#pregnancy: naomi

[bagesims]

[neishroom]

Everybody except Gabriel was happy about the arrival of his little sister, Naomie

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[lesbianbanana]

hc that Naomi insists on having a normal nine month pregnancy and Apollo is just there the whole time trying to convince her to let him speed run it.

[katealpha]

I just couldn’t help myself but get at least one more comm of my new favorite manga scene in from @xmomokosx

Here we have Naomi as she appears after heading into the bathroom to see what’s happened to her body. She’s gone from 5 months to almost due in an instantaneous fashion. While her heart beats fast with fear and confusion, she feels the pushes and wiggles of a baby in her bell. she can’t help but wonder aloud if she’s dreaming or not, with no explanation for how this could happen to her. She calls off her current job, understandably feeling out of sorts. Just then, she feels pain clamping around her stomach, the taut surface driving up and shuddering. It’s almost too much for her to continue standing as she now knows that this accelerated pregnancy is going to end soon, and that she needs to get out of there, her life may depend upon it…

[mediumgayitalian]

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———

For some reason the lack of a little jingling bell throws her off.

It’s a quintessential diner thing, she supposes. A little bell above the door. There’s the weird decor and the pressed cotton uniforms and the yelling chef and the little bell. It was in both Back to the Future one and two. That’s how she knows she’s right.

But when she pushes open the door with windows so caked with grime she can hardly see through them, there is no little jingle. And when she looks up at the door frame, eyebrows furrowed, it seems sad and lonely. She’s never been so aware of the lack of a sound, the absence of a noise. It makes the rest of the silence of the diner seem eerie, wrong. Dead.

She takes a hesitant step forward, door swinging shut behind her. She realizes as she approaches the ordering counter that her hand rests palm cupped on her belly, and removes it immediately.

“Hello?”

There are a couple groups of people in the back, talking quietly over their food. It doesn’t make the diner seem any less abandoned, somehow. If anything it feels like a TV playing on mute in a hospital. Saturated static.

“Seat yourself, girl. You ain’t never been to a diner before?”

The woman that speaks is tall and plump and harsh-looking. A very strange mixing of features. They’re at odd with the diner-specific yellow uniform she wears, collar pressed but skirt wrinkled. Apron dusted with flour and streaked with machine oil. Face pinched, eyes hard, black hair resting in dainty ringlets along her shoulders. Her name tag only reads the name of the business.

“A couple,” Naomi defends. “One even had a hostess.”

The woman — who must be a manager — raises an eyebrow.

“You see a hostess’ station?”

“No.”

“Then why haven’t you sat yourself?”

“‘Cause I’m not here to eat.”

“Well, then, get the hell out of my restaurant.”

Naomi holds her gaze, tilting up her chin. She will not be swayed by orneriness. “I need a job.”

The manager eyes her critically. Naomi’s hands twitch, and the top of her head feels suddenly itchy. Summer before highschool she’d wrote her first resume — Mama’d drawn her a bath and sat behind her and spent two hours slowly untangling the ratty mess of curls on her head with nothing but a bottle of cheap jasmine conditioner and her own two fingers, telling her about lasting first impressions.

“Go home, kid.”

“I’m not a fu —” She stumbles over her words at the last second, catching herself before that eyebrow can climb any higher. It does, and the other eyebrow begins to climb with it, but she rights herself and powers on. “I can vote,” she says finally. “I can throw on a uniform and get blown up across seas. I can — I can adopt a child, if I so choose. Right now.”

The eyebrows reach critical height, brushing the end of her carefully teased hairline. Naomi watches them and their inspiring journey with intensity, instead of noticing how the manager’s eyes drop down to her stomach, linger, and then return to her face.

“You gonna adopt it right outta your womb, or what?”

Naomi snaps her mouth shut.

“Well,” she says, and nothing else.

The manager sighs. “This ain’t a charity.”

Naomi barely manages to bite the snark back from her voice before she speaks.“I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for work.”

Eyes shifting to the tables in the back, the manager leans over the counter, long fingers wrapping around the handle of a coffee pot so old the handle has worn right down to plain metal, and walks over to a beckoning customer. She fills a man’s mug with her lips pressed thin, offering a napkin to a child in a high chair.

“And why would I hire some pregnant kid?”

The customer pushes over a stack of plates without moving his eyes from the newspaper in front of him. There’s a woman on the other side of the table, holding a spoon out to the little kid, eyes desperate and tight smile slipping when the kid’s pudgy fist hits and sends the scoop of scrambled eggs flying. The man brings the coffee to his lips and waves the manager away.

“It’s illegal for an employer to discriminate against a pregnant person,” Naomi says finally. That had been drilled into her head by her Mama, too. That and how to keep her finances separate. She’ll have real trouble with that, what with the zero dollars she’ll have by the end of the week.

“Good thing I’m not your employer, then.” The manager sets the plates by a soapy sink, putting the coffee pot back on the hot plate. “Get lost.”

I am lost, Naomi almost says, almost slamming a hand in the counter to catch herself from her suddenly weak knees. She watches the manager watch her, tight little frown furling the corner of her mouth, through the blur of her eyes, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat.

“Please,” she says, too quiet, then tries again: “Please.”

The manager disappears behind a short half-wall, following the sound of an oven dinging. Naomi gasps silently, bowing over the counter, breathing heavily. She curls her hands into fists and presses them, hard, one to her chest and one right under her ribs. Ka-thump, ka-thump, kickkickkick. Kickkick ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-kickthump.

There’s an echoing clatter as a hot tray slams on a stove top. Scrambling upright, Naomi lifts the little door on the counter, scanning the space. The register is ancient and yellowed, buttons so worn with use the labels have worn away. There’s a thread-thin mat at the base of it. The counters are clean but scratched, walls stained but dust-free. The coffeemaker gurgles pathetically. An apron hangs from a hook nailed to the wall by the kitchen window.

As quietly as she can, Naomi slips it over her head. It’s tight around the waist, so she folds it once and ties it around her ribs, instead, letting the straps dangle loosely at the butt of her jeans. She ties her hair quickly behind her head and steps up to the creaky sink, silently moving the pile of dishes to the empty counter. When the clatter in the kitchen starts up again, she turns the water on as quick as she can — hack gurgle rush — and squeezes the mostly empty soap bottle as hard as she can to make up a lather.

“Hell are you doing?” says the manager gruffly, two pies balancing on her oven mitt hands.

Naomi shrugs.

“You deaf, or stupid?”

She thinks if laughter like a lyre and sun golden hair, plucking at her out-of-tune guitar string and asking a similar question. The ghost of a smile pulls across her face.

“Not deaf. And that’s rude.”

A pie plate crinkles under the press of a knife, and the scent of candy cherry mixes with slightly-burnt coffee. Makes her think of Grammy’s house, the smell of the jams she spent sixty years making soaked permanently in the wooden foundations. The manager finishes plating the pie slices and sliding them under the display glass around the same time Naomi suds up the last dirty mug. She watches her red-painted finger tap, tap, tap on her bicep out of the corner of her eye as she rinses it off.

Unplugging the sink, dirty water gurgling as it drains, she points a hesitant elbow at the dishtowel tucked into the managers pocket. She grabs it, threading it around her fingers, twisting the worn pink tail.

“Freezer broke two days ago.” She picks at a loose thread ‘til it pulls clean from the rest of the fabric, balling it up and sliding it into her pocket. She tugs on the fabric one last time, then tosses it, bundled, into Naomi’s waiting hands. “Tables in the back better have their bill by the time I get back from fixin’ it.”

