, Mickey. I understand. You’re here now.”

“About that…”

Maia’s face fell. “But…but you said…”

Mickey sighed. “I lied. I’m not on leave. The last mission I was on…something went terribly wrong and I got shot out of the sky.”

Maia gasped.

“I was in physical therapy for three months and then I turned in my wings.”

“But…you loved flying…”

“I love you more.”

The breath left Maia’s lungs.

“I needed to tell you how I felt, so when I heard some of the Squad were being called back I knew I needed to come to San Diego.”

“I…I love you too Mickey.”

Mickey smiled and kissed her.

Three years the two would be married with a beautiful little girl with Maia’s eyes and Mickey’s curls.

[A/N - Fun Fact: Maia’s callsign is “Lady” because she’s always super polite to the point where the boys started to tease her that she acted like a highborn lady.]

[usafphantom2]

USAF F-35 Demonstration Team announces new pilot and commander

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 03/02/2024 - 08:30 in Demonstration Squads, Military

U.S. Air Force Captain Melanie "MACH" Kluesner, pilot of the F-35A Lightning II assigned to the 421º Fighter Squadron, became the new certified pilot and commander of the F-35A Demonstration Team, during the Heritage Flight Training Course of the Air Combat Command at Davis-Monthan Air Base, Arizona, on March 1º, 2024.

Kluesner comes from a military family and was inspired from a very young age by her parents, both U.S. Air Force pilots, to become a fighter pilot.

U.S. Air Force Captain Melanie "MACH" Kluesner, commander and pilot of the F-35A Lightning II demonstration team, and Major Kristin "BEO" Wolfe, commander and outgoing pilot of the F-35A Lightning II demonstration team, walk on the flight line at Davis-Monthan Air Base, Arizona, March 1º, 2024. (Photo: U.S. Air Force / 1st Lt. Nathan Poblete)

“When I was a child, I really appreciated my parents, family and friends who believed in me and encouraged me to follow my dream of becoming a fighter pilot,” Kluesner said. "My father was a demonstration pilot of the Pacific Air Force F-16 Fighting Falcon in the 1980s and my mother was the first class of women graduated from the Air Force Academy. She graduated in pilot training as a qualified hunter, but at that time women were not allowed to pilot fighters. My parents are a great inspiration to me and have incredible stories of their careers."

U.S. Air Force Captain Melanie "MACH" Kluesner, pilot and commander of the F-35A Lightning II demonstration team, prepares to conduct an air demonstration certification flight at Hill Air Base, Utah, on February 22, 2024. (Photo: U.S. Air Force / Staff Sgt. Kaitlyn Ergish)

After graduating from the University of Southern California, Kluesner was commissioned with the U.S. Air Force in 2014. She is a veteran combat fighter pilot with more than 1,000 hours of experience in a variety of aircraft, including the T-6A Texan II, T-38 Talon, F-16 Fighting Falcon, F-35B and F-35A Lightning II.

"It was a long way to get where I am and there is nothing more rewarding than doing a job you love for something that is bigger than yourself," Kluesner said. "To be the demonstration pilot means spreading this message to the next generation and I am very excited for the start of the air show season."

The commander of the F-35A Demonstration Team is not only responsible for an itinerant team of 14 maintainers and support personnel, but also reinforces the team's mission around the world each year, showing the F-35's combat capabilities and its unique experiences to recruit, retain and inspire thousands of spectators in each air show.

"I think it's very important for people to realize that if you want to be a fighter pilot or serve in the Air Force, it doesn't matter how you look or if you fit the specific mold," Kluesner explained. "What matters is to be willing to remain disciplined, work hard, work as a team and worry about serving your country. I am honored to be in this position and I hope that everyone who watches the demonstration will feel inspired to dream big, just as I was when I was a child."

Tags: Military AviationF-35 Demo TeamLockheed Martin F-35A Lightning IIUSAF - United States Air Force / U.S. Air Force

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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[officialfoxsquadron]

Home Stories: Chapter 6

In which Luke Skywalker reunites with old friends on a new home base, delivers a speech, and digs up dark secrets.

Read on AO3!

Full text under the cut:

“I still hate this shade of orange,” Luke called, stepping out of the Millennium Falcon’s bathroom in his flight suit.

“It’s great!” Leia said.

“It’s hideous,” Han said. Their voices clashed over each other, and Han and Leia exchanged annoyed glances.

At least some things don’t change, Luke thought to himself, smiling.

He was three days back in the larger fold of the Alliance as a whole, and today was the day the new recruits arrived.

He barely felt more than a new recruit himself, but apparently blowing up the Death Star came with a few unforeseen benefits, including a squadron, mostly full of greenhorn pilots, all who joined after seeing the explosion.

“They don’t know who I am, right?” Luke asked. “The recruits? They don’t know that I-”

“We don’t tell them,” Leia said, shrugging. “But you’ve seen how fast word travels around here. I hear there’s already a betting pool on whether…I can’t even say it.”

“Oh, the bet on you and Han?” Luke said.

“Ah,” Han said, all smirk and swagger as he approached Leia. “Got any insight on that, princess? I could stand to make some money here.”

“You flatter yourself,” Leia scoffed.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a money-extortion scheme,” Luke said. (And he was pretty sure he knew who was behind it.)

“Still, it’s a nice thought.”

“It’s a revolting thought,” Leia insisted. “You look good, Luke.”

“Commander Skywalker.” Han said the words with a drawl.  “It suits you, kid, congrats.”

“Thanks, Han.” He knew his friend was being sincere. Han had played the cynical card, but it was hard for anyone to deny his loyalty after the Death Star. There were plenty of fighters like Han–drifters, people who came and went as they pleased, who were tied to the Rebellion in only the loosest of terms. There was a surprising lack of pressure from Alliance leadership for these fighters (mostly pilots) to join in a formal role; Luke suspected that the Alliance leadership knew they wouldn’t survive very far without them.

“I’m sure you’ll do great. It’s not that hard to fly an X-Wing, anyways. Not like flying the Falcon.”

“Here we go,” Luke grumbled, as Leia rolled her eyes.

“I could bore you with the specifics, but you two should get going. I can’t be hearing classified Alliance information, remember, Your Worship?”

Leia rolled her eyes, again. “See you soon, Han.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Chewie!” Luke called. He heard the Wookiee’s grumble from the bowels of the ship. He smiled.

As soon as they stepped off the stairs of the Falcon, Leia let out a large sigh, shaking her head.

“He is so infuriating.”

“The most infuriating,” Luke agreed, although he was tempted to laugh at just how angry Han made Leia.

“You know he’s thirty-two?” Leia said, scrunching her nose. “How a life form reaches the age of thirty-two while being that stupid is honestly a medical miracle.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” Luke said. He didn’t bother to hide his fidgeting. “This is…It’s a lot, Leia.” He sighed, straightening his collar again. “A lot of responsibility.”

“It is,” Leia said, stepping towards him. “Did I ever tell you about my first day in the Senate?”

Luke shook his head, curious. 

“When I started in the Senate, it felt like everyone was looking down on me. I was sixteen, and I’m not exactly tall now, so I felt like every senator had to bend over just to shake my hand. When I went to speak for the first time-this formality on opening day-my voice shook so bad, I thought I sounded like a bird.”

“Did you?”

“Mon Mothma said I sounded fine,” Leia laughed it off. “Being an Organa, a senator’s daughter, a princess, I’ve always had these expectations on me. To be more than what I was. And a lot of responsibility,” she added. “And yet, I was adopted. I was not the biological child of my parents. So, a lot of people looked at me sideways.”

Luke laughed, recalling uncomfortable memories of having to explain why he lived with his aunt and uncle to the other children at school. “I know that feeling.”

“So you know how deep it can bury inside you, that those doubts never go away.”

Luke breathed deep, in and out, Rostah’s crisp, cool air filling his lungs. “Yeah, I don’t think they do.”

“I didn’t give you this command because you blew up the Death Star, or you met a bunch of recruits, or anything like that. I gave you this command because you came from nowhere, saw a distress call from a woman half the galaxy away, and dropped everything to help her. That’s why I think you will make a great leader, Luke. Because you help others.”

Luke smiled, swelling with pride. “Thank you, Leia.” And then, smiling, “You were probably a really good Senator, huh?”

“The best,” Leia said. She clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Alliance, Commander Skywalker.”

–

The new home base for the Alliance was tucked away in a lush green mountain range, built upon the ruins of an ancient city. Rostah, a planet with few moons and fewer neighbors, was the perfect place to hide an army. The lights of hundreds of ships and thousands of living beings could hardly be seen amongst the snow-capped peaks of mountains, veins of lightning that cut the clouds in half.

