#getting this on vinyl one of the best decisions of my life

[gayfrasier]

doing my part. listening to follies again

#impulsively buying the obc on vinyl was one of my best decisions ever made. my life is so much better #you guys should get follies on vinyl. its so good.

[rebelfell]

Surrender III

Eddie Munson x fem!Reader x lesbian!Chrissy Cunningham

Part One┃Part Two┃Part Three

cw: established relationship, platonic!hc (eddie-chrissy are college besties), questioning/bi reader, threesome, fingering, oral (fem-fem giving and receiving), piv sex (unspecified birth control), squirting, one instance of spanking and singular use of the nickname “daddy” (not by r, it’s kind of a joke?)

18+, MDNI 6.5k

“Hey…are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Eddie’s voice is soft in your ear and you have to slightly rouse yourself, nearly having fallen asleep as you and he wait for Chrissy to arrive.

The room is quiet except for the low sound of the album he put on the record player, vinyl crackling occasionally, and the faint humming of the fan overhead pushing cool air down on your half-dressed bodies.

He’s drawn the gauzy curtains closed so the fading sunlight can still filter through and casts across the bed in a hazy glow. You lay flat on your stomach, wearing a pair of sweatpants a size or so too big so they’re slung low on your hips, and only your bra so he can gently rake his nails over the expanse of your back.

“Yeah,” you whisper, still halfway half-asleep. “I’m nervous, but I’m excited.”

“Me too.” He smiles at you and leans over to place a gentle kiss on your shoulder. “I just don’t want you thinking this was like a plan or something. I thought for sure these days were behind us, I never imagined this would happen.”

“Old habits die hard,” you snicker.

He grins back, his smile deepening the dimples in his cheeks and making your own heart swell.

“And you know you can take it back any time, right? Neither of us is gonna be disappointed or mad or anything like that. We just want you to have a good time.”

His steady voice and the words he’s saying warm your chest and you nod, cheek rubbing against the pillow under your face.

“I know that,” you say. “I trust you both.”

You fall quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on your lip, and open your eyes to look up at him. 

“Hey, um…are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Of course,” Eddie smiles. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I was a total jealous nightmare obsessing about you and Chrissy getting together and now…”

You fall silent, pushing down the crack in your voice you can feel coming. Eddie tips your head up to look at him and gives a reassuring smile.

“I just kind of feel like a hypocrite,” you admit to him, your voice small.

“Don’t,” Eddie tells you, still smiling. “I get why you were worried, especially when I wasn’t telling you everything. You think you don’t deserve good things, so you can’t help but think when you have something good that it’s going to be taken away.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your skin, the way his stubble rubs your hairline and gives you shivers that run across your scalp. You could have never imagined how good it would feel being with someone who knows you like he does. Someone who knew your body inside out, but also your head. And your heart.

“I know Chrissy…and I know you,” he tells you. “Neither of you would hurt me. You’re the best thing in my life. Nothing and no one is going to change that.”

He leans in to kiss you again, too wrapped up in one another to notice the turn of a key in the front door or the soft creak of its hinges.

“It’s you and me, right?” he murmurs, keeping his lips close to yours.

You nod decisively and whisper back. “It’s you and me.”

“God, you guys are like…disgustingly cute.”

You and Eddie’s heads both lift at the sound of another voice in the room. Chrissy leans against the door frame, arms crossed in front of her chest with a doting smile on her face. She’s dressed much more casually than the last time you saw her, in a matching set of velour sweats like an updated version of those Juicy tracksuits that were all the rage in college. 

The soft mocha color of them sets off the red in her hair making it look less blonde than it did at The Hideout. Her make-up is simple, what little she’s wearing at all. You can’t help but grin at the sight of her as you bite down on your bottom lip. Her eyes sparkle as they meet your gaze and her nose scrunches adorably as she smiles at you.

“That’s what you get for breaking and entering,” Eddie chortles. Chrissy just rolls her eyes.

“That’s what you get for never changing your hiding spot.”

She holds up her hand and twirls the spare key Eddie keeps underneath an ogre statue in the yard around her finger. The sun catches on the sparkles on her nails as she lays the key down on your dresser and moves inside the bedroom.

“Someone likes back scratches, huh?”

The mattress dips as Chrissy joins you and Eddie on the bed. She reaches out and traces your spine with her forefinger from the nape of your neck all the way down to the small of your back. It causes more shivers to ripple across your body and you emit a deeply contented sigh.

“Mmhmm, better than a massage,” you hum.

Chrissy’s eyes find Eddie’s over you. “Mind if I take over?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer audibly, but you assume he must have nodded or brandished his hand with a silent be my guest when you feel Chrissy shift and swing out her leg. You feel the gentle graze of her velour sweats as she lowers to straddle you, knees resting on either side of your hips. 

Eddie brushes your cheek one last time with the backs of his fingers and carefully climbs off the bed. “I’m gonna grab us some waters,” he says. “Chris, you need anything else?”

Chrissy glances over her shoulder at him with a playful smile. “Got any candles you can light? A little ambiance never killed anybody.”

“No, but candles sure have,” he says back wryly. “I’ve got some, but it’ll take me a minute.” 

“That’s okay,” Chrissy hums. “We’ll keep ourselves busy.”

You listen as Eddie’s footsteps recede down the hall and you have to try and contain not only your excitement, but also the nerves that are starting to bubble up in your chest. As though she senses it, Chrissy devotes herself to keeping you relaxed. She gently strokes your back with a sensual skim of her fingertips up and down your spine, light as a tickle but smoother.

“I’m gonna unhook this, okay?”

Her hands rest on the clasp of your bra, but she waits to separate it until you give an affirming nod. The relief of it releasing is instantaneous, the band and straps falling away. Chrissy begins to scratch methodically, first with all ten fingers moving as one in a long, slow crawl down your back, and then splitting off in different swirling patterns. She knows all the places that need to be paid special attention, like right above your rib cage where the band dug into your skin all day. Her nails aren’t long, just a short almond shape, but they’re enough to offer a deeper scrape and more relief than Eddie’s blunt fingertips.

Leaning forward so her body presses against your back, she lets her lips hover over your ear.

“If you ever want to stop, you tell me, okay? If you aren’t enjoying yourself, I’m not either.”

“You got that from Eddie,” you say, recalling the first time you’d come over to his place. The first time you’d laid in this bed that would eventually become your own.

Heart in your throat, you’d warned him you weren’t ready to go too far. After all, you were still living in New York at the time and staring down the barrel of your return flight home set for the day after your sister’s wedding in a little over a month. The last thing you needed was to get too attached to someone who lived hundreds of miles away—least of all the sweet, handsome, oddly disarming guy you just met at a strip club. And you knew if you gave in to what your body was screaming for, it would only lead to heartbreak. There was no way it wouldn’t.

Eddie responded perfectly. More than perfectly. He said he didn’t care what you did or how far you went. He only cared about spending as much time with you as he could; and that he would go at whatever pace made you comfortable. If you aren’t enjoying yourself, I’m not either.

Which of course only made you want to do it more.

Chrissy laughs breathily, the sound a sweet and fluffy thing like a wisp of cotton candy.

“Eddie got that from me, babydoll.”

She pushes up on her knees so you have room to roll over onto your back. As you do, your arms come up instinctively to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling ashamed of the way they probably look from this angle, flat and flopping around unlike her tiny, perky ones.

“Don’t hide from me, beautiful,” she tuts, wrapping her hands around your own and bringing them to the zipper of her sweater.

Your fingers fumble around the metal pull and Chrissy helps you drag it down, revealing her skin is bare underneath. She has a faint smattering of freckles across her chest and you stroke your fingers softly along her collar bone and over her breasts as her sweater slides off her arms.

The light pressure of her body settles back down on your hips and she leans forward again, letting her warm chest press against your own. Her long lashes flutter and the gold ‘86 charm hanging on the chain around her neck swings steadily like a pendulum and bumps your chin.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks. Wordlessly, you nod.

Her lips are familiar, in a way. Plush and full, not unlike Eddie’s. They move against yours with purpose—not aggressive, but insistent. Like she’s trying to show you how much she wants this too. Gradually, you open up to her, giving her tongue access to probe your own and sighing softly when it does. The light clicks of your lips meeting again and again fill the room under the gentle strums of the acoustic guitar on the album playing.

You’re so lost in her, you don’t catch the sound of Eddie’s bare feet padding softly on the carpet as he returns. A soft creak makes your eyes fly open and you turn your head to the side. 

“Don’t mind me,” Eddie chuckles, leaning against the low bookshelf your record player sits on.

Beside it, he’s arranged some white pillar candles of varied sizes and states of dripped wax. There’s a soft hiss and a faint smell of smoke as he strikes a match to light them. The flickering flames make his shadow dance on the wall and once he’s done, his attention turns back to you.

His eyes are luminous as he watches you and Chrissy together, the deep brown of them warm and bubbling with excitement seeing the way your lips move so sultry and sensuous with hers.

“She’s a good kisser, huh?” he asks his friend.

“So good,” Chrissy murmurs, pressing her mouth back to yours. She swallows your soft hums and breathy moans of pleasure. Your hands come up to cup her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks and fingers slipping into her fine, soft hair.

She nips gently at your bottom lip, a little hint at wanting something more, and you remember that little request she made on the phone. You slide one hand into her hair until the heel of your palm meets the base of her skull and firmly squeeze the hairs closest to her scalp. 

You don’t yank her head back, just grip her tightly enough to tip it back and get at the column of her neck. You suckle at the skin there, soothing the red mark you make with your tongue after. Her throat vibrates with a moan and you hear the soft plop of Eddie’s own sweats falling to the floor.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he groans as he palms the front of his boxers.

“Taker her pants off for me, Ed,” Chrissy instructs, tipping her head back down for another kiss.

Eddie nods and kneels dutifully at the foot of the bed. His fingers curl around the waistband of your sweats and he starts to tug them down over your hips and off your legs. He tosses them into the growing heap of clothes by the bed along with his pants and Chrissy’s sweater.

“I think she likes kissing you, Chris,” he says, his fingers toying with your dripping entrance.

“The feeling’s mutual.” Chrissy smiles, shooting you a wink as she slips off you to stand.

She removes her track pants, leaving her in nothing but a dainty thong, and your eyes go wide trying to take all of her in. A smile plays across her pillowy lips as she climbs back onto the bed and drapes herself against your side. You’re now laid bare before them, gazing down at Eddie between the valley of your breasts as he lowers himself to kiss at the apex of your thighs. His breath is warm as he exhales and brings his fingers to your core. 

He slides in one with ease and follows it with a second, relishing the hitch of your breath it causes as he begins to massage your warm, wet walls. There’s more warm breath on your ear as Chrissy leans in close to whisper to you.

“How’s he feel, angel?”

She smoothes her hand over your forehead and brushes a few pieces of hair from your face, letting her fingertips trail over your cheeks.

“He’s…he’s really good,” you pant, struggling to draw breath. Your body is already on fire after just a minute of having Eddie’s fingers, reactive to every touch of Chrissy’s soft hands.

“I’m not surprised,” she giggles, letting her fingers skim your navel. “He learned from the best.”

“Oh, please,” Eddie snorts from between your legs. “I’m completely self-taught.”

“Excuse me?!” Chrissy squeaks in mock outrage. “I’m like your Mr. Miyagi of pussy.”

You start to giggle until Eddie curls his fingers particularly deep and the sound crumbles into a low moan. The two of them continue their light squabbling while you drift away, being blissfully rocked by the pace and rhythm of Eddie’s capable fingers inside of you.

“Not a chance,” he tells her. “If anything, you learned everything you know from me.”

“You have some natural talent, I’ll give you that,” Chrissy concedes. “But there’s always room for improvement.”

With that, Chrissy places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder in a signal to swap places with her. He withdraws his fingers from you, his eyes locking with yours as he brings them to his lips and sucks them into his mouth. Just the sight makes you flutter and ache with need.

Chrissy lifts herself up until she’s suspended over you, caging you between her limbs. Her eyes glimmer as she dips down and little tendrils of hair caress your cheek as she kisses you sweetly. 

“I taught him everything he knows,” she whispers. “But not everything I know…”

Her soft lips skim the line of your jaw, traveling down to your neck and then your breasts. She laves her tongue over your nipple in a dazzling array of circles and flicks, gently rolling one between her fingertips as she suckles the other.

As she moves further down your body, Eddie smoothly moves up to lay beside you.

“Hi,” he whispers, smiling down at you, dimples deepening in his cheeks. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, the sound hitching in your throat as Chrissy’s warm breath fans across your mound. You meet her sparkling eyes once more as she glances up for one last check-in. Without a word spoken, you can see what she’s asking and you nod eagerly.

Her mouth is a mystifying combination of familiar and fresh. You recognize a couple of Eddie’s moves one or both of them must have learned from watching the other, but there’s still a clear distinction between the two. Where Eddie is precise and exacting in his movements—creative, yet deliberate as he’s working towards a goal—Chrissy has more finesse and flair. 

It’s whimsical and variable, changing up and keeping you constantly attuned to her. It’s kaleidoscopic, in a way, shapes and colors twisting in seemingly random order to create a stunning, beautiful pattern.

While Eddie’s fingers have the benefit of sheer length and girth, Chrissy’s can maneuver more efficiently. They actually dance inside of you, like they’re trying to waltz with your g-spot. It’s not even a matter of better or worse. With a gun to your head, you couldn’t decide which was more enjoyable. Luckily, you don’t have to.

You feel the weight of Eddie’s broad palm as he strokes the top of your head, and dreamily turn your head to look at him.

“How is she, beautiful?” he asks.

“She’s really good…holy shit…”

You hook a finger in his ball chain necklace to tug him down, but find it slack as he’s already on his way to kiss you. His mouth meets yours eagerly, relishing the feeling of the moans and whimpers that fall from your lips as Chrissy plays expertly with your clit.

“This is so great,” Eddie breathes as you pull apart. “I can hardly see you when I’m eating you out and now I’ve got a front row seat. God, you’re fucking gorgeous…”

He swoops in to plant his lips against yours again and it steals all the breath in your lungs. You reach out and fumble like mad to find Chrissy’s hand where she’s holding your thighs apart, weaving your fingers with hers and squeezing to tell her you’ve not forgotten her.

She squeezes your hand back, but lifts her head when your hips start to squirm.

“I think she needs to be fucked soon or we might kill her, Eds,” Chrissy says teasingly.

“That true, baby?” Eddie husks, his voice low in your ear. “You ready for my cock?”

“Yes, yes—please,” you gasp desperately. 

Chrissy’s slides up and her warm body lays against you, sandwiching you nicely between them as she pecks your lips softly.

“How do you want him to take you, angel?”

“From behind,” you say, daringly looking up at her.“So I can eat you out while he fucks me.”

The words feel clumsy coming out of your mouth, but still you commit to the statement as best you can and it must be enough for them to buy it. Chrissy’s large eyes widen even further as she exchanges a glance with Eddie, who looks at her like he might blow his load on the spot if you say something, anything, like that again.

“I think we created a monster,” she chuckles.

Needing no more prompting, Chrissy begins to arrange herself on the bed with a pillow under her hips and lays down another for your chest.

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Eddie says, stroking himself as he watches you get into position.

You roll over on the bed to lay between Chrissy’s spread legs. You let your head drop low to ghost your mouth over her baby blue g-string, noting it’s the same pale shade as her eyeshadow you complimented that night you met at the bar. You lift up your hips, dripping slit on full display as Eddie kneels behind you. He draws a shuddering breath and a loud CRACK fills the room as he smacks his hand down on your ass. Your whole body jerks and you wail pleasurably.

Chrissy props herself up on her elbows and takes your chin between her fingers.

“Someone likes that, huh?” she says. “You like it when Daddy spanks you?”

You nod earnestly, eyes big and round, getting more excited by the second. Chrissy’s eyes flicker over your head to meet Eddie’s as a playful smirk spreads across her lips.

“Maybe keep that in check while she’s neck deep in my pussy?” she suggests

“Will do, Cap’n.”

Eddie gives Chrissy a little salute as you glance back over your shoulder at him. He shoots you a secretive wink, both of you knowing he had no intention of administering another even before Chrissy said something. Any more than one and the pain becomes too much of a distraction.

His ass, on the other hand…

You gasp suddenly, bunching the blanket in your fists as Eddie teases your entrance with the head of his cock. He smears your own juices between your legs, mixing them with the precum leaking from his tip. Rather than sinking inside, he slides it forward and the ridges of his tip and shaft catch on your clit and make you keen forward.

“Should I take these off?” Chrissy asks, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her thong.

“No, I…I wanna,” you say softly.

Your head dips again and you begin a soft trail of kisses following the dip of her hips until you reach the curve of her waist. You place your mouth over the pale blue string, taking the thin elastic band between your teeth to pull it down. Behind you, Eddie actually whines at the sight and he leans sideways to watch as you drag the tiny piece of fabric down over Chrissy’s hip bone. 

With all the grace of a ballerina, she brings her legs together and sticks them up in the air so you can lift her panties off completely. Once they’ve been tossed away, she lets her legs fall open on either side of you and you can’t help but stare. A bare shave, skin smooth and soft as a peach. Pink tissue glistening with her own arousal.

You tilt your head as you regard it, eyes dancing, a little surprised. “Huh,” you say. “It’s so…pretty.”

“Thank you,” Chrissy says with a tittering laugh. “And it tastes as good as it looks.”

You meet her gaze over her mound and the two of you share a devilish smile.

“Start slow, baby,” Eddie coos, his hands running up your sides. “The way I do with you, you know? Touch her thighs…rub around the outside…tease her…get her all needy…”

“Leave her alone, Ed,” Chrissy tuts. “Let her play with her new toy how she wants.”

The two of them exchange a smile and you feel the familiar weight of your boyfriend’s palm smoothing up your spine, the heel of his hand pressing gently down and helping to coax you forward. Your heart pounds in your chest as you descend, tongue slipping out to wet your lips before placing a kiss on the inside of Chrissy’s milky thigh. 

“Mmm, hang on a second,” Eddie says, suddenly backing off the mattress. He walks around to the head of the bed so he’s standing over you as you look up at him plaintively.

“Are you not gonna…”

You glance behind you at the space he just occupied, pussy clenching around nothing as if in mourning. Eddie smiles and leans in close, his hand reaching out to cradle your jaw. You shiver at the roughness of his calloused thumb against your cheek and stare into his eyes.

“I will, baby, I promise,” he says. “You just…god, you look so hot right now I have to watch.”

You swallow hard, torn between the thrill his words send through you and the nerves now creeping up your shoulders and making them tense. Giving head was one of the things you actually felt pretty confident about. Guys were quick to tell you how good you were—Eddie in particular, even before he had discovered your affinity for praise. Of course, you could never shake the suspicion they only told you it was really good so you would do it more often. 

Still, you’d certainly done it enough and you had it on pretty good authority your skills were above average. And you’d sort of been hoping maybe you could coast on that and Chrissy might help you with the finer points. But the thought of Eddie watching you do it? Being on display like that…not only having to be good, but also make it look like it was good?

What if you were bad at it? What if Chrissy hated it and didn’t have the heart to tell you after all this build up? You imagined her lovely face grimacing as you remained oblivious between her thighs. That would be a disaster in and of itself, but the thought of Eddie bearing witness to your spectacular failure? 

At least if he was fucking you, he’d have something to keep him occupied.

“Hey,” Chrissy whispers, placing her hand on your other cheek so they’re each cupping a side of your face. “Come out of your head, angel.”

“Sorry,” you say meekly. “I’m…I’m trying to stay confident, it’s just hard.”

“Baby, why? You’re doing so good,” Eddie hums. “And you’re so sexy, can you really blame me for wanting to watch this?”

Your lip quivers as you avoid his gaze. “I just…it feels like I’m on display…”

“We’re not here to judge,” Chrissy says with a kind smile. “We know this is new for you, you’re not gonna get a scorecard at the end.”

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Eddie chuckles. “Chris already is.”

Chrissy swats his shoulder and it makes all three of you laugh gently. You look back and forth between them, warm brown eyes and sparkling blue-green ones. Both pairs shining and eager, focused solely on you, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.

Making it easy to believe you are.

You carefully lean forward and peck Chrissy on the lips, then turn your head to kiss Eddie’s as well. And back to Chrissy, for longer this time, cupping her jaw before returning to Eddie again. Anywhere you look, there’s a pair of lips to kiss and you greedily drink your fill of both.

“Let’s slow down a little,” Eddie murmurs, words making his lips vibrate against yours. “You two kiss for a bit and I’ll just watch for now. Okay?”

His eyes find yours and he lifts his brow with the question. You nod, almost imperceptibly, and he drops his hand to wrap his fingers around your wrist. Three squeezes. I. Love. You.

Chrissy grins. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” she says, hand slipping around the back of your neck and pulling you into her mouth.

Eddie backs away and settles into the chaise by the window, spreading his legs wide to stroke himself as he watches you and Chrissy’s bodies begin to move together. You remember how mystified he’d been by you putting a chair there— “Just seems silly to have extra furniture. If we’re in the bedroom, we’re only gonna be on the bed,” he’d chuckled. 

He’s eating those words now, you’re sure of it.

You lay your body against Chrissy’s, letting one of your legs slot between hers, relishing in the velvety feel of her freshly shaved skin. Her mouth is open and inviting, tongue running across the seam of your lips to politely request access, which you grant her happily. 

The kissing is deep and slow, like you and Eddie used to do when you first started dating and you realized making out with him was better than all of your past sexual experiences combined. You brushed your fingertips over the swell of her breasts, so dainty and perky, playing with her nipples until they stiffen at your touch. 

She gasps as you move your lips down her cheek and sprinkle a line of kisses along her jaw until you reach her neck. You kiss and lick and suckle at the sensitive skin until Chrissy trembles in your arms. She turns her head to the side, mouth falling open in a gasp as you run the tip of your tongue across the shell of her ear.

“Get on top of me?” she asks in a breathy whisper. “I wanna feel you.”

You move quickly to straddle her hips as she’d done to you, placing your hands on her waist both to steady yourself and to hold her down as you begin a slow, deep grind down.

“Fuck, baby,” Eddie groans from his seat. “You’re so goddamn hot, I can’t stand it.”

Chrissy smiles up at you and nods in agreement. She flattens her hands against your stomach and moves them up to palm your chest. At her touch, that burning pleasure reignites. You sneak a glance at Eddie and your whole body tingles at the sight of him. He looks almost primal. Eyes hooded with lust, gripping himself so tightly it must blur that border between pleasure and pain. His stroke is long and slow, tortuously so, to stave off his release as best he can.

The feeling of having his eyes on you, the ravenous way they rake over your form, causes your confidence to surge. You lean forward, boldly pressing your mouth to Chrissy’s before beginning a trail of kisses down her body, mouthing at the hollows of her neck, nipping at her pronounced collar bones until you reach her breast and suck her pert nipple into your mouth.

“Such a little tease,” she hums excitedly, pursing her lips in a pillowy pout. 

You chuckle around her nipple and release it with a lewd pop before continuing your trail down her body. Sternum to stomach, navel to mound, and at long last to your final destination.

You try to remember the things Eddie and Chrissy did that feel best for you, but eventually you give up on thinking at all. You let instinct take over, exploring her folds, listening to what makes her breathing get heavy, what makes her chest heave, what makes her thighs twitch and her toes curl over. You lose yourself in her taste and her musky scent, new but familiar.

“Oh, fuck you, Munson, I can’t believe you get this tongue all the time,” Chrissy whines, her voice wavering as you delve deeper into her center. 

You swirl your tongue around the edges of her entrance, spreading her lips apart, licking at them like honeysuckle petals. You’re so wrapped up in her you don’t even realize Eddie has left the chaise until you feel the sudden delicious stretch of him pushing inside of you at last. 

Gasps and whimpers fall from your lips right into Chrissy’s folds as he fucks into you. He starts with a steady roll of his hips, but you thrust back against him, chasing more force. He increases his pace, the slapping of his thighs against the backs of your own filling the room, as your lips surround Chrissy’s clit and you suck it like a piece of candy.

“Oh, yes, keep doing that,” Chrissy cries out, her voice jumping an octave in a pleasurable scream. “Just like that, just like that—”

Behind you, Eddie moans and you can feel his reaction as he pulses inside of you. “Jesus Christ, fuck—baby, you’re drenching me,” he exalts.

It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You’ve never felt as attractive as you do right now; never as wanted and desired. 

The sounds of both of them fill your head, a symphony of pleasure and praise. You squeeze and clench around Eddie’s cock, milking him for all he’s worth. He feels you getting close and his hand comes around to find your clit and rub the flats of his fingers over it. 

The coil in your belly grows impossibly tight with every pass over the bundle of nerves. He pushes further into you, his cock reaching impossibly deep until he hits that sacred spot within you that has you seeing bright white as you moan into Chrissy. Your orgasm rips through your body, walls gripping Eddie like a vice as his warm release paints your insides.

The sound of him coming is loud and guttural, his hips stuttering and thrusts growing erratic as he loses all control. Still, you do everything you can to maintain your pace on Chrissy. Her hips are squirming, her back arching as she grinds her hips against your lips and tongue.

“I’m so close,” she pants, breathless as her chest heaves. “Y-you’re gonna make me come, you’re making me feel so good—ahh!”

You plant a hand on her lower belly mostly for purchase as you add your fingers and crook them up in search of that spongy wall inside of her, but the pressure causes something else entirely. 

A spray of liquid hits your neck and chest, dribbling down your breasts. Chrissy’s voice goes higher as she rides out her orgasm, her thighs twitching against your ears. Behind you, Eddie’s eyes go round with shock as though he thinks he must be dreaming.

“Was that…did you…did she…”

Answering him seems unnecessary when the evidence is all over your face. Chrissy’s chest and stomach heave as she draws one shuddering breath after another, her high moan dissipating as the waves of her pleasure finally ebbed.

“Ffff-uck, angel, that was amazing.”

“Really?” you ask, looking up at her hopefully.

“Absolutely,” Chrissy hums, content and sated as she lets her head loll back on the pillow.

You look back at Eddie, your eyes big and hopeful. “How are you? You good?”

He bends at the waist and leaves a line of kisses down your spine, the soft ends of his long hair tickling your tingling skin as he does.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” he says, the noise throaty and strained from his efforts. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Incredible,” you sigh, laying down next to Chrissy and letting your head rest on her shoulder. 

She curls her slender arms around you and her fingers start to stroke the hair at the crown of your head. Eddie heads for the bathroom and returns with two washcloths. One, he hands off to Chrissy and the other he dips between your legs to collect his spend as it’s trickling from your entrance. Once she’s cleaned herself up, Chrissy has you sit up with her and she reaches for one of the waters sitting on the bedside table.

“Good girl,” she sighs as she brings the glass to your lips, her cheeks still flushed and skin all glowy and radiant from her orgasm. 

You can’t imagine ever looking as good as she does after you come. 

She kisses you after you sip, licking the chilled water from your lips before taking a drink of her own. You fall back onto the bed together and Eddie curls up beside you, their arms layering over one another’s as they hold you between them. You roll over after a minute, burying your face in the crook of his neck, Chrissy now curling around you as your big spoon.

“You hungry?” you murmur against his chest. 

“Fucking starved,” Eddie groans, making Chrissy chuckle.

She unwraps her arms from around you and stands to pull her clothes back on, glancing down fondly at the rumpled mess the three of you have made of the bed. As she zips her sweater, she pauses, looking for the first time a little unsure of herself.

“So, um…I guess I should go?” Her eyes dart back and forth between you and Eddie and you pull yourself off him to sit up.

“Do you have to?”

You look up at her plaintively and then back at Eddie, not quite sure what you’re even asking. All you know is you hate the thought of…kicking her out. Making her feel used. Letting her go back to Robin and Nancy’s without anyone to take care of her. God, do you wanna take care of her.

“You should stay, Chris,” Eddie tells her warmly. “Dinner should be done soon and we can watch a movie. Have a cuddle pile on the couch.”

“You sure? We’ve, uh…we’ve never done that before,” she says with a giggle.

It makes you laugh, too. The thought of them balking at something as innocent as cuddling when they’ve watched the other one fuck on multiple occasions. Eddie just shrugs and a smile plays across his lips as he leans in to brush the tip of his nose against yours.

“First time for everything,” he chuckles.

After you eat, you all settle in together on the big sectional sofa. Eddie sits up against the arm and you lay between his legs with your back against his chest and Chrissy draped across your front. It’s a delightfully crushing feeling, having both of them surround you. Eddie’s firm, solid body cradling yours while Chrissy rests her head on your chest and lightly strokes your legs.