Naomi hunches over the sopping dishes to hide her smile, listening to the scritch scritch click of the manager’s shoes as she stomps away.

———

Di doesn’t believe in paycheques.

“Great way to get ripped off,” she likes to grumble, slapping a stack of 20s bundled in a stapled piece of notebook paper into Naomi’s hands every Friday. She doesn’t think much of taxes, either, or lawyers, or racecar drivers. Naomi doesn’t quite understand that last one, but she knows better than to ask. As far as she’s concerned she’s still on probation, and probably will be if she works at the diner for another four months. Or the rest of her life.

On one hand, Naomi doesn’t have a bank account, so a cheque would be useless to her anyway. The cash she can use immediately and whenever she needs it. On the other hand, which is currently occupied with sewing back closed the hole she gouged in her backseat for the seventeenth week in a row, she has nowhere exactly to put that money, so it stresses her out.

Maybe she should look into an apartment.

Of course there are no apartment buildings in Sheffield. But she’s pretty sure Iraan is a big enough town to have a couple, as squat as they may be, and it’s only a twenty minute drive. There’s more to do there, too, so maybe she’d actually have a reason to take a day off every week. It’s not like she can buy a damn house with the less-than 3000 dollars she has saved up.

Waddling out of her car, she ducks into the diner. You’d think she’d be used to the lack of bell, now, but she finds that she still anticipates it; finds that her brain still quietly signals to her ears to prep for it. It always sets her off, a little.

“You’re late,” says Di critically, uniform hanging over her arm, foot tap tap-ing on the linoleum floor.

“I don’t have a starting time,” Naomi says lightly. “On account that I am not your employee.“

Di huffs, rolling her eyes. Naomi rolls them right back, snatching the uniform from her arms on the way to the bathroom. She has to wear Di’s, now, because she doesn’t fit into her old one. Di is much taller and broader than her and the stupid thing hangs down to her mid-calf, awkwardly drowning her shoulders, but it’s the only thing wide enough to cover her belly and Di refuses to let Naomi just wear her regular clothes.

(“You’re indecent,” she always says, sneering at her jean shorts, but Naomi has learned to translate you’re indecent but also you can’t have bare legs around hot oil, which she’s come to appreciate. Sure, Di makes her clean the bathroom whether or not she needs to crawl around in her knees to stay balanced, but she doesn’t want her burned to death, at least. That’s something.)

“And your hair’s unwashed,” she adds, as if Naomi had not walked away. She reaches up and adjusts Naomi’s collar, like that is going to do anything to change the fact that she looks like she’s wearing a collapsed tent. “You’re going to drive customers away.”

Naomi doesn’t say, you open before the community centre does, so I can’t shower in the mornings. She does not say, I spent last night trying to change the oil on my car when I couldn’t lie down to reach it. She doesn’t say, I’m too scared to sleep in the community centre parking lot, because my windows aren’t tinted and I don’t know what’ll wake me up.

She says, “The only thing scaring customers away is your busted attitude,” and scurries into the kitchen before Di can order her to clean the friers.

———

Naomi’s favourite part of the diner is the radio.

She can’t believe that Di allows it, what with her general distaste for joy in all of its forms. But it’s balanced on the window sill watching over the oven, antenna extended out the torn screen, dials permanently stuck on an old forgotten country channel. Naomi likes to hum along as she works, frying potatoes or kneading dough, twirling around the kitchen with a mop or a broom. It’s nice even when she’s cramping, even when her feet are sore — she likes hollering along to Dolly Parton when she knows Di is listening, want to move ahead, but the boss won’t seem to let me, likes the way her little parasite goes absolutely buck wild whenever Willie Nelson comes on. She can hear it even when she’s in the dining area, plates balanced all up her arms (and on her belly, too, which is one of the many things she has discovered it’s useful for), humming along to scratching dorks and scritching napkins, working 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin’.

She amuses herself often by making up lives for the various patrons. They’re close enough to the main highway that they get all sorts driftin’ in, from families with bratty kids who upend their food on the floor for Naomi to clean to men in starched suits who never leave a tip. The regulars she’s gotten to know, like the older, stocky, short-haired woman called Bella who smiles softly at her and leaves more than double her bill every breakfast. Or the two young men, college seniors, she thinks, who come in every Saturday afternoon and laugh loudly and talk about strange subjects and rope her into their conversations when there’s no one around and she’s bored.

Other patrons, though, strangers, she speculates. Like there’s a man in the farthest back corner, now, hunched over in the peeling green vinyl seats, scrawling frantically in a tiny notebook. She imagines he’s a private investigator, chasing a lead, about to discover that the woman on a date on the other end of the diner is cheating on her husband of fifteen years.

“Naomi, if you don’t get your ass back to work.”

She throws her hands up. “There’s nothing to do!”

Di observes the half-empty diner, noting the clean tables, neat counters, sparkling kitchen. Each customer sitting satisfied in their table, coffee mugs full, plates still hefty with food.

“Clean the grout.”

Scowling, Naomi stomps to the kitchen, wrenching open the cupboard under the counter and yanking out the Mr. Clean and scrub brush. It’s an ordeal and a half to get on the floor, wincing at the extra weight on her knees, sitting back on her heels with every spray and keeping one hand on her belly while the other scrubs. I Got Stripes by Johnny Cash starts playing through the radio, and she grits out the lyrics with every drag of the brush through the tiles.

“— and then chains, them chains, they’re ‘bout to drag me down —”

A pair of worn black boots come stomping into her line of vision. Naomi finishes scrubbing at a stubborn smear of grease, relishing in how it submits under her power, then rests her weight on her tired hands and tilts her chin up to glare up at her boss.

“I got stripes, stripes around my shoulders,” she sings defiantly, “chains, chains around my feet —”

“I should whip you, you damn drama queen,” Di says darkly, glaring right back. “Had three separate customers come on up to me askin’ me if I’m mistreatin’ ‘that poor young pregnant girl’.”

Naomi smiles triumphantly.

Di scowls, rolling her eyes hard enough to visibly strain her face, and drops some kind of foam pads at her feet. She stomps off without another word, scowling at the radio.

Poking at the pads, Naomi discovers they’re meant to be strapped to her knees. She slips them on, immediately noticing the relief.

For the rest of her shift, she’s an angel.

Di even almost smiles at her.

———

“Naomi, go home.”

“What happened to kid?” Naomi pants, knuckles going white against the counter. She breathes slowly and carefully through her mouth — in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in, two — and grits her teeth, staring determinately at the sticky tabletop until the dizziness fades. “I didn’t even know you knew my name.”

“I don’t.” A roughened hand rests on the small of her back, loosening the too-tight apron straps. “You’re sick, kid.”

“I’m fine.”

She tilts forward. Di barely manages to catch her, settling her slowly on the floor without so much as a comment about how heavy she is.

“The diner is empty, Naomi.” The same roughened hand moves up to the back of her neck, untangling the sweaty strands of hair that stick to her skin. Her voice is unusually soft. “You’re nine months pregnant, kiddo. You need to go home. You need to rest —”

“I need to work.”

With great effort, Naomi shoves her away, standing slowly to her feet. The world is still wobbly and bile climbs up her throat, but she pushes forward, hands half-extended beside her. She reaches back for the wet rag, swiping weakly at the table. An onslaught of nausea makes her pause, mouth clamped shut, breathing quick and deep through dry nostrils.