At the center of the base was a temple, formerly the central feature of Villinvaru City, Rostah’s capital. The temple was a building of crumbling white stone that housed a golden bell tower, with precarious steps, outlined in red, spiraling their way on the outside. Each day, two or three monks chanted their way up the winding steps, holding colorful prayer flags. Once they ascended, the bell rang out, a deep gong of sound. The head monk’s high and reedy chants rose and carried on the wind. This happened every day, three times a day, morning, noon, and night. 

The meeting of the Rogue Squadron took place in a white and red stone house, part of the inner city that radiated from the bell tower. The monks had just finished their noonday adoration, and they stared at Luke as he passed. With saffron yellow hoods enshrouding their gray skin, the monks looked half-dead.

“There aren’t many monks left,” Leia said, catching Luke’s gaze. “And they’re not exactly thrilled about hiding an army here.”

“But they did,” Luke said, suddenly grateful.

“They did,” Leia repeated. “There’s more hope now.”

Luke felt it, the hope, buzzing around them like flies. Practically everyone on base was smiling. Their new home, Villinvaru City, was like nothing else Luke had ever seen, awash with emerald green grass and ruddy brown soil. They made their homes and workrooms in squat white and red buildings that circled the city. They still had colorful prayer flags too; faded, having been abandoned a few years prior.

The Empire had massacred the population of Rostah under pretense of harboring Jedi fugitives. Citizens that weren’t killed were sent to labor camps.

Another Imperial graveyard, Luke thought. Briefly, his old home on Tatooine flashed in his mind. Was it still on fire, did he think, or had the burning stopped? Had the Tusken raiders scavenged it already, torn up his model ships for parts?

“You okay?” Leia tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said, returning to Villinvaru, returning to the meeting, the task at hand. They had already reached the door of the meeting room, a placard hastily hung on the post. “Just daydreaming, that’s all.”

“Well, snap to it, Commander, the recruits are waiting,” she said brusquely. Then, after a moment, “You’ll do great.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I speak after you?”

“Yup.” She grabbed the handle and gave it a twist, the door flying open before her.

The chatter of the room didn’t quite stop when they walked in, but it did hush. They were holding the meeting in what was once a family home, a living and dining room. The members of Rogue Squadron sat cross-legged on floor pillows, or leaned against counters smoking and drinking caf. It was an odd scene, hardly the setting one imagined for a guerilla pilot squadron meeting. 

Before he could think to greet anyone, he felt a nudge against his leg and a series of beeps.

“Hey, Artoo,” he said, smiling and kneeling to touch the droid. “How was your touch-up with Jax?”

The droid whistled and waddled back and forth, spinning his much shinier dome.

“It does look good,” Luke agreed. “Thanks for taking care of him, Jax,” he said, as the taller man approached behind the droid, sipping a mug of caf.

“No problem at all. I think there’s still caf in the pot, if you want some.”

“That’s alright,” Luke said, checking to make sure Leia had moved to speak to someone else before whispering, “They know about the betting pool.”

“Huh, that was fast,” Jax said, entirely nonplussed. “What’d they think?” “Leia’s not happy, Han thinks it’s funny.” He paused, and then asked, “Do you ever stop to think about the morality of placing bets on people’s relationships?”

“I simply give the people what they want, Skywalker,” Jax said. 

“And what they want is to be conned out of their money?”

“Exactly.” He stepped closer to Luke, and nudged his shoulder. “Hey, you tell me anything, I’m happy to give you a cut.”

“Very funny,” Luke said, rolling his eyes.

“Fine. If you don’t want the money, I’ll just give it to Artoo.”

Artoo whistled affirmatively.

“Artoo!” Luke scolded. “What do you need with-you know what, Artoo, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.”

“If I could have your attention?” Leia stood in the center of the room, her voice clear and confident. “For those new to the Alliance, I am Senator Leia Organa-” she paused briefly, “-and Princess of Alderaan. I come to personally introduce you to the Rebellion, and to the commander of Rogue Squadron, Luke Skywalker.”

Leia extended a hand to Luke. He raised his own hand in a friendly wave, dampening down how self-conscious he felt.

“As sponsor of this squadron, I want you to know that I am committed to your welfare. Should you need anything from the Alliance High Command, please feel free to speak to me. Now, Commander Skywalker? Would you like to say a few words?” From the look Leia gave him, it seemed he barely had a choice.

“Yes, um, hello,” he began. Great start, Skywalker. “Like Leia said, my name’s Luke Skywalker, and I’ll be leading this squadron.”

“So it’s true?” a voice said from the crowd. It belonged to Wes Janson, one of the newest recruits, a man with a strong jaw and close cropped black hair. Luke remembered reading about his results on the Alliance’s standard piloting exam. They were impressive.

“You are a Jedi.” The other man pointed at the lightsaber on his hip.

“Not exactly,” Luke laughed. “I mean, not yet. I hope to be one day.”

“And you blew up the Death Star?” asked another voice. Tycho Celchu, a gifted pilot from Alderaan. He still had bright red acne on his left cheek.

“Yes,” Luke said.

He searched the faces of his new squadron. The recruits ranged in age, in species, in culture, but all had the same look in their eyes. They expected something from him, and he feared the words would not come.

Then he found her eyes, and just like that night on Yavin, time seemed to halt, and the galaxy fell around them.

Lottie, whose mismatched eyes peered through him, and would tilt her head and smile, as if she knew. She sat sipping calf on a counter, feet dangling from the edge.

He recalled something she had said when they first met. 

“The Rebellion is full of orphans.”

The words came to him then, easy and sweet as flowing wine.

“Look, I am uncomfortable in front of crowds. So, I’m not going to make these big speeches a habit.”

That got a few laughs. Lottie sipped her calf, still smiling. The world returned to focus.

“But Wes, Tycho, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, but I joined only a few months ago. So, I’m very excited to learn from you all. If you’re new, welcome.”

He gestured to the recruits. A few sat on stairs, peering through the railings.

“And if you’ve been here for a while, welcome.” He looked to Leia, who grinned.

“There are many paths to joining the Rebellion. A lot of them aren’t easy. So, wherever you come from, know that you’re welcome here. This isn’t always easy either, but it’s worth it. Thank you. Practically speaking, there are a few introductions I have to make.”

Confident now, he strode a bit, gesturing to each member of the squadron he introduced.

“You met Senator Organa, our sponsor between High Command. My second in command, Wedge Antilles, Rogue Two. For any help with astromechs or other droids, speak to Jax Fraga. Pazima Reynard leads the technicians. And our medical liason is Lottie Reynard, her sister.”

Lottie winked, smiling through her coffee. He felt a thrill in his stomach.

This is kind of fun, he thought. And then, maybe this is where I belong.

He thought of his father, the greatest pilot in the galaxy. I hope he’s proud of me.

“The only way we change the galaxy is together, so we have to care for each other. Look out for each other.”

He put his hands on his hips, looked to the more experienced in the room.

“I think that’s about it. Is there anything else?”

“There will be food and drinks tonight at our quarters, at twenty-one hundred,” Lottie called from the back of the room. “Bring yourself, bring your friends. It’s local fare, so don’t expect greatness.”

“Oh, right. Thanks, Lottie,” he said. They shared a smile, for the briefest of moments, a secret between the two of them. 

“Welcome to the Rebellion, Rogue Squadron.”

–

The Rebellion’s legacy would grow beyond any of them, but the histories would neglect to tell future generations just how good the Rebellion was at throwing parties.

Parties were, of course, illegal, but in name only; establishing by-laws for a guerilla army was easier said than done. The alcohol was plentiful, but awful, brewed by soldiers or smuggled in from some galactic backwater. Tonight, Lottie and Wedge served grilled meat from a local species of deer that Pazima hunted–earlier that day, Luke had seen her carrying the animal, slung over her broad shoulders as she hung it up to dress in their yard.

The Fox Squadron had a home on Rostah, something even Luke realized was a rarity. More than that, they had a little garden, complete with a fire pit. Lottie had practically cried when she first saw it, and even Pazima let out an uncharacteristic squeal of delight, which she promptly covered with a cough.

The members of Rogue Squadron, along with medics, technicians and droids, gathered in that back garden, spilling over the fence and into the overgrown road outside. Music played from a speaker-one of Jax’s droids-and the air smelled of barbecuing spices, alcohol, and cigarra smoke.

Luke did not go to parties often before the Rebellion, especially not ones like these, boozed-up affairs full of people his own age. Mainly because he was never invited. He enjoyed these parties, because he enjoyed the people. He found his comrades endlessly fascinating, with their stories of adventure or tragedy or dull, regular lives from the wider galaxy. It was a feast for his imagination.