You find out they both like to talk during movies and chuckle at the little quips they trade back and forth while you get to sit quietly, happily listening to them. Dinner sits warm in your belly and the heat of both their bodies around you is like the best electric blanket ever. 

About halfway through the movie, you start to crave something sweet. And just as you lift your head to ask if he wants dessert, you see Eddie’s phone is out and he is already DoorDashing ice cream for all three of you.

Pistachio, strawberry and butter pecan.

The sleep you eventually fall into isn’t deep. You let your eyes flutter closed, and your breathing grows even and rhythmic, but you’re conscious enough to feel it when Eddie lifts you off the couch. He carries you down the hall to the bedroom and Chrissy follows, helping him tuck you under the duvet in the center of the bed. 

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” she says, her voice hushed in the dark room.

“You can just stay the night if you want,” Eddie whispers to her. “She’ll be bummed if she wakes up and you’re not here”

You have to resist the urge to chuckle at all the domesticity you’re overhearing.

“I’m so happy for you, Ed,” Chrissy hums. “You guys are great together. Really solid.”

Eddie just smiles in response and holds a finger to his lips, shooting you a cautious glance to make sure you’re still asleep. He leads Chrissy to the closet and you hear the soft creak of the door opening as he ushers her inside. There’s a light rustling as he searches for something in the pocket of one of his blazers—the only hiding place he felt certain you wouldn’t find.

“Ohhh,” Chrissy mewls at whatever he shows her. “It’s perfect.”

“Thanks for the idea about getting her size. I thought she might have noticed the ring was missing, but she never said anything.”

“I’m so glad that’s the one you went with, it really suits her. When are you gonna ask?”

“I talked to Robin and Nance about having a dinner thing when they get back. Their patio is so nice with the lights and the pool and the fire pit and everything. And Jon will be there — I asked him about taking pictures. Will you still be in town? I think she’d like you to be there.”

“Of course,” Chrissy says. “Maybe we can go get our nails done that day.”

“That’s perfect.” Eddie exhales, breath coming out slightly shaky as he sucks in another. “And she…she’ll say ‘yes,’ right?”

“Oh, Ed…”

Chrissy lets out a soft sigh and you’d bet anything she’s rubbing his arm.

“Definitely,” she tells him. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #chrissy cunningham x female reader #chrissy cunningham x reader #chrissy cunningham x you

[samsno1]

Surprise

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

I'm a littleeeee late for his birthday one-shot but I did it! Happy Birthday Sammy, the biggest comfort character that I have and the reason for my obsession with a 15 season TV show

Summary: The morning of Sam's birthday didn't go according to planned - in the best way possible

Warnings: PURE FLUFF, naked-ness and hints of sexual intercourse but literally nothing happens, english is not my first language

WC: 1.7k

enjoy!

It was hilarious. The way Sam tried for so long to not bother you about his birthday. Brushing it off, claiming it was nothing, saying you never needed to do much for him because just your presence was enough to make him happy. It was cute but you never bought it, this year was the same thing.

You had woken up later than him that morning, noticed when you didn’t feel the warmth of his chest on your bare back and his hands holding you close like he did the night before. You wondered how he did it, the man kept you up all night and still was able to get up at six for his morning run. Either way, Sam usually went on runs early to clear his head and you knew his birthday was somewhat of a taboo for him – damn John Winchester. He wasn’t very open about it but, from what you knew about his father in the years you knew Sam and Dean, you could have an idea of why he didn’t take his birthday as an important date.

You got up, discarding the sheets, the cold hitting your naked body making goosebumps rise over your skin. The room was an absolute mess, your clothes and Sam’s scattered all around, half the sheet on the ground along with a pillow that you probably pushed off the bed to make up some space. You smiled to yourself feeling the warmth on your cheeks – it has been three years since you started dating Sam and five since you met him and he still managed to make you feel like it was your first time all over again.

You gathered some clean clothes of yours and decided to hop on the shower to really wake up and, since Sam never ate breakfast before a run, you wanted to start his special day with his favorite breakfast – made by you. Sam always appreciated anything you did for him, be it the simplest thing as breakfast or complex things such as, well, saving his life. Dean always teased about Sam being madly in love with you ever since he first laid his eyes on you. Little did he know it was practically the same for you too. The pining was terrible and you only noticed how embarrassing it truly was after you started dating. You assumed, though, it was always like that, what matters is that it worked out and it was one of the best decisions of your life to start a relationship with Sam Winchester.

You thought about all kinds of things you could do to surprise Sam later. He wasn’t much for parties and only drank casually – unlike his brother. He liked Celine Dion but you thought it would be too dismissive to buy a vinyl of hers for his birthday. To sum it up, Sam was a hard guy to buy gifts for because everything he told you when you asked what he liked to get was I don’t need much sweetheart, just give me anything and I’ll be more than happy. Ugh, such a cliché thing to say to your girlfriend.

While you were cooking the eggs you heard the loud noise of the metal door to the bunker closing and immediately smiled to yourself knowing your birthday boy had arrived. He ran down the stairs and you were able to hear his tired breaths from afar. You always wondered why he liked running so much, catching yourself thinking of all the different reasons why he might feel the need to run every morning. Maybe it was just great to workout, maybe he just needed some time alone, maybe he just likes the fresh air from time to time, either way, you weren’t by any means going to complain about waking up on an empty bed every now and again – it was one of the things he enjoyed, you weren’t going to ruin it for him.

You felt strong – and slightly sweaty – arms wrap around your waist from behind and soft lips kissing the side of your neck, a light hum coming out of his mouth as he smelled your perfume. “Good morning, Sweetheart” He whispered against your skin.

“Good morning baby, I’m making breakfast for you birthday boy” You said.

You felt him smile over your neck, and one of his hands snaked up and grasped your chin, turning your face to him. He quickly looked at your eyes, then your lips, leaning in to leave a long peck over them. You sighed dreamily through your nose, turning your body around completely to him, making him adjust his other hand on your waist. When he pulled away Sam was looking at you with the most loving eyes you had ever witnessed – well, he always looked at you like that.

“You didn’t have to”

“I wanted to, don’t start” You countered. You would’ve ran a hand through his hair, hugged him tight and showered him in kisses but, first, he needed an actual shower – his front strands were shining with sweat. “Now” You laid a hand over his chest “go take a shower so that I can greet you properly and for you to eat”

He lowered both his hands to your waist again and you felt his thumbs under your shirt, caressing your bare skin. He seemed to not have registered a word you said as he just stared dreamily at your face.

“Thank you” He said suddenly. You felt a seriousness in his tone, something more than just thanking you for making him food. The words hung heavy on his tongue and in your ears, your brain trying to process what he really meant by them. You knew that in ‘Winchester’ – or better, the way Sam and Dean spoke about feelings – ‘thank you’ could mean a thousand different things and emotions and this time it definitely wasn’t just for the eggs.

Sam noticed the confusion on your face, your beautiful eyes trying to read through his and figure it out. You were a smart woman, Sam knew that. He also knew you would not just take that thank you as something simple, specially with the way he said it. Truth was, Sam wanted to say so much more, to drown you in his words, to fill your body with emotions but he was just too scared. Every time he felt the need to tell you more, the constriction in his throat was stronger, the nervousness in his body was overwhelming and he would just not say exactly what he wanted to say. The velvet box hung heavy in the pocket of his shorts.

“For what?” You asked, almost in a whisper, eyebrows furrowed.

“For being you” He said and watched as a beautiful smile opened in your face. It’s now or never Sam, do it, fucking do it.

He let go of your waist, still smiling at you. Sam had told you before that nothing was a better gift for him than having you in his life. He meant that. He meant every single word. So, yeah, Sam Winchester faked going for a run this morning. Sam Winchester actually went to pick up a ring he had ordered a week ago. Sam Winchester wasn’t actually sweaty, he had thrown water on his front strands to fake it because you were so smart to the point you’d notice that he didn’t go for a run if his hair was dry.

Sam Winchester was on his knees in front of you, a beautiful golden ring inside a velvet box in his hand.

You were frozen as tears started to well up, your eyes glossy. “Sam..”

“You’re one of the many reasons I’m still here” He began “You make every breath I take worth it, you turned my world upside down the moment I saw you, you make me aspire to be better every single day. I look at you and I see life, a future and the forever love of my life” He took a breath, the constriction in his throat wasn’t beating him now, it wasn’t going to stop him. “I can’t see myself without you anymore so, please, if you’d give me the pleasure…____ ____, will you marry me?”

Your heart was beating so fast and so loud you could feel it in your ears, tears were falling down your cheeks as Sam held your shaky hand in his. You’ve never felt happier, you’ve never wanted to scream this loud or cry this much. He was going to be the death of you.

“Yes!” You nodded aggressively, smiling wide “Yes, yes, God, a thousand times yes!”  You said loudly and Sam stood up with the intention of putting the ring around your finger but you just couldn’t hold back your happiness. 

As soon as he was up, you threw yourself at him, your arms around his neck and he almost lost his balance, swaying on his feet. You sobbed on his shoulder as he hugged you tight to him. You pulled back to look in his eyes and saw nothing but love, nothing but happiness and gave him a long kiss.

You pulled away and finally let him put the ring around your finger as you stared emotionally at it, the gold shining beautifully against your skin. When he looked at your face again he smiled, his dimples showing and his cheeks red.

“I was supposed to surprise you today” You said with feigned anger as you stared into his eyes. Sam shook his head and chuckled.

“I told you, there’s no gift I’d rather have than you”

“You’re so corny”

“You love it”

“Yeah, I love it…I love you”

“I love you” And he kissed you again, his hands holding your cheeks as if you were made of glass. You held his wrists to keep him there…Until the smell of something burning hit your nose and you pulled back with wide eyes.

“Oh Jesus Christ, the food!” You said desperately, turning around to turn the stove off. Sam just laughed at you, his fianceé, trying to swat the smoke away with your hand as you poured water over the brunt eggs. Yeah, best gift ever.

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading XoXo

#supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural imagine #supernatural x reader #spn #spn fic #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn imagine #spnfandom #supernatural sam winchester #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #sam x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester x female reader #sam winchester x plus size reader #sammy #writers on tumblr #jared padalecki #supernatural x you

[hbyrde36]

Chapter 1: Under My Skin

Written for the @strangerthingsreversebigbang

Art (coming soon!) by @glitterfang

Beta'd by @penny00dreadful

Rating: E | WC: 5937 | Chapters: 1/2 | AO3 Link

Not for the first time, Eddie was really regretting his decision to book a client on a Friday night, and a new client at that. 

It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, exactly. There were no dates on his calendar, and going out to random bars and clubs on the weekends to look for quick hookups had begun losing its appeal lately.

But it’d been a long week, and he’d much rather have been getting ready to plop down on the couch with Chrissy to split a bottle of red wine while they watched Drag Race, than preparing to do a cover up for some idiot who’d gotten his girlfriend’s name tattooed on his body, only to fall victim to—The Curse. 

Ask any tattoo artist and they’d be the first to tell you, there was no surer way to guarantee a breakup than to ink your significant other’s name on your body forever. 

And yeah, it probably wasn’t fair to judge the guy before they’d even met, but there were only two kinds of people who tended to make that particular mistake—dumbasses, and hopeless romantics. He just kind of assumed his client fell into the former camp, rather than the latter.

Eddie had just started wiping down the front desk counter, which doubled as a display case for the various accessories and body jewelry they carried trying to kill some time between his last appointment and cover-up-guy, when Chrissy came walking out of her studio.

It was one of the biggest perks, in his opinion, of owning their own shop. Not only did each of them finally have their own work spaces—no more having to listen to other client conversations or fighting over a single bluetooth speaker—but being their own bosses also meant they could decorate and customize their own studios to their heart’s content. 

The main area of the shop was a bit of a catch-all, much like his and Chrissy’s shared apartment. It featured neutral walls lined with a mishmash of all the things they loved, sprinkled in and amongst odd antiques, knick-knacks, and various pieces of unique artwork. There was everything from vintage vinyl record jackets tacked to the wall, to faux taxidermy mountings of creatures that had never existed in real life. 

Entering Chrissy’s studio was a little like stepping inside a Lisa Frank notebook cover. All vibrant rainbow colors and aggressive animal print. Eddie had painted the walls himself, color matching the exact shade of fuchsia as the adjustable chair he’d custom ordered just for her. He was no interior designer so she’d taken it from there, and though the finished product was a little too bright for his tastes, even he had to admit it was still pretty fucking metal. 

Eddie’s space was the polar opposite, featuring dark stained wood furniture and a style of decor that could be best described as a slightly more grown up version of a teenage boy's bedroom. Band and movie posters lined three of the walls, but instead of being held up with thumbtacks, or scotch tape, they were neatly laid in matching frames with thick black edging. The remaining wall held a gallery of photos. Him and Wayne from their last fishing trip, one from when he and Chrissy had received the keys to the parlor unlocking its doors on the first day that it was theirs, and an old snap of him and his high school bandmates standing in front of their homemade banner, among many others.

It wasn’t until Chrissy came up to lean on the counter with her jacket zipped-up and her purse slung over her shoulder that he realized something was up.

“Don’t forget to lock up when you're done.” She said, tapping her nails on the glass. “Oh! And can you stop and pick up some oat milk on your way home? We’re out.” 

“Wait, where are you going? Didn’t you have a client booked tonight too? I thought we were in this together, Cunningham!”

“Not anymore.” She said cheerfully, leaning across the counter to rest her elbows on the glass, leaving an ink smudge on the exact spot he had just finished cleaning. He swatted at her with the damp rag and she jerked back with a giggling-gasp.

“Mine had to cancel.”

Eddie groaned. “I hate when clients do that.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s like a free night off I wasn’t expecting.”

“Not exactly free, since canceling means not paying in full.” He grumbled.

“Oh lighten up! It’s not like we’re that behind on bills or anything.”

“Tell that to the electric company.” He said, mostly to tease her, though he couldn't help glancing up at the excessively large and kitschy skull chandelier he’d found on Amazon that definitely didn’t use high efficiency light bulbs, but he had sworn at the time was worth it for The Aesthetic™.

“Why are you always so grumpy?” Chrissy asked, jutting her lip out in a dramatic reenactment of him pouting. 

Not that he was one to pout. 

“I’m not!”

“Look at your face, you're grumpy right now!”

“That's because y- you’re…” He cut himself off with a sigh. 

He couldn't begrudge her the time off, he’d be hightailing it out of there just the same if it had been him. 

“Just get out of here.” He said, conceding defeat.

She beamed. “Okay! See you later!” She said, all but sprinting to the front doors. “Don’t forget about the milk!”

“Wait, why can’t you–” He started to ask, but she was on the other side of the door before he could get the words out.

“Oh forget it.” He mumbled, stashing the glass cleaner away where it belonged. 

About fifteen minutes later the bell above the door chimed, signaling the arrival of what Eddie assumed to be his last customer of the day. 

Except, it couldn't be.

It couldn’t possibly be because the Adonis that had just entered his humble tattoo parlor was, quite frankly, bonkers hot. There was no way, absolutely no way someone had this guy—this guy—so obsessed with them that he went and got their name tattooed on his perfect body and then just… let him go. 

It was unthinkable.

“Hi, you must be Eddie. I recognized you from your Instagram.” Pretty-boy said with a shy smile.

“Steve?” Eddie asked, blinking hard, completely unable to mask the tone of disbelief.

The other man nodded.

Shit, okay.

So this was him—Steeeeeeve Harrington. This was the guy. 

Maybe there was something wrong with him? There had to be a catch, a series of very red flags or something because all Eddie could think about at that moment was, if he ever got a chance with Steve? He’d never let him go. 

Get it together, Munson!

The bright side, of a sort, was that Steve smacked of straight guy energy, so it was unlikely Eddie would even be in the running for a chance anyway. Better to just put it out of his mind.

Though, he supposed he could still… look. It's not like looking ever hurt anyone. Not that he made a habit out of ogling the clientele. Of course, none of his other customers had ever come in wearing vintage Levi’s that fit their ass like a glove, not to mention the way they fit around his–

“Eddie?”

Fuck. 

Had Steve been talking this whole time while he’d been off daydreaming about what those sinfully tight jeans might look like on his bedroom floor?

“Yeah.” A soft chuckle fell from Eddie’s lips as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “S- sorry, man. Spaced out for a second there I guess.” 

What the fuck was wrong with him today?!

“It’s okay. I was just asking if the plan was still the same? In your last email you suggested we should do this over two appointments.”

Work question… yes, good. Focus on the job! 

“Right. With what we talked about I'd like to concentrate on just the outline today, maybe a little shading, and then in six weeks or so once that’s healed have you come back for the color. If you’re still alright with that?”

Eddie could do the whole thing in one shot if Steve really wanted to sit that long, but with something like this he didn't want to feel rushed. He’d done a few concept sketches after emailing back and forth with Steve about what he was looking for, and honestly what they’d come up with wasn’t really his usual style. He could do it, he was more than capable, but he had to wonder why Steve had picked him, out of all the tattoo artists in the city. He’d seen Eddie’s Instagram, so he knew the kind of work he usually churned out. Hell, Chrissy would have been the more obvious choice for this.

Of course, now that he’d gotten an eye-full of Steve in person he was glad he hadn’t tried to pawn him off on her. He was also really hoping Steve would agree to the split sessions, it would give them an excuse to see each other again.

“Whatever you think is best. I’m putting myself in your expert hands.” Steve said, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.

That was… interesting. 

Maybe Eddie had been a little bit hasty in his initial straight assessment?

Steve’s deposit had been paid, and they’d already gone over pricing through email so there wasn't much to discuss as far as that was concerned, After signing some paperwork and getting the other man’s ID scanned into the system there was nothing left to do but walk Steve back to his studio and get this show on the road.

“You can go ahead and take your shirt off, get comfortable. I’ll show you the stencil I drew up and if it looks good we can put it on and get started.” Eddie said, gesturing to his client chair.

He leaned over his desk while Steve got situated, taking a second to gather his thoughts, as well as add a small finishing touch to the transfer sketch before turning back to his client. The sight made his throat go dry. 

It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. 

At Eddie's direction, in preparation, Steve had shaved his chest. More specifically, Steve had shaved half of his chest. The side Eddie would be working on, that sported the existing tattoo, was bare—smooth as a baby's bottom. The other side was… 

It was…

Jesus Christ.

It should have looked ridiculous actually, and it was a little funny, but honestly all Eddie could think when he stared at the untrimmed side of Steve's upper body, resplendent with the most glorious chest hair, was that it was a travesty, a crime even, that he’d never get to see the whole thing grown out in its full glory. 

The lack of a shirt also highlighted the fact that Steve was incredibly toned, much more so than he had initially appeared even through his slim fit henley. 

Eddie shook his head, praying it had suddenly become an etch-a-sketch and he could clear out his thoughts by sheer force. 

He truly didn’t know what had gotten into him. It was hardly the first time he’d worked on someone he found attractive, but usually he didn’t notice it quite this much. When you pierce and tattoo for a living you get used to seeing a lot of bare skin, including occasionally, areas typically reserved for romantic partners. Professional hazzard, but it’d never been a problem for him before. He was an artist, this was his craft, and bare skin was just another kind of canvas.

He blamed it on his current dry spell, self-imposed as it was. 

It was easy enough to go out on a Saturday and find a guy or girl to bring home for the night, but he was so tired of one night stands and meaningless hookups in bar bathrooms. Where was the substance? He wanted companionship. He wanted a partner. He wanted to fall in love. 

Eddie cleared his throat and crossed the room to hand Steve the stencil, busying himself with raising up his stool to the proper height and pulling on a pair of thick black neoprene gloves while the other man looked it over.  

“It’s great.” Steve said. 

“Good.” Eddie quietly let out the breath he’d been holding. “Alright I'm gonna put this on and have you take a look at the placement, make sure you like it, then we can get started.”

Eddie squeezed out a dime sized amount of the stencil gel and rubbed it into Steve’s chest, laying the transfer paper down in just the right way so that the final design would sufficiently cover what was underneath, assuming he had scaled it right. 

It was perfect. After a quick check in the mirror, Steve agreed. 

While they waited for it to dry Eddie double checked his set up to make sure he had everything he would need for the session.

“Ready to get started?”

Steve took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “Yeah. I am.”

His reply felt heavy, like maybe he was talking about more than just the tattoo. Had they known each other at all Eddie might have asked about it, but they were basically strangers, and it wasn’t his job to pry. 

With steady hands he set the needle to Steve's skin and got to work. 

They weren’t at it for very long before Steve started to squirm. 

Eddie ignored it at first, he could tell the guy was trying hard to keep himself still, and he wasn’t really moving enough to actually disturb the work. Sometimes it took a bit for clients to sink into the feeling, to let the pain fade to the background enough that they could relax a little bit or at least be able to keep their body from trying to react to the odd sensation. But then he noticed the light sheen of sweat spreading over Steve's upper body, and would have sworn he could somehow feel the other man’s pulse quickening beneath the hand he had pressed so closely to his heart, even over the vibration of the tattoo machine.

He should probably stop and do a check-in, suggest a breather or some water. It wouldn't be the first time a seemingly tough muscle-bound guy had struggled to sit for him. 

He opened his mouth to say something about it, lifting the needle as he took a quick glance up at Steve’s face, but what he saw had the words dying on his tongue. Steve was staring back at him, face flushed, breath coming quick and shallow, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. 

That… did not look like a face that was in pain—or rather—it didn’t seem like the pain was unpleasant. 

Fuck.

Eddie flicked his gaze quickly back down to his hands, the needle, fighting the urge to look lower. 

He shouldn’t. 

It wasn’t right.

The professional thing to do would be to ignore the reaction completely. 

But Eddie was a weak, weak man.

He looked. 

Just a quick peek, less than a half-second that his eyes wandered south, and immediately he regretted it. 

Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuck.

Suspicion confirmed. Steve was hard. He was also huge if the unmistakable outline was any indication. Eddie bit his tongue, fighting back the groan that was trying to fight its way out of his throat. 

Those jeans should be fucking illegal. The only thing worse would’ve been a pair of gray sweatpants. Now he was the one sweating.

“Sorry.” Steve said, voice strained.

Eddie stilled, lifting the machine away from Steve's chest again before looking back up to meet his eyes. 

“For?”

Steve raised an eyebrow, challenging him to continue to pretend he hadn’t noticed. 

“It’s fine, really. It… happens. Everyone reacts differently to the pain.”

Steve let out a high pitched and breathy huff of laughter. “It wasn’t like this last time.” He muttered under his breath.

Eddie tried hard not to read into that, not to think about what the difference might be.

“Do you need to take a break?” 

“No,” Steve swallowed hard. Eddie watched, momentarily mesmerized by the bob of his adams apple. “But, uh, can we talk or something? To distract me?”

He sounded so vulnerable, and a little embarrassed. It was enough to snap Eddie out of his daze. The last thing he wanted was for the person in his chair to feel uncomfortable. Talking he could do, it was one of his best things. 

“Sure, what do you want to talk about?” Eddie asked casually, getting right back into his line work.

“You.” Steve answered quickly, pausing to clear his throat. “Um, I mean, did you always want to be a tattoo artist?”

Eddie chuckled. “Yeah, pretty much. I used to spend all my time, including the time I should have been using to study or do my homework, drawing, sketching, painting, you name it, and it just kinda developed from there. I gave myself my first stick-and-poke when I was about 15. My uncle was pissed. Not about the tattoo exactly, but he was worried I wasn't being safe enough about it—sanitary and stuff. Of course, he wasn’t wrong. So, Wayne took me out the next day and we got a book about it, and he bought me all the right materials. Even let me practice on him when I graduated to a tattoo machine.”

“He sounds like a really great guy.” Steve said.

“Yeah, he is.” Eddie could feel the wistful smile spreading across his own face. “Not just anyone could step in and raise someone else’s kid like that. Just wish I got to see him more. I go back to Indiana to visit him a few times a year, but it’s not the same.”

“I don’t see my family very much either, but we’re not close.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. My parents, they’re–” Steve trailed off as if looking for the right words. “Well, let's just say they're not as supportive of my—life choices, as your uncle was for you.”

“Oh?”

“I, uh, came out to them a while ago… as bisexual? They didn’t take it very well. Said I was just going through some kind of phase or crisis or something. Sorry, this is probably, like, way too much information to share with someone I just met.”

“No. it’s—Okay, maybe to a normal person it might be but I've never been what anyone would describe as normal. And… I get it.”

Eddie didn’t really have to say it. The outside of the shop sported every kind of pride flag you could think of. There were pictures right behind him on the wall of him and Chrissy at their first ever pride parade right here in the city. Not to mention his social media profiles, where he had a bi  flag right next to his age and pronouns in his bio. Steve knew, was the point, and Eddie was glad he’d felt safe enough in his shop—with him, to talk about it.

“Wayne was really good about that too.” Eddie said softly. “I’m sorry your parents weren’t.”

A comfortable silence settled between them after that and Eddie left it unbroken, better to let Steve decide which direction their conversation went from here—if he wanted to continue it. He seemed more relaxed already and his… predicament had mercifully gone down as they spoke. 

“When did you—how did you… know?“ Steve asked after a while.

“Junior High.” Eddie answered quickly, smiling to himself as he indulged in a little nostalgia. “Kinda the opposite of the usual story, I guess. I thought I was gay. I had such a crush on this boy a grade above me.  Nobody that would have given me the time of day mind you, I was a band geek and a huge nerd, but he was very nice to look at. Then he changed schools. I was heartbroken of course, which is my excuse for why I let this girl drag me under the bleachers during gym class. One second we were just sitting there talking and the next she was in my lap with her tongue down my throat.” 

“And?”

Eddie shrugged. “And I didn’t hate it. I reacted exactly the way a young boy reacts when a pretty girl is kissing them and grinding in their lap. Honestly, it blew my mind a little bit—had to reevaluate my whole world view.”

Steve hummed in understanding.

“It’s still mostly men for me but–” Eddie sighed wistfully, “Women.”

“Women,” Steve agreed reverently, letting out a soft laugh. “It was a bit more recent for me. A friend took me to a gay bar—dragged me there actually.” He started to shake his head, stopping instantly when he seemed to realize he might be moving too much.

Good boy.

Eddie smirked. “I bet you were popular.”

“You could say that. I’ve never had so many people offer to buy me a drink in my life.” As Steve went on he began to rub his hand along the chair's armrest, mindlessly drawing patterns into its surface with his long fingers.

“It’s funny, at 25 I didn’t think I had anything new to discover about myself, at least nothing big, but after that rather eye-opening evening I had to, like you said, reevaluate some things about myself. It wasn’t a huge shock I guess. Like, I had found guys attractive before—friends, celebrities, whatever, I just thought everyone felt that way.”

“Ah, the bisexual’s fallacy. Sure I think about other dudes sometimes, but only the normal amount.” Eddie said.

“How was I supposed to know it wasn’t!”

Eddie stopped tattooing as they held each other's gaze, both managing to keep a straight face for only a second before simultaneously dissolving into hysterical laughter. 

Figuring it was as good a time as any to take a short break, Eddie stripped his gloves off and slid across the room on his stool to a small mini-fridge he kept tucked under his desk, stocked with water and juice—something he always kept on hand in case a client got lightheaded.

As they sipped their drinks and both took an opportunity to stretch, Eddie decided it was finally time to put his foot in his mouth.

“So, how are you enjoying things on this side of the field? Someone as pretty as you, I'm sure you get asked out a lot.”

“No, uh, I don't know. I- I haven't really been out on any dates with guys.” Steve stuttered out nervously. “Kissed a few, but that’s all.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Eddie said. He meant it too. Not only was Steve something special to look at, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. He deserved to be taken out and shown a good time. Maybe he was shy.

Steve laid back in the chair, puffing his chest out as he got back into position while Eddie slipped a new pair of gloves on. 

“Why, you offering to show me the ropes?” Steve asked, pointedly raising an eyebrow.

Eddie’s mouth went dry. 

Okay, not that shy then. Surely it was just fun friendly flirting though, right?

“Don’t tempt me.” Eddie teased back. Two could play this game.

“Why not?”

“First rule of the trade, or at least the Munson doctrine, no dating the clients.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Steve said, and without even looking up Eddie could hear the smile in his voice, a hint of–challenge accepted–in his tone.

The next hour flew by as they continued to chat, both remarking on the differences between small town life and city life, as well as lamenting how expensive it was, and how neither of them thought they’d still be living with roommates in their mid-to-late-20's.

For a while Eddie waxed poetic about Chrissy, who of course filled the roles of bestie, roommate, and business partner, which tickled Steve to no end. 