When she speaks again, Di’s voice is hard. “I’m not asking. Get out of my diner. Go home, or you won’t be allowed back. I won’t be accused of killing some dumbass kid who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“I can’t —” she gags, tears springing in her eyes, desperately trying to wrestle back some control of her body — “there’s nowhere, please, Di, let me —”

She slaps a hand to her mouth, heaving. She hasn’t even — she hasn’t eaten all day. The smell of anything makes her want to vomit. The idea of putting anything more in her body makes her want to peel off her skin. She feels — bloated and freakish and ugly; like an unsuspected astronaut on a sieged spaceship.

Like she’s about to burst.

“Oh, for the love of — Naomi, please tell me you are not nine months pregnant and sleeping in your fucking car.”

Naomi says nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think of Mama’s peony-scented perfume.

“Jesus Christ.”

Stomp, click, stomp stomp. Rattling chain, swishing cardboard. Flicking switch. Turning dial, fading music. Stomp, click, stomp stomp.

Two callused hands on her biceps, dragging her upright.

“C’mon, up you get. Where’re your keys?”

A hand digs around in her apron pocket.

“What, d’you fuckin’ run these over or somethin’? The hell’d you fuckin’ do to these things?”

No jingle on the door. A flipped sign.

“No, obviously you can’t — go get in the fuckin’ passenger seat, dumbass. God.”

Di mutters something about stupid kids and stupider adults, for putting up with them. Naomi smiles tiredly. Daddy used to say that all the time, flicking her on the forehead.

“Roll the window down. You need fresh air.”

The slight breeze coming in from the window is helpful, actually. It’s been a disgustingly hot summer, and Naomi has had to sleep with her windows down to avoid suffocating. She wakes up to mosquito bites in places she frankly did not know could be bitten.

“D’you think you’re going into labour?” Di asks quietly, over Dolly’s crooning. Bittersweet memories, that’s all I’m takin’ with me.

Naomi sighs, shaking her head. Already, the nausea has faded into the background. The sweat cools against her skin, and she stops feeling quite so much like she’s going to die.

“No. It’s only been eight months and a little less than two weeks.”

“…You remember the exact date?”

Well, hello, feverish flush. How I’ve missed you so. Will you do me a favour and cook me alive, while you’re here?

“It was a very memorable occasion,” Naomi mumbles, shrinking back into her seat.

“I see.”

Naomi’s never seen Di look quite so amused before. Her whole face softens, and her brown eyes look warm, for once. Naomi would attack her if she had the strength.

Di cruises slowly down Main St, conscientious of the kids ducking in and out of the shops, laughing with their friends. A tween girl looks over at an older boy and whips back over to her friends when he meets her eyes, the whole group of them descending into delighting shrieks. Naomi watches them with a smile and an ache in her chest. She wonders how Molly’s doing. How Esther’s holding up, how Leela is faring. Jen’s at school, now, all the way up in NYC. She hopes they’re well and tries not to hate them for not being here.

Sheffield’s small, and there’s not a street Naomi hasn’t driven down. She spends most of her free time in the community centre pool or the desert around the diner, sure, but she’s been around. When Di turns on Pine St and follows her all the way down, though, she frowns, looking over and asking a wordless question.

Di doesn’t answer. She’s driven them all the way to the other side of town in less than five minutes, pulling into a gravel parking lot and killing the engine.

“C’mon,” she grunts, climbing out of the tiny car and waiting, arms crossed, for Naomi to do the same.

“Sure, sure, let the pregnant woman crawl out of her own seat. Don’t lift a finger or anything.”

Di rolls her eyes.

As soon as Naomi has struggled her way out of the car, which takes her a good four minutes, Di stalks off. In her harried attempt to follow her, Naomi feels like a duck hopped up on an energy drink.

“What kinda money do you have?”

Naomi looks at her strangely. “Uh, what you pay me.”

“Yes, obviously, I meant savings.”

“What you pay me,” Naomi repeats.

Di purses her lips. “Well.”

She does not finish her thought. Instead, she strides down the gravel driveway, heedless of Naomi’s struggle behind her, until she approaches a squat looking building with ‘OFFICE’ printed on the little window.

“She needs a room,” she says to the clerk sitting behind it, gesturing at Naomi.

Naomi looks at her in alarm.

“Di, I can’t —”

“Fifty a night,” responds the man quickly.

“Try again.”

Di’s response is swift and immediate, ignoring Naomi’s tugging hand. She pulls away, resting her hands on her lower back, swivelling her head between Di and the man.

“Rate’s a rate, Di.”

She’s not surprised this man knows Di — everyone knows Di. But the slant to his eyebrows is unfamiliar, the hands clasped easily behind his head. He relaxes back into a leather office chair, heeled boot hiked up to rest in his knee, whistling absentmindedly in the face of Di’s glare.

“Two hundred a week.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not asking, Jed.”

The man — Jed — finally starts to look irate, meeting Di’s jaw-set stare with one of his own.

“I’m sorry, I musta missed something. Did you up and buy this place?”

Di doesn’t answer him right away. She never slouches, always standing at her full height, and she’s mighty tall for a woman. For anyone, really. She has a way of planting herself right in front of the sun, no matter where she is. Jed stares up at her, squinting, cast in Di’s shadow everywhere but where he needs to be sheltered.

“You gotta laundry list of shit you done owed me your whole life, Jed.”

Jed just his chin out.

“I don’t owe her shit.”

Blunt fingers wrap around her elbow. “She’s mine.”

“Ain’t how this works, Di.”

“Says who? You?”

For all her intensity, Naomi doesn’t think Di’ll actually fight anyone. If she would, Naomi would’ve gotten her ass kicked months ago.

(She’s mine. Kiddo. You need rest. Roll down the window.)

(…Well.)

Regardless, a flash of fear flits across Jed’s face. He cuts his gaze from Naomi to Di and then back again, pupils shrinking, and then invariably comes to a decision.

“Two fifty,” he snaps, scowling. “Not a penny less, Di.”

Di nods once. “Fine.”

She tightens the hold on Naomi’s elbow, dragging her away from the window. There’s an echoing bang, bang, bang, interspersed with muffled curses, before Jed stumbles out of a door on the side of the scaffolding. He stomps away without looking back, and Di tugs her along to follow.

“Laundry is your own problem. Clean your own shit. If you miss a payment, I’m kicking you out. Clear?”

Naomi stares. Jed standing in front of another low, old building, but this one is much longer, a door posited every dozen or so feet. A plastic chair sits in front of every door, and every door is numbered.

A motel, Naomi realises.

“Clear, kid?”

“Crystal,” Naomi manages, throat dry. Jed practically throws the key at her head, stomping back to the office. Numbly, Naomi slides it in the lock, pushing open the door.

The room isn’t big. There’s a double bed in the middle, a window in the far side and a dresser under it. A TV rests in a dugout shelf in the wall, and there’re two small doors next to it; a closet and a bathroom, Naomi assumes. Smaller than her bedroom back home.

Much, much bigger than her car.

“You’re gonna have to work another ten hours a week to afford this place,” Di says critically. When Naomi looks back at her, she’s lingering at the doorway, staring resolutely at Naomi’s face. Not a spare glance for the room itself.

Naomi does the math fast in her head.

“Twenty hours.”

Di scowls. “Don’t insult me, kid. Ten more hours a week; make sure you’re early tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you’re sick again, either.”

Naomi swallows. She smooths a hand over the quilt tucked neatly over the bed — it’s soft, if not warm. The pillow is plump.