He spent most of his time with the new recruits, learning more about who they were and why they joined. Mainly, he saw how some of them tensed up when he approached, and it made him uncomfortable. The Rebellion was practically a machine for tall tales–he could only imagine what the rumor mill had come up with.

He found her after everyone had left, or had fallen asleep slumped against their fence. She slept curled in a chair, arms wrapped around her knees, long hair spilling along her shoulder. Lottie seemed peaceful, at ease. He hesitated a moment. 

There was talk at the party, in the way some men liked to talk, all about who was the most attractive woman on base. He had excused himself from the conversation, partially because something about speaking about others in that way unnerved him, and partially because he really never spent much time thinking about it.

It’s not that he never noticed beautiful people. He had come to terms, at some point before Yavin, that his friendship with Biggs had been a crush too, innocent and sweet as spring. He had, of course, noticed Leia’s beauty, and for a moment, had been jealous of Han; before realizing that Han, for all of his flaws, had a profound capability for sensitivity when Leia was around.

Lottie was very beautiful, he thought, in a way that he had never thought of beauty before. On Tatooine, one was either a man or a woman. Lottie seemed to be both, or neither, or something in between. And something about that made Luke feel things that he did not understand, that felt dangerous and thrilling and horrifying and perfect all at once.

Boy, I know how to pick ‘em, Luke thought. And then, I should probably stop staring at the assassin.

He tapped her gently on the shoulder. “It’s late, Lottie,” he whispered. She jumped at his words.

“Fuck, Luke,” she said, clutching her chest and laughing. “You know, I think you’re the only person in the galaxy who can sneak up on me.”

“I’ll take it,” Luke said. He extended a hand. “It’s late, Lottie. You should get some rest.”

“Mm,” she said, shaking her head. 

“You did a good job in there,” Lottie said, raising her drink to him. “Very impressive.”

“Thanks. Leia gave a good pep talk. And…” he hesitated, unsure if he should tell her this, but pressed on, “I dunno. I feel like…” He looked at her, resisted the embarrassment- “You’re a very comforting presence to me, Lottie.”

She smiled, and suddenly she did not look like a great assassin, or a war veteran, but a pretty girl, who was very rarely paid compliments. “Thank you, Luke.” She paused, and said. “I think that’s the first time anyone has ever called me comforting.”

Both of them laughed, because it was absurd. He thought of his friends back home, Biggs-what would they say about Lottie, a girl from the very center of the galaxy.

“Eh?” Lottie offered him a cigarra from her pack, one already stuck between her teeth, an expectant grin on her face.

Luke sat baffled for a moment. Does she really think I’ll- “No,” he said, half laugh, half rebuke.

“Ugh,” Lottie rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She lit her own cigarra, exhaled, and then turned, facing him and staring straight at him, squinting. “There’s got to be something, I’ll find it.”

“What?”

“Some dark secret of yours,” she said. She searched his face, as if she really expect it to be found there.

Luke laughed, embarrassed suddenly. “I don’t have any dark secrets.” 

Lottie’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty.”

He was used to this by now, the games she played. “And you’re the expert?”

“On dark secrets?” Inhale. “Yes.” Exhale. Her voice dropped, all serious. “When did you first realize you were different?”

“Different?”

“You’re not seriously telling me the Jedi powers came as a surprise to you?”

Luke sighed. There was something. It was a dark secret once, before the stormtroopers, before Darth Vader.

“I was dreaming. I don’t remember much of the dream, just-snippets.”

A spark of lightning. A palace on the lake. The raging fire of a city razed to the ground. A planet of lava. A creature drowning in mud. A child’s hands, soaked in blood. A dead woman fair and beautiful, with flowers in her hair. An island at the end of time.

“When I woke up, there was this huge bang. Everything in my room had been floating in the air, and it all came crashing down then.”

“What did your aunt and uncle say?”

“They told me never to speak about it.” That if he did, he would die. That there were people out there who killed people like him, and he would never be safe, never.

“Huh.” Lottie nodded. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen,” Luke said.

“Mm.” She looked away from him then, for the first time. 

“Fair’s fair,” Luke said. “When did you first realize?”

Lottie inhaled, her chest heaving. She exhaled, her eyes studying his face. Finally, she closed her eyes, looked away, and said, “When my people wanted to exile me for the scar on my face, that’s why.”

“Continue,” Luke said, intrigued.

“The night of your first menstrual bleeding, you have to have this ceremony. You have to sword-dance through the night.”

“Sword-dance, that’s…” Suddenly, so much made sense in how she fought, the fluid movements, the quick feet, the rhythm of it.

“Yes. And the whole village sings while you dance. It’s a time when…”

She looked at Luke again, suddenly hesitant.

“...When you’re very close to the gods. I suppose you would call it the Force. And…well, during mine, I got this.” She gestured to the scar again. “I won’t bore you with all the details, but for me to have this particular scar on this particular eye…” She sighed, shaking her head. “I dunno. They were still debating what exactly it meant before everything went to shit.”

“What do you think it meant?” Luke asked.

“I-” Lottie sputtered, taken aback by the question. “I have absolutely no idea,” Lottie laughed. “I still pray to them. I ask. But no answer.”

“I talk to ghosts,” Luke blurted out. “If that makes you feel less…”

“Insane?” She giggled, and Luke laughed too. “Gods, what a pair we make. After we win this blasted war, maybe we could start an asylum for the mentally ill.”

“Are you sure that’s not just Coruscanti for Jedi Temple?”

They both laughed, so hard they woke up Wes Janson who was snoring in the corner.

“Sorry,” Lottie said, still trying to compose herself.

“Sorry, Janson,” Luke said.

Janson snorted, and continued to drool peacefully.

“We probably should head to bed soon,” Lottie said absentmindedly. 

“Right.”

They both stood up. Suddenly, it felt profoundly awkward to remember he was sharing a bunk space with Lottie, too dangerously intimate.

What was the proper way to end this conversation? A handshake? A hug? A kiss-no, that wouldn’t be right-

A now familiar sound rang out; the dawn monk’s chants, a high, plaintive cry.

“I wonder who their gods are,” Lottie said, as the monks began their march, and the sun began to rise. Then, to Luke, to herself, to no one at all, “I wonder if they’re listening.” She took one last drag, stamping her cigarra out in the mud.

Both of them found their way to their bunkroom, Jax already snoring. She fell asleep quickly, but he could not, his mind racing with a million thoughts, a million questions.

Was this right? What he was doing, with Lottie, with the Rebellion, any of it? Was he on the right path?

The gong rang out, startling Lottie awake. She shifted, whimpered, pulling her covers over her head.

“Ben,” he said. He wasn’t sure he even said it aloud, or just in his own head.

Luke, trust your feelings.

Trust yourself.

The monk’s chants became a lullaby, something Aunt Beru used to sing to him as a child. He welcomed sleep, and the dreams that would come, of a new home amongst the misfits, of a new future.

[distortedplatinum]

The Blue Lions class of 1206

Here's a massive post with my future Blue Lions' short bios and references. Hope you like my babies!

You can also attack all of them on Artfight!

P.S.: I used a translator to help me write in English, sorry for any dumb mistakes. :')

Aleksei Irek Blaiddyd

Aleksei Irek Blaiddyd is the worst prince the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus could wish for. Born as an adorable child to Dimitri and Ksenia, the moment he entered adolescence he turned into a real monster. He hates his parents (especially Dimitri), he hates Faerghus, he hates good manners, he hates everything around him. Inside him brooded an ever-growing anger, which reached its peak in 1206; the year when, together with the leader of the Black Eagles Hans, he set the Garreg Mach on fire and disappeared.

He would then spend the next eight years in a village in the Hrym Mountains, raise an army of fools by pretending to be a god, and begin a peaceful march to the kingdom to dethrone his father. When Sera, the woman he loved, is killed shortly after the expedition begins, he breaks down completely, becoming a mirror of what his father once was. He is defeated in Fhirdiad after a strenuous duel against Dimitri.

Despite hating everything and everyone, he is very close to his cousin Artemiya, loves sweets, reading, tarots, and fighting. He despises fish.

He was born with the Minor Crest of Blaiddyd, but at his 18th birthday the Major Crest of the Crescent Moon, his mother's, also manifested. He calls it "the plague".