He told the other man how they’d met, apprenticing at the same tattoo parlor at around the same time. and wound up bonding for life almost immediately. They were total opposites on the surface but deep down they were remarkably similar. Eddie didn’t go into too much detail, as it wasn’t his story to tell, but alluded to the fact that he and Chrissy had the shared experience of being born to shitty parents, only to be raised by another family member. A grandmother in Chrissy’s case.

It meant that they understood each other more than most, and yeah, being around one another 24/7 also meant they got on each other’s nerves a lot, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

At some point Steve’s cell phone began to ring from where it was shoved in his front pocket. He apologized profusely for forgetting to switch it on silent before they’d gotten started, but Eddie assured him it wasn’t a big deal. 

Or—it wouldn't have been, except either it was some kind of emergency, or someone who was intent on reaching Steve immediately, and continued trying to call three more times. 

“We can take a break if you need to get that.” Eddie offered.

Truth be told he could use a little breather himself. All this time of being essentially face down in Steve’s incredible chest was getting to him a little bit, not to mention the way his forearm lightly brushed along Steve's stomach whenever he braced himself across the man’s body. The feel of their bare skin touching was almost too much, and more than once Eddie felt himself breaking out in goosebumps. 

“Yeah, I think we’d better. It’s gotta be my little brother and knowing him he won’t stop calling until I answer.”

Eddie busied himself removing his gloves and taking a long drink from his water bottle while he flipped through a few drawings on his side table, trying to look like he wasn’t hearing every word of Steve's side of the conversation. 

“Hey buddy, I'm a little busy right now. What’s going on?” 

Steve paused, listening attentively to the voice on the other end of the call. 

“Dustin, he’s not abandoning you. Just because he wants–”

Sighing as he was abruptly interrupted, Steve somehow made the huff of breath sound both annoyed and fond.

“Well, did he actually say he didn’t want to play D&D with you anymore?” 

Eddie’s head snapped up of its own volition. Did the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen in real life just say D&D?

“That’s what I thought.” Steve said with a satisfied tone. “It's gonna be fine. I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay? Tell your mom I said hi.”

“Sorry about that.” Steve said, addressing Eddie this time, rolling his eyes as he ended the call. “Teenagers.”

“Pretty cool little brother if he plays Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Oh no.” Steve groaned. “Not you too! He and all his little friends are obsessed with it.”

“I used to play all the time with a group back in high school. We still try and get together for a one-shot at the holidays when we’re all back home visiting.” Eddie paused, concentrating for a second on wiggling his fingers into yet another set of gloves. There wasn’t really all that much left to do, another 20 minutes or so and he’d be done with the outline. “Was he alright, your brother?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.” Steve replied as he sat back, getting into position. “We, uh, technically we’re not actually related—I'm an only child. But I used to babysit Dustin when he was younger and when he grew up I just sorta stuck around. It’s only him and his mom at home and I guess I thought… I dunno, like, maybe I could help? I drove him to his first school dance, taught him how to do his hair, shave, that kinda stuff.”

“That's… that’s really sweet, man. I’m sure he appreciates having you around.”

With every new thing he learned about Steve, Eddie felt like he was in deeper and deeper trouble. He’d been having a tough enough time keeping it together with simply lusting over a hot body, but now Steve was turning out to be this sweetheart of a guy and, client or not, Eddie thought he might just be worth breaking all the rules for. 

“He’s worried his friend group is falling apart because one of the guys is going out for the basketball team. He’s afraid if Lucas gets in good with the jocks he won’t want to play with them anymore.”

“As a former outcast and enemy to jocks everywhere, I can understand his concern.” 

“Are you saying we wouldn't have been friends in high school then?”

“Steve, Stevie, please. Please don’t tell me…” Eddie trailed off, stopping what he was doing and gasping for dramatic effect–hand over his heart. “Oh god, you were captain of the sportsball team weren’t you?” 

Steve giggled, his beautiful eyes sparkling with it. “Basketball, to be exact. I was the co-captain of the swim team too.”

“I knew it would never work between us.” Eddie tutted, shaking his head as he got back to tattooing. “Are you reformed, at least?”

“Once a jock, always a jock, I'm afraid. I’m a personal trainer now.”

It explained a lot, and the perks—pun absolutely intended—of Steve's day job were undeniable, but as hot as the mental image of him pumping iron was, the idea of Steve palling around with toxic gym bros all day was almost enough to have Eddie second guessing everything.

“Don’t worry though, I don’t like gym bros any more than the next guy.” Steve said conspiratorially. “My clients are mainly older women looking to maintain their strength and mobility as they age.”

Aaaaand Eddie stood corrected. “Lucky ladies.”

Jesus Christ, could this guy get any more perfect?

Steve shifted in his seat, starting to get antsy after keeeping still for so long. 

“Just a few more minutes, almost done.” Eddie murmured, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on a spot near the curve of Steve’s collarbone.

“Do you do a lot of these? Cover-ups I mean?” Steve asked. “My roommate is the one who actually suggested it. For some reason I just never thought about it as an option.”

“I don’t know if i’d say a lot, but a fair few, yeah.”

“You, um. You can ask about it… If you want.”

Eddie glanced up in surprise. He would never have brought it up without being prompted, it just didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t deny he was curious, and if Steve was okay with it then–

“Okay, I'll bite. Who’s Nancy?”

“My fiance’. Well, ex-fiance’ now. We broke things off a little over a year ago.”

“That’s rough, I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay. Honestly, It’s… I should have probably seen it coming? We were high school sweethearts—got together before we really knew who we were on our own. But I was dumb and in love. I got the tattoo and proposed. I was so happy that day, but looking back it was so obvious that she’d only said yes out of pity or guilt, not because she really wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.”

The part of Eddie that believed in true love—and all that cheesy shit—was sad that a couple who had been together for so long, who had essentially grown up together, hadn’t been able to make it work. Selfishly though, a small piece of him was happy to learn that they’d been broken up for quite some time, lessening the chance that, if he did somehow gather the courage to ask Steve out when the tattoo was done, he wouldn’t be on the rebound.

“It was tough. I felt like a failure for a long time, like I was having to start my whole life over from scratch when I'd thought for so long that she was it for me, but it's actually been… good. We weren’t right for eachother, I can see that now. As much as it hurt, I'm grateful she had the courage to break things off when she did.”

“I’m glad you’ve been able to come to peace with it.”

“Getting this tattoo feels like the final step into letting that life go, y’know?”

Eddie nodded. Steve’s demeanor before they got started made so much sense now.

“Is there some significance to the design?” He asked, making his final line and setting the machine down. He wiped at the excess ink on Steve's skin, raising his head just in time to see the way the other man’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah, Robin. She–she’s everything to me. Like a best friend, but more somehow. I don’t think I really knew what unconditional love was before her. She’s like, another piece of my soul or something. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Eddie froze. 

The tattoo design was a bird—a robin.

A robin.

For, Robin.

How could he have been so stupid! 

Of course, Steve was getting one girl’s name covered up with something to represent the new one. 

Jesus Christ, they were both idiots.

Eddie for getting his hopes up, and Steve for making the same mistake—twice. At least this time it was a symbol and not a name, so if he and the latest potential Mrs. Harrington didn’t work out, at least he wouldn't have to worry about covering it up.

“Everything alright?” Steve asked.

The question spurred Eddie back into action. He spread the foam soap over Steve’s chest continuing to clean the finished tattoo while his heart crawled up into his throat. 

“Yup. All good.” Eddie forced the words out.

That's what Steve must have meant about not going on dates, he already had someone at home. Why hadn’t he just said that before though? And why had he flirted with him? 

Maybe he’d felt funny at first about admitting to being with a woman after all the talk about being bisexual. Not that Eddie would have judged, but he knew a lot of people did—bi erasure was so real. He understood that, but it didn’t make it hurt any less that Steve had, inadvertently or not, lead him on. 

Eddie gently patted the newly cleaned skin dry with a paper towel and carefully applied a square of Saniderm over the area, smoothing it out as he gave Steve his usual spiel, albeit a little robotically, about how to care for the tattoo over the coming days and weeks.

He quickly turned his back when he was done, telling Steve he could get dressed, and feeling stupid as all hell for being this upset about a guy he barely knew. He’d felt something though, potential—a spark. It was more than he’d felt for anyone in a long time.

Steve got quiet, looking a little confused with the sudden 180° Eddie’s mood had pulled. He felt a little bad about that as he brought the guy back out to the counter, but it wasn’t as though he’d suddenly become unprofessional. He was just… no longer being overly friendly.

After confirming the date for his second session, Steve paid his balance and Eddie walked him to the door.  

“Have a good night, Steve. Call the shop if you have any concerns or questions about aftercare.”

Steve bit his lip. “Oh, I… okay. See you in six weeks then.”

Eddie forced a smile, waiting until Steve was out of sight around the corner to lock up, and slunk back to his studio to disinfect it so he could finally go home and sulk.

Chapter 2

All my thanks to @penny00dreadful for all of your wonderful beta work, and cheerleading, and support, and just generally being THE BEST 💜

#steddie fanfic #stranger things reverse big bang #steddie #tattoo artist eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #tattoo artist chrissy cunningham

[riordanness]

gorgeous - [r.cameron]

requested: no

warnings: rafe cameron 😩

wordcount: 1K

I was in a fit of uncontrollable giggles, sitting side by side with Sarah on the bedroom floor, our backs against her bed.

“Okay,” I gasped, struggling to breathe as I pushed myself up to be sitting properly. “We really have to go to bed now.”

Sarah took a deep breath, brushing her long blonde hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” She glanced at the glowing alarm clock beside her bed. “It’s getting late, and we have school in the morning.”

I nodded, and we both climbed into her queen sized bed, snuggling together under the covers. We both lay on our sides, face to face.

“Tell me a secret,” I whispered.

“I’m in love with John B,” she whispered back, with zero hesitation.

I raised my eyebrows. “For real?”

Sarah nodded. “Why would I lie about that?”

I was impressed. “Damn, girl, cheating on Topper, hey?” Not that I blamed her for falling for someone like John Booker Routledge while Topper was her boyfriend. Topper was a controlling asshole, with no sense of excitement or adventure at all.

Sarah looked upset at my words, and I immediately felt awful. People at school have been calling Sarah a cheater for years, based on assumptions made up due to getting with new boys ‘too quickly’ after a break up.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and my best friend gave me a little smile. “It’s okay. You’re not exactly wrong, you know. I just haven’t told Topper anything yet. But I will. Really soon, I promise.” She sounds like she’s promising herself more than me.

“I believe you,” I said earnestly.

Sarah apparently decided the conversation was getting too emotional for a sleepover night, and nudged me playfully. “What about you,” she asked. “Any boys?”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. You know boys never look at me. You’re the one they look at.”

“Y/n, you’re gorgeous, you know that right?”

I made a face. “Yeah… no. I’m not even kind of, especially compared to you, Sar.” It was true. Sarah Cameron was probably the most breathtaking person I’d ever seen in my life, and I wasn’t just saying that because she’s my best friend. She was unbelievably pretty.

“Whatever. You’re just lying to yourself.”

“Goodnight, Sarah.” I told her, not wanting to dwell on my pathetically sad love life any longer. “See you in the morning.”

Sarah rolled over, and within a few minutes was asleep, her breathing evening out, slow and deep. I, however, couldn’t follow her example, tossing and turning for what seemed like hours.

Finally, I give up and crawl out of the bed, leaving the room quietly. Maybe a glass of water would help me sleep. I try to tiptoe, my bare feet making little noise on the vinyl flooring. I was worried about waking up Sarah’s family members, but then I relaxed, moving almost silently downstairs.

I reached the kitchen door, and stopped in my tracks, standing frozen in the doorway. Rafe Cameron is standing at the stovetop, shirtless, in grey sweats. At first, I had no idea what to do. Do I silently back away? Do I try to act normal as I grab my water and leave?

I ended up not having to make a decision, as Rafe turned around, a wooden spoon in hand, spotting me instantly. He looked as shocked as I felt.

“Y/n?”

His voice is soft, and slightly hoarse, probably due to the late hour. That logic doesn’t stop me from immediately getting flustered, though, my eyes wandering down to his bare chest, his abs…

“Y/n?” he asked again, and my gaze snapped up to meet his. He had the hint of a smirk playing at his lips, and I know he caught me blatantly checking him out just then.

“What?”

“I asked what you’re doing in my kitchen at nearly two am?” he repeated slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

For some reason, I can’t seem to find an answer. “I, uh, well, I-”

Rafe laughed, a sound I had never heard before. It was a pretty sound, comforting, somehow. I liked it. I liked the way his nose crinkled a little when he laughed, and how his blue eyes lit up.

Damn, listen to me. I sounded ridiculous.

“Do you need something?” Rafe asked, his teasing tone and accompanied smirk suggesting things I did not want to get caught thinking about.

“I- uh, water,” I replied dumbly, pointing at the sink. That was lame, I realised right after. I’m pretty sure Rafe knows where water comes from, especially in his own house.

Rafe turned, and pulled a glass from the cupboard behind him, and I cannot stop my eyes from wandering this time. I quickly squeeze them shut, ignoring the way my body is aflame right now, every sense on high alert.

“Y/n.” My name, on his tongue, is hushed and gentle, and very close. I open my eyes. Rafe stood right beside me, offering me the glass of water. I take it, and drink, my eyes on him.

He watched me as I finished the water, and placed it on the bench beside me. “Thank you,” I said, the tension in the air between us practically sparking.

Rafe suddenly stepped forwards, closing the space between us. His body is pressed against mine, his knee in between my legs, and every part of my body that is touching him is on fire. He lowered his mouth to my ear, whispering in a hushed tone. “You are very welcome, y/n.”

And then he is gone, leaving me alone.

taglist: @drewstarkeysbae <33

#fanfiction #fanfic #drew starkey #rafe cameron #outer banks #obx #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #outer banks fanfiction

[pyjamaart]

I never needed such help / This is my SOS

(Content warning: self harm) (If you don't have a problem with that, huge Drillman essay under the read more lol)

When I said that I wanted to draw Drillman some more, this really wasn't what I had in mind.

This week, I've been shopping for music on various second hand sites, which made me realize I don't physically own one of my all time favorite albums: "Squaring The Circle" by Sneaker Pimps. I had to change that immediately. (As well as buying like 15 other CDs and vinyls, lol.) As I was listening to it once again, I realized just how much the song "SOS" reminded me of Drillman and his struggles.

If you don't want to look it up, here are some of the lyrics:

"I look much smaller seen from inside out/Far too small to see myself/Down on reflection, cast in hate and in doubt/Flawed and flaws I add myself"

"Oh mirror mirror hanging on the wall/Please just show me someone else/My hopes were low and I got so much so less/Nothing left to save myself"

Listen, this dude got some major problems with his self esteem. He feels like an embarrassment because he was forced into a life he never wanted by his father. Now he seeks revenge on the company that bought his families business, along with him and apparently his bodily autonomy. Think about that for a minute. How fucked would it be if your parents wanted you to be a doctor, but a requirement for that would be to have your hand surgically removed and replaced with a scalpel. That's the exact situation Drillman found himself in.

Now a lot of people probably think "Well why doesn't he just ask Dr. Light to give him a new pair of hands then, if he's this miserable?" This is where we get to one of Drillmans biggest problems: the refusal to ask for help in any way. And even after the finale of the season, why would he go to the Lights for help in the first place? Wasn't it Aki who thought the best way to help him through his problems was hypnotism? And in the process embarrassing him in front of the whole city, ruining the last bit of reputation he may have had? (For real though, that episode is so hard for me to watch. I just feel so so bad for him, since I really struggle with social anxiety myself.)

As the guys from the Youtube channel "The D-Pad" (who reviewed all of the MMFC episodes) fittingly commented: "This would be like fucking Vietnam for him." And they were right. Obviously, Drillman is horrified that Aki would humiliate him like this and lashes out, solidifying his opinion that asking for help is a bad idea.

In that episode, there's this one moment that really stuck with me. At around the 8 minute mark, while Drillman is having a breakdown over the terrible "music" Aki made him perform, there's this one shot where he takes a moment to look at the drills that replaced his hands in frustration. The camera perspective makes it seem as if we are experiencing this brief scene through his eyes. It's actually quite upsetting. (A link to the moment I'm talking about: youtu.be/OC_jdhoeTrE?si=ZPzAXu…)

This is also a perfect moment for me to gush over the voice acting for this scene. Andrew McNee did such a fantastic job of conveying Drillmans distress and anger through his voice. That reminds me, giving him a British accent was honestly such a good decision.

The reason he doesn't talk at all throughout most of his first appearance is probably because the writers wanted to surprise their audience a little. As in, you see this big, imposing construction robot and think "Oh man, what a brute. He probably has a pretty deep voice." And then he actually starts to speak and it's this sophisticated, well-articulated British voice instead. Quite the whiplash.

To get back to the original topic, I'm honestly still upset that they didn't give Drillman a redemption arc at the end of the show. This probably would have happened in season 2, as Mega Man even says at some point "I know deep down your inner bits are good", proving to me that the writers definitely had something in mind regarding Drillmans character arc.

And now that all of that is out of the way, we can finally get into headcanon territory.

You might have seen this image while browsing the tags and asked yourself, "Why is this Mega Man Fully Charged artwork littered with content warnings?" And well, now that you're here and reading this, you probably know why. I can't say I've ever made myself sick with a drawing before. That's a first for me.

My headcanon is, that after the finale of the show, Drillman is just utterly lost. Lord Obsidian, who sought him out specifically because he knew of Drillmans problems and offered him a place to stay and a way to get revenge on the people he thought responsible for his predicament, turned out to be a horribly racist human who was just using him to achieve his own devious goals. After getting his ass kicked by the Lights, the same people who had not only humiliated him in front of the whole city, but who had also left him stuck to his abusive father for an entire day (I bet that ride to the police station was horrible for all the people involved, most of all the police bots who had to hear the Drillmen yell at each other the whole time), Sgt. Night is detained by the police. We don't actually see what happens after that, because that's where the show ends.

I'd like to think that the Lights actually try to talk to the robot masters once everything is over, telling them all the horrible things their so-called "leader" has said and done. And most importantly, what he thinks of robots: That they're nothing but tools to him. That once they had gotten him his Mega key, he would have wiped their minds and turned them into mindless machines.  

I'm guessing none of the robot masters would take these news well, but most of all Drillman. I think that after he ran away from Skyraisers Inc. and fought Mega Man for the first time, he was really relieved to have some place to stay and a new goal, maybe even a robot to look up to. That being Lord Obsidian of course. Who knows what lies he told Drillman and the others? Kinda sad that we never really got to see what the robot masters who stayed with Lord Obsidian did the entire day. When they weren't causing havoc in the city, that is.

None of them seemed really friendly with each other in the finale, now that I think about it. I guess "Obsidians robot sanctuary" wasn't really a great place to stay at after all. But still better than being homeless, like that one maniac living in the forest all by himself. Speaking of Woodman, in my AU, he and Drillman already knew each other at this point. This also reminds me of something I forgot to mention in my last post. While I'd love to see them interact in any way, because they're both my favorite characters, I don't ship them in any way whatsoever. I'd also like to think that Woodman and Drillmans father were schoolmates back in the day, maybe even friends? (I'm still holding onto those 30 years).

Anyway, after all the former robot comrades part ways, now without a leader, what was Drillman supposed to do? Once again betrayed by a trusted figure, feeling useless and without purpose, still with these stupid drills mounted to his body... Still too ashamed to ask for help. After all that has happened in the past few hours he begins spiraling, which ultimately leads him to make a very unfortunate decision. Trying to get at least some of the freedom in his life back, he attempts to get rid of the drills making up his body on his own, using the same tools that have haunted him all this time to finally rid himself of this burden.

He regrets this just seconds after, when he's left with an unresponsive limb, metal and wires exposed and oil splattered all over his orange plating. All he can do is stare at the stained drill in front of him in horror.

"I never needed such help/This is my SOS"

Jesus Christ that got dark. Sorry. I mentioned in my last post that Drillman possibly has really bad body dysmorphia, which I'm also trying to convey here. Don't worry, he really gets his hands back after this. Maybe the Lights find him after that and the good Doctor offers to fix him up. By which I mean not only his arm. Because apparently, Dr. Light also doubles as robot psychologist. I just really need Drillman to get his happy ending. He really really deserves it after everything he had to go trough over the course of the show. 

I also need him to have a DJing redemption, besides the normal redemption. I've seen people headcanon that he exclusively likes classical music, but I personally don't believe that. He'd be the kind of music nerd who would say stuff like "I listen to everything" and then you look at his playlists and he actually listens to everything. Maybe not experimental noise rock, though. I can just imagine Aki and Suna helping him put on an actual show, this time without any hypnotizing bullshit, as a way for Aki to apologize for the dread he's caused Drillman during that incident. Drillman would be highly suspicious at first, but actually goes along with it in the end. Maybe they'd also take Fireman along, who Dr. Light also blessed with a brand new pair of hands. The punchline at the end would be that Drillman would have so much anxiety about embarrassing himself again, that he forgets to make an actual set list for the gig. In the end, he exclusively plays Lady Gaga songs, which no one complains about.

Alright then, enough yapping from me. I've really been writing this essay since 8pm. And now it's 2am. My god. I just have a lot of feelings about Drillman.

But now I really gotta go to bed. Stay safe peeps. I hope you actually read the content warnings. Jenny out.

#oh man i would like to formally apologize for this #just throwing my favorite blorbo into the shredder over here #if anyone needs me to add any other content or trigger warnings please please tell me i really dont wanna upset anyone with this #megaman #mega man #mega man fully charged #mmfc #drillman #drill man #self harm tw #its robot sh but juuuust in case yknow #robot gore tw

[malina-33]

Single choice

Summary: It’s summer 2022, Nortern Italy, Miles and Alex are on vacation before The Car tour.

And they are happier than ever.

Word count: 3,5k

A/N: I missed the everyday cozy life of their relationship, so I wrote this :) Creative-crisis conversations presented as well, but they don’t take far away from the happy ending. Inspired by "Call me by your name", so for a better atmosphere, I advise you to include this playlist in the background.

Also, English is not my first language, so if you find grammar mistakes, feel free to point them out to me!

Enjoy these two sweeties💕

The wide shirt's hem fluttered in the warm wind, three buttons at the top were casually undone, and the sleeves were carelessly rolled up to the elbows. Alex, covering his eyes, lay on a soft sun lounger under the shade of the terrace's arches of their small villa in Portofino, stretching out his long legs. His chest rose and fell slowly in sleep, while his hands rested relaxed on the armrests. Silken curls played with the gusts of breeze, but surrendering, they fell onto his face and tickled his nose, causing the man to unconsciously wrinkle it like a child.

Miles couldn't take his eyes off this literally biblical scene. "Taking Al away to the Italian Riviera for two weeks before the tour started was my best decision" the man thought smugly. Only God knew when they would be able to spend such peaceful time alone again, without rushing anywhere and hiding from anyone. And now, leaning against a marble column with his hands folded on his chest, Kane smiled until wrinkles formed around his eyes, unable to believe what he was witnessing. These sprawling palm trees in their backyard, the deafening trills of southern birds, the sweet sea air, and a serene tanned Alex in a milky linen suit, quietly dozing off after lunch - all of this was now accessible only to him, Miles, and he savored every second of this vacation that sometimes seemed surreal, like a calm before the storm. But he persistently pushed away such thoughts, continuing to revel in his own paradise.

They had already spent 10 days here, the first 3 of which they didn't venture beyond their plot on the hill, which offered a breathtaking view of the coast and emerald water. They were lingering in bed for a long time under the biting rays of the sun, plucking mandarins straight from the tree, and listening to vinyl records of Celentano on the veranda in the evenings, intertwining in each other's arms, merging and becoming the one. Then, finally realizing that missing the opportunity to stroll through such picturesque streets would be a crime, they started going out in town under the mountain after the sunset, when the heat subsided and the cicadas began their twilight concert. Every time they ordered a new pasta dish in local restaurants, hoping to try them all, but that was Italy...

In the mornings, they descend to the pebble beach, where Alex could lie for hours, reading books, while Miles were snorkeling in the Ligurian Sea, growing tired of waiting for his lover and retaliating by playfully splashing him with cool droplets. They would play in the water like teenagers, dunking each other or taking turns piggybacking. When the sun would started to scorch their skin, they would go to the local deli for ready-made lasagna with eggplant, always getting a few types of cannoli, new bottle of wine, olives and fruits. They would then retreat to their villa for the rest of the day, either playing the guitar, the only one they brought from their stuffy LA studio, or playing board games (for which Miles constantly called Alex "nonno," while he calmly continued to roll the dice), or falling asleep under the shade of the leafy trees right on the grass.

Miles hadn't laughed so often and so loudly, and more importantly, so genuinely, since their last joint tour. He felt an immense universal joy that was bursting from his chest, causing his cheeks to ache from the ever-present smile on his face. He felt alive next to the dearest and only person who truly understood him, which Alex had been for the past 17 years.

"How have we put up with each other for so long, Milo?" Turner laughed, finishing his glass of semi-sweet red wine.

And Kane replied seriously, capturing his alcohol-glistening gaze: "I no longer know how to live without you, Al."

And it was the absolute truth. They often had conversations like this, but Alex never actually put up with Miles, he did love him. He only put up with being apart from him. And it was always important for both of them to hear this small confession, like a spark of a cricket in the foliage, but a heart-wrenching one, even after a year, or 10, or 20 years of their relationship.

Relationship? Friendship, love, presence by each other's side, support, musical inspirations, passionate desires, care, hurt, forgiveness, kisses, hugs backstage and on stage, touches all over their bodies, eloquent glances, and ending with a single word proposals. That's what their relationship was. And if Miles were offered to never be a musician but to love Alex, he would still agree without any hint of hesitation, somewhere deep inside bitterly realizing that if Alex were faced with such a choice, he would have to think about it.

But at this moment, Miles didn't want to think about it at all, he only wanted to listen to his lover's steady breathing and bask in the fading sunlight with him. Miles walked around the column and silently sat down on the edge of the lounge chair. He lightly ran his hand over Turner's knee, not wanting to disturb, and then traced chiseled fingers slightly higher, along his thigh. However, even these gentle movements made Alex squirm, furrowing his brow and rolling over to the other side.

"Shh, sleep, my dear, I didn't mean to wake you," Miles whispered, soothingly continuing to stroke the man's leg.

"But I'm already awake," mumbled Alex sleepily, opening his eyes and immediately squinting in the bright light.

"What a shame," Kane sang mockingly, secretly delighted by this fact because he had missed Alex during the silence at their villa and mindless wandering through the rooms while he slept in the fresh air, "Will you move over?".

Alex squeezed himself into the corner of the lounge chair, making space as much as the single bed allowed. Miles approached him with a cunning smile, lying on his side, unable to fit his broad shoulders on the mattress even if he was alone, and invitingly opened his palms. Turner simply snorted and muttered something about a smug cat, pressing his back against Miles' contrasting cool chest compared to the scorching heat outside, covering man's hand that rested peacefully on his waist with his own, and intertwining their legs.

"So, you woke me up just to sleep together all cramped up? I don't want to anymore," Alex slowly stroked Miles' wrists, who closed his eyes in pleasure.

"Mmm, I just got bored being alone, you've been sleeping forever!"

"Mi, maybe an hour and a half at most," Turner said in a lecturing tone, turning slightly to give Kane a disapproving look.

"Well, I call that forever. Anyway, since you're already awake, let's think about our plans for the evening," Kane quickly changed the subject, kissing Alex's back of the neck, "I saw a poster for a local concert in the neighboring town. We can rent a scooter to get there, it's just a few kilometers away."

Alex burst out laughing at the last words, turning in his lover's embrace and almost touching noses with him.

"Oh, Kane, you don't even have a driver's license! And the fact that I rode 100 meters on it in a clip means nothing."

"We'll figure it out somehow, it can't be more difficult than tuning a guitar for the first time."

"Well, since I have such an experienced and confident driver, I can't deny myself the pleasure," Turner teased, pouting his lips and furrowing his brows like a college girl.

"Gosh, how cheap that sounds, Al. Those are second-rate tricks from middle school. Did I teach you to flirt like that?" Miles rolled his eyes, hiding a smile in the corners of his mouth.

"No, I think we just fucked right away," Alex retorted, immediately receiving a playful jab in the ribs, "Hey! Am I lying?"

"Do I need to remind you who first put his knee between my legs in the dressing room, huh?" Miles smirked, tucking Alex's overgrown locks behind his ear and stroking his slightly stubbled cheek. He looked angelically peaceful now, despite his unholy words.

"And do you regret it?" Seeing the silent denial, he continued, "Well, neither do I. So you don't need to teach me how to flirt, maestro. If we want to find a free scooter before sunset, we need to start getting ready. I was also planning to take a shower," Alex casually mentioned, slyly avoiding eye contact and running his hand suggestively along Miles' waist.