God, she’s missed pillows.

“Thank you, Di,” she says quietly.

Di makes a small twitching motion with her head that may, in some lighting, be considered a nod, then stalks off. Naomi sinks into the mattress; surprised at how much her feet aches now that she’s off of them.

She swings them up, kicking off her boots, to rest on top of the blanket. She leans against the rickety headboard. She rests her hand on her swollen stomach and slowly, silently, begins to cry.

“You and me and sheer fuckin’ will, kid,” she mumbles, face crumpling. The constant ache in the small of her back lifts, slightly. She stretches her toes as far as they’ll go and cries harder. “We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there.”

———

next

naomi art

[mrsoftthoughts]

Will Solace headcanons

- He's TALL

Like, really REALLY tall, at least for his age, this boy is like 1,82 ( smt like 6'0 with ⅔ of an inch I think?) at the age of fifteen and always has been the kind of kid who was at the end when the lines where from height order.

-The kind of person that gets red like a tomato

He looks like Tinkerbell whenever he gets flushed, especially but not exclusively when he is mad or has been laughing too hard.

-He is the embodiment of a social introvert

He likes spend time with his family and Friends, but he gets drained very easily, sometimes if he can avoid being surrounded by more than a few people or none at all, he isn't hesitating on taking that chance, and for that, he used to love when the cabin was empty of with just one or two of his siblings instead of the little battalion (Ofc he only could find that comfortable when the emptiness just means that all the others were at their daily activities and no that he, Austin and Kayla were the only one to fill the place until a new arrival.)

-Ok with PDA in public spaces if he's dating a girl, but sometimes he is kinda more reserved and discreet if his partner is a boy

Hear me out, he knows that there is nothing wrong with him or his relationship with a person of his same gender, but he has heard the things that some intolerant people are capable of and sees the consequences of it in some summer-only campers (and back at his home too, Remember that this boy is from Texas of all places) and he is terrified of the mere tough, so he's very wary of where or how much PDA displays towards his partner.

-His relationship with Naomi is great, but not really" Mother and son" like, but more "cool rich older friend/sister and bestie/younger brother"

None of them seem to realize or acknowledge that this isn't necessarily a good thing or that can be directly a problem due to the fact that Naomi has this little "eternal teenager" síndrome which is certainly not the best rely-on figure for an ACTUAL teenager.

-Kinda related to the last one, but he was partially/mostly raised by his grandparents

Naomi still being there, but she never quit her musical career which grew exponentially during her pregnancy, so sometimes she was out for a kinda Long time, They're this little southern older and kinda wealthy couple who absolutely love their grandson ( of which they were convinced that was the second mesias or something like a miracle at least due to his really weir birth conditions) Mr, Solace is guilty of wills star wars obsession

-This boy was literally indetectable during his ELEVEN months of gestation,

Naomi entered the hospital thinking that it was a digestive problem and ended up with a baby (that surprisedly for a newborn is pretty, like almost perfect to the point that feels beyond humanity) that looked like this guy whom she had met the past year in a trip to Austin, except that he and her cut the relationship way long before that what a normal pregnancy should be, her family end up convinced that was some kind of God's will and that's why they aren't bothered by Naomi having a child without being married or even in a relationship

- Igaf on what canon says, even if Will isn't usually a fighter, he, like any other demigod has a weapon, o well three

He has a bow, not his preferred one tough, his reaction is a bit too slow so forget about shot at a moving objective, Wich means that is useless when it comes to combat (and even in the archery range he is average or straight up sucks if their siblings are fair comparison), but that leads us to his preferred one for the last year's

Remember that shotgun that is just randomly in the armory? Well, he has his version of it, a Rifle, which is kinda restricted of in use because he can't use that thing for everything, the bullets are one-use-only which is kinda impractical and the mist wouldn't do shit to cover it up ( since that thing is already one of the disguises for the swords in this universe) and how tf are you supposed to explain that a minor has a hunting weapon in a big city?? Yeah- but his aim shines with that baby though

Sadly it has been slowly replaced while Will learns how to use his photokinesis and fulfill his dream of having his own light sable ( Why we are sleeping on the fact that this is just the best weapon to give a star wars fan capable of manipulating the fuckin light?!)

[apricote]

new year's eve!

[traxanaxanos]

I am stricken. Do B’Elanna and Naomi Wildman ever interact? Like at all? Once?

I’m really to believe that Naomi wouldn’t be following B’Elanna around, peppering her with questions about how she makes the ship go, and how the holodeck works, and what optimal energy efficiency look like? The captain’s assistant??? And that B’Elanna wouldn’t be extremely patient when she had time to spare and wouldn’t partner with Harry to devise little problems for Naomi to solve and also just be a little worried about the dangers Naomi could run into in engineering while also being so thrilled when Naomi did solve her puzzles? Please

[blackgirlsreverything]

[softerhaze]

a baby shower? like, it rains babies?

i’d actually thrown a baby shower the day before but for some reason it didn’t start as a goaled event? so i didn’t get any of the cute interactions or gifts ;-; BUT here are some pics that make me emo <3

[oldbutchdaniel]

BREAKING NEWS: Kendall Roy, Former Waystar Darling, First Person to Get Pregnant From Strap

[bagesims]

[spntoxicfemslashevent]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Naomi/Mary Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Samuel Campbell & Mary Winchester Characters: Mary Winchester, Naomi (Supernatural), John Winchester, Samuel Campbell, Original Characters Additional Tags: Pregnancy, Mind Control, Lobotomy, Heaven, Heaven Memories, Afterlife, non-consensual impregnation, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Object Insertion, Horror, Body Horror, Forced Pregnancy, The Angels Got John And Mary Together, Lactation, Breast Expansion, Lactation Kink, Belly Bulge, Objectification Summary:

Mary in Heaven.

Mary in her memories.

Mary under the drill.

-

Hi burnedpopcorn! We got your email. Thanks for submitting.

[yesyourstalker]

Neta: training day, training day we're all here for training day. How are we all doing today?

Antho: it is 7:30 in the morning

Neta: yehhhh sorry about that but I have to train everyone and teach them how to close and open my store. So unfortunately for you...Antho. You also have to learn how to open.

Anto: *huff*

Neta: great! The mall is closed. It opens around 10:00 but we have to get here around 7:00. The first thing that I or mahi does is count money, fill the registers. While you guys have to unpack inventory, unload inventory from the trucks annnnd clean up the store. So that means folding shirts, picking up miscellaneous items. Make it look nice and presentable.

Vinny: what do we do first?

Neta: so what we usually do first is to fill the registers. So let's just go to the back here where the money machine is.......It's also my office so if you need anything feel free to come back here. The managers are in charge of withdrawing the money. You guys are responsible for depositing the money....so we usually get $100 worth of 20s for each register $50 worth of 5s, 10s we usually get $30 worth and and another $100 worth of 1s

Fugue: is that the amount we have to do every time?

Neta: this is usually the amount we put in but it can also change depending on how busy it is or how slow it is. So you know if you guys ever become a manager just go with your hunch and how much money you need the day.

Neta: All right so we got the money. Put them in the registers. Safety rule you can never deposit or withdraw the money by yourself. You have to have someone with you at all times just in case something happens.

Anto: like what?

Neta: well a lot can happen

Vinny: I knew this guy who used to stay in the store until closing and when employees were taking the register to the back. He'd push them and snatch the register and run out the door.