Artemiya Rosenrot Blaiddyd

Artemiya Rosenrot Blaiddyd is a bastard child. Her mother's name is Ekaterina Zelenia Blaiddyd, daughter of Rufus Thierry Blaiddyd. At a young age she was forced to marry a rich merchant by whom she had two children; in 1176 Anatoliy Yakov was born and in 1182 Fridrich Ilya. And seven years later Artemiya was born, but immediately everyone noticed how much she did not resemble Ekaterina's husband; in fact, the child had brown hair and dark eyes, both traits not present in either parent. She was the child of adultery; her mother had cheated on her husband with the man she had fallen in love with so many years before, but whom she was forced to leave because he was a commoner. Both Ekaterina and Artemiya did not suffer any consequences only because of the intervention of Dimitri, who threatened serious repercussions if harm was done to either of them. However, Artemiya lived a life of abuse by both the merchant and Anatoliy, who hated her viscerally. Fridrich was the only one to protect her where their mother could not. All this led her to develop a very closed, submissive and shy personality. She could only feel comfortable with a sword in her hand.

A year after the fire of 1206 she was kidnapped by the Agarthans, who began experimenting on her to awaken the Crest of Blaiddyd. Although she was able to manifest it, a very serious infection threatened to kill her, and to contain it her left arm was amputated. Although she was in serious condition and on the verge of death, once she returned to Itha she was forced to make use of the Major Crest acquired in battle and was put in charge of the Bloody Rose Squadron. It was she herself who halved Aleksei's army at the border between Faerghus and Leicester. The two will not recognize each other. In 1214 Aleksei and Mitja will bury the hatchet and take her to Duscur to Björn, who will forge a prosthetic arm for her. Later Mitja will kill both Ekaterina's husband and Anatoliy.

She wields Areadbhar Γ.

Paired with Mitja.

Mitja Leclerc

Mitja Leclerc is a weirdo. He is the eldest and only son of Yuri and Constance; his younger sisters are named Diana and Angelica. Since childhood he always had odd interests, which as he grew up became quite macabre and disturbing. In fact, he has an obsession with death, especially in seeing corpses and entrails, to understand how they work, so he used to improvise autopsies on dead animals he found lying around. He does not like to talk about himself, all he tells is that he traveled a lot together with his father and so learned many things. He enrolled in the Officer's Academy as an undercover agent for Those Who Slither in the Dark for the purpose of collecting the blood of a bearer of the Crest of Blaiddyd, and having Aleksei as his main target he enjoys angering him, hoping in this way to injure him in a fight and get what he needed.

But, because of the fire of 1206 and the disappearance of the prince, the Agarthans opted to kidnap Artemiya because she was predisposed to develop it, so as to take her blood. Mitja's affiliation, however, had always been to be able to destroy Shambhala from the inside, and when they reduced the woman he loved to a mutilated doll, he felt tremendous guilt and, above all, responsibility for all the harm done to her because he had failed in his mission. He will never have the guts to reveal to her his involvement in the whole thing.

His weapon is a magic rifle made by the Agarthans.

Fortuna Beatrice Fraldarius

Fortuna Beatrice Fraldarius doesn't have the guts to show herself for who she really is. The eldest daughter of Annette and Felix, since childhood she has always tried to give a stern, cold and serious appearance, hiding her true self behind an icy, intimidating gaze. In her head she had to act like a machine to be able to be the worthy attendant of the prince, hiding all frivolous thoughts and constantly limiting herself. For this reason Aleksei will come to hate her deeply.

After the fire of 1206 she will spend all her energy in the search for the disappeared prince, determined to find him more than anyone else, driven by the love she had felt for him since childhood. She later becomes Ksenia's personal knight and in 1214 fights on the front lines against Aleksei's army, ending up badly wounded in the back by it, but fortunately the damage was not debilitating.

Fortuna, Aleksei, and Artemiya are childhood friends; the three were always inseparable until Aleksei changed and left Fortuna aside. Her friendship with Artemiya, on the other hand, never ended.

Fun fact: I gave her the timeskip hairstyle in 2019, three years before Three Hopes Annette lol.

Oktavia Ubert

Oktavia Ubert had the potential to be remembered in the centuries to come. Daughter of Ashe and a seamstress from Fhirdiad, she always showed great intelligence, kindness and talent in all her passions. Like her mother she loved making clothes and accessories, she enjoyed reading and also painting, but her biggest talent was in magic. Before going to Garreg Mach she also studied at the Fhirdiad's Royal School of Sorcery, graduating with the highest honors. Despite her kindness and sweetness, what made her stand out was her strong and decisive personality; she was not afraid to speak her mind and would not let anyone step on her feet.

Everything changed after the 1206 fire at the monastery. Although she managed to escape without serious harm, in 1210 she was kidnapped by a group of pirates, taken to Albinea and sold in marriage to a wealthy nobleman. She was able to kill him two years later, escaped from his manor and, cutting her hair to pretend to be a man, sailed on a pirate ship to manage to return to Fódlan. The ship's captain discovered her secret, but he kept it nevertheless and allowed her to return home.

She, Artemiya and Fortuna are best friends. Oktavia hates Aleksei because of his demeanor and doesn't understand why Artemiya likes Mitja so much; she considers him too weird and different from her.

Ragnhildr Azulai

Ragnhildr is a princess of Sreng, sent to the Officer's Academy as a token of peace between Sreng and Faerghus. She has a very calm and quiet personality, pretends not to know the language well but can speak it fluently. She tends to stare at people and has a crush on Eldjárn.

In 1208 her father decides to invade the Gautier territory and she is forced to fight, and in 1211 she will purposely get captured and become a war prisoner.

Eldjárn Mjöllnir Gautier

Eldjárn is the eldest son of Ingrid and Sylvain. He has similar attitudes to his father in his youth and spends most of his time chasing women; he is jealous of his brother because he is more successful while not caring. He does not like to study, but he is very smart and a great tactician. His best friend is a wyvern named Jord.

In 1208 he finds himself having to fight Ragnhildr, and she will injure him in the face in one of their many fights. The two will later form an alliance to stop that futile war, and she will be captured of her own free will.

Mikhail Adam Gautier

Mikhail is the youngest son of Ingrid and Sylvain. He's very quiet, silent, gets lost in books, and it is difficult to rouse him from his concentration. Hating him is impossible because he keeps so much to himself that he is almost unknown even to his own family members. Because of this he fascinates women very much, but he cares nothing about them.

In 1208 he joins his family's army to fight the invasion, but after less than a year he gets tired of fighting and runs away to Brigid to take a vacation of indefinite length. He hates cold and loud noises.

Björn Montero

Björn is originally from Duscur. He is a highly respected artist in his village and a "gentle giant". He always keeps a calm tone and can be intimidating at times, but he is actually extremely kind and always puts forth his immense strength to help others, no matter who or why. He made himself known at the Officer's Academy because he was the only one who could stop Aleksei's outbursts of rage with his bare hands, and if not for him, it would have ended badly for Mitja several times during their violent bickering.

After the fire of 1206 he returned to Duscur and began working as a blacksmith, mostly building works of art with his skills. In 1209 his daughter, whom he named Fatima, was born, and in 1214 he built a prosthesis for Artemiya's left arm.

At the academy he was close friends with Artemiya and Oktavia, and together they spent their free time painting.

Supports

[galacticwildfire]

*chinhands* can you tell us some more about hope she seems really cool

She was my first star wars oc, like way back from 2019, before I'd really gotten into the expanded canon outside the movies so she's got a special place in my heart. I decided to go and revisit her and that story this year after getting a better canon timeline going and getting into the novels and comics, also because I wish we got more of a solo family in canon than what we did.

In the prequel I've been writing I wanted to have Leia know the Naberrie family since canon (excluding claudia gray & ek johnsons novels) forgets they exist. For me it would make sense for her to have her daughter in her teen years live and attend university there so she could have a cultural connection to Naboo since the life she could have had on alderaan was taken away. Hope at that point is a teenage girl trying to navigate simple things like feelings and what she wants to be, with R2 as her faithful companion. Her heart truly belongs to the stars and she wants to be a pilot like her father, having flown since she was a child with Han teaching her and joining Naboo's starfighter corps quite young, using her political education to argue if they can have child queens they can have child pilots. But she also wants to become her brother's apprentice, so she spends half the year on Ossus training and the other on Naboo, meaning she sees little of her parents by that point. Leia sees her as a successor politically but is very much mindful of not wanting her daughter to grow up too fast and have that same weight on her shoulders as she did.

You see a teenage girl who more than anything just loves her family and wants them to be in the same room instead of four different corner's of the galaxy. She's very close to her brother despite Luke's hesitation since he is very much aware of the darkside in Ben but also in her to some degree despite Leia seeing otherwise. Luke trains her at Leia's behest but deters her since she's very much like Anakin in the regard of being chaotic and wanting to push herself to her limits, not wanting to be held back whether it's with flying or her training. She's also very much like Anakin in automatically jumping to extremes to protect the people she loves and do what she believes is right, and so there's very much a corruption arc there when her family's being attacked when the truth about vader comes to light, and that carries on to when the temple's destroyed and she directs her anger towards Snoke and the First Order and take's it upon herself to be the one to destroy snoke.