"Well, that's better already, at least the hints are subtler, but you've lost your touch. I'll have to remind you."

"Oi, you better do it indeed" Turner whispered in his ear. Honestly, he was amused at how they, two grown adults, were behaving as soon as intimacy was mentioned - it was like they were back in 10th grade of the school.

Once he calmed down, he reluctantly slipped out of the warm embrace and gracefully got up from the sun lounger, stretching and rising on tiptoes to better loosen his stiff limbs. Miles settled himself more comfortably, royally occupying the vacant spot and propping his head on his hand, watching Turner's toned body with a hungry gaze. He could do this for hours, knowing every mole, wrinkle, and scar.

"What are you looking at? Trying to find gray hairs?" Unable to withstand his scrutinizing eyes, the frontman softly spoke. Now he had his hands in the pockets, exposing his face to the sun and wind, which cautiously peeked onto the veranda through massive columns. Somewhere far below, the sound of the waves and children's laughter could be heard. Idyllic.

"It's too early for you to worry about that. I just can't get enough of looking at you. Clearly, this lifestyle suits you well, even though I fattened you up a bit, considering you were all skin and bones when you arrived."

"Afraid of breaking me?"

"I am," Miles admitted, not completely sure if he interpreted the question correctly. Turner smiled disarmingingly, the way he only smiled at him, leaned in, still keeping his hands in pockets, and planted a chaste kiss on the man's forehead before disappearing through the door.

"Catch up, or I'll manage without you," Alex said over the shoulder, fully aware that he wouldn't be able to handle anything without Miles. Not in life, not in the shower.

***

Comparing guitar tuning and riding a scooter turned out to be inappropriate, as Miles pointed out rather immodestly, getting behind the wheel, because the second one was elementary. During their short ride along the coast, Alex couldn't stop capturing breathtaking views with his vintage Canon. The peach-colored waves gently licked the shore, competing with each other for ownership of every stone on the beach, while the numerous bushes along the road swayed in the wind.

The neighboring town turned out to be Santa-Margherita-Ligure, welcoming the men with the warm glow of lights strung between each café and the loud Italian laughter that didn't quiet down until late at night. Leaving their mean of transport on the waterfront, they headed towards the main square, where light jazz melodies could already be heard. Ordinary chairs stood right on the historical cobblestones, occupying almost all the space, and a small mobile stage had been set up in the center, where musicians were tuning their instruments.

Taking seats in the corner of the front row, the men waited for the performance to begin.

"Have you forgotten what it's like to be on the other side of the stage?" Miles whispered, his lips almost touching Alex's ear.

"Sometimes I even prefer it here," Turner sadly smiled, "no obligations, masks, rehearsed lines, or unjustified expectations. You just exist in the music without thinking about how to reproduce it. I miss that."

Kane anxiously studied Alex's face from the side, trying to understand if he was speaking in a state of creative melancholy inspired by the upcoming concert or if he was simply revealing his deep pain that had burdened him all this time.

"Hey, I didn't mean to put you into existential ponderings. We can talk about it if it really bothers you, but not now. I purposely brought you here to relax and spend these last days with an empty mind, not to reflect on one careless question"

Miles didn't condemn him, but rather tried to hide his own anxiety behind a feigned admonition. He gently squeezed Alex's hand, caressing his knuckles with his thumb, and warmly smiled, knowing that this was the only support he could offer in public.

"Sorry-sorry-sorry," Alex babbled, running his hands forcefully over his face and organizing his thoughts, "forget about those words, we'll come back to it another time. You can hit me if I utter another sad-philosophical phrase that upsets you tonight."

Miles only laughed at that, patting his friend's knee, and, unable to resist, left an unnoticed kiss on his cheek, indicating that he would never fulfill his request in their lifetime.

Lost in conversations, they hadn't noticed that all the chairs had been taken and the band on stage was counting down seconds until the performance began, tightly gripping their bows in their hands. The increasingly suspenseful sound of the violin filled the entire square, eliciting sudden shivers from the audience and instantly isolating them from the rest of the world. Alex's full attention was now focused on the five people on stage, the sound that seemed to exist right in his head, and the melting night air. Rarely could he simply enjoy the melody without trying to dissect it into notes or analyze the lyrics.

Miles usually smoothed out the crease between his eyebrows that arose from such contemplation with a kiss, and he was ready to do it now, but as his gaze slid across the side of the face, he unexpectedly saw a serene smile on partially open lips. Turner leaned back in his chair, holding his hands between his thighs and slightly covering his eyes, which indicated his complete absence in our reality and his presence in his own, understood only by him and undoubtedly bringing him pleasure.

The concert lasted only an hour, not abundant in a wide repertoire. Towards the end, young men and women, children, and even racy grandmothers and grandfathers stood up from their seats to dance right in the square, laughing loudly at their clumsiness. Alex and Miles only watched this scene with warm smiles, tapping their feet rhythmically on the stone pavement, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to themselves. The clock on the tower, located on the western side of the square, as was customary in all ancient city planning laws, struck 10 o'clock exactly at the moment when the musicians, in the heat of the final chord, sharply raised their bows towards the pitch-black sky, ending the performance. The square drowned in applause and whistling, evoking familiar motives from men's careers.

The air intoxicated their heads, and not wanting to return back so early, they turned into the depths of the city. Turner continued to photograph the local architecture and Miles against its backdrop with mocking skill, not allowing the camera to hang peacefully on his chest for more than two minutes. And when tourists would disappear from their sight, Kane with the agility of a cheetah would press Alex against the nearest wall of another you-know-who-lived-in-this-house-you-lustful-bastard building, pulling him into a tempting kiss and, despite all protests about his indifference to history, smiled contentedly on his lips, feeling Alex pull him closer by the collar of his leopard-print shirt.

They would laugh drunkenly, without drinking a glass, immediately receiving Italian curses from open balconies in response. They would play tag on narrow streets, after which they breathed heavily, resting their elbows on thr knees and joking about their advanced age. They would eat mango ice cream, licking the sweet drips from each other's fingers, and would never stop thinking for a moment about how lucky they are to be loved here and now.

***

They returned to the villa at midnight, exhausted from their long walk, hastily discarding their sticky clothes as they collapsed onto the unmade bed. Alex, resting his chin on Miles' chest, looked at him with such devoted eyes that Miles' heart skipped a beat at the impossibility of resisting those bottomless depths. In the moonlight, his sharp features softened, Alex's fingers gently tracing along the line of his jaw, while a warm smile lingered beneath his closed eyelids, etching itself into Miles' memory with fiery strokes.

"Mi, are you asleep?" Alex asked in a barely audible voice, listening to the rhythm of Miles' heartbeat beneath his cheek.

"No," Miles replied just as softly, shifting slightly on the crisp sheets to find a more comfortable position.

"Do you remember what I told you today about not feeling freedom in music?" Alex continued, as if afraid to disturb his own thoughts, "well, I realized just now that I'm the one closing myself off from it. But you know when? When you're not here. I'm tired of pretending to be someone else without you, tired of feeling not myself without you. And today, there on the square, when you were holding my hand, it hit me that since we met, no one else has come this close to me. You were and still are the only person who truly knows me. Can you imagine?" His voice broke into a hoarse laughter that, truth be told, sounded hauntingly beautiful in the peaceful silence.

"No one really knows me except for you. And I've been afraid to show my true self to anyone but you. But today, for the first time in a long while, I was able to listen to music without thinking about anything else but your fingers on my hands. And I realized," he paused, unconsciously gripping Miles' shoulder tighter, "I realized that I can perform on stage, just thinking about your hands, and then I won't have to try to hide behind a fabricated image to entertain the audience. Damn it, at 36 years old, I've come to the realization that I can simply sing without pouring my own problems into the songs, but instead, just give people the sound. A sound that resonates in their minds, in their feet and hands, a sound that makes them feel alive. I can make at least one of their days truly happy, just like you make my life happy simply by being with me."

Throughout this entire time, Miles never removed his nimble fingers from Alex's head, combing through his hair and soothing him. He could listen to his voice forever, automatically arranging the words into lines for new songs. The sight of Alex — until it stole the air from his lungs, until it brought tears to his eyes, until his pulse faltered in his veins, until a volcano of warmth erupted in his chest. Until he feels alive again.

"Al, if you haven't realized in 20 years of performing what you do for the lives of everyone who attends your concerts, then I'm going to have to enlighten you now," Miles chuckled softly, continuing to massage his head, "everything you've done for the industry is your way of existing in this world. You don't know any other ways, and that's your strength, not weakness. Your music is literally you, it's not about trends or fan requests. It's about how you communicate with others. You have an incredible gift of conveying intangible values through your lyrics. I have no idea how the gears in your mind work, but damn it, you're exceptional. And I swear, anyone who has ever heard any of your songs has pondered the words, thought about what you wanted to say, and ultimately thought about themselves. Your music has meaning, it's not just a string of letters for the sake of rhyme. It's a dictionary of your life. And since the day we first met, I've been carefully studying all your meanings and embodiments, so my music is about you and for you. You are my only inspiration, and if all you need to write a new song is a notebook and an image in your mind, then all I need is you by my side."

Miles may have wanted to add something more, but unable to bear the weight of such declarations of love, Alex impatiently kissed him, exhaling loudly from the fulfillment of a desire that had been building throughout his entire speech. Kane, quickly finding another activity for his tongue besides talking, trailed it along Alex's lower lip, feeling every crack from the salty water.

Alex smiled like a child, whispering 'I lovelovelove you' into his man's lips, continuously running palms along his cheeks. They continued to gaze at each other for a long time, carrying on a quiet conversation interrupted by occasional kisses, shivers down the spine, and tearful thank yous for everything. Even the stars, cautiously peering through the open windows, blushed at their whispers under the thin blanket. Only with the first rays of sunlight, when words ran out and lips swelled from endless contact, men finally fall asleep in a tangle of intertwined arms and legs.

And if Alex were offered to never be a musician but to love Miles, he would without hesitation write a song about it. Because it would be meaningless to confront the person with a choice who made it 17 years ago.

---------------------------------------------------

A/N: I sincerely want to believe that this is how everything really happened for them. All in all, these two deserve a happy ending. I will be incredibly happy if you leave feedback after reading! Everything that was born in my head would very much like to find a response in you💔🥺

#alex turner #miles kane #milex #the car era #milex fic #milex fanfiction #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfiction #alex turner imagine #Milex oneshot #alex turner one shot #milex 2023 #alex turner fanfic #am7 era #milex au #tlsp2 #tlsp #last shadow puppets

[themuse-if]

20 (or so) Questions with Ro Sawyer

Let's find out what Ro is all about! Are they just charisma and charm or is there something else under all that bravado?

Interviewer: Hey Ro! Thanks again for doing this. Love the look by the way! Let's dive in. When's your birthday?

Ro: Hey! Thank you for having me! My birthday is August 8th. A proud Leo through and through.

Interviewer: Awesome! Do you go by any nicknames, or is it all about Roxanne/Robbie?

Ro: Yeah, my friends call me Ro. It's got a certain edge to it that I dig.

Interviewer: Nice choice. So, beyond the Rebel Rejects and the music scene, what are some of your good traits?

Ro: Well, I've got this knack for bringing people together. Whether it's on stage or just hanging out, creating connections is something I love.

Interviewer: That's a great trait. And how about the other side of the coin? Any bad traits you're willing to share?

Ro: I can be a bit impulsive. It's that punk spirit, you know? Sometimes decisions are made in the heat of the moment. Even still I can't say I have any regrets.

Interviewer: Makes sense. Alright, what about hobbies outside of music? What does Ro enjoy when not rocking the stage?

Ro: Exploring the city is a big one. I love finding those hidden spots, meeting new people, and finding little hidden gems that I wouldn't have known about otherwise. It keeps life interesting.

Interviewer: Cool, I can see you're pretty adventurous. Now, let's talk strengths. Besides the stage presence, what do you consider your greatest strength?

Ro: I thrive under pressure. When things get intense, that's when I'm at my best. It's like a switch flips, and I go into overdrive.

Interviewer: Impressive. And on the flip side, what's your biggest weakness?

Ro: Patience, or lack thereof. Waiting around has never been my strong suit. I want things to happen, and I want them now. * looks the interviewer up and down very slowly*

Interviewer: Got it... One word to describe yourself?

Ro: Unapologetic.

Interviewer: Powerful choice. And how do you think others see you in one word?

Ro: Magnetic. I've been told I have this pull that draws people in, on and off the stage.

Interviewer: Totally get that vibe. Now, let's go a bit deeper. What's your greatest fear?

Ro: *leans forward, and clasps their hands* Losing the connection with the audience. It's like a lifeline for me. Without that energy exchange, it feels like I've given all of myself and then received nothing in return.

Interviewer: I see you need that exchange to make it feel worth while. What are your top priorities at this point in your life?

Ro: Keeping the Rebel Rejects together is number one. Making it big is the goal, and university is just a fun little stepping stone on that journey.

Interviewer: Hmm, I see. Ok, Family time! Tell me about your family.

Ro: We're a tight-knit bunch. They're supportive, even if they don't fully get the punk scene. Mom's got this knack for making killer vegan pizza – a family tradition. I've got a little brother, he just turned 13 and is absolutely unbearable. I will miss him though.

Interviewer: Aww I see we've found your soft spot. Now, future plans. What are your goals?

Ro: World domination with Jo and De by my side, of course. But on a personal level, I want to grow as an artist and make music that leaves a mark.

Interviewer: Admirable goals. Rainy days – how do you spend them in more detail?

Ro: Picture this – cozying up with a book, probably a rock biography or something by Patti Smith. Vinyls spinning in the background, rain tapping on the window. It's a vibe.

Interviewer: Love the imagery. Favorite book?

Ro: "Just Kids" by Patti Smith. Her journey through art and rebellion resonates with me on a different level.

Interviewer: Solid choice. And your favorite movie?

Ro: "Velvet Goldmine." Glam rock, the visuals, the rebellion – it's like a visual symphony that speaks to the soul.

Interviewer: Great taste. Alright, any dark secrets you're willing to share?

Ro: Well, my songwriting gets pretty personal. It's a cathartic release, and sometimes, the lyrics reveal more about me than I might openly admit.

Interviewer: I'll have to start listening to your lyrics more intently it seems. Ok Ro, on a lighter note, what's your best physical feature?

Ro: Just one... I really like my freckles I think they enhance all my other features, and they look great on camera. *flashes a toothy grin*

Interviewer: *clears throat* Uh yes they really, um nice... *looks down at notecards* Right, and what's your least favorite physical feature?

Ro: I honestly don't have one... Not to sound conceited but I wouldn't change one damn thing.

Interviewer: Ah yes, I figured you'd say something like that. Lastly, how would you describe being in love in more detail?

Ro: It's like a collaboration. Sharing life with someone who knows all the reasons behind every lyric. It's a wild, unpredictable, and beautiful ride – much like the Rebel Rejects' journey. Beyond all of that it just feels right like you couldn't imagine such an endeavor with anyone else. *looks interviewer dead in the eye* Not that I've ever been in love.

Interviewer: Mhm, beautifully put Ro. Thanks for sharing your thoughts and giving us a deeper look into your world. Can't wait to see what the future holds for you and the Rebel Rejects!

#choice of games #choose your own adventure #choose your own story #dashingdon #interactive fiction #twine if #interactive if #twine interactive fiction #character profile #choice script #if: themuse #themuse if #character intro #RO interviews

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐕.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 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

I’ve made my decision: I’m never really alone. Not since April, really. But especially now. If not because olive is the size of a watermelon now--always stretching and twitching and nestling and tumbling--and filling out my midsection quite prominently, then because of Buttercup and Marmalade. Even right now, just before dawn as the morning light still filters in the bedroom that precious cornflower blue I think is sacred to Virginia, their wet noses have snuck beneath the quilt to press up against the bare skin of my belly. 

It’s fruitless to sleep in shirts. I cannot help myself, though--not when our room is so chilled at night. We haven’t gotten the windows checked, yet, but surely there is an issue with the sealing--which is why we’re lucky to have a fireplace in the bedroom. Most everything is too tight against my belly now or gets nudged up by Bradley and the dogs alike throughout the night. Even this sweater I have on now, which used to swallow me, is interrupted by my belly. 

I don’t even need to open my eyes to know that they’re both there, blinking up at me with their tails wagging ceremoniously as whines begin to wind up in their throats. It’s only a matter of time until they start to cry and howl--this is what they do each morning when daylight breaks, when they want to get into bed with us. And because olive doesn’t believe in letting me miss the sunrise, she wriggles beneath my skin, pressing down against my bladder and encouraging the dogs to whine louder when a hand or foot brushes against their cold noses.

Buttercup, I think, licks the skin of my belly a few times.

“Oh,” I whisper groggily to Buttercup, “thanks for that, Buttercup.”

That precious heavy breathing beside me hiccups and dissipates into a groan as soon as I speak. If he was a light sleeper before, I’m not even sure what to call him now. He’s awake as soon as my vocal cords vibrate, even if I’m just telling him to keep sleeping, baby while I wrestle out of the blankets to go to the bathroom. Often I’ll find him sitting up in bed when I return from my third bathroom break of the night, eyes half-shut and lips pulled into their best pout. His arms will be open and he’ll whisper something through his fog, telling me to get back into bed right this instant, little lady. 

Bradley turns, the bed shaking slightly beneath his weight. 

“Girls, we’ve talked about this,” Bradley says tiredly behind me, pulling me back against his bare chest and wrapping his arms around me, “mama’s mine ‘til seven. G’away, now. Scram!” 

He says this with all the authority of a cooked spaghetti noodle, already burying his nose in my hair as he gives their snouts a friendly pat. That is something neither of us have been able to do since bringing them home: tell them no.

He’s very solid and warm behind me, the fire in the fireplace flushing his already naturally-heated skin. He’s tangling our bodies together anyway he can, still half-asleep, pressing all of his skin against all of mine.  

“They didn’t listen,” I whisper to Bradley, peeking an eye open.

Buttercup’s blue eyes are staring straight into mine, surrounded by little white and gray hairs and a most desperate pink tongue. Marmalade is squished right up next to her, standing on the tips of her paws and clawing the sheets to get to me, whining. 

“You’ll be big enough to jump on the bed soon, Marmie,” I whisper, biting my lip, blinking at the dim light, “poor baby.” 

Marmalade keens at my reaction, sniffling desperately, clumsy puppy paws digging deeper into the sheets. Buttercup licks my forearm a few times and I finally give in--lean forward and pet her sweet little snout. Her fur is soft beneath my skin--she smells like the flea-wash Bradley bathed her in last night and the patch of icy grass she rolled in afterward.

“Mornin’, old girl,” I whisper to Buttercup, who yawns and blinks a few times at me with a most pleading expression, “Bradley, Buttercup wants to know if she can come up?”

Bradley makes a show out of sighing, burying his nose deeper in my hair, pulling me closer to him, pressing two broad hands to my belly. We’re both very warm, sheets of heat fanning out to our faces when we shift closer beneath the quilts. He kisses blindly in my hair, ghosting over the skin of my neck and shoulder. Then he falls deeper into me. Sleepy honey.  

“Baby,” Bradley whines, “we don’t negotiate with terrorists in this household.”

“They’re not terrorists,” I whisper, reaching out to give them identical scratches, “they’re our babies.”  

“They’re hellions, that’s what they are,” Bradley mumbles, slotting his leg between mine, “who raised them?”

Our neighbors raised Buttercup, really--we think. 

“Some softy who can’t tell his wife no,” I whisper. 

Bradley grunts, sinking his teeth into my neck teasingly, pulling me closer to him.

Now Buttercup and Marmalade are both blinking at me, their tails thudding against the floor in a pitifully excited rapidity. They know just as well as I do that they will be on the bed, making a nest in the blankets, in no time at all. They know how much Bradley adores them--he’s the one that feeds them scraps of rotisserie chicken and buys them special collars for upcoming holidays. In fact, he was the one that came home with Buttercup a few months ago, carrying the shaking, dirt-caked thing through the door with a bewildered expression. He was still in his flight suit, his eyes wide and his neck flushed. I was standing in the living room in a pair of paint-dotted overalls, holding the itty-bitty Marmalade to my chest. 

“Baby, they were gonna shoot her,” he told me, his cheeks still pale as he carried Buttercup up the stairs towards the tub, “just cause she’s out of commission. ‘Cause she’s too old to herd or some shit like that. Poor, old girl! I couldn’t let ‘em do that.”  

“Somethin’ tells me this bed won’t ever be just ours again,” he sighs, pressing another kiss to the back of my head before he lifts up to throw a groggy smile at the two dogs whining at our bedside, “c’mon, honey’s!”

“Spoiled pups,” I whisper to the dogs, patting the bed.

Buttercup hops up at once, like the floor was burning her paws. Her whole body vibrates when she’s excited, her little behind coming around to greet us in what we call the macaroni dance which all Aussie’s seem to have. But Marmie, the poor sweet puppy, cannot get onto the bed. She yips, scrambling on her toes to get onto the bed, her golden fur glowing in the early morning light. 

“I’ll getcha, Marmie,” Bradley mumbles after a moment, sighing before flinging his arm over to his side of the bed and snapping. 

Marmie seems to get the idea--skittering across our wooden floors and right past the nice, plush beds they have before the fireplace that Stevie has all but adopted now--and is in Bradley’s strong arms in just a moment.

Bradley grumbles sometimes about the dogs--grumbles about them sleeping in bed with us and curling up at our feet during every single meal. But I know that he loves them, is incredibly soft for them. He will pick Marmie up anytime she needs to be picked up, cuddling her close to his chest, letting her kiss his face. He bathes them every week and never complains about it, even when they shake and splash him.  

Buttercup nuzzles up close to me, her tail wagging and her eyes wide, and rests her snout against my belly that bulges beneath the bedding when I move to lay on my back. God, I’m infinitely heavier when I lay on my back--feels like there is a ton sitting on my chest and belly. Olive is stirring still. 

Bradley is smiling, his hair messy and his cheeks ruddy, as Marmalade licks his cheeks in utter gratitude. She’s wriggling out of his grip just as soon as she’s able, floundering to get into my awaiting arms. 

“Wonder if she has a favorite,” Bradley grumbles affectionately, scratching behind her ears as she settles against my chest, licking the scar on my jaw fervently. 

“Two against one,” I whisper back, glancing down at my belly. 

Marmie lays down after another moment of greeting, resting her snout against my belly with Buttercup’s. It’s quiet and still now. Bradley’s laying on his side, absently stroking Buttercup’s head as I stroke Marmie’s, his eyes heavy but watching me. 

“How’re you feeling today, mama?” 

I haven’t even thought about what I feel like today. My chest sinks a little bit at the sheer notion of today starting right now, at five in the morning. But it is not new, not in this household, not with two dogs of such vastly different ages and a Navy husband and an olive that presses down against my bladder each time I finally get comfortable enough to doze. Not to mention the overall heaviness, discomfort of being so achingly pregnant. 

“Tired,” I tell him, “let’s go back to sleep.”

Already, it is difficult for us to sleep these days. At first it was because there were a million things to do, to get ready, to prepare. But now all of that is finished--we are ready for olive. at the drop of a hat, at the blink of an eye. Now it is hard to sleep because there is so much waiting--we are waiting every single day, counting the hours, ticking the minutes. 

I am lucky--it is my body that is determining the timeline of our impending parenthood. I am waiting, but I am the decider. Bradley, though--he is relying on me, relying on my body, relying on olive to make him a father. And it is difficult for him to be a bystander; I know this. He is always there, even when he’s not. If he isn’t cradling my bump, if he isn’t pressing his lips against my belly and whispering sweetly, if he isn’t getting me a glass of water and a prenatal vitamin, then he’s calling me on his lunch break or shooting me a text right before he goes up in the air. It is hard for him because this is my part--that he cannot control this portion, cannot maneuver one way or the other and move into a weapon’s envelope. This is something that he has to sit back and ride out, something he has to let me and my body do. Maybe more than his desire to control, it’s his inability to take this difficult task from me and allow me to sit back. I know he wants to do the hard things for me--wants to make everything easy. It’s classic really--I’m his backseater, he’s my pilot, and I’m suddenly flying the plane.  

But now, we’re just waiting, that’s all. Waiting for the baby.

“Rooster,” I whisper. 

He hums in response and I know he is close to sleep again. I know this is when he is most relaxed. It is when we are here together in bed, when I am resting and his body acts as a shell around mine. It is when he can feel every part of me against every part of him, whenever he can press his hand as close to olive as humanly possible and feel that they are squirming and kicking and thriving. It’s right now that he is able to let his shoulders drop, let his guard down. This is the time of day that he can breathe the easiest.  

I move to cover his hand with my own so we are both holding my belly. His hand is so warm, so big against my sweater. He’s humming still, nuzzling closer to me, affectionately rubbing my belly. 

“You’re the best person in the world,” I tell him because I really mean it--and I really have to tell him, even if it’s too early in the morning to be talking, “and our baby will know that.” 

He swallows thickly. I think his chest is warm now--sticky, gooey warm. 

“Well, they’re biased,” he teases, slurring with sleep, “you grew their brain.”

“I grew their everything,” I say, “which is also how I know they’ll have great taste in music. And a linen preference.”

He chuckles--his breath is hot in my tangled locks. The fire pops and crackles softly. Buttercup is doing that cute snore she always does. Stevie is stretched across Rooster’s feet again, ditzy and deeply asleep. 

“Alright, mama, close your eyes,” Rooster finally says, softly pinching my hip, “and you, too, olive. Give mama a rest.”

It only takes a few moments before he asks, leaning up slightly. 

“You comfortable?”

This is another question that frequently falls from his lips and into my ears; in the Bronco on the way to the grocery store, at the kitchen table during dinner, in bed before falling asleep, on our daily walk around the property with Marmalade and Buttercup, when I’m getting settled on the couch with yarn and a crochet hook, when I’m pushing the cart in the grocery store while he reads the list, when he’s buried inside me and filling me to the hilt and I’m sighing softly as he strains below me, when I’m on a step-ladder painting the walls or hanging a picture in the nursery. I know that even before I was pregnant, before olive was a literal hardness between us, that he cared deeply about my comfort--it had been obvious to me from the very start of it all. But now--now that I am pregnant, now that there is precious cargo--he is even more neurotic about my comfort, my safety. 

Right now, I am comfortable. I am not aching except the usual ache of my spreading hips and swelling breasts. There is a pressure very deep and low inside me, but it is a pressure that has steadily built to this point over months and months--it’s bearable still. Olive is quiet now. I feel heavy and full to the brim, but it is a heaviness and a fullness that is exuberant because it is one that means life--new life, sweet life. I am not hungry, I am not full, I am not hot, I am not nauseous. I am just sinking into this bed, into these linens, with Rooster’s body around me, basking in the glow from the fireplace and my eyes are growing heavy as the winter night drags on. 

“I am,” I say, “just the usual.”

“G’head,” he whispers, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder, “sleep, baby.”

The exhaustion--it is something that got better for a while. I can at least ride in the car for more than ten minutes without falling into a deep, unblinking sleep. I don’t take long naps on the couch before dinner, snuggled under a wool blanket while Bradley starts on dinner. I don’t wake up ready for a nap, not usually, not if it’s past seven. But this exhaustion that I feel right now--now that everything is ready to go, now that we are waiting patiently on olive--is something else entirely. This one is deeper, heavier. This one is imminent. 

Wordlessly, he moves his hands to my hips. And when he starts to knead them, his grip firm but careful--I almost cry out. I forget how tense, how tight, the muscles in my hips are now that they’re supporting the extra weight of B.B. and myself. He works his fingers so easily, so expertly, over my skin that I feel myself sinking further and further into the bed. 

“Oh,” I whisper, “that’s mighty kind of you, tramp.”

He nods, kissing my head again, a tired chuckle in his throat. 

“Anythin’ for you,” he tells me, “anythin’ at all. Say the word and it’s yours, mama.”

“Mmm,” I sigh, “don’t stop.”

I turn into his touch, careful not to disturb Marmie, Buttercup, and olive as I do. He just chuckles, moving in closer to me, pressing his lips against my temple and bringing his other hand down over my belly. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mumbles and I know that he is going to fall back asleep soon. But he’s going to wait until I fall asleep first--which he always does.

That’s how I fall asleep--with his hands kneading the achiest parts of myself, with his warm lips against my skin, with his body over me, with his desire to give me what I want swirling in the warm smoky air around us.  

When I wake up again, I know something is wrong as soon as my eyes are open. 