Anto: I'm assuming that person was you

Vinny: actually it was my babysitter. He used to watch me and my sister's all the time, he was a nice guy

Neta: ok let's change the subject so after we put in the registers. We go back to the back, the second door to the left next to my office is receiving I also call it storage and you can call it whatever you want.

Naomi: this is a lot bigger than I expected

Neta: yeah it is. We keep boxes back here. New releases, old releases, limited releases

Fugue: what happens when it get overcrowded?

Neta: usually when it gets overcrowded we have a big sale. So we don't do this every morning but this morning we had a truck today. So we go over here......... Lift up this door and you can see the cargo entrance.... It's only a few boxes.

Antho: and you expected to unpack all this?

Neta: No, you have to unload and then unpack.... And their specific ones that you can unpack and then the rest you can leave in the back. Looking at the labels you only need to unpack the 15 and keep the 20 in the back....ok... I'm going to split you guys into groups Vinny and I are going to stay back here to unload fougu you can unpack the items.

Vinny: great this is going to be easy.

Fugue: do you provide a box cutter?

Neta: yep I got a whole desk full in my office just to pick one out. Everything with a blue label we open up immediately. Anything with an orange label we don't open until the set date on it.

Vinny: what about the pink label?

Neta: those we don't open up until next month Those are splat fest tees.

Antho: splatfest tees??? So if we open those boxes we know which splat fest is going to be next

Neta: yeah totally... You also get an automatic termination and blacklisted not only from all the stores in the mall but also around the city. So.............you want to play some stupid games and win some stupid prizes? I'm serious like I'm not even allowed to open it I had to sign a waiver and everything

Antho: that sucks

Neta: yeah I know.....ok....you and Miss Naomi..... you're just going to have to pick up the store You know clean it up. Fold shirts. Organize everything... We do have a system. Everything with the green tag has to be folded. Everything with a red tag is hung up on the rack. Everything with a purple tag is hung up in the front of the store. Any questions?

Antho: I have a question

Neta: what's your question?

Antho: what happened to your ear?

Neta:.............................................................. Do you have any questions regarding your job?

Naomi: is there the proper way we have to fold the shirts

Neta: Great question. we fold them into rectangles so it's small and it gives us space for more shirts. So fold two times on each end....... and you put it together and.......here we go! Make sure that the band or logo is visible. And for the hanging clothes he puts the smallest in the front and largest in the back. ..... Anything else?

Antho: hu-

Neta:No great........ Antho come with me for a sec.

Antho: Am I fired already?

Neta: No, you're not fired and just going to need to ask a quick favor. Listen........You can be as mean and rude as you want to be with me. You can't hurt my feelings....* Inhale*....... The customers on the other hand..........unless they deserve it and trust me there are going to be some people who definitely deserve it but for the ones who don't.... please be nice. Okay?

Antho: ......................

Neta: and also be nice to your fellow employees. I know underneath this little meanie personality you have is a nice kind person

Antho: No, there isn't

Neta: Yes there is and I can sense it and you know what goes great with a nice kind person?

Antho: a reality check

Neta: No. Another nice kind person to keep them company........That's why you'll be working with Naomi! Yayyy!!! you two are going to be sharing the same shifts!! You're going to have a shift buddy.

Antho: whaat? Why?

Neta: because..... She's a nice girl. She's really sweet..... and she's also kind of sensitive and I don't think she'll be able to handle some of our.........

Antho: asshole customers?

Neta: yeah ............ Just be there to back her up if needed. You know I don't want anyone making her cry. Can you do that for me? Can you do this one small gesture or are you just incapable of kindness?

Antho: ..........ugh..... fine I'll help her.......... You better pay me extra

Neta: I'll make you an employee of the month.

_______________________________________________

Antho:.....................

Naomi:....................

Antho:.......so............ What's your deal?

Naomi: hm?

Antho: why are you working here?

Naomi: oh...uh........um........I just....... wanted to get out of the house....... ...... yeah

Antho: hmm k..................* Inhale* * exhale*.........(Tap ..Tap.)................ So like you live around here?

Naomi: oh yeah.....I-i do It's usually just one train stop......

Antho: hmmmmmm...... I know you said that you weren't allowed to like disclose what manga you used to work on but like

Naomi: I work on "turf war heart break" and " I love princess Nami "

Antho:I think I saw Vivy read one of those...hm... Probably not....... So you got permission to talk about your work and you won't get fired or anything will you?

Naomi: ............ I only said I wasn't allowed to disclose because I was embarrassed...... I didn't know how y'all would react.

Antho: oh.........well.... They're popular books..... So do you write it or draw it or?

Naomi: I just do outlines for the books That's it............

Antho: that's cool....................

Naomi:........................... I actually work on my own stuff when I'm free.

Antho: oh..... So what's your book about

Naomi: well I'm still working on it. I still haven't gotten the plot or the characters. I'm so just writing ideas down. It's nothing. I'm sorry I'm actually just-

Neta: so how's everything up in the front?

Naomi: * gasp* uhhhh....umm

Antho: we're finished

Neta: I can see that the store looks great! Good job you two

Antho: hum

Naomi:. Hmmm thank you

Neta: well it's around 8:00. Everything is unloaded and unpacked. We just need to take it from the back and put it to the front. We'll do this until 9:45

_______________________________________________

Neta: We're all done and it's........ Oh it's only 9:30. Usually that takes longer

Fugue: it could be because you have more people here

Neta: yeah, that's true..... Well while we wait, I guess I can teach you guys how to use the register. It's not hard at all let me put it on training mode and-

Warabie: GOOD MORNING!

Seth: hey guy .....

Neta: Good morning ... . Hey Candi.. ..... You look..... You look great babe....... Look at you you're glowing

Candi: uh huh .... yeah.......* Mumbling*

Antho: did she get hit by a bus this morning? Geez

Neta: shh!...

_______________________________________________

Neta:ok we're going to learn how to use the register warabie is going to be right here to help you

Warabie: hi guys

Neta: alright so .... Vinny why don't you go first?

Vinny: alright!

Neta: Great! I'm going to be customers and hand you this item right here so can you ring that up for me?

Vinny: ok...... That will be....... $8 cash or card?

Neta: I'm going to split it

Vinny: ok.. so how do I-

Warabie: so you're going to go to split payment. If they give you cash first you press the cash icon you put in the exact amount that they give you. If they do the card first you go to the card icon and then you put in the exact amount they want to pay. Once the card is approved you take the cash and put it in the register.

Vinny: ok ...... So how much do you want to pay in cash

Neta: I'm going to pay... $4 in cash the rest of my card

Vinny: ok great....... All right, that's something hard to do

Neta: see it's easy. Antho You're up next

Antho: alright...... How can I help you today?.........

Neta: well I like to return this please

Antho:.....k........... I'm assuming you're returning these short shorts because it's not your size.

Warabie: *snort* ha! Hehehe I'm sorry....hehehehe.. that's not funny hehe....*ahem*...... be serious Antho.

Neta:................... Just return it

Antho: I'd love too but I don't know how to do that. So I guess you're stuck with this. If it makes you feel any better, we do have some fishnets and boots that will look great with this. I think you look good in it! you know..... In dim lighting.

Warabie: hehehehehe hehehe....

Neta:.................................

Antho: you might need to shave your legs though

Warabie: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Neta: okay.... okay!!! THAT'S ENOUGH!........ I get it just return it.

Warabie: ok..uh ahhah.haha.. I mean I think you'd look hot in it..

Neta: warabie!