When the main story starts she's twenty and rogue because she took things too far in trying to find out where her brother is and was permanently grounded by Leia. She's frustrated with not being able to engage while the fo grows stronger and believes if she finds her brother she can convince him to turn on Snoke so they can end it before it ever really starts. She's very aware of the truth behind vader due to the visions she'd had of the past and sees her brother as being a slave to snoke as vader was to the emperor, as much as she hates him she's still got a lot of love for him and finds herself quite alone without him due to having had a very codependent relationship from a young age when he'd projected his insecurities onto her, telling her that people were afraid of them, that they only really had each other because they were different to everyone around them and she took it to heart.

Then she'll meet Poe who just proves all of that wrong, and when black squadron is formed she finds that friendship and love she was always told she'd never have. She's neurodivergent and bpd coded like Anakin is, except Leia was able to help her far more significantly with her emotions than Obi-Wan was able to do for Anakin, due to having inherited that type of anger and passion for justice herself and understanding her daughter's grief. The conflict between them comes with the impulsive extremes Hope jumps to, as she hadn't inherited Leia's rational mind but rather Han's flight response. Leia understands the importance of caution when it comes to cold war but Hope takes a far more extreme response and believes in hitting them hard and fast where they'll take the most damage and Leia has her demoted for it only to find when she returns a year later little's changed.

When Hope meets Poe she can't comprehend that someone so new to the resistance rose so quickly through the ranks and has been given the trust she wishes they had in her, and is hurt when seeing how close he's become with Leia while she's been gone. Her initial dislike of him isn't personal but she makes it known, meanwhile he's awestruck by her, a pilot who matches his skill, who's the last jedi there is aside from Luke and he might get a little crush seeing what she can do in the field. It's in his nature to be the first one to take a chance on someone, so she's stunned when he puts trust in her and wants her input on their first mission together, showing her genuine respect and appreciation when the rest of command sees her as a liability and she can't help but grow closer to him. Leia quickly sees how well they work together, and despite knowing very well Poe's a little bit infatuated with her daughter, asks him to put her on black squadron when she commissions it knowing how crucial it is to have her two best pilots working on finding Luke, incidentally sending him into a little bit of a moral crisis there when it comes to feelings and his role as a commander.

She's very much the kind of character that carries so much anger and grief but more than anything just wants to love and be loved and Poe's the first person outside of Leia to really key into that. There'll be romance there, sexual tension and a bit of the rivals to lovers trope, but more importantly a really deep friendship and understanding of one another that she's never had with anyone before, an unconditional acceptance of one another due to sharing so many of those attributes others condemn them for, of being passionate and impulsive and confident in their abilities. They're both very protective of Leia and each other, prepared to do whatever it takes for the cause. They'll clash quite a bit at times due to caring as much as they do, at that point in their development not stopping to think before airing things out in the middle of the hanger after a mission went wrong and one of them tried to take a hit to keep the other safe, two passionate and caring people not quite knowing how to deal with the complicated feelings they have but in the end always seeking the other out.

She struggles with her legacy as a skywalker, knowing the role she'll have to play when it comes to Snoke and her brother, being very cautious that it was love and attachment that caused Anakin to turn and harm those he loves. It's taken so long to write because it's very much an exploration of someone who loved her family so deeply only to have that torn from her at a formative age, of relearning how to be gentle after such violence and not being afraid to love despite there being so much darkness, and finding the light again amongst it.

That is long, I'm sorry, but I absolutely love my oc's and writing character arcs, especially when this one in a way's an ode to the skywalker family.

[akamikazae]

what's the story between orochimaru and akami's mother?

I am still ironing out all the tiny details and working on some more lore for their clan. I guess these are also like spoilers for my long fic so I’m putting it under the cut,

Her Mother Umiko Ketsueki— is from a branch of the Yuki Clan. Her grandmother sought asylum after the civil wars in Kiri—and the following hunting/killing of those with Kekkei Genkai.  Konoha allowed them to stay so long as they fought for the Village. They agreed and changed their surname for their own protection.  But the clan was small and a lot of them either ventured off to find/help more of their clan or to avenge fallen family, and some of those that stayed behind after fighting in the first war decided to lay low and keep their abilities a secret, marrying civilians in the hopes that their

kekkei genkblood line traits would die out. 

Umiko is in age with the Sanin—so she had befriended them in school/genin days. Her mother was a medic and her father a chunin—neither of them wanted to advance more because they worried for their families safety. But her parents pass in the second war.

And Umiko learns of her uncle’s murder at the hands of Ao. As she herself is fighting in the war, and she just continues to lose people close to her. Tsunade leaves after Dan’s passing and her very good friend Jiraiya stays behind in Amegakure to train Konan, Yahiko and Nagato. 

So when she and her squadron finally make it back to the village she feels left behind and all alone, as many of her comrades died. She suffered a lot from survivors guilt/depression and had always dreamed of having a big family—since most of her clan is dead and gone--but she feels lost and like its too late, considering most of her family die young. And sadly Orochimaru takes advantage of it, and they had always been friendly enough so he was all she had. 

I haven’t exactly written all this out but more or less she ends up making some sort of deal with him (similar to the one Orochimaru makes Tsunade in the anime—about giving her her loved ones and family) and Umiko takes it—she thinks that having a child, a piece of family will make her feel better, but it sort of does the opposite.  In return Orochimaru offers to make their child strong and immortal (as he was working with the Hashirama cells) he used them on Umiko and all it did was slowly kill her, and none of the cells powers passed to their child.  Orochimaru wanted a child mainly to continue his work/and make his own little god of shinobi, with bits and pieces of powerful things (I have a lot more planned for him/his motivations too, but also haven't gotten to it yet lol)

Umiko passes around the time akami turns 5--and at age 6 Akami finds his lab and freaks out and leaves. She hasn't seen him since (...yet)

I am bluntly summarizing—its more twisted and complicated, but yeah…also I don’t imagine Umiko and Oro having an intimate relationship aside from the initial friendship—Akami is the Naruto equivalent of an IVF baby….which I guess makes her a test tube baby lol but Naruto has actual test tube babies (Tenzo i’m looking at you)    

Lol I hope that makes some sense… lol sorry for this extra long reply! But thanks for the ask <33 I love my twisted ice snake lady

[bibannana]

The clones do not have a subtle bone in their bodies. They are built from:

Dramatic flare

Sarcasm (and eyerolls)

The inability to lie

The need to Dad (Waxer, Boil, Hunter I see you)

[condorclaw]

Tommy frowned, staring.

Michael stared back.

Tubbo and Ranboo could only watch this scene unfold, somewhat expecting that this would happen between their friend and their son. What they didn't expect was how quiet Tommy was.

It was silent in the room for a minute or two more, before Tommy reached out a hand and softly booped the top of Michael's nose. The zombie piglin let out a honk of approval, making Tommy's eyebrows raise in amusement. With the piglin happy, the boy turned to face Michael's parents.

"I don't think this is a dog, fellas."

Tubbo and Ranboo both released large sighs of relief that they didn't even know they were holding in, Tommy slightly tilting his head in confusion.

"Well, we said he wasn't a dog, Tommy. We said he was our son."

"Some people call their dogs their kids, so I could only guess."

As the best friends talked, Ranboo gazed over at Michael with affection, feeling a grin spread across his face. What Ranboo didn't expect, however, was how closely Michael seemed to be watching Tommy.

Surprising Ranboo again, the piglin stood up on wobbly legs, trotting over to where Tommy was leaning on a piece of furniture. Snorting, he clutched on to one of Tommy's legs, leading Tommy to jolt from the sudden contact a little, before instinctively trying to lean away from Michael. Recognizing that Tommy was having a bit of a rough time at the moment, Tubbo leaned down and carefully removed Michael's arms from Tommy's leg, mumbling soft words of comfort and encouragement to both Tommy and Michael.

After Michael was removed, Tommy had to take a moment to catch his breath and clear his thoughts, his eyes shutting for a moment as he muttered unintelligible words to himself. Tubbo and Ranboo waited for him to recover, Michael watching with curiosity.

"A'ight, I'm okay now," Tommy inhaled deeply, letting out an equally deep exhale before opening his eyes again.

"I'm really sorry about that-" Ranboo began to apologize before getting cut off by Tommy.