There is sweat gathering on my cheeks, a flush covering my body like I’m fever-stricken--but my skin is goosed. Everything is aching--the pulse across my nose, the blood rushing through my temples, Bradley’s favorite freckle on my throat, my swollen breasts, my convex belly, my spreading hips, my knees, even my littlest toes. The ache radiates across my entire body and holds me still--holds me so very still that I cannot even stir inside Bradley’s grip. He’s connected to me, careful not to press too much of his weight onto me now, his arm draped across my waist and hand comfortably cupping my belly with his nose buried deep in my hair in a fruitless attempt to find my neck.  

I blink at the sunlit room. Why am I awake?

And that’s when it washes over me, soaking me to the bone: I’m going to throw up.

I’m voiceless as I scramble, throwing the linens off my body, getting myself onto my feet, rushing to the bathroom with a heaviness in my step. Marmie and Buttercup stand to attention at once at the end of the bed, dazed and confused. 

“Baby?”

But I can’t speak, even when his voice sounds as sweet and tired as it does, even when I know that I should tell him that I’m okay--really. I just need to throw up. Even when I know that he must be panicked--if not because he is a man with a heavily pregnant wife then because he’s my Bradley and I’m his Faye--I know that his heart is leaping out of his chest now.

The bile is hot as it spews out of my mouth and into the toilet bowl. It is acidic, burning my throat, cutting my mouth, clogging my nostrils. And there is so much of it, all spilling out of me, my body--the broccoli salad and baguette from just last night reappearing in a mangled heap in this freshly-cleaned toilet. 

It hurts--my belly twisted in knots, tightening and tightening as it sprints up my throat, stinging all the way. It’s a kind of pain that is making me sweat all over, making my cheeks red, making my knees ache. 

Fuck.

Distantly, I can hear Bradley scrambling to turn his bedside lamp on and tear back the covers before he makes his way into the bathroom. On the bed, I know Stevie must’ve staked her claim on her favorite spot near his feet and that she is unmoving even now. But Marmalade and Buttercup, the forever loyal and protective girls they are, are up and following Bradley--I can hear the tippy-tappy noises of their little claws on the hardwood.  

I know Bradley is tired; has been holding his breath everyday, has been contemplating buying himself a beeper for the hours he’s out of the house on base, has been bouncing his leg at work all day and racing home not a moment after quitting time, has been watching me from the corner of his eye like I’m an overfilled balloon floating past a sea of tacks carelessly.

Fuck, it feels like we’d just fallen asleep again, too--both of us drifting in and out of consciousness with his fingers drawing sweet, lazy shapes against my belly. I was softly combing his hair, both of us mumbling last bits of sweetness to each other almost non-coherently, just a rumbling of the throat and a flex of the jaw. It was so quiet except for the crackling fire, Rooster’s heavy open-mouthed breathing, Stevie’s purring, Marmalade’s content sighing as she curled up against my belly, Buttercup’s whine as she stretched her legs over Bradley’s. Even olive was quiet, nestled deeply inside me but also somehow pressed just against Bradley’s fingers--content, stirring only softly. A little twitch of her fingers, a tiny kicking with even tinier feet; it was sweet, soft, silent almost. 

But now we’re both awake and he’s kneeling down behind me, a sound of sympathy ticking from his throat as he sighs softly. And Marmalade is beside him, pressing her cold, wet nose into my forearm and sniffing--even a little whine of sympathy vibrates her throat. Buttercup is trailing in just behind them, rumbling and grumbling about being awake but falling into place just beside Marmalade anyway. 

“S’alright, girl,” Bradley says and I don’t know if he’s talking to me or the dogs, “mama’s alright.”

The dogs. 

The bathroom is at least cooler than the bedroom is--the fire crackling in our fireplace is radiating heat in thick sheets, all across our leather couches and onto our linen bedding and velvet curtains. It’s stifling is what it is, which happened sometime after I fell asleep again--the scent of smoke thick and overwhelming. But here in the bathroom, with my knees against the polished checkered tiles, with my elbows resting on either side of the toilet seat, with the light above me emanating an orange glow about the otherwise dark room--the temperature is bearable.

I wish that I could stand, stretch these aching muscles in my legs, run my fingers across the vast expansion of rounded skin that makes up my belly, and press my cheek against the window that overlooks the greenhouse. I know that it would feel so heavenly, so decadent against my flushed skin, the icy glass straining against the whispering winds. 

“Let it out,” Bradley soothes, his open palm warm and soft as he grazes my curved spine through my sweater, his voice thick with the sleep I jolted us out of so suddenly, “‘m right here, baby. I’ve gotcha, mama.”

He’s kneeling now, his knees against the tiles, bending over so he can hold my hair back from my face with one hand and rub my back with the other. His breath is hot as he speaks, lingering on the back of my dewy neck.

I must have a sheen of perspiration covering me by now--can feel how pale I must be, all except for my fire-stricken cheeks.

My heaving is making olive kick harshly against my ribs, pounding against my already sore muscles. She’s been doing that more often now that she’s running out of room--sometimes it feels like she’s clawing me from the inside out. It must feel like the walls are closing in on her. 

I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry. She must be tired.

Marmalade whines and Buttercup follows closely--poor babies. I know they must be tired, too, especially Marmalade. She’s a small thing, only four months old, but already seems to understand my condition as well as Buttercup. She’s always resting her head on my belly, her little blonde ears perking when olive nudges against her snout. Marmalade sleeps on her tufted bed before the fire with Buttercup each night--but wakes up every hour to investigate me on her own. She will meander over to my side of the bed in the dark, sniffing my belly, nudging her nose against my hand, jumping onto the bed to press her snout against my legs. She’s just as nervous, just as careful with me, as Bradley is.   

Reaching up, I blindly flush, moving my face from the opening. 

“Take it easy now, baby,” Bradley whispers, carefully letting my hair fall, his arms coming up around me until he’s holding me under the armpits, “c’mere, I’ve gotcha, I’ve gotcha.”

It’s easy for me to give him my weight--he’s secure, a solidness that is constant here in this house. He spreads his legs so I can fit between them, encouraging me against his chest. So I lay back, rest my head on his shoulder, let his arms wrap around me. It feels good to be held, feels good to be securely in his arms. 

Marmalade does her usual once-over, carefully stepping between my legs to sniff and sniff, her black nose wet and cold. Bradley and I reach to pet her in tandem, scratching behind her ears, cooing--and that seems to assure her enough to flop down over my legs, her head resting on my thigh. Buttercup is already lying at my feet, content to rest and watch simultaneously. Clever girl.  

“Good girl,” Bradley praises, “takin’ care of your mama.”

“Takes after you,” I whisper, watching Marmalade’s eyes slip shut finally. 

“Nah,” he tells me, “she’s always been a mama’s girl. Who could resist?”

I smile, warm again. I scratch behind Marmalade’s ear again and she sinks into my thigh further, sighing. She has been a mama’s girl--my sweet little golden-haired retriever, trailing behind me on clumsy puppy paws and blinking up at us with big, brown eyes.  

“Morning sickness in the third trimester,” I whisper softly, my voice soft but strained with sleep and sweat, “olive’’s a procrastinator.”

His chest rumbles when he chuckles. 

He is very softly ghosting his fingers through my hair, slyly feeling my forehead for a fever. His touch is gentle and sweet, his fingers calloused and careful. He presses a few kisses to the top of my head and I can feel that pretty, pretty smile on his face.

“Going out with a bang,” he teases softly.

“Few more days until she’s supposed to be going out,” I sigh, falling into him deeper, “and I sure hope it isn’t with a bang.” 

He chuckles again--he sounds very tired.

But he feels so good beneath me, so soft and very hard all wrapped into one perfect human specimen. He’s warm from the fire, too--and his heart is beginning to slow now that I am here in his arms instead of leaping out of bed wordlessly and sprinting to the bathroom.

“You know I’ll do whatever it takes to make it easy for you, mama,” he insists softly, petting my hair. “We’re ready, huh?”

He means: we’ve been to birthing classes, the ones that he took slightly more serious than I did. He was pinching my hip when we were practicing the swaying labor position because I was muffling my laughter in his chest, the seriousness of his eyes and intensity of his sturdiness reddening my cheeks and burning across my neck. We diligently attended the six-week course, the husbands all fawning over Bradley in his flight suit and practically asking for his goddamn autograph in the middle of the instructor’s My Water Broke! How Do I Know? lesson. He took pictures of me bouncing on those ridiculous yoga balls, smiling coyly and cupping my belly unceremoniously. We’ve watched birthing videos--which have bled into my dreams upon occasions in visions of blood and baby and beds--and practiced lamaze, even if it makes me lightheaded. We’ve picked a hospital--which is really just the hospital nearest to us, which still puts it at forty-five minutes away--and we’ve found a doctor that we both like. We’ve even formed a birth plan, typing it out on printer paper and keeping one copy in the car and one copy on the refrigerator under our most recent sonogram of olive, who will absolutely have Bradley’s nose based on their profile. We’ve gotten preparations in place to have immediate skin-to-skin after birth and we’ve told the hospital that we’re saving cord blood. Our hospital bags have been packed for weeks, sitting just inside our closet, waiting for us. The car seat has been checked--twice now--at the local fire station. The nursery has been ready for a few months, the final touch installed on my birthday: a most precious, felted animal mobile that dangles delicately above the arched crib. We know our neighbors will wander over to the house, grab the spare key from under the mat, and feed the dogs for us while we’re gone. There’s even a folder packed in olive’s baby bag, one that will be filled with all her important information when we leave the hospital: her little inky footprint, her birth certificate, her social security card, her first hat, her first blanket. From the outside looking in--we’re ready. We are maybe the most ready people to have ever become parents. I’m certain my parents were not this prepared for me and Maggie all those years ago.  

“Did you think it was time?”

He breathes out a laugh. It is such a good sound--even here in the bathroom at six in the morning with an aching belly and a spot of vomit in my hair. 

“For a second there, I sure did,” he whispers, chuckling, “so did the girls.”

I hum, nodding. 

It is strange to feel the way I do right now--so many strange emotions have held me in their capable palms since we married each other in the backyard of our old house in California. My life, my feelings, before seems to dim in comparison to the slew of intense feelings that have occurred just through this pregnancy alone. Right now, I feel very loved and very adored; I am thoroughly taken care of by Bradley, by Marmalade, by Buttercup, by our friends that message us each day and have officially put me on Baby Watch--which they claim is their own personal version of Shark Week. 

But I feel, also, that I am sometimes not myself--I am someone else, someone that is just a placeholder, someone that is just waiting for this condition to fade and for the next part of my life to begin. It is strange that this is just the before, the during. And I wonder, each time this thought dances across my frontal lobe, if Jake was right all along. I am going to become someone’s mother--it will take such a large piece of me, of who I am, of who I’ve always been. The last few months have drifted along in terms of counting kicks and trying to take videos of the hiccups that frequent poor olive. And I know that the next few months will drift along in terms of clogged milk ducts and colic and spit-up--and they’ll continue on that way until forever. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me better or worse--that I am choosing for my life to be defined by these terms. I haven’t decided yet. 

“Olive’s comfortable,” I tell him, which is true. 

The baby does feel comfortable--entirely too comfortable. Each day is a sprawling mirage of kicking and Braxton Hicks and elbowing and nestling and hiccupping and turning and rolling, yet at day’s end olive is still and quiet. They are not ready--no, not yet. They are comfortable, soft, safe.

“How could they not be,” he mumbles, his hand falling down to cradle my bump, “you make a great home, mama.”

I make a great home. 

“Are you trying to say that I’m as big as a house?”

He hums, kisses my forehead. He smells like sleep--like minty toothpaste and soap, like laundry detergent. Marmalade is snoring now, sleeping peacefully beneath my soothing fingertips. Buttercup licks my ankle a few tired times before sighing deeply and closing her eyes.

“Honey, if you’re a house, you’re a brick house,” he whispers.

Marmalade doesn’t stir when I laugh. Buttercup merely peeks an eye open, grumbles, then falls back asleep. 

“Nice save,” I whisper back. 

His hand is very soft as he cradles my bump. When I look down at his fingers--his fingers that I love so much--spread across the front of my sweater-covered belly, it makes me want to cry. He holds me very securely but gently, presses his skin against mine with a severe carefulness, one I know he will possess with olive when they’re finally earth-side.

I dream about it, really--watching him hold our baby for the first time. Their little wrinkly skin against his taut, sunkissed chest. His lips coming down to feather across the wispy little hairs on their head. Matching each other’s breathing, holding onto each other.

Bradley presses a lingering kiss to my temple, encouraging my hair behind my ears.   

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

His voice is quiet and genuine. 

“Think I’m okay,” I tell him, “just need to catch my breath.”

My stomach has settled slightly--the nausea has dissipated, the knots have untied themselves. The perspiration on my skin is beginning to dry.

Olive stirs, an elbow here or a knee there. They’re sitting low these days, a burgeoning pressure that grows with each passing day and fitful night. But there is still that distinct sense that they are staying put--they are not hasty, they are not anxious to move on, move out. They’re completely connected to me, tethered, and they want to remain there where it is warmest. 

He hums, body softening. Marmalade yawns, snuggling deeper into my thigh, her wet nose pressing against my sweatered bump. Affection washes over me, drenches me like the short-lived fever had, like my nausea had.  

“Good girl,” I whisper to her again.

Rooster chuckles, patting the side of my belly gently.

Olive stirs, presses against his palm. It still pleases him endlessly. I think I can feel his heart swell. 

“Olive loves you,” I tell him, sighing, “s’excited when you touch her.” 

It’s true, too--olive has a distinct sense when Bradley is cupping my belly. She already knows how well taken care of I am and how spoiled she will be when she joins us here on solid ground. She’s a sweet thing, just like I told her she would be, and always presses against Bradley’s hands. She must get that from me; a blind belief that being held by Bradley is cause enough for settling.

Bradley’s smiling--I can feel the curve of his lips around my scalp, don’t even need to tur around and look at him to know it. He’s humming, too, almost keening at my words. Certainly he must be more nervous than he lets on--fatherhood is staring him directly in the eyes and he’s blinking back at it, pretending like it isn’t unfamiliar territory. 

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

As if olive could do anything but love Bradley.

He’s good at pretending like he’s calm, which is what he’s doing now--but I know him. His pulse is quickened right now, his breathing straining to remain even and heavy. I’m sure if I turned around, if I turned around and looked at his orange-lit face, when I would see the blush in his cheeks and the water in his eyes. 

His spine has been rigid since October 31st, which put me officially at full-term. Halloween--a few days after my birthday, which used to be my sister’s birthday too, and only a few days after the anniversary of my sister’s death. He’d circled the date on the calendar on the fridge, crossing off every day just before we went upstairs to bed. 

I’d caught him that day, the 31st, just standing before the calendar with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his lip caught in the wrath of his front teeth. He was just looking at it--the circle drawn crudely with a red permanent marker. 

37 weeks -- FULL TERM! it read in big, bold letters. 

It had been so quiet in the house when I’d caught him staring at the calendar--not a sound other than Marmalade trailing tiredly behind me and Stevie snoozing in front of the fireplace. He had been so quiet too--his spine so rigid, his jaw so set. He was focusing on the date so closely, almost willing it to burst into flames or break my water or start something, anything. But it didn’t--it just stared back at him, unblinking, unmoving. A physical, everyday reminder of his impending fatherhood given to him by his past-self.

It’s quiet right now, too.    

Then he groans like he’s just remembered something, stretching his legs and arms, yawning. And then he presses a few kisses to my head before sighing, nose in my hair. 

“Well,” Rooster starts, shaking his head softly, “good mornin’, I guess.”

I turn--he’s already looking at me, the softest of smiles on his lips. 

“Mornin’,” I whisper, nuzzling my nose against his, “stud.”

When my teeth are brushed and my hair is rinsed and tied back, I walk back into the sweet heat of the bedroom. Bradley is on the edge of the bed, sitting amongst the linens, rubbing his eyes with one hand and absently petting Stevie with the other. Bitch didn’t even stir when I sprang out of bed. 

Our room is washed white by sunlight; the folded quilts stacked at the end of the bed, the rug that spans across most of the floor, the worn antique furniture that dots the room in rich wooden hues, Carole’s wallpapered walls that we did not touch, the linens draping across our bodies, the gold frames scattered across the walls, the wilting flowers on top of our dresser, Marmalade’s golden fur as she stretches out at my feet and yawns. 

It smells good in here, which is an odd thing. Since becoming pregnant, I feel that I can smell everything: the sickly sweet decay of the marigolds on the dresser, the anti-flea soap we use on the girls every week, the minty toothpaste on Bradley’s heavy breath, the baking soda I sprinkled on the rug and vacuumed up, even the lingering scent of gardenia that seems to have stained this room--despite Rooster claiming that he cannot smell it anymore.

“Hot mama,” Rooster whistles at me. 

I roll my eyes. 

“This sweater has a hole in the armpit,” I tell him. 

He holds his chest, howling. 

“And, mama, you wear it well!”

He spreads his legs, opening his arms to me, grinning something fierce.

Dammit if I don’t love that cheeky grin.

When I come to him, my cheeks pink, he laces his fingers together and lets his hands rest on the small of my back. He’s so warm--another fireplace in this room. He leans down and kisses my belly a few times, letting his nose rest against it. 

“Gonna miss being pregnant?”

His voice is muffled by my sweater.

It doesn’t really feel real--not being pregnant soon. I have been pregnant for almost this entire year and have grown so accustomed to it. What will it be like when I can lay on my belly again, when I can sleep with my leg drawn up to my side? What will it be like when I can see my toes again--will I see the messy paint job Bradley did a few days ago? What will it be like when olive and I have untethered and she doesn't hiccup in my body anymore but outside of it? How will I go through the motions of everyday life when there isn’t a foot in my ribs or a burgeoning pressure in my pelvis? Will it feel empty--my body without hers?  

This is just the before--I know that. I know that. But it is strange still to think that this condition is not permanent. This is just for now, just for a few more days. But then the after begins and it will span from now until eternity.  

“I think so,” I tell him, raking my fingers through his hair, “but I am unreasonably excited to have deli meat again.”

Bradley laughs--and it’s at that precise moment that olive gets her first case of hiccups of the day. Bradley and I feel it at the same time, those first little spasms that make my skin quiver. 

They’re quick little things. Pop. Pop. Pop. 

He gasps softly, looking up at me with his mouth ajar and his eyebrows pulled together. Oops. He’s still cradling my belly, eyes widened.  

“Look what you did,” I tell him, sticking out my lower lip, “gave poor baby the hiccups.”

Bradley kisses my belly again and again, moving to hold the sides as if to keep olive still. But the spasming is still happening every few seconds. 

“Sorry, baby,” he whispers. 

I know he’s talking to olive. 

Really, her hiccups are triggered by anything. Sometimes they’re even triggered by nothing. She is constantly plagued by them, the poor thing. It’s been happening now since my sixth month of pregnancy. They’re little jerky movements, ones that are steady and strange. They don’t feel like the fists or the feet or the legs or the arms. 

“So mean, daddy,” I whisper, shaking my head. 

 Now he pulls my sweater up, letting it rest on top of my belly. 

Pop, pop. 

And there it is--my belly. It looks very normal to me now. This is the stretched skin that has been thickening and swelling since February, streaked and dotted with freckles. I feel very full--like I could genuinely be deflated if someone pushed a tack into my skin. But when I look down and there it is--my baby’s first home--it makes me feel like I could stay like this forever. I am safe and warm; and so they are safe and warm. I sometimes already feel so overwhelmed by all this love in my being for this little stranger I haven’t met--it makes my hands tremble. I sometimes feel like if they needed to, we could just stay like this forever: I would carry their weight, I would protect them from the cruelties of the outside world. It wouldn’t matter if it meant that I wouldn’t ever know their face; I would do anything at all to keep them warm.

The skin of my belly gooses at the sudden exposure. 

“S’cold,” I whisper. 

But Bradley is quick to tut and pull me closer to him. Olive is still hiccupping.

Pop. Pop. 

“I’ll warm you up, mama,” he mumbles. “I’ve gotcha.”

He sprinkles warm kisses all along my belly, his mustache prickling my skin very sweetly. He is rubbing that tired skin that used to be the curve of my waist, rubbing it like he’s trying to soothe me and olive at the same time. 

“M’little hiccup-er,” Bradley whispers, his open lips against my quivering belly. “Y’gonna give us Hell when you’re here, baby?” 

I sigh.

Pop, pop. Pop.  

“Of course they won’t,” I tell him, smiling, “they’re sweet.”

I’m serious--they are sweet. I know that already, can feel it in my bones. The same way I know that I am carrying a daughter, I know that they will be sweet. I know that they are already sweet. They will be like me and they will be like Bradley--there is no room for them to be anything but sweet and soft. 

“You two know each other?” 

He’s peering up at me through his lashes, his hair still entirely unkempt and his eyes very open and whiskey-colored. He kisses my belly again, a few more times. 

Pop. Pop. 

“Yes,” I tell him, biting my lip, combing his hair gently. “We go way back.”

All the way to February. 

He laughs--a sweet, throaty thing, right there against my belly. 

That warrants a jolt from olive. A quick, sudden roll and there is a ripple across my skin followed by a few more hiccups. Pop, pop. Pop. She has a good startle reflex--it’s what our ultrasound technician said at the last appointment when olive jolted and got the hiccups from the door slamming shut behind me. 

In apology, Bradley kisses my belly again. His lips are wet still and minty from brushing his teeth. 

“First-name basis, then?” 

I should’ve known he’d bring it up. 

“Not yet,” I whisper, shaking my head, exhaling. “Y’still against Maude?” 

He wrinkles his nose, which is answer enough. 

“Maude Bradshaw,” he says, chewing it like it’s bitter in his mouth, “sounds like a 50s-housewife.”

I scoff. 

“And Julep Bradshaw sounds like a porn-star,” I say. 

He laughs again. 

Pop. Pop. 

“She doesn’t like it either,” I say, holding my bump.

 He is quick to pepper little kisses over my belly and nuzzle against me. 

“Mama’s lying,” he whispers, “you like Julep, don’t you?”

“Julep Maggie Bradshaw,” I whisper to him, grimacing.

I shake my head, sighing. It sounds like a cocktail--named after a porn star. 

He grins up at me. 

“S’cute,” he defends. “Our little Jujube.”

Jujube. It makes my lips purse. I don’t want my daughter to be called Jujube. Even her nickname will sound like something that just gets stuck in one’s teeth. 

“And you don’t like Eleanor either?”

He shakes his head, sighing, giving a final kiss to me and olive before he lets my sweater fall back down over my belly. 

“Her name’ll be too long,” he frowns, “Eleanor Bradshaw. That’s, what? Three, four…that’s fifteen letters and that doesn’t even include the middle.”

He has been surprisingly picky about the names, especially the girl names. It makes my heart swell that he’s thinking about it, even if I do like the names Eleanor and Florence and Margaux. 

The room is beginning to yellow as the sun rises higher in the sky, the blue an endless one as it spreads above the Eastern Redbuds that line our gravel drive and the ivy that climbs our house so charmingly. Buttercup and Marmalade will start to get restless soon, each of them crying by the door until we wander downstairs to feed them and put their sweaters on. 

But for now, it’s just us standing here with olive. And we are talking about what we are going to name her even if we will not meet her for a little bit. But she’s here--she’s nestling and tucking. And still she is hiccuping. Pop, pop, pop. Pop.

I take a deep breath, fill my lungs up very nice. The stretch feels good and deep.  

“Ivy, then,” I try, exhaling.

He shakes his head, squeezing my hips. 

“Too short,” he says. 

Oh, my God. 

“You’re impossible,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Throw me another name, then.”

He thinks for a moment--I know he must have some in the chamber. He keeps a stack of baby books on his bedside table; everything from The Birth Partner 5th Edition: A Complete Guide to Childbirth for Dads, Partners, Doulas, and Other Labor Companions to The Penguin Classic Baby Name Book: 2,000 Names from the World's Great Literature to Becoming Attached: First Relationships and How They Shape Our Capacity to Love. It is so very like him to study these things, especially the names. Often, he will read them as I’m falling asleep beside him, tucked into pillows and linens with my cheek against his ribs. He’ll utter names to me quietly as he strokes my hair or ask how we’ll handle the terrible-two’s as he kisses me goodnight. 

He’s always thinking about fatherhood--about me, about him, about our daughter. 

He smiles softly. 

“Lyla,” he says. 

Pink has dusted his cheeks. 

Lyla Bradshaw. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t make my fingers tingle. It just feels like words. 

“Maybe,” I say, “but surely you’ll come around to Maude or Ginger.”

I’m teasing him. He sighs, shaking his head again, pretending to roll his eyes. 

He turns to Buttercup and Marmalade who are stretching in front of the fire, their tails wagging softly whenever they notice his gaze. They start for us in tandem, little tippy-taps on the hardwood as they happily pant. 

Marmie nudges her head against my leg, licking a few times while Bradley strokes Buttercup’s short snout.

He looks back up at me with a very unimpressed face--flat lips and sullen eyes. 

“May as well name her Gladys or Petunia,” Bradley teases, exasperated, “since you wanna give her such an old lady name.”

“Hey,” I argue defensively, “that’s how you talk to the woman having your baby?”

He bites a grin. 

“Sometimes,” he tells me, “when I think I can get away with it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. 

“You mean when your baby makes me sick and I’m too weak to fight back?”

I feel fine now--the vomit feels like a fever dream. But I’ll milk it--it’s my right as a pregnant woman who lived through a San Diego summer, a cross-country move, and adopting two dogs in one month. 

His throat is flushed now as he laughs. The dogs are getting excited, putting their front paws on the bed and sniffing me and Bradley alike, looking between us with sweet and wide eyes. 

“Poor mama,” he coos, resting his fingers against my cheek to check for a fever mockingly, “should I put you on bed rest?”

I shake my head, nipping his hand softly as he cups my cheek. 

“You are a mean daddy,” I breathe, tutting. 

Marmalade and Buttercup have that little whine in their throat--the kind that is winding up for a howl or a bark. Bradley squeezes my cheek, chuckling. Then he turns to the girls. 

“I’m not mean, huh? You girls think I’m mean?”

He talks to them in a silly voice--something higher-pitched than his regular gravely tone and more attuned to younger ears. He sounds goofy, but tooth-achingly kind.   

There it is--those little barks. Marmie’s is more of a desperate whine, very high pitched and squeaky. Buttercup’s is deeper and raspier. But they bark in tandem, licking Bradley. Bradley nods, gesturing to them and smirking up at me. 

“There you have it. Proof’s in the puddin’, baby.”

I wrinkle my nose at him, sticking my tongue out. He moves quickly, trying to grab it, but I move away too quickly and push off him. I’m chewing a grin--my cheeks are aching from smiling so widely so much. 

Olive’s hiccups are gone now--she’s just calmly burrowing and twitching, settling. Sweet little thing. 

Chateau Bradshaw is very beautiful--especially now that it is not just white walls and bare bones anymore. We are slowly filling in all the cracks; a leather sectional here and a reclaimed record table there. There are houseplants on the piano and crochet blankets on the sofa and lavender on the mantle. Photographs are all over the walls, those same precious gold frames containing snapshots of us and our friends and olive. There are even a few photographs of Marmie and Buttercup sprinkled in, frolicking in the Virginia bluebells in the backyard or with little birthday hats on when we sat for a family picture on my 29th birthday a couple weeks ago. There is art cluttering the walls and vases of backyard wildflowers and the cabinets have groceries and all the rooms are not without beds; it’s starting to become our home. And right now, with the early morning sun piercing our hardwood floors and carefully selected wallpaper, it is angelic.

We eat breakfast at the big kitchen table, the dogs lying at our feet, licking our ankles. They are not beggars--they are just attached to our hips, especially now that olive is so close to being here. I lay my feet in Bradley’s lap across the table as I finish my coffee and he strokes my ankle as he flicks through a name book, a smile tugging at his lips.

One day we will be feeding olive strips of banana pancakes in her high-chair, laughing when she gets peanut butter on her nose, cooing when she reaches out for Bradley to hold her. Maybe she’ll hate to get her face wiped off, hate getting cleaned up. Maybe Bradley won’t have the heart to upset her so whenever I’m not there to do it, she walks around with syrup and banana around her lips all day.

All Shook Up by Elvis is playing on the stereo now, flooding the lower level with sound. This is a song that makes me think of Carole now--the same way it makes Bradley think of Carole. I sometimes imagine her here in this house, rummaging around in the cabinets with flour strewn across her cheek or rocking on the back porch with a mug of tea. It is easy to imagine her here--just knowing that she once was here, before I ever was, it only feels right.  

“Maybe we’ll luck out and have a boy,” he mumbles to me, taking a sip of his creamy coffee. 

“Boy names are so much easier,” I agree, sighing.