Warabie:.. right! sorry....So you press return.... you scan the receipt and you scan the item and it'll give you an option to put it back on the card or to return it to them in cash. If they don't have a receipt with them, you can press this button right here and tell them to insert their card and you can find their last purchase with the store. When you find it highlight and click return. There's also work when they don't have the tag on it.

Antho: All right, great. Here you go sir. ... Your money went back on your card have a pleasant day

Neta: thank you.... You could have done that without humiliating the custome

Antho: I thought you said I can't hurt your feelings

Neta: you can't, but you might hurt someone else's feelings so let's not do this to an actual customer.

Antho: All right, I won't do that.....to their face

_______________________________________________

Neta: All right so that concludes today's training. Tomorrow's training day you guys are going to do that....... .... Well....you're actually going to do that at home...... I just want you guys to watch five short videos. It's just going to talk about safety regulations..... Our tolerance policy...... One safety and one sanitary video and the last one is just going to talk about employee benefits and whatnot.

Vinny: I have a question about benefits?

Neta: shoot

Vinny: so like do you provide the benefits or does the mall itself provide the benefits?

Neta: It's the mall. The mall provides the benefits for everyone who works here, including me.

Vinny: do they cover dental?

Neta: yes ... All the information is in the video

Vinny:... Medical expenses like injuries like a broken arm or stitches

Neta:.......... Yes they provide all that......Yes

Naomi: * whispering whispering*

Vinny: yeah I need that too.......... Gender affirming health care

Nate: actually they do, yeah! You can get more information from the videos..... All right! So I guess we're done for the day. The store opens in 20 minutes so uhhhh you guys are free to head home. Enjoy the rest of your day or you can stay until we open and complete your whole shift up to you.

_______________________________________________

Antho: ...*huff*.............hey

Naomi: hm?

Antho: you said you were working on your own book earlier

Naomi: yeah.... it's.... it's still in the development stage tho so. . Yeah

Antho:hmmm what about you puffy you have a hobby or something

Fugue:..... Don't call me that.... If you must know, I enjoy making ceramics

Antho: That's lame. I don't care

Fugue:...... Well then you shouldn't have asked

Antho: I thought you were going to say something interesting

Fugue: well it is interesting if you just let me finish.... I'm actually planning on making my own dish set for my drom room I even made one for my future roommate

Antho: uhhhhh Don't you play video games or some shit like a normal person

Fugue: I do... I'm normal...I ........ I don't have to prove anything to you!

Antho: oh shit! He's actually puffing up! Heheh

Neta: awwww look at them. They're getting along

Candi: uh-hu

Neta: I guess he's making friends in his own way....... Naomi seems to be opening up a little too........ Can't believe I'm going to have a new crew coming next year....... I'm going to miss you guys.

Candi: uh-hu

Neta: I mean that doesn't mean I'm not going to visit. Of course I'm going to check up on my old store and see you guys. I can also share shifts between stores but I don't know how it's going to work out. I have to drive 5 hours but you know it's worth it to see you guys I love-

Candi: Neta can you shut the fuck up for like 3 seconds? God.....why are you in such a good mood!?

Neta: well......when my shift ended I was going to taste test wedding cakes with ikkan.....I guess I'm just excited. I'm sorry....... I know you're tired.... You want to go home early?

Candi: no .......*ugh*.......mmmmmmmmmm....... I'm sorry......*crying*...... I'm just so fucking tired..

Neta: oh babe come here.......

Candi: *crying*.... I wanted chocolate waffles this morning..........

Neta: you did? Awww... What happened?

Candi: *crying* and I told Donn to go to the store and and and he bought back blueberries ones!! *Crying*...... I told him I didn't want those! He said that's all they had!!! He's fucking lying!! I know he is he picked up the wrong ones!! My morning was ruined *crying*

Neta: ohhh I'm sorry that happened

Antho: what's wrong with her?

Neta: hush....she's pregnant

Antho: that explains a lot.

Neta:..................... Go home

Candi: and this is one of those rare fucking mornings where I'm not sick..... It was my only decent morning and he fucking ruined it!!!!!! *Crying*..... this sucks... I don't like being pregnant.....*sniff*.... I mean I do. I love it..... I'm making life........ but you know.....*sniff * I just *crying* I'm so tired of sweat pants.....

Neta: ohhhhh*heh* I'm sorry........ You sure you don't want to leave early? You can go cake sampling with me.

Candi:...*sniff*........hmm ...ok .......

Neta: ok...(Peck).... Why don't we leave extra early and we can get you some maternity clothing?

Candi: you mean those stupid moo moos no..... I got enough of those from my mother-in-law.

Neta: we can get you a nice sundress perfect for spring.........huh? Doesn't that sound nice?

Candi: yeah......*snort* ok ....

Neta: ok....

Antho is the new work child that Neta has adopted. But he has to share custody with @fish-at-fish-fish-resort

[katealpha]

Comm from thumble_Art on Twitter.

x.com/thumble_art?s=21&t=Y5k0M…

Pregnant Naomi from the Babel manga. Where time shenanigans accelerated her pregnancy to full term. This actually happens in the manga. Chapter 6-10. It’s free to read on Google so I’d go and read up if you’re curious. I’d love to know all your thoughts. Tbh, I recently found out about this sequence and has gotta be my favorite pregnancy thing from any manga I’ve read. Far none.

[mediumgayitalian]

She almost runs over her guitar on her way in the driveway.

For a second, the image is so obscene that she laughs. She’d gotten her hands on a permanent marker, when she was three, scrawled her name across the body with careful hands a tongue stuck out of her mouth in concentration. The N is backwards, and she’d creatively used the soundhole as the O. Hollered for Daddy to come look, to come ruffle her hair and swing her over his shoulders for a job well done.

He’d come to look, alright.

“Well, Helen,” he’d said to his wife, scrubbing a hand over his neck, “damn thing’s hers, now, I suppose.”

He’d always warned her to be careful with it. Scolded her for every sticker she’d slapped on the neck, every painted doodle on the face. Picked it up when she left it sprawled on the couch, placing it gently on the stand. Careful as he was with all her things, with her.

It’s strings-down on the pavement, now, half-crushed under the weight of her patched pink backpack. She takes a half step forward, chipped paint of her purple toenails scratching against the wood of the guitar. She crouches down and touches it, softly, wincing at the twang of the twisted strings.

“What…”

A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. She looks up just in time to catch the pale blue curtains swish quickly shut over the bow windows, to see the lights flick off.

Mouth dry, she touches her stomach. The swell is barely there — barely noticeable. Barely far along enough to feel the kick.

She wants to scream. She wants to run up to the door and bang on it ‘til Mama swings it open, wants to collapse to her knees and sob and beg for their forgiveness. Wants to tell them about how scared she’s been for months. Wants Mama to grip her hand in her calloused ones, sit her at the kitchen table and get her the exact type of tea that’ll settle her stomach and soothe her heartburn. Wants Daddy to smooth back her hair and press a kiss to the crown of her forehead, squeezing the curve of her shoulder. Wants Wally the cat to hop up onto her lap, mrrping and bumping his head into her sternum.

Instead, she swallows. She swings her backpack over her shoulders, picks her guitar gently off the cracked driveway, and walks straight-backed to her car. The key sticks in the lock, as it always does, and in her increasingly desperate attempts to force it open she twists the damn thing, and the key is sad and thin and bent when she yanks it out and she cries, almost, the tears build and build and build in her eyes, util suddenly she grits her teeth and decides that she will not. She shoves the key back in the lock and twists the other way, bending it back into shape, wrenching open the door and throwing her backpack in, relishing in the thunk as it hits the passenger door. With her guitar she’s gentler, barely, setting it neatly along the backseats and wrenching her hand back as hard as she can to make up for it.