"Nah, don't apologize, big man. Michael's a fetus, he doesn't know about complicated adult things like trauma."

Tubbo let out a snort of laughter, which Michael tried to copy the sound of.

"He's not normally physically affectionate like this on first meetings," Ranboo spoke, though mostly to himself more than anyone else.

Michael let out a squeal of frustration, alerting the trio to the piglin trying to wiggle out of Tubbo's arms. Tubbo and Ranboo's ears stood up in surprise at the sudden noise, the two looking down at their son worriedly. Tommy had looked startled when Michael began his outburst, but now looked much calmer as he leaned down a little to come face-to-face with Michael.

Tubbo and Ranboo's surprise grew even bigger as Tommy began to make squealing and oinking noises himself, causing Michael's fit to stop. The piglin's eyes were wide with excitement as Tommy spoke, his stubby arms starting to wave in excitement as he continued his excited honking, which Tommy responded to as well.

"What the fuck," Tubbo whispered in shock, his eyes wide, and Ranboo had to agree with him there.

Tommy proceeded to sit down on the floor, glancing up at Tubbo with a lopsided smile. "You can put 'em down, Big T. It's alright."

Following Tommy's instructions, Tubbo set his son down, who immediately sprinted towards the blonde at high speeds. He halted in his tracks when Tommy barked out another noise, one that Ranboo and Tubbo didn't understand, that brought Michael to a slower pace. It sounded somewhat familiar to Ranboo, but he didn't know why.

Michael ended up standing in front of a seated Tommy, the taller boy laughing as he reached out his hand slowly. The piglin stepped forward slowly, moving to grip one of Tommy's fingers gently, which allowed Tommy to carefully wrap his hands around Michael, lifting him up to eye level. Tommy let out a small noise again, causing Michael to oink in delight.

Smirking with satisfaction, Tommy looked back over at the stunned parents, sticking out his tongue a little. "Surprise, motherfuckers."

"HOW DID-" Tubbo began to belt out, quickly stopped by Ranboo by the taller boy pressing down on Tubbo's head gently. With this sign from Ranboo, Tubbo cleared his throat, continuing to speak.

"Tommy, and I mean this in the nicest way possible: how the fuck did you do that?"

"Wot? You jealous that I can speak piglin?"

Ranboo was learning so much today that he didn't expect in any way whatsoever.

"One," the enderman spoke, trying to keep his voice at a calm level while his husband stood slack-jawed. "Yes, I am. Two: how do you know piglin?"

The shit-eating grin on Tommy's face grew wider upon seeing how he stunned his friends, causing him to look back at Michael and speak in piglin once more, making the kid chirp out happily.

"Tomathy Danger Careful Kraken Innit Minecraft, you tell me what you just said to him right now," Tubbo folded his arms, trying to hide the previous shock on his face with little-to-no success. Ranboo, meanwhile, now had to process the fact that he had never known Tommy's full name.

"I just told him that I was cooler than the both of you," Tommy barked out a laugh, Michael giggling along with him as Tommy set him back down on the ground.

"Anyway," the blonde continued, watching as Michael began to walk in circles around him. "I learned piglin from Techno. He suggested we use it for commands in battle so nobody else would understand what we were saying."

It suddenly made sense what Tommy had said to Michael that sounded familiar. Ranboo had heard Technoblade use that exact sound when they were exploring in the nether, and had come face-to-face with a piglin squadron. "Wait, were you telling Michael to approach safely?"

"Hell yeah, Ranboob" Tommy gave a thumbs-up, Michael trying to copy the gesture with his own hooves. "When I was still living with him as well, I'd go to the Nether when we had nothing else to do. Yeah, the Nether is a horrible shitty place and I want nothing to do with it, but it was the only way I could make friends while I was still in exile."

"WAIT," Tubbo's eyes widened even more, his face looking like it might split open from surprise. "You spoke with piglins in the Nether!?"

Tommy's reply was shooting finger-guns towards his best friend with a grin, with Michael trying to copy them once more.

"As fascinating as this conversation is, and trust me, I'm absolutely going to ask you to death about this," Ranboo pointed at Tommy in a jokingly accusatory manner. "Tubbo, I think we just lost our son."

Tubbo looked towards Michael, the little one trying intensely to copy Tommy's movements. "God damn it Tommy, you stole our son."

"Hey, I'm not stealing him," Tommy protested with laughter, reaching over to gently pet Michael's head, Ranboo noticing how his touch lingered on the thin layer of hair, stroking it softly. Ranboo noted to himself that piglin hair seemed like a comfort texture to Tommy. He’d tell Tubbo about it later, but for now he’d play along with the bit of his friend stealing his son. “Oh really? Then why’s our son copying you?”

“Because I’m the coolest uncle.”

Silence stretched throughout the room once more, with both Tubbo and Ranboo’s eyes wide. The small on Tommy’s face slowly changed into a worried one, and he looked away from the couple and at the ground. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know if-”

“Watch how hard I can cry,” Tubbo mumbled, his eyes looking bright with joy before he went to Tommy’s side, kneeling down to give him a genuine smile. “Tommy, dude, I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Even better than Ranboo proposing to me.”

“Um, rude,” Ranboo giggled, kneeling at Tommy’s other side and allowing Michael to climb up on his lap. “But yeah, I know what Tubbo’s getting at. We weren’t sure if you would even want to be Michael’s uncle-”

“Wot?” Tommy sounded genuinely surprised at that, his own eyes wide. “Why wouldn’t I want to be? He’s my best friend-brother’s son!”

“I mean, yeah, but after what happened with Techno, we weren’t sure if piglins would...”

Tommy fell quiet, his eyes shifting to gaze at the ground as uncertainty crossed his face. After a stretch of silence, only filled with Michael’s occasional chirring, Tommy gazed back at the two parents. “As complicated as my relationship with Techno might be, that shouldn’t impact this little guy,” Tommy bore his fangs in a grin, making Michael clap with his little hands. “Besides, I can understand him while you two can’t. Who else is gonna teach you two piglin without fuss?”

“Are you holding our child’s language for ransom?” Tubbo was about to playfully punch Tommy in the arm, but appeared to suddenly remember the situation and placed his hand back down.

“Noooo, but now you two need me.”

Ranboo rolled his eyes, making Tommy pretend-pout at him. Tommy folded his arms, faking disappointment. “You’re so mean to me, Ranboo. I take back my marriage blessing.”

“My husband! No!”

“We can elope, Ranboo. Tommy can’t stop us.”

“I’m holding your whole son for ransom then.”

“Actually, I don’t need my husband anymore.”

“Tubbo! How could you do this to me?

And Michael squealed with delight as the three continued on into the night.

[bcdwhcre]

That AOT fic u wrote for me was *chef’s kiss* expect many fluff Levi requests from me in the future. I want domestic man, Levi’s (secret) kids coming to visit him at the squadron 😔🤚🏻

“Family Man,” Levi x Reader

A/N: thank you🥺 I enjoyed writing it and I really liked the idea you requested!

Summary: where Levi is a family man and the scouts end up finding out when his kids randomly come to visit him.

Warnings!: none, season 1-2 Levi for ya

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Levi was a very hard nut to crack, no one really truly knows him and the soft shell he has underneath. It had taken a lot of time for him to even consider having kids, he honestly didn’t want to think about bringing a child into the world he looks at as hell and he didn’t want his children to carry that burden.

But one day it happened out of the blue, you were pregnant and it had taken Levi until the birth of your first boy for him to be convinced that he is now a father. Once his eyes laid upon his small child that slept in his arms, the baby barely an hour old and Levi completely fell in love.

You never seen Levi so over protective until your son was born. It was like he changed into a completely different person and with that, he suddenly became a family man. The long days of him being a prick to everyone was worth it to come home to laughter and smiles.

Two years after your son was born, you ended up birthing your second boy and Levi was over the moon to the point where he was definitely their favorite parent. Some nights you would find him sleeping in your bed with both boys cuddled up to him and some days you would catch Levi making fake car noises as he played.

But while Levi went to work, he had never told anyone about his personal life. About his wife nor his kids that he would leave back at home. It’s not like he wanted to keep them a secret or keep them hidden, he just felt like leaving his life private was the safest thing to do.

As years flashed by, both boys 10 and 8 years old, you noticed how much of Levi was in the both of them. They would go out, explore the town and always had you on your toes.

One day in particular, you had brought them out in the town to put up items you needed. In the past, you have showed them where their father would work but never have you stepped inside or bothered any of the scouts, especially Levi. You made sure to not let him see the three of you walk by.

The boys, however, remembered where exactly their father worked at. They were fascinated and they definitely looked up to Levi more than you could possibly imagine and that left their curious minds wondering about what the inside looked like.