We both decided, almost immediately, on the name Finch for a boy. Finch Nicholas. We’d call him Fin or Finny or maybe even Goose--but that feels like make-believe. Maybe one day we will have a son, but it will not be soon.  

He squeezes my ankle. 

“But it’s still a girl?” He raises his brow. 

I furrow my brows, pressing my palms against my stomach and screwing my eyes shut. 

Then I open my eyes and nod. He’s glaring at me with a grin. 

“Yes,” I say. 

He shakes his head at me. 

“You’re just a comedian today, huh?”

“When I can get away with it,” I tease. 

He bites the inside of his cheek--he looks beautiful bathed in this fine Virginia morning. Then he just goes back to the name book, leaning back in his chair, keeping his warm hand on my ankle.

Sunday’s are easy in our house, the way I like them to be. 

He washes and I dry while Elvis plays and the dogs play outside. We brush our teeth in tandem and share the same face wash. I dress mostly in my most loose-fitting sweaters now, tucking them into a trusty pair of denim overalls. And my hair--it has grown so fast. Already it is sitting in the middle of my back, so it has been tied back with bandanas most days. Bradley kneels wordlessly, just humming to himself, to slip on my Converse and tie them for me.

“Thank you,” I whisper to him. 

He kisses my belly a few times then regains his posture and kisses me, too. He’s smiling against my lips. 

“Happy to help the needy,” he teases, nuzzling his nose against mine.  

We put the girls in their sweaters and leash them up, not a spot on their snouts unkissed. We load into the Bronco and make the thirty minute drive to the farmer’s market. We like the farmer’s market in town--we’ve frequented it almost every Sunday since we moved to Richmond. And the girls love the farmer’s market; they are endlessly pet, coddled, complimented, fed, kissed, cooed at. I receive almost the same treatment now that I am a familiar fixture, one that’s grown so visibly pregnant since our move here. I like all the people that run the stands, the ones who care enough to ask if we know the gender and what the baby’s name will be, but I do sometimes feel like I get pet more than Marmie and Buttercup. 

“Still pregnant?” Josephine, the woman who grows my favorite apples, asks incredulously when Bradley and I break through the bustling crowd and approach her little wood table. 

I cup my belly--olive stirs. She can feel when I touch her, which is strange. Even more strange is that it makes me choke up to think about, to think about my touch soothing her. 

Bradley squeezes my hand, holding onto Marmie’s leash tightly. 

Josephine is standing with her hands on her hips, her earmuffs riding low on her ears as she grins at me. Her eyelids are dotted with freckles, as is much of her face. 

“Still pregnant,” Bradley confirms with a small grin, “gettin’ there, though.”

Josephine shrugs, puffing her cheeks. 

It’s cold outside--cold enough to keep me close to Bradley’s side even with my coat on. But it is very sunny, so sunny that Bradley and I are squinting behind our sunglasses even. 

“First baby’s are always late! Better buckle in,” she tells me, already loading a bag of apples without us prompting her. “My first son was two weeks late. I thought I was gonna be pregnant for the rest of my life!” 

Bradley squeezes my hand again. A silent acknowledgement. So much unprompted advice, so many unneeded horror stories. It doesn’t matter where we are--people are always telling us things that we honestly don’t need to hear. 

“Well, if your baby is late then it means it’s a boy!” 

“Baby must be waiting for a full moon.”

“You’re carrying high up, honey. That means you’re having a boy!” 

“Take a bumpy car ride and you’ll be pushin’ them out in no time!” 

“I’m tellin’ you! Eat an entire pineapple and you’ll go into labor right away!”

Josephine’s words are not unfamiliar, nor are they unkind. It’s just what people do. 

“They’re comfy-cozy,” I tell her, which is exactly what I told Darla and Mike from our favorite honey stand a few minutes ago. “I’m okay with it.” 

Josephine eyes me, gaze lingering on my bump. Marmie and Buttercup sniff excitedly at the apples, waiting for Josephine to offer them a Milk Bone--which she keeps in a special ziplock bag just for them in her big purse. 

“Well, y’look like you’ve dropped! Breathing any better now?” 

Oh--the realization dawns on me at her utterance. Yes, I can breathe better today than I did yesterday. When I took a deep breath, the stretch felt so good. And maybe olive does feel lower right now than she did yesterday, maybe there is a minuscule pressure there today that wasn’t there yesterday. I hadn’t noticed before she said anything--maybe it was because of our very eventful morning and my romp in the bathroom.  

“Y’think?” Bradley asks with a soft smile, glancing at my bump. 

His eyes are swimming with affection, awe. He still looks at me like this frequently, even now that I’ve been pregnant for as long as I have. 

My heart swells, my throat grows warm. 

“Oh, yeah,” Josephine says, nodding as she ties our apple bag. “She definitely looks like she’s dropped.” 

“I guess I can breathe a little bit better today,” I say softly, crossing my arms. 

Buttercup circles around and presses her nose against the bottom of my belly, sniffing shortly, whining, then circles back to begging Josephine for a treat. Josephine finally takes notice, smiling down at them before fishing their treats out. They take them politely. 

“There you have it,” Josephine says proudly, handing Bradley the bag of apples. Then she grins at me, raising her eyebrows. “Can I have myself a little feel?” 

I nod, squeezing Bradley’s hand before Josephine excitedly rounds the table with her hands already extended. She smells like cinnamon, even her gray hair and her pink-painted nails. She takes her gloves off quickly, stuffing them into the big pocket of her Carhart. 

“Here,” I smile, softly taking her wrist and leading her open palm near the bottom of my belly, “she’s punching me.”

Olive is moving, little jerky movements. I wonder if she’s sleeping, lulled by our long walk, weaving around the park from stand to stand.

“Still deadset on she, huh?”

“You know it,” I tell her, blushing.   

Marmie and Buttercup excitedly sniff Josephine’s blue jeans as she comes closer, pressing against my belly. I’m sure she can feel it--she’s grinning, on the verge of saying aww. She takes the liberty to feel around a little bit more, but it’s okay--she has big, warm hands.   

I don’t mind this at all now, not that I ever disliked it very much to begin with. People love pregnant people, which I wasn’t aware of until I got pregnant. The people who ask to touch my belly have been very polite and careful with me, usually older women who won’t experience it again. It is nice to share it with someone beside Bradley on a day to day basis, since I don’t have a sister or mother or mother-in-law to fawn over me. 

“Spunky little one,” Josephine says gleefully, moving her hand to the top of my belly. “May I?” 

I don’t know what she means but I’m nodding and smiling. Bradley steps closer to me, an eyebrow pitched. He puts a hand on my shoulder, just observing with a small smile.  

Very carefully, she presses down on the top of my belly and oh, that is strange--it is softer now, more spongy. It is empty there now. There is infinitely more give there right now than there’s been in months. 

Josephine’s cheeks are flushed when she looks up at me, a knowing look in her eyes. 

“I’s right,” Josephine sighs gently, “you’ve dropped. Shouldn’t be long now, then, huh?” 

Shouldn’t be long now, then, huh?

My mouth goes dry for a moment. 

“We missed the lightening?” Bradley asks softly, kissing my temple. 

 Of course he knows what it’s called. 

“Don’t you know your stuff, Bradley,” Josephine praises, pressing her palms to the bottom of my belly again. “Been doing lots of reading?” 

I nod swiftly. 

“Just about everything he can get his hands on,” I tell Josephine, “but as many name books as we read, still haven’t found a girl’s name.”

Olive is a little bit more active now. She swiftly rolls, which feels like a flock of birds taking flight in my belly, and Josephine laughs joyously. It makes me miss my mother for a fleeting moment, even if we haven’t spoken since before my wedding. It would have been good to share this with her--this intimacy. I was in her belly once and now I have her granddaughter in my belly, which she is entirely missing out on. 

“Running out of room in there,” Josephine laughs. “Draw a name from a hat! Or open a book at the library and pick a random page.”

Bradley shakes his head. 

“Bradley’s picky,” I tell her, biting my lip. “Not too long, but not too short. And nothing from Charles Dickens books.” 

Bradley shrugs, kissing my temple again. 

“Gotta have the best for my girls,” he defends with a grin.

Josephine likes his answer--she’s grinning at us. 

“Well,” she starts happily as a few people meander up to her table, “you two’ll figure it out. Better have that baby by next Sunday! That’s an order, now, alright?” 

The prospect makes my spine prickle. 

Bradley’s chuckling, pulling Marmie to his side as she finishes her treat. Buttercup is already leaning against my legs, happily licking her lips of crumbs. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. 

The girls sleep most of the ride home, tucked in between Bradley and I. I’m buckled in, fingering the hem of Marmalade’s pink sweater. It’s still a little bit big on her--but I made it with the intention of her growing into it. Bradley is very softly stroking Buttercup’s head, which is resting on his thigh. 

Hold On by Alabama Shakes is playing now.

I like this drive, especially when it’s sunny. It’s just hills and trees and wildflowers. It’s nice living so far away from everything else. It feels like Bradley and I are in our own sweet world sometimes, like we’re all the other has. 

“You know,” I sigh, “I’m fine with the way things are now.”

Bradley glances at me from the corner of his eye, raising a brow. 

“Being pregnant,” I clarify. “I don’t mind it, really. People keep trying to tell me how to get olive to come, but it’s fine, really. I’m fine.” 

He nods, turning the radio down a hair so he can hear me. Marmie sighs into my leg and rolls onto her back so her feet are all up in the air. 

“You’ve been a trooper,” he says after a moment. “I mean, really, baby. I knew you were a tough cookie before, but you’ve blown me away.” 

Pink paints my cheeks. I lay my head against the sweet-smelling leather seat and watch him watch the road. His sunglasses are low on his nose and there’s a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Olive’s made it easy,” I say, humming. “She even turned me onto tea.” 

He laughs. Buttercup sighs into his thigh. But I am being serious--I feel like I’ve done a million things more difficult than growing this baby. This is maybe the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do, which I know is not true for other people.  

“You’re being humble,” he says, “Baby, your heart is literally bigger now.” 

 He told me this for the first time on one of our first nights in the house, as I was subbing coconut oil into my belly. He plucked a headphone out of my ear and when I turned to look at him, he was wide-eyed and red-cheeked. He explained to me, very excitedly, that the ventricles in my heart were thickening to supply enough oxygen to the blood for me and the baby. It had amazed him--but it made me a little nauseous to think about. It still does. 

“Don’t remind me,” I breathe, wrinkling my nose. 

He laughs, reaching out and cupping my cheek. 

“S’amazing,” he says. “Everything you’re doing right now amazes me. Really, baby.” 

A fist is squeezing my heart. My fingers are very warm. Olive nestles deeper. 

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “S’nothing, really.” 

He scoffs. 

“I mean it,” he warns. “I’m in awe, baby. Totally and completely.” 

“Falling in love with me all over again?” 

He squeezes my cheek, nodding, shooting me a grin. 

“That happens everyday, anyway.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“Sap,” I whisper. 

But I still hold his palm to my mouth and kiss there very softly. His hands smell like apples now. 

“I’ll hold onto that for you,” he says quietly. 

He sounds stricken with affection and love--voice warm and gooey. 

The car is quiet for a few minutes. He’s resting a hand on top of my bump now, softly stroking my skin through my overalls. 

Everlasting Love by Carl Carlton starts just as we turn onto Black Willow Lane. 

And just as it begins, my nose prickles and I sneeze. The jolt, the noise--olive startles again. Then there they are, those little twitches. Pop, pop. Pop. 

Bradley’s smiling something fierce, rubbing my belly, chuckling. 

“Bless you, mean mama,” he coos, “givin’ olive the hiccups again.”

I hold my belly, too. She can feel it when I touch her. It makes my fingers tingle. 

Pop, pop. 

“Mama’s sorry,” I say quietly, sniffing. 

There’s a rustling, just a few stretching limbs here and there. It’s strange to think that there are tiny feet in my ribs right now, with little toes that curl. 

Pop, pop. Pop. 

“Little scaredy cat,” Bradley sighs contentedly. “God, think how much she’ll startle whenever Jake’s around. Loudmouth he is, she’s gonna be hiccuping the whole time.”

I’ve thought about it some--Jake being around our daughter. Things are still not the same between us, but they are better now. My soft spot for him is much smaller now, calloused. But I do love him. He will be good to my daughter, I know this. He’s a good man even when he says bad things. I’m not sure he could do anything but love my baby; I think he would love anything I made. 

“He’ll be gentle with her,” I whisper. “Maybe she’ll shut him up.”

He laughs softly. Pop, pop. 

“It’d be a miracle,” he muses, shaking his head.

The day drags on quietly. 

We unpack out farmer’s market groceries; pour the honey into the honeypot, put the apples in the fridge, trim the yellow chrysanthemums and set them on the kitchen table. Bradley starts a fire while I take the girls’ sweaters off and let them give me and my belly a once-over. I have tea with lunch while Bradley reads aloud to me and the dogs laying at our feet. 

“Your baby is now the size of a small watermelon. They have a firm grasp, can turn their heads, and will be able to see your face when they’re born. Baby should be head-down now, ready to make their grand entrance. Their skin is grayish-white now, but their pigment will appear shortly after birth. Since you’re full-term now, watch out for signs of labor which include: the bloody show, your water breaking, pelvic pain, and steady contractions.” 

He’s all smiles across the table while I finish my mug of tea, absently stroking olive. Of course he’s excited at the prospect of having the baby soon--as much as he is afraid to become a father, I know his excitement far outweighs any qualms. This has been rocky for him and I think, for a while, he didn’t feel like he was standing on solid ground. I think this is why he has done so much reading, why he has been so involved. It makes him feel better about it all. 

We take a long walk around the property with Marmie and Buttercup. They sniff excitedly at the stunted green grass, tangle their leashes chasing squirrels, roll around in the witch hazel. It feels good to breathe in the brisk, earthy air. And I love seeing the smoke plume from our chimney, love to see the windows lit by late afternoon sunlight. 

Some football game neither of us are watching drones quietly on the television while I crochet and Bradley folds a load of laundry. We sit in the living room together for a long time, my legs draped over his lap and his hand lying on my belly. He falls asleep for a while, just a little bit, when Marmie and Buttercup come to lay on either side of us. 

It’s just before dinnertime that I carefully detangle myself from him, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses to the warm skin of his cheeks. He comes to easily, blinking a few times and yawning, smiling. The girls still sleep soundly by him. 

“Hey you,” I whisper. 

He kisses me, still smiling. 

“Hey yourself, mama.”

“How’d you sleep?”

He cracks a tired grin. 

“With my eyes closed,” he mumbles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Really don’t wanna go back to work tomorrow.” 

He’s saving all fourteen days of his paternity leave for after olive is born--but it is not without a grudge. He has not understated how little his desire to be away from me is, going through all seven stages of grief between our front door and the driver’s seat of the Bronco. 

“I don’t want you to go back either,” I whisper, swiping my thumb across his cheek. “Guess I better hurry up and have this baby, then.”

He peppers kisses across my jaw, pulling me closer to him. 

“Mmm not so fast, baby,” he breathes. “Y’look so fuckin’ good like this.”

His words float through the space between our mouths and melt on my tongue. 

He feels it, I’m sure--the stutter in my breathing, the quivering of my lips. 

“Overalls really rev your engines, baby?” I whisper softly, kissing the scar on his cheek tenderly. 

He laughs, nodding, kissing my jaw. 

“Baby, you could be wearing a brown paper bag and still get my engines revvin’,” he all but croons, tugging and tugging me until I submit. 

He has to help me straddle him, has to guide my thighs up and over his and steady me with two hands on my waist. Olive is a literal hardness between us--protruding from my body and keeping us from coming as close as we used to. But Bradley still likes to hold me like this--likes to have me on his lap and likes to hold me tight.

“S’more like it,” he mumbles. “Gimme some sugar, mama.”

Very softly, he wraps my hair around his hand. He doesn’t pull, but his grip is secure as he guides me forward and connects our lips. God--his body is still warm from sleep, his lips wet. And already, his lips are parting, his tongue is swiping across my bottom lip. 

It doesn’t take much to make me throb with need these days--already I feel the urge to press my thighs together. I moan against his lips--a quiet and deep thing. He hears it, shutters, sighs into my mouth.  

“Am I crushing you?” I ask breathlessly. 

He tuts, tugging on my hair very softly, nipping my bottom lip before sucking it soothingly. Fuck. A dull ache is starting to spread between my legs and up my thighs. I know that I’m wet already, can feel it gathering in my panties. 

“Nope,” he whispers happily, pressing sloppy kisses down my throat. “Faye-baby, sit on my face.” 

It almost makes me laugh--the abruptness of his sentence. He says it casually, but with want dripping in his gravelly voice. 

My heart jumps in my throat, my lips pulling into a grimace without even meaning to. 

“Can’t,” I sigh as he kisses feverishly across my sweater-covered collarbones.

He whines aloud, groaning, bucking his hips up to grind against mine. And oh--oh, that feels good. I reach forward, hold onto his left shoulder and tangle my hand in his hair. 

“Why not?” He asks, peering up at me through his lashes. 

Darts of pleasure are plinking against my skin like flakes of snow, melting and rolling down in droplets of cold water. 

“‘Cause then I’ll really crush you,” I tell him, tipping my head back when he brushes my nipple. 

Even through three layers of clothing, even with his touch as light as it is, it makes me jolt. I’m so sensitive these days, like the dry petals of a flower just waiting to flake off. 

“No, you won’t,” he argues simply, “promise, baby. C’mon--I know you want it.”

It would feel good--I like to sit on his face, I always have. But sitting on his face right now, with my belly looming before me and obstructing my view of Bradley below me--it makes my spine prickle. 

“‘M too big now,” I try softly, my voice thin. 

Another scoff from him. 

“Weren’t too big last week,” he argues, nipping at my throat.

Pink paints my cheeks. 

“That-that was a momentary lapse in judgment,” I defend pathetically, twirling his curls around my fingers. “A moment of weakness.”

He pulls me closer, closes the distance between our lips again. It’s dirty--all tongue and teeth and spit. Heat radiates from my core like a radiator, makes my thighs shiver, makes my fingers tingle. 

“It was more than just momentary,” he smirks against my lips. “C’mon, baby. Wanna taste you s’bad.” 

God--the leather cord is tight from those words alone. 

“Wanna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, already moving to unhook my overalls with one hand. “Wanna make you cum.”

I don’t want to say no--I really, really don’t want to say no. In fact, as much as my spine tingles at the thought of me suffocating him by accident, I want to say a resounding yes, yes, yes. 

“Fuck,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You’re quite convincing.”

The sun is thinking about setting when my first orgasm washes over me, so the room is a soft yellow. The orgasm--it’s a hasty and greedy thing, beginning at the roots of my hair and jolting down my body until I can feel it in my toes. The pleasure is white-hot; it makes my cheeks flush, makes my nipple pert, makes my vision tunnel, makes my ears ring. 

Bradley’s beneath me, his tongue lapping languidly at my clit and his arms curled around my legs to keep me upright as my muscles tense so severely. He’s moaning against me and I know he’s probably saying something fucking filthy, but there’s a solid tone echoing between my ears. The only thing I can hear beside the tone is my own rapid heartbeat. 

I’m gripping his hands, nails digging into his skin; I know he likes it when his skin is littered with those little half-crescents, know he likes it whenever I can’t hold onto anything but him.  

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter finally, blinking. 

He is relentless, holding me closer to him, licking long stripes up my center. 

He must be uncomfortable, lying on the floor with my very pregnant body pressing down onto his face. But when I try to move, even just slightly, he grips the meat of my bottom and pulls me down on him again. 

“Hold still,” he mumbles against me. “Not done with you yet, mama.” 

And then his lips wrap around my clit again--I jolt and the noise that falls from my lips is one of agony, one of pleasure. His pace is utterly merciless, the kind of pace that can only be submitted to, the kind of pace that only just run its course. 

“Mean daddy,” I whisper to him breathlessly. 

When he laughs, it vibrates my core. I almost break the skin of his hands under the wrath of my nails. 

It’s after I cum again, writhing and calling his name in a hushed and desperate voice, that he finally releases my thighs. The relief is something between sweet and bitter as I fall back, panting. I just lay on top of his body for a moment, blinking at our vaulted ceiling and letting my heart return to its normal pace. 

He sits up on his elbows, grinning at me. The bottom of his face gleams with my arousal, plastering his mustache to his upper lip. He runs his hand along my right thigh, soothing me, cooing at me with that mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Y’okay, baby?” 

I can only nod, can’t swallow this thick saliva in my mouth. 

Really, I’m somewhere between fantastic and utterly spent. But when his fingers dance very high on my thigh, then dip between my legs again to swipe across my clit, I’m not too spent to clamp my thighs together. Aftershocks rock through me and I can do nothing but breathe through them, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. 

“S’sensitive,” he coos, “can’t help myself.” 

I don’t have the strength to speak. So I carefully sit up--his hands immediately hold my hips, keeping me secure, keeping me safe in the confines of his grip. His eyes are half shut now, his hair mussed. The yellow light washes over him and the flush across his chest is bright pink. 

I’m straddling his hips now, bracing myself against his softening tummy. He exhales through grit teeth, watching me carefully. His chest is heaving--good. I want it to be heaving. I want him to be fucked out. But I know that I won’t last long like this on top; I’m too heavy, my muscles ache too deeply. He knows this, too--knows that he’s gonna have to take me from behind eventually. 

“C’mon,” he whispers, straining. “Give it t’me, baby.” 

I’m hovering him now, my heat surely stiffening his already painfully solid cock. I don’t move, though. There’s a great stretching in my hips, an unfolding of muscles, an ease. 

“Ask nicely,” I whisper finally--my voice is ragged and soft. 

He laughs, throat flexing. He’s gripping my hips now, rapidly thumbing my hip bones. 

“Mean mama,” he coos, gripping me. 

But I just stare back at him with my cheeks pink and my lips parted. My chest is still heaving. 

“C’mon, daddy,” I whisper lowly. “Ask me nicely.”

His breathing hitches when I lower myself down just slightly, just enough for him to dip into me. God, it’s good--it’s a familiar fullness already, a stretch that is welcome. He throws his head back, groans. 

Bradley tries to thrust into me, but I am like a rock--I don’t move, don’t let him ease into me. He is unwilling to press down on me any harder than he already is, unwilling to pound into me the way I know he wants to. 

“Please,” he whispers, biting his lip hard, “please, baby.” 

He spills into me with his back propped up against the sofa, with his lips closed around my nipple, with his hands guiding my hips down on his at a relentless pace. He holds me tight, holds me as close as he can. We’re both whispering each other’s names, breathing into each other’s open mouths, clenching and tensing.

We collapse into each other like we always do. My entire body is aching, radiating a deep soreness now. But it’s one that I welcome, one that is no better or worse than my permanent ache. 

“Mmm,” he mumbles, kissing my breasts and gently nipping at my collarbones. “Y’okay, baby?” 

I nod again, kissing his forehead. 

“Fine,” I mumble. “Just dandy.” 

It’s quiet for a little while as we hold each other. The fire is settling, emanating a sweet warmth in the living room. Bradley’s breathing is returning to normal finally, that steady and deep motion in his chest that has lulled me to sleep most every night for a couple years now. He gently tickles his fingers up, up, up my spine and hums when I lay against him. 

“You’re my best friend,” he whispers into my shoulder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there. 

It makes me laugh at first; he’s buried deep inside me and I am going to give birth to his daughter any day now and he tells me that I’m his best friend. But he doesn’t laugh at all, he just kisses my shoulder again. And it makes me soft, very soft. I’m his best friend, I’m the mother of his child, I’m his wife. I’m all of these things. 

“You’re my best friend too,” I tell him, combing his hair softly. “You’re the bestest friend I’ve ever had, baby.”

He sighs into me, his breath hot. 

“M’telling Bob,” he sighs. 

We laugh--I lean back, look down at him. He’s grinning. 

I nod towards the stairs. 

“M’gonna take a bath. Keep me company?” 

He nods, already standing up and stretching. Marmie and Buttercup whine as they wake up, coming to. Olive stirs, twirls.

“Like you even have to ask, baby,” Bradley grins. 

The sun is sinking in the sky when I sink into the lukewarm water, which is sprinkled with epsom salt and lavender oil. The tub is deep enough for almost all of my belly to submerge--just the tiniest bit of bump peeking out, the highest point of the hill. The water feels good, even if I wish it could be hotter. Even if I feel like carrying olive is easy for the most part, my muscles do ache from holding her. 

Bradley’s sitting on the checker tiles, leaning against the wall so we’re facing each other. His face is washed and his hair is combed now. He has a baby name book propped in his lap and he’s smiling very softly at me, chuckling when a sigh slips past my lips. 

“Feel good, baby?” 

I hum, nodding. 

My eyes slip shut as lavender tickles my tongue, my nose. Olive is stirring again, stretching. I’m sure it feels good for her, too. I hope it does. 

Marmie and Buttercup, of course, have followed us and are lying by the tub. Stevie is somewhere in the bedroom, still snoozing away on our bed or preening on the sofa before the fire. 

Our Sunday’s are easy. I hope it is this way forever.  

“Faye,” he whispers. 

I crack an eye open. He’s looking at me already, his eyes very open and soft. There’s the hint of a smile on his face, a faint blush in his cheeks and across his neck. This is the face he makes whenever he wants to tell me that he loves me. This is the face he has on whenever he tells me that Carole and Goose would’ve loved me. And now I am here, lying in this tub Bradley probably bathed in as a child, in the bathroom his parents shared, and I am pregnant with Bradley’s first daughter. 

“Bradley,” I whisper because I know that he likes it when I say his name. And because I vowed, privately and silently, to say it whenever I can--whenever I know he wants to hear it. It is the name given to him by the parents he does not have anymore, a name that I will utter for the rest of my life; for him, for myself, for our children.   

Breaking past the still surface of the bathwater, I reach for his hand. He takes it quickly, like he knew I was going to stretch out for him, like he can anticipate my movements before they have even begun. He doesn’t mind that my hand is wet and I don’t mind that his grip is so tight. This is how we should hold onto the people that we love. We both know that. We know it so much.

“I really, really love you,” he tells me very seriously. 

A smile tugs my lips, a fond and sweet one. 

“Oh, I know,” I breathe, “think everyone does at this point.” 

I let my other hand slip over my belly. 

He grins. His eyes are swimming with affection; love drenched in whiskey.   

Silently, he slips his hand from mine and over the peak of my belly that emerges from the water. He just holds his hand there, with our daughter just beneath it palm, with that awestruck glimmer in his eyes. 

“What’s she gonna be like?” He whispers. 

We talk about this a lot--whispering it to each other between awake and asleep, when his palm comes to my belly and she stirs beneath his touch. It makes my chest warm to think about her, to think about what she will be like. 

“Funny,” I whisper. “Funny on purpose, too. Quick-witted like Maggie.”

Bradley smiles very fondly at this. 

“M’sure she’ll be a crack-up,” he laughs. “My mom told me I was funny when I was little.” 

A fist squeezes my heart. Just hearing him say the words, it makes me warm all over. I can’t help the grin that is suddenly eating my face. 

 It is strange to think of not having parents to tell ourselves and others what we were like when we were little; they are the only ones that know. And Bradley doesn’t have that anymore, no, not now. But Carole must’ve told him before--before everything.

“I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen the socks and sandals picture in Mav’s hanger,” I laugh quietly. “Tell me some baby Bradley stories.”

Bradley’s relaxed against the wall, hand still splayed over my belly. His eyes are half-shut, his lips pursed slightly as he thinks. 

“Mmm,” he says, shaking his head softly, “we used to have a Great Dane named Todd. He was a good boy--fuckin’ huge, though. Used to use Todd as my own personal mode of transportation around the house whenever I could swing it.” 

I can see him now: that rambunctious blonde-haired little boy that’s always tan and never grumpy, hooking his little arms around a Great Dane and being carried all around Chateau Bradshaw. 

We’re laughing. Olive stirs at the noise and Bradley pats my belly a few times in recognition.

“Keep going,” I whisper to him. “We’re enjoying this.” 

Bradley grins, pink flooding his cheeks.  

“Let’s see,” he starts softly, “oh--my mom used to take me to church ‘cause my grandpa was the preacher. S’one of those country churches where the preacher, like, yells and tries to make wheelchair-users walk. And one day, my grandpa started getting into his sermon. Like red in the face, yelling, spitting. So I stood up--God, I must’ve been about three or four--and yelled, ‘calm down, pawpaw!’ My mom was horrified.” 

My sides ache from the laughter we share--it falls out so easily. He looks very happy right now, dipped in golden hour and open-mouth laughing. 

“Poor Carole,” I say softly. 