She sits in the drivers seat so hard the whole car shakes. The steering wheel is warm, still, from the heat of her palms on the drive here from Molly’s house, because she’s been overheated lately. For the last four months, to be exact. Overheated and cranky and nauseous and heavy.

“Well,” she whispers, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. She wraps her arms around her stomach, squeezing her eyes shut, biting her tongue as hard as she can. “It’s you and me and sheer fucking will, I guess, kid.”

She rifles through her CDs until she comes across a case with a wood-pattern print and a man with a revolver lounging across it. She pulls out the scratched disc and feeds it carefully into the player, waiting for the deep baritone to rumble through her shit plastic speakers, and listens to the first bar, the second, the third.

But this is for real, so forget about me. Eight more minutes to go.

The light doesn’t come back on. The curtains don’t flick. Her Daddy doesn’t come runnin’ out the door, screaming for her to wait. Mama doesn’t follow out calmly after him. All there is is shadow, shadow, shadow, and the shape her guitar made upside down on the pavement.

She backs out of the driveway where she tripped and fell and lost her first tooth, and drives, and drives, and drives.

———

When she was little, her uncle took her to go see Alien.

He shouldn’t have. It was far too old a movie for a kid her age, and the clerk had told him so. But Noah Solace had a penchant for being stubborn and a chip in his shoulder, so he’d taken her anyway. He should have left when the alien leapt from its nest and definitely when one of the freaky little parasites burst from the guy’s chest, but he didn’t, and Naomi had watched frozen completely in her seat, palms sweating, spine rigid, squirming at the thought of something growing inside her. Of being betrayed by something that lived in the deepest recesses of her body.

The day after she leaves home, she taps her chewed-up fingernail on the sides of the wall-phone by a rest stop. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. The Bell logo is covered partially by someone’s tag, by a curved C and bubble O B A L T. Ironically, the worn Sharpie ink is purple.

617 343 7844. She knows the number by heart. She knows the song of dialling it like she knows Jolene. Bah-duh-duh bah-duhduh duh-bah-duhduh. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, four. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She sucks her lip into her teeth. Training her eyes on the purple COBALT tag, the obstructed Bell, the rainbow of wads of gum balled up in the corners, she presses the right buttons. Bahduhduh-bahduhduh-duhbahduhduh. Ring. Ring.

What is she doing. What is she doing.

Ring. Ring.

Naomi isn’t one for planning. She’s absent-minded, she knows she is. Flighty and distracted. Head in the clouds, never one to study. A coaster. A drifter. A real one, now.

Ring. Ring.

Hey, Uncle Noah. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I keep forgetting to respond to your letters. How am I? I’m great! I slept with a god and now I’m nineteen and knocked up and homeless, to boot. Wanna come pick me up?

Ring. Ring.

God, what is she doing. What is she doing.

Ring. Ring. Ri—

“Fuck d’you want?”

Low baritone. Gravelly. Rough, slurring. Sleepy?

“Hello? Can you hear me? Who’s this?”

Hey, Uncle Noah. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I keep forgetting to —

“Is this one’a them fuckin’ tele — fuck they called — tele…tele…”

— respond to your letters, great, nineteen knocked up —

“Tele…grams? Telefuckin…telemarketers! You one’a them fuckin’ telemarketers?”

— pick me up pick me up pick me up please —

“Swear t’a fuckin’ Jesus — I told you sons of bitches —”

— parasite —

“Ah, fuck you. You call here again I’mma fuckin’ —”

Click.

Riiiiiiinnnnnng.

She stares at her own finger on the receiver, white and bloodless. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.

You have disconnected. To reconnect your call, please —

She flings the phone from her hands, against the receiver, against the box, clink, clatter, bounce, tap tap tap tap tap tap against the pavement. Tap. Scritch. Tap tap tap. And flees to her car.

———

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

She blinks back at the yellow little fuel light, humming along to the stereo. She can push it for a while longer, probably. Maybe even to the district line.

What happens if she just drives? If she drives and drives and doesn’t stop. Lets the little light blinkblinkblink at her, keepin’ time with Reba McEntire and her dying husband. That’s the night when the lights went out in Georgia.

She’d have time to pull over, probably. Coast on the speed she was going, cut across to the gravel shoulder. There’s no one else around, anyway. She could recline her seat and cross her arms over her chest and watch the clouds through the dusty top of her windshield. Sleep through the night and wake with the mourning doves’ cooing. Then what? That’s the night that they hung an innocent man.

Walk, probably. On the side of the highway, along the stretch of dying grass and reedy weeds. Guitar on her back and backpack tucked under her arm, strolling under the balmy March sun and sing to the cawing crows, to the rushing cars. Well, don’t sell your soul to no backwoods Southern lawyer.

Someone’d pull up next to her, probably. A trucker or a group of hippies. Headed to Oregon, they might say, round glasses covering bloodshot red eyes. Need a ride? ‘Cause the judge in the town’s got bloodstains on his hands.

And she would need a ride. She’d sing for them, maybe. Pluck along to Hey Jude on her out-of-tune guitar and holler with the wind rushing in from the old broken windows. They’d know someone in Cali, of course they would, slip her their card. He’s a manager, he’s looking for some new talent. You’re just what he needs. Well, they hung my brother before I could say.

Right. A knocked-up nobody who’s paying for gas with her last few bills and the four quarters she found in a sticky mess of juice in her cup holder. She’ll go platinum, right up there with the Stones and the Roses. Naomi Solace, part-time mom, full-time country star. The tracks he saw while on his way.

She drifts off the exit to the first gas station she sees. The blink, blink, blink of the light irritates her, now.

The highway town she drifts through looks like a carbon copy of the dozens of others she’s been to in her life. The giant grey rest stop, the 24 hour McDonalds, the three separate Mattress Firms. She skips over the Buccees — the stupid mascot gives her the creeps — and pulls into the first gas station she sees. Dollar twenty a gallon. Jesus.

There’s an old man at the pump across from her. He stares as he pumps his gas. Nausea builds in her stomach, but whether that’s the gross factor or the avocado-sized mass growing inside her, but she doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. She sprints for the little convenience store at top speeds, shoving open the door and ignoring the startled cashier and stumbling into the little bathroom in the back, barely making it to the stained toilets before emptying the contents of her stomach. She can see the half-digested junior bacon cheeseburger she had for lunch. It makes her throw up more. It also makes her mourn the eighty-nine cents she spent on it. Fuck.

She walks back into the convenience store grimacing at the taste of her own mouth. Nobody tells you that mouthwash and water bottles account for approximately eight billion dollars of your pregnancy cost. Of course, Naomi has never asked, but that should be a bigger part of the condom ads.

Or abstinence ads. She’s not sure how helpful a piece of rubber is against godly sperm. Mary seemed to struggle with the ordeal. Godspeed to her — she gets why the Catholics are so bananas for her now. This shit is hard and she handled it like a champ. Good on you, Mother Mary.

“Just these?” the cashier asks hesitantly, poking at the travel mouthwash, the water bottles, the singular packaged pickle, and the tiny jar of strawberry jam. And the plastic spoon she grabs from the hot table.

“And pump number 5. Please.”

“…Twenty-three sixty.”

Gas and water and a snack.