As your back was turned for merely a second, both boys had ran off, hand in hand straight for their fathers base. When you finally looked behind you, you cursed under your breath and tried to run after them.

Levi was outside, he had his cadets lined up as he strictly gave them orders to do around the base such as cleaning, attending to the horses and more until he heard screaming laughter in the distance.

“Daddy!” One of the boys shouted, getting his attention quickly as the two kids happily ran over.

“Daddy?” Eren repeated, looking around and landed on the children as they ran up to Levi, instantly hugging his legs.

“What are you doing here?” Levi kneeled down, looking at both boys and their goofy grins, making him crack a small smile.

The cadets stood there, frozen in place as you finally caught up and tried to catch your breath. Levi’s eyes met with yours and he didn’t want to say it or look like it but he was upset underneath it all. He couldn’t believe you would be as careless as to let your two children run here let alone know what this place was.

“I’m so sorry, they ran when I wasn’t looking.” You tried to give a apologetic look and he nodded his head, looking down as the boys shot many questions his way about his work and what it was like.

“Since when was Levi a dad?” Armin whispered towards Eren and he shook his head, the look of confusion written all over their faces.

“You’re dismissed, cadets.” Levi shot them a glare, making them scatter off to do their jobs they were assigned to do.

Levi stood up straight, he tried not to be annoyed, his greatest blessings were standing before him and he tried to not let it bother him. This day would’ve happened sooner or later, he had to think about this as something positive.

“Come on, I’ll show you the horses.” Levi grabbed both boys hands and walked where the horses were, letting them both sit on his horse as he walked it around in a circle.

You had stood close by, watching and the smile on Levi’s face had proven that he couldn’t stay angry at the children for long. They would always make him smile towards the end of the day and as he watched them laugh and have fun riding his horse and seeing where their dad worked, he was more than happy.

The scouts ended up peaking out the window to look at Levi and the side of him that they were seeing before their very eyes had shocked them all. All their mouths were parted open and they all glanced at each other like they were in a dream or alternate universe where Levi was actually a happy man.

Once the sun started to set, you had to pry the boys away from their father to let him finish working. Levi was quick to kiss his sons goodbye, giving you a kiss on the cheek afterwards.

“I’m sorry.” You mentioned again, making him shake his head repeatedly.

“Don’t be, it was great having them here, it made my day.” Levi had reassured you, tucking the strand of hair behind your ear and gave you a small smile.

After that, all three of you were sent off to go back home so you could prepare dinner and get the kids ready for bed. The entire walk home both of them rambled on about them riding Levi’s horse and seeing the inside of the base.

You couldn’t help but feel your heart ache from the amount of happiness you felt. You had ruffled their dark hair that sat on their heads, letting them continue their story the whole way home.

Once Levi was now alone, walking into the base and looking around at all the scouts as they stared at him, all shocked and didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t know you were such a family man, Captain.” Hange teased, nudging his side with her elbow and he rolled his eyes.

“Alright alright, you guys had your fun today but I don’t think I see this place spotless like I asked.” With that, all the cadets began to scatter again and finishing the cleaning they had to do.

Levi walked back to his office, a grunt leaving his lips but when he was alone behind his desk, he had glanced over at the small picture frame he kept on top of the four of them, a sudden happiness filling his heart.

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I tried my best 🥺 feel free to send in requestsssss, I’m also trying to get through the ones I have right now as fast as I can❤️

• Main Masterlist •

• AOT Masterlist •

[sound-under-the-sea]

Lilith Headcanons:

A/N: These are just some miscellaneous headcanons.

Lilith has insomnia. Ever since she was a child she had trouble falling asleep which was noticeable when her and Eda used share a room, and she noticed Eda fast asleep while she laid awake staring at the wall.

It would get worse when it came to tests or exams, as she would lay awake stressed out regardless of if she studied which she did. She would helpless stare at the clock trying to go to sleep.

Don’t bring up the Coven tryouts as we know Lilith was already awake the night before getting the curse, but even then, she would lay awake worried if it worked.

Now…Now she lays awake with guilt consuming her mind of what she did, as she hears Eda toss and turn in her room with another nightmare. It was all her fault.

After joining the Emperor’s Coven, it grew worse as her drill sergeant didn’t seem to like her and was incredibly strict. Fellow recruits found her awake, but they thought it was nerves.

She would take up stakeout watch as it was hard for her to go to sleep, so she stayed up while the others rested.

This was noticed after she left training and was apart of a Squadron. The Scout Captain noticed how she went on night patrols when she wasn’t supposed to be. They told her to go back to the barracks and she apologized profusely.

The Previous Golden Guard figured it out after finding her late at night.

“Hey…Are you alright, kid?” He asked, as he approached her.

She stiffened before bowing. “I’m sorry, Sir, I just took a shift from Irvin and he seemed tired, so I asked. I will report to the barracks and await further instructions. I didn’t intend to disobey orders.”

“Hey, hey, slow down.” He said gently, as he rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not mad, but I am worried about why you’re up. Can you not sleep, Scout?”

She padded her thumb against her staff. “…I couldn’t sleep accordingly, Sir. I apologize.”

“I see..Has this been a persistent issue or has this been recent?”

“Persistent, Sir.”

He rubbed the bottom of his mask, as he hums in thought. He knew these symptoms well. Insomnia, chronic it would seem.

“Have you been tested for insomnia, Scout?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. “Been to any Healers before about it?”

She shook her head. “I only go for the occasional Grudgby injury or playing around with my sister.”

“I see…Have you told your parents about it?”

She paused before shaking her head. “They’re busy and I’m fine.”

He hums in response as he glanced over for anything out of the ordinary, but she seemed fine. Then again his Uncle did not care of his insomnia and he never felt confident to ask. He was a busy man and expected him to handle any problems himself. Now he was wondering if this common occurrence outside of the castle.

“Very well. Follow me, Scout.” He heard the Scout’s breath hitch. “You will being doing patrol with me. I could use the company and I can’t leave young recruits by themselves.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

He heard the Scout trail after him as they went into the night.

When Lilith became a Captain of her first squadron, she would watch over them as they slept while she did reports. She found no use in sleeping, but understood from her experience that the younger recruits needed rest in order to better adjust.

The Scouts would be worried but they were be reassured that it’s alright and to just rest. So they would with one keeping an ear out for trouble.

After she loss her her first squadron during a monster attack, she didn’t feel like sleeping much after that as she sat on her bunk in the barrack. Fellow Scout Captains gave their quiet condolences before returning to their Squadrons. The Previous Golden Guard waited for a few months before giving her a new Squadron.

Lilith occupied her time with work and patrols, as she took night shifts for fellow senior Captains.

When Steve came with the new Squadron, he noticed how she would lay awake in her tent or finds her patrolling outside. He would quietly follow her to keep her company. Much to Lilith’s worry.

“Is there something wrong, Scout Curran?” She asked, glancing down at him.

“Nope!” He replied cheerfully.

“…If nothing is wrong you should return to the tent.” She ordered, as she walked. “It will take time for your body to adjust to the new routine.”

“But what about you?” He asked, following her. “You seem lonely, Ma’am. Can I just walk with you? Just for a bit?”

She halted and turned to notice his bright gaze under his cowl.

“Very well…” she sighed, shoulders slumping. “Only one round, but that’s it. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He saluted.

They walked together into the night.

Steve would follow her on night patrol for a while before heading to bed. Other times him and his Squad mates would pile into the Captain’s tent to talk with Lilith before bed. They spend time talking about their school years or reflect on what happened during the day.

After they lost members of their Squadron bit by bit, Steve would follow her on night patrols because he couldn’t handle being alone in the tent. Lilith didn’t mind and it was known that she had a shadow following every night. He would stay in the Captain’s tent to sleep while she filled out reports.

Slowly over the years, Steve figured out about Lilith’s insomnia and would try and coax her to go to sleep with various results. Sometimes he’d noticed her fall asleep at her desk in the middle of the afternoon while doing paperwork or she would sometimes doze off while standing up.

Lilith doesn’t sleep in normal places. You can find her asleep at her desk, on a couch or on the rare occasion standing up. No one gets it, but hey, you can find a stray Scout sleeping in the broom closet or freezer from time to time.

She hates this habit and it stresses her out to try and sleep better in her bed but she again lays awake. She just think she’s broken or something.

When she was selected to be the Previous Golden Guard’s bodyguard, he noticed her fall asleep standing up. He laughed in amusement while she tried to apologize for actions.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” He chuckled. “Though I suggest trying not to get caught.”

Lilith tried to refrain from sleeping while standing though it does happen.