He nods. His eyes are glassy and his smile is smaller now. His gaze lingers on my bump warmly. 

“You were a mama’s boy, huh?” 

Another nod, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. Maybe it’s a silly question--how could he be anything except a mama’s boy? They were together by themselves often. But he’s not upset, no, he’s just answering me. Yes, he was a mama’s boy. 

“What about you, baby?”

It feels like there’s something sticky on my chest when I think about my parents sitting in their quiet house in Topeka, never opening their daughter’s bedroom doors, living like they’re already in purgatory. Whoever those people are right now, at this very second, they are not the people that raised me.

“I was a daddy’s girl,” I tell him, exhaling. “Just wanted to do whatever he was doing. I’d go into the garage and sit on a stool at his workbench, watching Cheers reruns while he worked on his car or whatever he did. He took me to a lot of concerts, too--always held me on his shoulders.”

I can almost smell the garage: gasoline, oil, dirt, sweat, grass. I can almost hear the concert, too--Wild Horses by The Rolling Stones flooding the dark and crowded venue so sweetly. And my thighs are around my father’s neck and my hands are in his hair and he’s holding my knees. And even though I was too heavy, even though I was too tall, he didn’t stagger. He was firmly planted on his feet like a streetlamp rooted in concrete. It’s difficult to remember what I was like at thirteen--but I’m sure I was gawky, not easy to carry, not easy to hold in any sense. But he did it.

“He was good to you?” 

Furrowing my brows, I nod shortly. Yes. Yes, he was good to me. Before everything happened, before he lost Maggie, before I lost Maggie. He was good--fleetingly good. But Bradley is permanently good, which is why we are going to fill this house up with our children. It’s why he owns that worn Steely Dan shirt now. It’s why I moved here with him. 

“For a time, I think he’d have done anything for me,” I whisper.

Bradley exhales, nodding. He was there the very last time I saw my parents on Christmas of 2019; he understands. He knows thoroughly what it is like. He was there when I read their note before our wedding, when I was given all the home videos. He was there when I wrote them a letter to tell them that they were going to be grandparents and that we’d moved to Virginia. He has been here each and every day since then, coming in from the mailbox empty-handed, a sorry sort of smile on his lips. 

“I’d do anything for you, baby,” he says quietly. “No expiration on that promise.” 

I smile--of course he would.  

“I know,” I say.

And he knows, just as well as I do, that I would give him anything in the world. But we’re starting with this, with olive: a daughter. I’m going to give him a daughter very soon. 

“Do you want a son?” He asks this with his brows furrowed, but his lips smiling.

A son, a daughter--it doesn’t matter very much to me at all. When I imagine olive, a little plump and pink thing that cries in the middle of the night, I see a girl. But if olive is a boy, if I have a son, I will be just as content.

“I’ll take whatever we get,” I tell him, shrugging softly. 

“So, if it is a boy, you won’t be disappointed?” 

I sigh. 

“Nothing we could make could ever disappoint me,” I say quietly, looking at his smiling lips and his flushed throat.

He grins shortly. 

“Sap,” he teases.

I just hum. 

Olive rolls and Bradley looks down at my belly again, cheeks pink.         

“What about her? Think she’ll be a mama’s girl?”

That makes my cheeks pink, the tips of my ears too. Surely, she’ll be tired of me after spending almost ten months cooped up inside of me. Surely, she will understand that her father should be everyone’s favorite person in the world. I grew her, I grew her brain and her heart--she’ll love him more than anyone, I think. And that makes me warm all over. 

“No,” I say, “she’ll be all about you. Unless you keep making her hiccup.” 

He laughs.

“She’ll be a mama’s girl,” he says after a beat, shaking his head softly. “How could she not be? You’re gonna be perfect.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. 

“Oh, you flatter me,” I whisper.

He shakes his head, inhaling. 

“No, I really think you’re gonna be perfect, baby,” he says, shrugging. “Think it’s all gonna come naturally to you. Everything does, baby.”

He’s watching me now, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

Fuck, I love him so much. 

“Except repairing air conditioners,” I whisper. 

He laughs.   

“Olive’ll be so perfect, baby,” he muses, shaking his head. “Your brains and my brawn? Ideal human specimen right there.”

Now I’m laughing, holding my hand over Bradley’s.

“Perfect human specimens aren’t named Julep Bradshaw,” I smile, biting my lip. 

He feigns offense, holding a hand over his heart. 

“You just offended all the Julep Bradshaw’s of the world!” 

When I go to speak again, I’m interrupted by Elton John. 

“S’Bob,” I tell Bradley, sitting up slightly, pointing to my phone on the bathroom counter. 

Bradley quickly wipes his wet hand on his sweatshirt and reaches for the phone while I dry my hands on a towel and sit up straighter. 

Bob, who already called at least three times a week and texted nonstop, calls every evening to check in on things. It’s not just to see if I am in labor or if the baby is here, but he checks in on me--his best friend Faye. I’m living in Virginia now, so very far away from him and from my old life, and I’m alone most of the days while Bradley is on base. Bob knows this--he’s my best friend. He’s the best person in the world, which is why he calls so often. 

“Bob,” I say jovially, pressing the phone to my ear, “I’m not in labor yet. And I really liked that Otis Redding song you sent, I just forgot to respond!”

It’s quiet on the other end, quieter than it usually is. All I can hear is distant mumblings, like someone else is talking in the room with him. It sounds like he’s pressing the phone against his cheek very hard, hard enough for me to hear his breathing. 

“Fee,” Bob says and he doesn’t sound like he called to ask if the baby’s here or to get my official review of the Otis Redding song he sent me. He sounds very serious, the kind of serious that makes my fingers instantly numb.

He’s calling me Fee. 

Cold dread seizes my heart, numbs my toes.

“Everything okay?” I keep my voice steady, try to keep my pulse even. 

It’s very quiet on the other end still. 

There’s more distant mumblings and sounds like Bob is shuffling, pressing the phone against his shoulder. Then he heaves a sigh into the receiver.  

“Bob, is everything okay?” I sound a little bit more desperate this time.  

Bradley’s head snaps up at that--his brows furrowed, his spine stiffening.

The last time I had a phone call as quiet as this with Bob was when he called me in the hospital, just after the accident, just after Maggie. We had barely spoken to each other, both of us too shell-shocked and dazed. There were no words between the two of us, both English majors, that could bring any semblance of comfort or understanding. It was too big for the both of us. 

This quiet right now--this grief-stricken, empty, toe-curling silence--is the same quiet as that day. Even his shallow breathing, even the distant shuffling.  

“I don’t know, Fee,” Bob sighs, his voice shaking.

It takes a lot for Bob--who is as solid as tungsten--to admit that he doesn’t know if everything is okay. Especially when Bob is talking to me, he usually does not admit it so easily. Usually, Bob will try and dance around an issue, assuring me that things will be okay. He takes care of me like that, attempting to shield me, trying to preserve my feelings. 

My tongue is dry. Bradley’s watching me carefully. 

“What do you mean?” 

He takes a deep breath.    

“When’s the last time you talked to Jake?” Bob asks. 

My throat is caked in sand. 

When’s the last time I talked to Jake? Why would he be asking me--why would anyone be asking me after the couple months I’ve had with him? 

Something must be wrong--something must be very, very wrong. 

“The last time I--what? Why? Why are you asking?” 

The bathwater suddenly feels very cold. 

My heart is hammering--I can’t stop it, can’t steady my pulse for olive’s sake. 

“M’sorry, maybe I--shit, maybe I should’ve called Rooster,” Bob mumbles.

Now I know that he’s upset with himself after gauging my reaction, inducing my panic. If not because I am so far along that olive could come any time now, then because of my last few months with Jake.  

I think I hear him wipe his hands down his face, keeping his palm flat against his nose and lips. Regret is probably pulsing through him.  

The hairs on my arms are all standing at attention now. Bradley is leaning closer to me, arm on the edge of the tub. I can feel the fire in my cheeks now--the blush that is spreading all across my face and neck. 

With a trembling hand, I hold the phone between us and put Bob on speaker. 

“Bradley’s here,” I tell Bob--my voice sounds thin. “Tell us what’s going on, Bobby. Please.” 

Bob sighs--it sounds muffled, like he is still holding his face. 

“Nix and I were talking to some guys in the break room after a flight, and-and all of a sudden, someone got a call from a friend in North Carolina. And then everyone, they just, they-they started talking about some sort of freak accident in Greensboro. Like, like on Jake’s base. They didn’t know a whole lot, but they said there was, um, a casualty,” Bob says, his voice wavering, “And I’ve already called Javy and Reuben and Mickey and no one’s talked to him today.”

My molars ache from having my jaw wrenched shut so tightly.

“Oh, my God.” It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it, more of a breath than a coherent sentence. 

Bradley’s staring hard at the phone, his bottom lip fallen victim to the wrath of his teeth. All the warmth in the room has vanished--no more docile conversations about our daughter and what she will be like. 

Bob takes a wavering breath. 

 “Fee, tell me you’ve talked to him today. Please, please, please tell me you’ve talked to him today.”

There is a whole in the middle of my chest--a gaping, endless thing. Bradley’s staring at me and I’m staring at him with the phone wrenched in my cold fingers. His face has paled, his lips parted. We blink at each other, speechless. 

“I haven’t,” Bradley says finally, very quiet. 

He reaches forward, lays his hand on my wrist. 

Oh, God. I haven’t. I haven’t spoken to Jake today. I don’t think I’ve spoken to him in a few days, not since he called to ask about Thanksgiving. And just like every time we’ve talked since he said what he did, he apologized. And just like every time he’s apologized since then, I told him that I needed more time. I told him that I was still trying to wade through all of it, trying to put my feet on solid ground. Without my sister here to throw me a life preserver, it is hard to keep my head above water sometimes.  

Bradley doesn’t make me say it--he knows my face. He knows my body. He knows my voice. He knows what the tears gathering in my eyes mean.  

“Faye hasn’t either,” Bradley says decidedly, his whiskey eyes swimming. “Bob, tell us what you heard, man.” 

My ears are ringing. Olive suddenly has the hiccups again for the third time today, jolting and rolling. Maybe my plummeting heart startled her. My poor baby. 

Pop, pop, pop. 

“S’not good,” Bob mutters. “God, we heard that a pilot went into G-LOC and couldn’t get out of it, like-like they couldn’t…they didn’t, the mountain was--!”

Pop, pop. 

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley interrupts, shaking his head. 

No. No, no. Oh, God. Please, no.

I feel like I’m about to faint. I feel like I’m free-falling out in the open sky, the way my sister did. I haven’t felt this way in such a very long time, have been standing on such solid ground for so long that I forgot what it feels like to have the floor drop out from under me, the way my belly flips and tumbles.

When my sister and I ejected from our F-18 somewhere above Poland, just three days after our birthday, I watched her fall to her death when her parachute malfunctioned and actually severed from its cords at an almost perfect moment. I watched her fall from my own place in the sky, falling down so slowly, and I could do nothing. I descended for what felt like hours and I tried to keep my eyes on my sister, where I knew her body would be. When I neared the trees, I got caught in one, and in the struggle, I disconnected from my parachute too high up and my jaw fell victim to a jagged, snowy branch. My blood, leaking from my jaw like a spicket, kept me warm for hours.

The scar on my jaw is sizzling.  

“We--obviously, we don’t know anything for certain yet. We’re just-just trying to, you know, see if anyone has called him or, just, I don’t know. I don’t really know what we’re doing, we’re just--just doing what we can. Which isn’t…it isn’t very--very much.”

Pop, pop. Pop.  

Bradley’s face is stony. His lips are a flat line, his eyebrows sloped. 

“I know, um, a captain on base there. I’ll--I’ll give him a call,” Bradley decides, nodding curtly. 

Marmie and Buttercup are both sitting up, watching us with wide eyes. Neither of them are wagging their tails.  

Pop, pop. Pop. 

Bradley starts to stand up and I don’t know what to do with myself, don’t know where to go or what to do. I don’t know if I should be getting up or staying put or if I should be calling around. Fuck, I’m not in the Navy anymore--I don’t have the clearance to call around and ask for favors. I have no one, not one person, that can help me here. I’m floundering, really, that’s what is happening now. 

There’s a warmth between my brows--Bradley’s thumb. It’s a quick, swiping motion. His eyes are narrowed as he looks down at me, studying my face. He cups my cheek, somehow getting the left side of his mouth to raise. 

Pop, pop. 

“S’alright,” he whispers. “Promise.”

And if anyone else in the world tried to tell me that it was alright, if they went so far as to promise it, then I would go ballistic. I think I would be bitter and angry. But when he says it, when those words fall off his lips with a reverence only he can possess, I believe him. Despite myself, despite this gaping hole in my chest and this numb cold in my fingers, I believe him. Just a little bit, just enough for me to nod. 

Pop. 

He leaves the room after that, the baby-name book left open and forgotten on the floor. Marmie stays put right beside me, just blinking at me, but Buttercup trails after Bradley briskly. 

“You okay, Fee?” Bob asks. 

He sounds like he’s about to cry--that alone makes me want to sob. My precious Bob, so far away from me, crying without my hands in his hair and a box of kleenexes between us. 

“I don’t know,” I finally say, inhaling sharply. “I’m-I’m scared.” 

I feel like I can see him nodding, holding the bridge of his nose with his glasses lying forgotten in front of him.  

“Phoenix is calling around now,” he sighs, “just trying to get some-some answers.”

A beat passes. 

I try to listen for sounds of Bradley in the house, but there is none. He must be downstairs in his office, that little sun-drenched room by the front door. The day is just as beautiful and quiet as it was before this phone call, which makes the vein across my nose pulse.

Pop. Pop. 

“Good. Are you--are you okay?” 

He sighs deeply. 

“No,” he admits. “I’m freaking out, Fee.”

I swallow hard.

Pop, pop. Pop, pop.  

It’s bad when Bob admits to me that he isn’t okay. Bob, who always holds it down. Bob, who is as solid as a sheet of concrete. It is like hearing him burn in with Phoenix, the desperate way his words ripped out of his mouth.

My brain is pulsing against my skull.  

“Fuck,” I whisper, but Bob hears me. “God dammit, I’m fucking--I’m literally naked right now.”

That makes Bob laugh--a pathetic and dry thing, but still a laugh. 

“Hope I just interrupted a bath?” His voice is as thin as mine.  

Pop.

Now I’m the one laughing dryly. 

“Yes,” I whisper. “And I gave the baby the hiccups.” 

Bob makes a throaty sound, one between a groan and a sigh. It doesn’t feel right to be talking about anything but Jake right now--but what are we supposed to say? We know nothing at all. 

“How many times today?” 

I sigh. Pop, pop. 

“Three now,” I answer. “Hold on, Bob.”  

I can’t be in the bath anymore. I have to move, I have to get out. I let the phone call to the tile, grip the sides of the tub, heave myself up. Olive feels so heavy right now, so very low, lower than I feel like she was this morning. There’s a pressure there, one that feels like the heavy one pressing on my shoulders. 

Marmie comes closer to me like she’s guarding me, her paws still so small as they step onto the rug before the tub. 

Pop, pop, pop.  

I towel myself off as quickly as I can when my fingers are this incredibly, fantastically numb. I take long, long breaths as Marmie licks water droplets off my calves and I wrap myself in my robe, tying it tightly over my bump. 

My heart is still hammering in my chest. Olive is still hiccuping.

“Still with me?” I ask Bob. 

“Uh huh,” he breathes shakily, “wouldn’t leave you, Fee.”

Fee. Fee. It’s pity. He’s pitying me already because he knows exactly what I am afraid of--if Jake is gone, if some freak accident cut his life short, then he will have died without my forgiveness. And I am entirely unsure if I would be able to keep going. 

This feels so juvenile and so adult simultaneously. Something is going wrong and all of us are banding together, calling each other, trying to piece together an answer or a timeline. Being so close with each other that we call each other first thing. We need each other, have to stay on the phone with each other. Even miles and miles and miles away, we need to hear each other’s voices. I feel like if we all lived in the same town, we would be biking on our ten-speeds over to someone’s tree-house and setting up an official investigation. 

Pop. Pop. 

God, this pressure in my pelvis--it feels heavier now that I’m standing. It feels like she’s pushing down as hard as she can without it being painful for me yet. Uncomfortable, yes--but painful, no. 

“Nix okay?”

Pop, pop.  

I can see him now, looking across the living room and watching her rake her hands through her hair, her eyes screwed shut. I can imagine her talking through grit teeth, trying to get answers, but each of her attempts are fruitless.

“Not really,” he says honestly.

The sun is setting now, washing our room in orange light. If I wasn’t on the phone with Bob, if things were different, if I had spoken to Jake only a few minutes ago--then it would be beautiful. Marmie is trailing close behind me as I step into the bedroom, her fur soft against my ankle.

Pop, pop.  

“What can I do?” I ask. 

And I don’t really know if I’m asking him honestly or if I’m just saying it aloud. I am  not in the Navy anymore. I am not a lieutenant. I cannot call in favors, I don’t have any more connections. I just have to sit tight now. I never used to sit tight before this, I used to claw my way into knowing, I used to know things and people and get answers. 

My chest is burning because this is what Jake described all those months ago. Barefoot and pregnant in my big house in Virginia, a Mrs instead of Lieutenant. I am the only one in our friend group that is not in the Navy, the only one who can do precisely nothing right now.

Bob’s still quiet on the other end. 

“Nothing right now, Fee,” he tells me softly. “You just sit tight, okay? Stay on the phone with me.”

Right--because I have no other choice.

Pop, pop.  

“I hate just sitting here,” I tell him. 

He makes a noise--one of quiet agreement. 

“I know you do,” he whispers. “It’s the Maggie in you.” 

Right--except Maggie would never discharge. She would never leave the Navy. So she would never have to sit tight, hold on, and stay on the line with Bob. 

I don’t know what else to say, but I can’t stop my mouth from opening and my throat from vibrating. I can’t just sit quietly right now. 

“Had a dream about her the other night,” I tell Bob in a hushed tone. 

Stevie stretches out on the bed and blinks at me, unimpressed as always. 

“Tell me about it,” Bob whispers back just as quietly. 

Pop. Pop. 

I know that he really does want to hear it, even if his voice is strained and his breath is bated. He’s the kind of person that listens to other people’s dreams with unblinking interest. 

“We were seventeen,” I start softly, closing my eyes, “on the last camping trip we took as a family. We were parked beside Lake Michigan in this dinky little camper that smelled like cat piss. It felt real--I could feel the breeze and hear the gulls.”

Bob hums, listening. 

I’m there now, parked beside Lake Michigan with my sister and my parents. We’re too old to be sharing a bed, but we do it anyway because we won’t be able to soon. We take long walks sharing headphones, listening to Dolly Parton and Lucinda Williams. We swim all day and eat smoky chicken legs at night. My dad tries to play guitar around a bonfire. We wash our hair in the lake. 

Seventeen didn’t feel like a tender age when I was seventeen, but now that I am twenty-nine, it feels like maybe my softest age. Somewhere between girl and woman, somewhere between child and adult. No sharp edges on my body, just plush baby fat and unblemished skin. 

Pop, pop. 

“And Maggie and I are walking on a nature trail, walking towards each other with all this--this emptiness between us. I can hardly make out her face. And then a doe just walks right between us--very close to me, like, closer than doe’s should be. It isn’t running, it isn’t spooked by me. It just stands there. Then I woke up.”

Really, Maggie and I didn’t see any deer when we were in Michigan. We didn’t even really ever walk on opposite ends of the trail. We were always beside each other, always hooking our arms together. 

Pop, pop. 

“Cryptic,” Bob exhales, laughing dryly. “Can’t she ever just say that she misses you?”

“I guess not,” I return. “It’d be too easy.” 

We’re both thinking about it: if Jake is gone, will we dream of him like we dream of Maggie? Will he send us images of deer and never let us get too close to him? 

Neither of us say anything at all for a long time.

I take a shaky breath, turning to look at the dying fire in the fireplace. But that is the exact moment that Bradley appears in the bedroom doorway, standing between those pretty French doors. He’s pale--very pale. He’s gripping the doorframe, his cheeks flushed, his chest tight and still. He’s been running his hands through his hair and down his face, I can tell. 

Pop. Pop, pop. 

He’s washed in this orange light, glowing. But I know that face--saw it the night Admiral Kazansky died. I know that stricken stature and those wide eyes. He has been stained by loss the same as me: this look is not a permanent one but it is unblinkingly familiar.

Jake. Oh, no. Oh, God. 

“What?” I ask, my voice hardly above a whisper. 

Pop, pop, pop. 

He’s shaking his head at me very shortly, his mouth parting. He can’t speak--he’s just looking at me. Watching me stand there beside our bed, the phone fallen onto the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, so very pregnant, so very sullen. 

My cheeks are red and hot.  

“Say it,” I beg softly.

Two fat tears spill from my eyes in total tandem. Twins.  

The pressure is growing all over my body, increasing steadily in increments of one hundred pounds. I feel like I’m being buried beneath bricks right now, like our entire house just collapsed. 

Pop, pop. Pop. 

Buttercup whines beside Bradley, trying to nudge her head into his hand. I’m sure she followed him all around the house, sitting at his feet in the office, whining while he made his phone calls. He doesn’t move to stroke her snout like he usually does, doesn’t even seem to know she’s standing there. Marmie is whining now, too--always doing whatever her big sister does. 

“Fee?” Bob is calling my name from a distance. 

 I can’t speak to him--I can’t look away from Bradley.  

“I-I called Captain Delmar. He was able to-to confirm that Jake was a part of the accident, but couldn’t tell me if-if--he said they were still in the process of notifying the family. Couldn’t…couldn’t tell me anything else.” Bradley’s voice is hollow, echoing in our bedroom.

Pop, pop. Pop. Pop.  

Suddenly I’m certain that this is a dream. Yes, this must be a dream. One of those strange and vivid ones I have whenever I sleep too hard. Really, I must be sleeping and we haven’t gone to the farmer’s market yet or talked about names. I must be lying in Bradley’s arms, snuggled close and tightly. The girls will wake me up soon probably and this will be over. Because surely, I would feel it if it happened. The earth would shake and I would have to steady myself on something rooted in concrete. If Jake had left, if he had been gone, burned in, dead--I wouldn’t have been able to let Josephine touch my belly or drink tea at lunch. I wouldn’t have been able to finish a pair of booties while Bradley napped. I wouldn’t have been able to sink into the bath so easily, so completely. Jake wouldn’t die--couldn’t die. He loves himself too much; he loves me too much. He wouldn’t leave this world without my forgiveness--without my love intact. 

Maybe I am dreaming in that little camper parked on the lake, crammed in a bunk with my sister. Maybe when I wake up, my mom will be frying eggs and my dad will be baiting fish hooks for me and Maggie. Maybe when I wake up, I will be that soft seventeen-year-old girl again, the one who hasn’t lost her sister or her parents. Maybe we’re going to fish all day and eat bass for dinner and take turns telling scary stories around the fire. 

Pop. Pop.

Oh, olive. This isn’t a dream.  

It’s the mattress beneath my bottom that brings me back, back to our bedroom in Chateau Bradshaw, back to being face-to-face with Bradley. He’s standing before me now, his hands on my waist as he eases me onto the bed, my phone suddenly tucked between his shoulder and ear. His hands are warm and solid and they’re holding me and oh, my God--I’m awake. This is happening and I’m awake. 

Pop, pop. 

Buttercup is on the bed beside me, fanatically sniffing my hair and neck. Marmie is trying her damndest to get onto the bed, whining pitifully and clawing my legs. Swiftly, Bradley scoops her up with one arm and places her beside me. She immediately copies Buttercup--coming to sniff my cheeks, her puppy breath wafting in my face. 

I know Bradley and Bob are talking--I can see Bradley’s lips moving. But I can’t hear anything. I’m just holding my belly, sitting on the bed, weighed down by one thousand pounds of grief. I sat still, couldn’t do anything but, and Jake was in an accident. And all I could do was sit tight.  

Pop, pop. Pop.

“Bradley,” I whisper and my voice is pitiful, really. It’s making the girls whimper, making them desperately lick at my hands. I can hardly feel their warm tongues, can hardly feel anything. 

“S’okay,” Bradley whispers, coming close to kiss my face, lips hot on my forehead. “S’okay, baby. We’ll figure it out, s’okay.”

I’m crying now--can feel the ugly pull of my lips and the way my eyes are narrowing and the way my cheeks are sagging. God, it hurts. 

“Bradley.” It’s all I can manage to say as I weep. 

Pop, pop. 

He’s trying to do it all right now, holding the back of my head, stroking my hair. He’s still talking to Bob, keeping his voice even. He’s trying to console, kissing my head, trying to keep the dogs at a comfortable distance. 

And all I can do is sit here and weep. Sit tight and wait for this to be over.  

Pop, pop. Pop. 

Bradley suddenly pulls the phone away from his face, his eyebrows knit. He says something to Bob, hangs up, turns the phone to me. There’s an incoming call from a contact I don’t have saved--but the area code is Greensboro, NC. 

Pop, pop. 

“I-I don’t know,” I say and my voice is pathetic, really. But at the mere sound of it, the girls are whining, coming closer to me, trying to get me to pet them. 

Bradley kneels in front of me, one hand a permanent fixture on my spasming belly. I’m not sure if it’s to keep himself upright or to keep me from falling over. My feet are only just grazing the ground. 

“Can you answer it, baby? Hm?” He’s asking this earnestly--his eyebrows pulled together and his tone soft.

Pop, pop. Pop.  

I’m nodding before I can register what I’m saying yes to, pressing the phone to my ear before I have even caught my breath. This might be one of the worst phone calls of my entire life and I’m just sitting here, weeping on my bed, and my baby is hiccuping. 

“Faye Ledger-Bradshaw,” I answer. Whoever it is will know that I am crying--can hear it clear as day in my wobbling tone. 

Bradley holds my knees, his grip firm. 

“Lieutenant Ledger,” a man says on the other line, his voice deep and serious, “this is Vice Admiral Byron. I’m the air-boss on base at the US Naval Reserve in Greensboro, North Carolina. I’m calling you in regards to Lieutenant Jacob Seresin--you’re listed as his emergency contact. There’s been an accident.” 

I’m his emergency contact--me, Faye Ledger. When he filed the paperwork on base in Greensboro, when they asked if he wanted to update any information, he told them he wanted to change his emergency contact information. And then he wrote my name and my number right there.  

My head is spinning. I don’t have any more fight in me, in this body--that has completely stripped it away. 

Oh, my God.

My tongue is dry. 

“Sir,” I simply choke in response. 

Admiral Byron clears his throat.

Pop. Pop.  

“Today at approximately 1200, Lt. Seresin was running a flight simulation for an upcoming mission, at which time he and his wingman experienced G-LOC. Lt. Seresin was able to regain consciousness and punch out of the aircraft, but sustained several injuries in his subsequent descent.” 

He’s alive. Jake is alive. 

Yes, I would have felt it. It is true--my earth would have shifted. But this pressure that’s weighing me down has not subsided, it has not even lessened. I still feel like I am one thousand pounds heavier. 

Pop, pop. Pop. 

“Oh,” I almost whimper, holding my face. 

Alive. He is alive.

I grip Bradley’s hand and I know he can hear. He sighs loudly, head dropping, eyes slipping shut. It’s relief--the sweetest kind of relief. He holds my hand tight, bringing it to his lips and kissing my freezing fingers.  

“Lt. Seresin was flown to Greensboro Medical and is currently undergoing surgery to repair a shattered tibia and fibula. He also sustained several non-life threatening injuries related to his abdominal region. He also suffered a moderate concussion. He has been in surgery since approximately 1400.”

I can hardly breathe. The pressure is growing now, growing into something that I know has an imminent ending, something that has a predestined climax.

“Unfortunately, not everyone was as fortunate as Lt. Seresin. That is all I am at liberty to say at this hour.”

He lost a wingman. He lost his wingman.

Then the realization comes screaming to me, knocking the air out of my lungs: my parents received a phone call just like this from Cyclone on October 28th, 2019. All the way in Kansas, they were told that there’d been an accident. There’d been an accident and their daughter Faye was in surgery, but they weren’t at liberty to discuss over the phone the condition of their daughter Maggie.

I have to blink a few times before I can even breathe again.   

Pop. Pop.

Bradley sighs softly, shaking his head. Poor bastard.  

“Will he fly again, sir?”

Bradley’s eyes are wide when I ask. The girls have not settled--they’re still desperately trying to get me to pet them, licking my neck and sighing into my skin.  

It might strike Admiral Byron as a strange question, especially since I’m crying and my voice is ruddy and pitched. But I have to ask--I cannot let it go unuttered. I need him to say it. Because if Jake is going to be okay, if he is going to recover and he is alive in Greensboro, then I know that he will ask just as soon as wakes up. If he cannot fly--then who is he?  