Twenty five dollars.

She has to count out her coins, hyperaware if the cashier’s dirty look. She bites back a comment about how frustrating it must be for them to have to do their job when it’s so busy out, what with one customer. Shame. Because she’s used up her irresponsibility quota for the next few years, she reckons, so she oughtta bite her tongue.

Half her fortune poorer, she walks back out to her car. The gas nozzle is still sticking out if it. She puts it back while holding her breath — do gas fumes kill growing babies? They probably kill growing babies — and shoves open her trunk, digging around. Blanket — no. Forgotten impulse purchases from months ago — no. Umbrella — no. Grad cap — no, and also why.

Finally, she finds what she’s looking for. She climbs onto the hood of the car, digging into her jam pickle, and flips open the paper atlas, turning the many pages until the map of Texas stares out at her, huge and overwhelming.

Twenty-six dollars and forty-nine cents. That’s what she has left. ‘Round twenty bucks for a full tank — that’s what she has left. 400 miles on a full tank. Seven or so hours until she’s out of the state.

“I could leave,” she says aloud.

And go where? New Mexico? Barely. She’s nowhere near LA, she’s nowhere near New York; hell, she’s nowhere near Austin. She’s nowhere near anything. Not even the nearest Amtrak station. She could drive until she runs out of gas, leave her car on the side of the road, and walk — to where? To the desert? To some serial killer’s basement?

To fucking find Apollo again?

“This is ridiculous.”

Slamming the atlas closed, she stomps back into the convenience store.

“There a secondhand store near here?” she demands.

The cashier regards her for a moment. Taking her in, probably, her ratty jeans that she can’t button anymore, her stained pink sweater, the greasy mess of her hair. The jam sticking to the corner of her mouth and the sliver of stomach pushing over the waistband of her pants. Her peeling flip-flops.

“Not here,” they say finally. “Highway town, ma’am. Ain’t got shit but what you can see from the road. You wanna real store, you gotta head ten miles east to Blowshow.”

“There’s a town called Blowshow?” she asks incredulously.

“There’s a town called Sheffield,” replies the cashier, mouth twitching, “which no one calls Joansburg, on account that the mayor was caught with his secretary gumming his green bean behind his desk by the film crew of the local news station coming to talk about a recent policy change. It’s got a main road and a general store, and will most definitely have a secondhand store.”

Naomi nods, rocking back on her heels. “Anybody hirin’?”

“Well, I ain’t been to Blowshow since last Sunday. And even then only to come see my sister. I wasn’t lookin’ at help wanted signs.”

“There’s gotta be somethin’.”

The cashier hums. The busy themself with a stack of cigarette boxes behind the counter, fiddling with a strip of cardboard come loose.

“There’s a diner,” they admit. “Di’s. Worst turnover rate than any place I ever been to.” The glance over at her, eyebrows raised. “Frankly, you won’t last a quarter year.”

Instead of sneering something about bowing out quickly and how they must know lots about finishing early, because that’s gross and also uncalled for, Naomi simply walks out. She gets in her car and starts the engine and turns the radio to thirty, making the warbling over the speakers so warped she might as well be listening to static, and guns it east. Or what she’s pretty sure is east, anyway. It’s fifteen minutes the empty pothole roads give way to something that looks like it’s seen a person in the last forty years. A little house sits nestled in the trees, bikes strewn about the driveway. A few hundred yards down road is a jogger that she gives a wide berth. In minutes, she’s pulling into a proper town — a tiny town, with more trees than people, but a real town with a real purpose. She slows to a crawl, eyeing hand-painted banners and peeling signs until she finds what she’s looking for.

The secondhand shop is small, clustered, and smells like mothballs. A shelf of broken old toys blocks her view of the rest of it and any people that may live inside of it, so she steps aside it, stepping carefully around chipped tile and stacked up boxes, looking for the right section. (The right shelf, really; nothing in this store is big enough to be a section.)

She finds what she’s looking for in a dusty old corner near the very back. Behind a broken typewriter and an ancient fax machine, and more random wires and cables than she can count, is a little portable cassette player. A pair of wiry headphones are wound around the hunk of black plastic, foam ear muffs cracked and peeling, and the worn label on the side reads Isobel. She grabs the clunky old machine carefully, brushing the pads of her fingers over the peeling paper label, and holds it to her chest.

At home she has a proper CD Walkman. It’s pink and pretty and covered all over in shiny foil stickers, and it’s chipped on the side from when she dropped it down the stairs. It skips every sixth song of an album without fail and she has to skip three backwards and two forwards to hear it. She has a collection of CDs to go with it longer than her longest shelf, and they’re arranged by colour and favour.

On another shelf, she finds a series of chipped cassette tapes. She flicks through the selection, frowning, trying to restructure hopes that were set too high and read labels written thirty years ago.

“I’ve got an extra box of them by the counter,” says a voice, making her yelp.

“Christ alive, you could kill somebody,” she snaps.

The man shrugs. He wears the loudest shirt she has ever seen and cutoff shorts that are way too short for someone his age. There are streaks of blue in his white hair, and four sweatbands on his left wrist. Green purple grey yellow. One, two, three, four.

“I’ll take a look.”

She spends another ten minutes in silence. The box, at least, has a little more variety than the shelf, so she picks out what’s worth it. She ends up with a stack the size of her arm.

“I have ten dollars,” she lies, Mama’s lecture about showing your cards ringing in her head. “That cover it?”

“Beautifully,” says the man, shiny gold-tooth smile. His bug-eye spectacles gleam in the yellow light. He holds out his hand. “Ten bucks for the player and tapes.”

Looking him right in the eye, she hands him her last twenty-dollar bill. He glares, when he sees it, muttering something about liars and thieves. Strangely, he looks at her with a little bit of respect when he slams her change down onto the counter.

She walks back out to her car, unwinding the headphones as she does. She’s half-worried the ancient things will disintegrate in her hands, but they manage to stay whole, if a little warped. She slides in behind the wheel and pushes back the seat, settling against the itchy carpet upholstery. With a quick glance out the window to make sure there are no creeps, she pulls up her shirt, bunching it up around her ribs, and lowers the waistband of her jeans. She eyes her belly critically.

There’s definitely a bump. Not much she couldn’t explain away with a particularly filling lunch, but it’s hard and there and constantly kicking at her from inside. Slowly, feeling foolish all the while, she stretches out the headphones until both halves rest on either side of her stomach. She picks out one of the tapes, slides it in the player, and clears her throat.

“Listen, kid,” she says, trying to sound less embarrassed than she feels, “I don’t want some lame baby who doesn’t know that Tina Turner was country first, okay? That’s a — waste of my time.” She clears her throat, hovering over the play button. “I better get some engagement.”

The twangy guitar is loud enough that she can hear it through the headphones. Or maybe they’re just that bad. Either way, Alien Parasite should be able to hear it just fine, amniotic fluid be damned.

“‘Means your true love daddy ain’t comin’ back,” she sings along. She closes her eyes and relaxes against the recliner seat, bare skin tingling. “‘Cause I’m movin’ on, I’ll soon be gone. Mhm, hm hm. So I’m movin’ on.’”

At the crest of the bridge, as the guitar speeds up and beats get harder, there’s a point of pressure right above her navel. Another, a few seconds later, at her pelvis. A third right below her ribs.

“Acrobatic little freak,” she mumbles fondly, smiling at her stretched taught skin.

She adjusts the headphones, adjusts herself, and turns the music up louder.

———

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