After she became the Coven Head, her insomnia grew worse due to the increased workload and stress. Oftentimes she would barely sleep because she felt something had to be done. She would ebb this by swapping with one of the Scout Captains on patrol in order to feel productive. Doing something usually helped.

The Scouts and Scout Captains were worried about her habits. Steve took it upon himself to commit “treason”.

“I am sorry it had to come to this, Coven Head Clawthorne,” he said with his hands clasp behind his back, “but you have left us no choice.”

“I see…” Lilith hums, as she glances at the Scouts that surrounded her. “So it has come to treason, then?”

“We tried asking you, but you continue to refuse.” He replied.

“You will pay for this.” She retorts cooly.

“I know…” he smiles. “Scouts, pile formation! Go!”

Without missing a beat, the Scouts moved at Lilith in perfect synchronization, as their Coven tried moving away on her staff, but it failed to respond. Steve rushed forward, arms out stretched, as he pushed her into the pile. The many arms immediately wrapped around her in a cuddle.

Lilith glared up at him. “You enjoy doing this, don’t you?”

“Yes…yes, I do.” Steve grinned, as he crossed his arms while the Scouts trapped their Coven Head. “You will thank us later.”

“When I get out of this, everyone is running laps.” She huffed, as she attempted to resist the comforting warmth of the pile. It slowly claimed her.

“I will make sure Kikimora doesn’t bother you and tell Darius to keep her occupied.” He said, as he walked to the door.

“You…better…” she yawned.

“Rest well, Coven Head Clawthorne.”

There is a challenge called Lilith Go the Fuck to Sleep Challenge.

Steve leads the team with the other Coven Scouts to make sure she rests accordingly. He has a Scout to see if she’s alright in her office before he goes and moves her to her couch.

Darius and Eberwolf are also on the team, as Darius knew Lilith used to accidentally fall asleep in class, so he wasn’t surprised when he found her asleep at her desk one time.

Eberwolf would put napkins on her head because they think they work as blankets while Darius puts cucumbers on her eyes to help with her eye bags.

Other times they would move her over to the couch as she just curls up on her side.

Once, Darius piggybacked Lilith to the barracks because he was sick of her sleeping on the couch. Lilith mumbled sleepily that he doesn’t have to do this.

One time Scouts went check on Lilith when they Darius an Ember moving her, and they immediately tried to rescue her but Lilith awoke to the noise and stopped them.

Coven Scouts are very distrustful of other Coven Heads and didn’t want Lilith to be disturbed.

It took them a long time warm up to the two while Steve coordinate with Darius to make Lilith went to sleep.

He was also the one to explain that Lilith may suffer from chronic insomnia.

Steve also threatens to call Darius if Lilith doesn’t go to bed much to her annoyance.

No one has been on the Lilith Go the Fuck to Sleep Challenge than her Palisman, Mike Socks. They’ve been there since day one, as they’ve nudges her to bed. Other times it just gentle pecking and squawking which would work.

Then there are the harder measures. The cute face. In which he would give an adorable expression and beg her to go to bed. This is first nuclear option.

The final one is being a little shit by pulling her to bed much to Lilith’s frustration. They apologizes afterwards.

Insomnia wasn’t the only thing that plagued Lilith, as she also suffered from migraines and headaches since she was a kid. This would cause her to miss school which would make her stress and have more headaches/migraines.

In order to bear the pain, she would prefer to lay in a dark room with little sound and with painkillers. Eda would stop by to check on her, but she would always tell she was fine and that she should go to school.

She didn’t bother eating much as she would vomit afterwards, so she only made sure to eat dry food and liquids.

When she became the Coven Head, her migraines and headaches grew worse the more stressed and overworked she became.

She was actively thankful her office lacked windows, as she didn’t have to worry about light seeping in. Though there was lack of guarantee about the noise that would pass by the hallway.

Mike is in tune of when Lilith has headaches or migraines and would coax her to stop her work and lay down. She wasn’t hesitant before relenting to their pleas.

She would lay on her couch as she let herself ride out the migraine. At times, she would ask her Palisman to bring her a cold compress from the cooler for her eyes. They would gently place it on her eyes and it gave her mild relief. She also had painkillers in one of the drawers.

Steve and the Scouts caught on after a while when they noticed their Coven Head absently blink her eyes and turn her gaze away from the light. Other times they notice her wince from a loud sound.

When Steve found her laying on the couch once, he asked if she was alright.

“Hmm? Steve?” Lilith asked, as she lifted the cold compress from her eyes. She winced at the sudden light from the door. “Shut the door!”

He blinked before quickly doing as asked. He shut the door before walking over by her side. He noticed her staff leaned against the armrest by her head.

“What happened? Are you alright?” He asked.

“Migraines…” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to yell, it’s just light bothers my eyes right now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said frowning. “I didn’t know. I never meant to—.”

“It’s alright, Steve.” She said, patting his shoulder as she put the compress back on her eyes. “You didn’t mean to.”

“Do you need anything? I can get you something to eat or drink.”

“No, no food…I can’t keep anything down right now.”

“Oh…Is there something I can do?”

“Peace and quiet would be nice, but I should be up shortly to finish some work.”

“Work?!” He questioned incredulously. “You can’t work in this condition. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine, Steve. It will pass and I will be back to work.”

He sighs, knowing there was no stopping her. In all the years he’s known her, she was dedicated to her work and nothing would stand in her way. No matter how bad of a condition.

“At least let me have a couple of Scouts to guard your door while you rest.” He suggested.

“Steve, we can’t just—.” Lilith tried to argue.

“Please.”

There was beat of silence before a sigh. “Very well…As long as they aren’t on break or needed elsewhere.”

“Of course.” He grinned before quietly rushing out.

“I really can’t say no to that kid.” She sighed, as she adjusts herself comfortably.

When Lilith has migraines, Steve positions to Scouts to guard her door to make sure no one disturbs her while she rests.

They check to make sure she’s ok as they don’t leave unless she dismisses them.

Darius and Eberwolf entered once when they found her laying on the couch with a cold compress. They deduced she was sick and left her be.

Other times they were met by Coven Scouts guarding her door.

“Coven Head Clawthorne isn’t accepting visitors at this time. We apologize, Coven Heads, Deamonne and Huntsman.”

Sometimes they would leave while other times Lilith would allow them to enter and Darius would request that no one disturb them.

“…Yes…Coven Head Deamonne.”

Though the most unruly visitor to Lilith’s office was always Kikimora, as she would slam open the door and walk in without a care in the world.

“Honestly, Lilith, how do you expect to catch the Owl Lady if you’re laying about?”

Lilith would apologize before quickly sitting up while clutching her head pounded before getting back to work.

The Scouts caught on and would try and distract Kikimora or deny her access to the office. Which never ended well as Lilith would get up and dismiss them afterwards.

If Darius and/or Eber were hanging out with Lilith, Darius would see to it that Kikimora was turned away.

“What they say is true, Kikimora. You will leave Coven Head Clawthorne be and she will get back to when she is able. Good day.”

Kikimora left in shock after that. Lilith mumbled thanks, but Darius said it was alright. He did the same to any other Coven Heads that chose to bother them.

Sometimes Darius would send to keep each other company. Lilith was confused as to what the boy wanted, but wasn’t in the mood to protest.

Hunter sits next to couch chatting away. She wouldn’t admit it at first, but she did find it relaxing.

After leaving the Emperor’s Coven, Eda was a bit aware of Lilith’s sleeping habits and was definitely aware of her headaches and migraines.

Sometimes she, Luz or King would find Lilith asleep on the couch with books piled next to her or against her chest.

Other times Hooty would find her awake at night for several days and he would tell Eda. She said she was fine and wasn’t tired. They didn’t believe her though but left it be.

Once Lilith asked if Hooty turn off the lights and close the curtains, and like the best friend he was, he did.

“…Does Eda have any cold compresses?”

“No, but I could ask her! Hoot hoot!”

“Please keep your voice down, Hootsifer.”

“Sorry, Lulu.”

Eda got her a cold compress, Mike removed themself from the staff to take it and hand it to Lilith, chirping in thanks.

“So you use cold compresses now?” Eda asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“It helps.” Lilith mumbled, as she applied it to her face.

“I take it eating is a no go?” She asked, as she remembered she would always throw up during her migraines.

“No, not unless you have something dry and light.” She answered.

“I could always buy it.”

“No, I’ll be fine…I just need to wait until it passes.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Ok.” She said, frowning as she left her be.

Eda bought her dry food anyways in case of her next migraine.

Lilith was grateful for it.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. That is all I have on that. Have a nice day/evening.