Pop. Pop. Pop. 

“Lieutenant Seresin is expected to make a full recovery in approximately three to six months. Until then, he will be grounded. Effective immediately.”

There it is--Jake is alive and he is grounded. And when he wakes up from his surgery, when he comes to after losing his wingman and punching out of his jet and almost dying, he will be told that three to six months have been taken off his career. He will be entirely alone in whatever big hospital room he is in. He is achingly, completely, thoroughly alone in North Carolina. 

“Understood, sir,” I whisper. 

Admiral Byron clears his throat, takes a drink of something, and sighs.

Pop. Pop. 

“Now, is this number appropriate to call outside of business hours? In the case that there’s any updates on his condition.”

“Yes, sir,” I say quietly.

I can’t keep sitting here. I hand the phone to Bradley, who takes it from me quickly, blinking up at my surprise. 

“I can’t,” I mumble to him, smoothing my hand over my hair. “Can’t do it.”

“Alright, baby, that’s okay.” Bradley nods immediately, pressing the phone to his ear, hastily spurting something resembling a farewell before hanging up. 

Maybe it’s because I stand up too fast, tensing the muscles in my legs and hoisting me and olive off the bed hastily. Maybe it’s because the sex we had earlier, the way I came and contracted my muscles before letting them go completely slack. Maybe it’s because olive dropped down low sometime overnight and this is the way it was always going to be. Or maybe it’s because the image of Jake being alone in a hospital bed in Greensboro entirely on his own rips the scar tissue that grew over my soft spot for him rip wide open. 

But right there, standing just before the bed with Bradley kneeling beside me and the dogs whining on the bed behind me, the pressure finally reaches its peak. It’s enough to weaken my knees, enough for me to hold on tight to the linens on the bed, enough for me to make a strange noise: one not quiet enough to be silent but not loud enough to be considered a moan, a groan.

Olive is not hiccupping anymore. 

“Faye,” Bradley says softly from behind me.

His hand comes to rest on my lower back, his other coming to hold my belly. 

“Oh,” I say softly. I don’t know what else to say. 

Bradley’s trying to catch my gaze, trying to get me to look at him, trying to search my face. But I can’t look up, can’t look away from my belly, can’t look away from his hand there.

“Talk to me, baby. Y’alright? What’s going on?”  

Something has come loose--that’s what it feels like. Like something has dislodged, moved, and now there’s a warmth growing between my legs. Very warm and wet, a short gush. And the pressure dissipates. 

Carefully, I release the linens from my fist and drag my hand down between my legs. And yes--there staining my robe is a warm liquid gathering. I don’t know how I know, but I know it. I know it as soon as I felt the pressure dissipate, as soon as I felt the wetness beneath my fingertips. My water is breaking now--right now, right here. 

“Oh,” I whisper again quietly, pressing my legs together.

He realizes it after a long moment, watching my hand dip between my legs, watching my fingertips come back damp. He realizes it with his breath caught in his throat, with his mouth ajar. But he doesn’t stutter, doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway. 

He just holds me still for a moment--we’re both standing here with our breaths bated. I don’t move. Olive stirs, an elbow here and a knee there, a tumble. Hush, be still. Sit tight. Don’t move. 

 “Okay,” Bradley says very quietly, “okay. It’s--it’s okay. Why don’t you sit down, baby?”

I’m crying--I don’t know when it started, but I’m crying. I’m not sure if these tears were for Jake or if they’re for an entirely different reason. I can’t tell them apart from my first onslaught, before the phone call with Admiral Byron. 

“But I don’t wanna move,” I say. 

And it’s the last thing I say before I feel it for the first time: pain wrapping around my body, hardening my belly, a vice growing tighter and tighter around my back and thighs. It halts the very air that I’m breathing, almost stops my heart. It’s intense, sharp. It renders me speechless, soundless. 

All I can do is close my eyes, grip the linens, and listen to the blood rushing in my ears. 

God, the pain is hugging me close, breathing down my neck, stepping on my toes. 

“Alright, okay,” Bradley’s voice is soft and close to my ear, “there you go, baby. S’okay. Breathe, take a breath.”

But I can’t fill my lungs until the pain has turned the corner, until it is fading from my body, until olive rolls and it is just her and I. Bradley is kneeling still, reaching up to wipe the tears from my face and the snot from my nose. I don’t even have it in me to turn away, to whine about him getting his fingers dirty. 

I take a deep, deep breath--fill those lungs that seem easier to fill now. 

“There you go,” he mumbles, “atta girl, baby.”

My brain is pulsing inside my skull, throbbing against the hardness. My eyes feel swollen from tears, my chest rising and falling unsteadily as I breathe jagged breaths. There’s thick saliva in my mouth and a flush spreading across my breasts. But it’s happening, I think: I’m going into labor right now, just after golden hour on the day that Jake punched out of his F-18 for the first time. My baby will be born tonight and I will lay in a hospital bed holding her whenever Jake wakes up by himself in North Carolina.

I’m gripping Bradley’s shoulders and he stays kneeling, very carefully pushing me down until I’m sitting on the bed. I give in because I can’t tense my legs again, can’t move, can’t breathe. 

“Alright now, honey,” he mumbles, kneeling just before me with his hands on my thighs, catching my gaze. He’s smiling in a small way, his cheeks red, his eyes bloodshot. But he is only looking at me; I know that everything else in the world is tuned out, even Marmie and Buttercup as they whine pitifully. “S’all gonna be just fine, hm? Gonna get you dressed, then we’re gonna just take it easy, okay? S’all we’re gonna do right now. You stay put and I’ll get y’some clothes, baby.”

It’s almost a blur after that. I cannot decide if things are heightened or if they’re lessened. I can feel every movement of olive’s, can feel each and every one of the beats of my heart, can feel the vein throbbing across my nose. I can feel the pain waiting for me just ahead, slinking behind a corner, nestled in an alleyway. But I can’t feel Marmie and Buttercup’s noses as they come to sniff my hands and hair. I can’t even feel Stevie when she rubs up against my arm, desperate suddenly to touch me. I don’t feel the soft bed beneath me or the linens between my fingers. Everything is big and small at the same time. 

But then Bradley is untying my robe, letting it pool around me, slipping cotton underwear up my legs. He’s putting me in his UVA sweatshirt, pulling a pair of sweatpants up my legs, leaving them untied and loose beneath my belly. 

“Okay,” he sighs, kneeling before me still with his cheeks bright red. “We’re good, huh? S’all fine, s’all alright.” 

He’s saying this with absolute certainty--enough to make my chest softer. 

He leans forward, presses a kiss to my knee, wipes my cheeks again. I didn’t even know I was crying still, but he’s watching me very closely, taking care of me.

“So,” he starts softly, glancing down at his bulky watch with his brows raised, “s’about 1900 now, give or take a few. I’ll keep watching the time and you just sit there and look pretty, alright? You’ve got the easy job here.”

He’s smiling earnestly, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. It works--a dry laugh tumbles from my lips and lessens the lump in his throat. He kisses my knees again and again, soothingly grazing the bend of my hips. 

And then the realization dawns on me again; I am going into labor. I am going to give birth to our first child tonight, but before that I’m going to be in labor and I’m going to be in a hospital. All those birthing videos that bled into my dreams on fitful nights are a reality that is coming screaming towards me like a freight train. 

“Oh, fuck,” I say very quietly, sniffling. “I don’t feel as ready for this as I thought I’d be.”

Just saying it makes the air lighter--Bradley sighs, nodding. Maybe it’s all dawning on him too; the hours that are going to stretch before us in a hospital room, the hours I’m going to spend writhing and laboring, the night that will end with a baby in our arms.  

“Yeah,” he returns softly, “me neither.”

I scoff gently, more tears slipping down my flushed cheeks. This time, Buttercup and Marmie are licking them before Bradley can reach for my face.  

“Doesn’t make me feel any better,” I tell him, frowning, “don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that.”

He laughs again--a small sound, almost drowned out by the roaring fire. It’s going to be too hot in here soon, November be damned. 

“Sorry, baby,” he teases, kissing my belly. “I’ve never done this before.”

Tipping my head towards the ceiling, slipping my eyes shut, I silently plead olive in that voice only she can hear. Go easy on me, baby. Be good. Be sweet. And that is the precise moment another surge slinks its way up my legs and around my body again. I don’t even have to say anything, can’t when I’m breathless anyway. Bradley leans into me, presses his palms against my tightening belly, glances down at his watch. 

“Good,” he tells me, watching my face as it pulls together and flushes, “s’real good, baby. I’ve gotcha, not gonna let you go.” 

“Oh,” I manage to whisper, “it’s bad.”

“M’sorry, baby,” he says softly, “s’gonna be over soon, okay? Real soon now, any second.”

He nods, humming. Buttercup suddenly lays across my legs, her head heavy on my lap. The weight of her is a sweet one, keeps me here against the bed, keeps me still. Marmie curls beside me, Stevie right beside her. 

“Good girls,” I breathe.

And then I’m released again, the kind of release that makes my face go slack.

“There you go,” Bradley whispers, cupping my cheek, swiping his thumb across my wet bottom lip. “Taking it like a champ, Faye-baby. You’re doing so well.”

It makes me smile--a tired one, but still a smile. I almost feel like I have whiplash; so much has happened in the past two hours, enough for my head to spin and my palms to sweat. I can’t believe it almost--can’t tell reality from make believe. 

“So,” he starts softly, exhaling, “that was about seven minutes since the last contraction. Hospital wants us to come in at four or five minutes apart, yeah? So we’ll just stay here, take it easy, wait for things to pick up.”

The prospect of being in agony for an indefinite amount of time makes my spine prickle with cold, wet fear. My nails are surely marking his shoulders now, peppering little cuts in that shape of half-crescents. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t shrink away from my grip. 

“Bradley,” I whisper, a frown tugging at my lips, “I think I’m scared.” 

I think I can see it: his longing to have control over the situation that holds his face in a frown. More than anything, he wants to be the one to grit his teeth and get through it, wants me to sit on the sidelines and watch. But we both know, both have accepted, that this is my role and I will play it until the end when our daughter is in our arms. 

“Don’t be scared,” he starts softly, kissing my belly, squeezing my hips. “M’gonna do whatever I can to make it easy for you, baby. I know it isn’t gonna be--but m’gonna blow you away, okay? M’gonna be the best support person in the world. Award-winningly supportive. We’re talking foam finger, face paint, jersey with your name on it, baby. Cause I’m your biggest fucking fan, Faye. And if anyone on this earth can do this, can bring our baby into this world, s’you, honey. S’you.”

I’m crying again, which has the girls in a frenzy again, moving to lick my cheeks. Bradley’s trying to keep them from getting too close to my red cheeks, chuckling as he tucks hair behind my ears. 

“You’re a fighter. Even if you don’t know it, even if you don’t always feel like it--you are, baby,” he says quietly. “And you’re gonna fight tonight and I’m gonna be in your corner, okay? M’always gonna be in your corner, baby. Then we’re gonna have our baby and she’ll be funny and beautiful and so, so perfect.”

Olive stirs at the mere mention of her--a tangle of limbs nestled deep in my belly.

He stands, leaning over me with a hand over my belly, leaning down to close the distance between our lips. The kiss is sweet and salty. Even just having him this close to me, just smelling that pepper perfuming his skin and the shampoo in his hair and the chapstick on his lips, it makes my chest feel lighter. He will make it as easy as he can--I know this.

When we break away from each other, pressing our foreheads together, looking down at this mountain of belly between us, I laugh. It’s a short and dry thing. He glances at me, a smile tugging at his lips, but doesn’t say anything. He rests his palm against my belly and we sit there together.    

“We still don’t have a girl name,” I whisper against his lips.

“We’d better get on that, then, huh?” 

I sniff. 

“Maude,” I whisper. 

He groans, kissing me again, tucking my hair behind my ears. 

“Don’t make me say no to you when you’re in labor,” he mumbles. 

It’s almost ten o’clock when the contractions come every four minutes, rendering me a heap of hot skin and contracting muscle and grit teeth and bated breath. Hours have ticked by trickily, simultaneously feeling like mere minutes and long days. Dinnertime has come and gone and we have not left the bedroom at all. It is only when I am able to ground myself, when I am able to move someway, that I feel the slightest bit of ease.

I’m on my knees before the fireplace, bracing against Bradley’s shoulders as he kneels before me, lips pressed against my forehead. The girls are tucked away on the bed, watching me anxiously.

“There we go,” Bradley mutters, glancing at his wristwatch as I moan lowly, “few more seconds and s’all done, baby. Just a few more, you got it.” 

And when it finally subsides, when it is finally done and it has left me back where I started, that’s when I can finally sigh. Olive shuffles. Quiet, baby. Hush now. 

“That was a good one,” I whisper, smiling tiredly. 

He laughs, kissing my forehead again and again. 

“Gonna go get a washcloth for your cheeks, okay? Your poor face is flushed,” he tells me, pinching my cheeks. 

So I am alone on the rug, leaning against the velvet sofa. I feel okay between them, between the surges that wrap themselves so thoroughly around my body. I can talk and I can breathe and I can stand up and walk between them. I can even be alone, sitting before the roaring fire, swaying my hips and propping my arms on the sofa. 

“How about Piper?” He calls from the bathroom. 

Piper Bradshaw. 

I wrinkle my nose. 

“No,” I call back. “Don’t like it.” 

He laughs as I lay my cheek against the sofa, the velvet soft against my skin. 

“May?”

“Faye and May,” I sing back, “no.” 

He pads across the hardwood floors and sits on the sofa, setting a small basin of cold water beside him. 

He looks so much like a father right now: very broad and tall, bathed in the soft glow of firelight, tired eyes, messy hair, untrimmed mustache, shirt wrinkled from my grip, dipping a washrag in cool water and wringing it out with his capable hands. His gold wedding band gleams in the firelight, a permanent fixture. 

“C’mere,” he whispers. 

I move to be between his legs, my biceps resting on his thighs, my face tipped towards him. He smells very good, very much like home. Still peppery and sweet, but fresh.

Delicately, he dabs my forehead. The rag is ice cold, droplets flooding my hairline. It feels good, especially before the crackling fire. 

“Pink cheeks,” Bradley mutters softly, brushing the rag across my cheeks. 

My heart is steady now--steadier than it has been before. I can measure the moments by the beats of my heart. 

“Should we tell them?” 

He blinks down at me, very softly grazing my bottom lip with his thumb. 

“S’up to you,” he tells me, “what do you wanna do?” 

I don’t know what I want to do. No one in the world knows that I’m in labor. At first it was because we didn’t know if I was actually in labor, but now it’s because no one has heard a word about Jake yet. Everyone is still scrambling in their seats.

“Just wish she had better timing,” I whisper, pressing my hand against my belly. 

I’m touching her now, which she can feel. I hope she’s okay. I hope this is all very easy for her. 

“Must get that from my side of the family,” he tells me, sighing. “I was born on the day of my great-grandfather’s funeral.” 

Laughing, I shake my head. 

“I didn’t know that,” I whisper. 

He nods. 

“Maybe I’ve always been marked by death,” he says--like it’s a joke. 

But I don’t laugh now. I furrow my brows, look up at him, let the red flush my face. He keeps softly swiping the rag along my face and throat, the smile on his lips fading fast. I’m choked up--how could someone as bright as him be marked by something so ominous and dark? 

“That’s not true,” I say quietly. “At least not anymore.”

He nods softly, chewing his bottom lip. 

“You’re right,” he whispers. 

I nod my head, squeezing his thigh. 

“Oh, I know I am,” I tell him. “Always am.” 

And then there’s another contraction gearing up, pulling me close. He knows immediately--if not from the grip I have on his thighs then the anguish that contorts my face, the words that I can’t speak. 

“Alright,” he whispers softly, setting the rag down, stroking my hair carefully. “There’s another one, okay, s’alright. We’ve got it, huh? Good job--just let it happen, m’right here. Try and take a breath, baby. I know it isn’t easy, but just take it slow, yeah?” 

He’s good at this--talking me through them, even though I can’t respond. 

“Good job, baby,” he coos, “m’getting a jersey made for everyone at the hospital, okay? How much do y’think it’ll be to put Ledger-Bradshaw on the back of a jersey?”

If I could, I’d laugh. But I can’t--I’m stuck still in the hardened amber of this pain. 

“Should be coming down any second now, baby,” he whispers, “any second. Almost there, so close.” 

It ends--I exhale, releasing his thighs from the wrath of my grip. 

“God,” I groan, “this is no walk in the park.”

He nods, humming, glancing down at his watch again. 

“Doing fucking great,” he tells me, “doing perfect, baby.” 

And when I look up, when I finally see his brown eyes looking at me already, when I see that little smile on his lips, I know. I know that the contractions are four minutes apart and it is time to go. It is all happening so fast, only three hours since my water broke, only three hours since my first contraction, only four hours since we learned about Jake.

It makes my bottom lip wobble. 

“Time to go?” I ask. 

“S’time to go,” he confirms, tucking my hair behind my ears. 

“Okay,” I say and my voice is ragged.

I’m very tired, so tired that I could fall asleep standing up. But this pain, these contractions, olive sitting so low and deep inside of me: I can’t hold still. It brings me to my knees, renders me moveless. I have to move between the terrible minutes where everything seizes. 

“S’okay,” Bradley assures me, “everything’s good, baby. Just gonna have to get going now, okay?” 

 I nod again. Okay. 

But I feel like I’m going to cry. If not because I know that this is merely the edge of the pain, the very outskirts of it, then because we have not heard word on Jake since my phone call with Admiral Byron. I haven’t even had time to think about it, to digest it. Maybe it is a good thing that I am in labor now, or else I may have been trying to figure out how to get to North Carolina to be there with Jake. 

We move as quickly as we can. He slips my coat over my shoulders, guides me down the stairs with his hands on my hips. The girls follow us all the way to the foyer, whining pitifully, their little eyes half shut and their ears perked.

He is the one that goes up and down the stairs, gathering bags and any other odds and ends. I lean against the bannister, cradling olive, breathing through my nose, pretending like my fingers aren’t very cold right now. 

Marmie comes first--pressing her snout into my thigh, wagging her tail, whining. Buttercup follows closely, curling herself around my feet. Bradley gives all three of us an affectionate pat on the head when he walks by us, beaming. 

“Hurry,” I tell him, inhaling when another contraction moves over me. 

I try not to disturb the girls--try to just hold my breath and get through it without moving except to grip my thighs. They’re whining--crying, nudging me. But I can’t move to comfort them until I’m released. 

“Sorry,” I whisper to them, shaking my head. “I wish you could come, too.”  

Bradley walks me to the car with his arm over my shoulders.   

The pain wraps me up and holds me tight, held me tight in the bedroom before the fireplace with Bradley’s thumbs pressing into the base of my spine, and holds me even tighter right now as I lean against the passenger side door. The car is cold, but feels so good against my cheek as I press against it, grounding myself, furrowing my brows and moaning very lowly. 

“M’coming, baby,” Bradley calls in the dark, “take a deep breath. Breathe, baby, fill those lungs up nice and good.” 

I don’t think I can--I don’t think I can move an inch. I have to stay right here in this spot and grip the handle and let the contraction wash over me. It’s such a tight sensation, like being wrapped up in a wet sheet. It clings to me.  

Bradley’s hastily stuffing bags in the trunk and double checking the car seat, slamming car doors and pulling his coat around himself as the nippy air bites his cheeks. And then he’s behind me, kissing my ear, bringing his hands down over my hips. He holds me in place, presses down against the achiest part of my body. 

It makes another moan slither out from my mouth. 

“Good job, baby,” he whispers, nuzzling his cold nose in my hair, “good job. Any second now, any second.” 

 Now it’s over again, dropping me so suddenly that I have to take a deep breath. 

All the minutes between contractions are hazy. He’s helping me into the car and buckling me in, kissing my forehead and belly alike before crossing to the driver’s side and starting the car. He’s keeping a hand on my knee as we pull out of the driveway. I think about Marmie, Buttercup, and Stevie being alone in the house and a lump in my throat grows. The headlights make the Eastern redbuds lining our driveway glow. The gravel crunches beneath the tires. Bradley fiddles with the air conditioning, positioning it this way and that, asking if I’m comfortable. It’s all melting together. 

“How’s my trooper?” He asks, turning out of our driveway. 

It’s dark in here--I’m glad. I can hardly keep my eyes open, anyway. But I hate the seatbelt across my belly, hate the bumpy movements of the car, hate that we are forty-five minutes away from the hospital. Especially when an intense pressure has returned with a vengeance, bearing low and deep inside me.

“Tired,” I whisper, resting my cheek on my shoulder, holding myself in place by gripping the leather seat beneath me. “Don’t wanna be in the car.” 

He makes a noise of sympathy, squeezing my leg. 

“Maybe we’ll have a home birth next time, then, baby,” he says softly. 

There’s a knot of want in my chest now--yes, that would have been good. To not be in the car when my contractions feel near constant, to not have to endure the bumps and turns of a forty-five minute drive. To just stay home and not leave--that would be good. 

I am not excited to be in a hospital, especially as a patient. I know, because I am a logical person, that I will be taken good care of. But the stench of antiseptic, the burn of bleach, the underlying scent of sickness; it makes my mouth flood with saliva just thinking about it. 

“Whose idea was it to have babies in hospitals anyway?” I mumble. “And before you say next time, let’s get through this one first.”

He laughs again.

“What about Lyla?”

I face him--he’s smiling very small. 

“Didn’t you already say that?”

He nods. 

“I like it. It’s to the point, but it’s pretty. Not too long, not too short. Lyla Bradshaw.”

I still can’t feel it in my toes. 

“Maybe,” I whisper because I don’t have the heart to say no. 

He kisses my hand. 

“Want music or quiet, baby?” He asks softly.

“Music,” I whisper.

“Good ‘cause I took the liberty of making a labor and delivery playlist,” he tells me very proudly. 

I sigh, biting my lip. 

“Is it called Push It Real Good?” I ask. 

Smugly, he nods. 

It feels like too much effort to even raise my lips, so I just fondly shake my head.  

He fiddles with the radio, but I am the one that takes his phone, unlocking it as I take a deep breath. His thumb rubs soothing circles against my leg. 

“Jake?” He asks.

He called between contractions, asking Phoenix to tell everyone else that Admiral Byron had called and told us about Jake’s condition.  

There are a lot of messages in the group chat, almost one hundred. It makes my heart jump to my throat, makes my toes curl. I scroll carefully, squinting, ignoring the burn in my chest, the pressure between my legs.

Natty Pro: Any more word on Jake? 

Reub: Haven’t heard anything. 

B.O.B.: no :( 

Dogman: Not yet--gonna see if I can head up there tomorrow. Don’t know if I’ll be able to tho. 

Fanny: Radio silence on this end :/

Me: Keep us updated. We’ll let you know if we get any more info. Call me if there’s any updates--not Faye, please.

Natty Pro: Aye-aye, captain.  

“No,” I whisper. “Feels wrong not telling them I’m in labor.” 

Bradley sighs, nodding. 

“Feels wrong telling them, too,” I follow, “with Jake.”

Saying his name right now makes my face flush. Jake--all alone in North Carolina. And I know that it isn’t my job to be the one that is there when he wakes up, but it makes me sick to my stomach that I don’t even have the option. 

He nods again, squeezing my leg. 

“Whatever you wanna do, I wanna do,” he says after a moment. 

I don’t know what to do: I still feel like I’m in a dream. 

I open my mouth to respond, but then it’s here and washing over me and pulling me beneath the waves. It’s so tight, so tight that I don’t think I can breathe, so overwhelming that I drop Bradley’s phone. And fuck--it’s torture to be sitting on my butt in this fucking leather seat, torture to be buckled in right now. 

“Oh, oh,” I groan, tipping my head back, knocking my hair against the headrest.

I can’t breathe, can’t do anything except screw my eyes shut and bite my lip hard. I can feel olive just barely, being squeezed so tightly that all she can do is wriggle and shuffle, moving lower and lower. 

This pain is worse, I think--it burns, burns across my entire body, makes my throat ache like I’m going to cry. If I could just move, if I could not be sitting upright on my bottom and walk around or pace or even just be on my knees--I’m certain it would help. 

My nails slice the leather seats. 

“Try to breathe, baby,” Bradley says softly, holding my belly, “good job, you’re doing it. Just keep breathing, baby. I know s’not easy, I know. But you’ve got it, honey.” 

 Heat is flooding the car now, blowing against my already flushed cheeks. The seatbelt feels too tight and the seat is too stiff. And I want to move, God, I want to move. I want to walk around and crouch when I need to crouch and have Bradley’s thumbs press into my spine. I want him to press the washrag against my forehead and ask about girl names. 

“You’re making it look so easy, baby,” Bradley praises, cradling my head, “doing perfect.” 

I’m sure I’m not making it look easy--it’s just happening to me, swallowing me, and I’m sitting still and waiting for it to be over. My cheeks must be glowing in the dark because they are so red, so flushed. And my hair is damp with perspiration and my legs and hands are shaking. 

“Wanna move,” I all but grunt as the contraction tapers off, “fuck.” 

“I’m sorry, Faye-baby,” he coos, brushing my hair carefully with his fingers, “we’ll be there in forty minutes and then you can move all you want. I’ll see to it, baby.” 

Sighing, I keep my head tilted back, but open my eyes. I wish I could see the stars right now--I wish I could see the ceiling in our bedroom or the leaves of a tree. I wish that I was not in this car and that I was not in labor and that Jake was okay. I wish it all so much that a few tears roll down my cheeks.

There is so much happening--so many things going on all at the same time, I feel like I’m reeling. Jake is hurt, I am in labor, we are going to a hospital that is very far away, my sister isn’t hear, my parents won’t be waiting to meet their granddaughter, our friends don’t even know that I’m in labor now. Life is just happening right now on this Sunday that was supposed to be easy, this Sunday that was easy until the phone call, until my water broke.

Now I just feel sick--even between the surges, between the spine-tingling pain, I don’t feel very good at all. My fingers are cold and my heart is racing and my head is pulsing. I’m hot all over, head to toe, but my teeth are aching because of my quivering jaw.   

“Forty minutes,” I huff, a few more tears rolling down my cheeks. “M’so tired. Don’t feel good.”

His fingers are cool against my cheek when he presses them there firmly, his skin rough and scented like smoky wood. If he feels a fever, he doesn’t tell me. He just strokes my cheek, just lets his hand rest there, lets me lean into his touch.

“Love you, baby,” he whispers, voice strained. “Love you so much.” 

It prickles me--he told me he loved me for the first time in a car, which feels like not very long ago. And now he’s telling me again on our way to the hospital to have our first baby. 

“I know,” I whisper. “Everyone does.” 

It’s interrupted quickly--the contraction suddenly ripping across me, whiting out my vision, holding me hostage. It’s hardly been two minutes since my last one ended, I’ve hardly had time to even catch my breath. It doubles me over, sends my head between my knees, rips me away from Bradley’s hand. 

“Another one?” He asks, his voice thin. 

I can’t breathe, gritting my teeth as it edges closer and closer to me, kissing my skin. 

“Oh, my God,” I moan. “It’s so--fuck, it’s so bad.” 

It is so bad--it’s different, more intense, more consuming. 

I can’t stop the low moans rumbling in my chest, can’t sit still when it feels like there’s a fire poker being shot straight through my core, bruising everything in its wake.

“S’alright, baby,” he soothes, pressing down hard on my lower back. “Deep breaths if you can. I’m going fast as I can, okay? We're gonna get there, I promise. Not gonna let anything happen to you or olive, okay? Gonna get you there.”

They don’t stop. The pain is so very near constant that I can do nothing but submit to it. My skin is permanently goosed, my teeth permanently ground, my mouth permanently parted, my throat permanently vibrating with moans. It’s happening too fast, so fast that it feels wrong. Olive feels like she’s going to come barreling out of me at any moment, lighting a fire between my legs that is almost as deep as the ache of contractions. 

Distantly, I know there are red lights. I know that there are stop signs and traffic and I know that Bradley is doing his damndest to get us to the hospital. But time is moving so slowly, trickling by in increments marked by peaks and valleys of pain. I can hardly hear him when he speaks, hardly notice when he presses his fingers to my cheeks to check for fever again. 

“Can’t,” I mutter, unbuckling myself and sinking to the floor, settling myself on my knees with my arms and face resting against the seat. “Oh, God.”

Being there on my knees makes this all feel so carnal. Like I’m submitting to whatever nature intends for me, like I’m letting go of whatever humanness I possess and giving into animalism. 

The pressure is only a fraction relieved like this on my knees, the ache only dulled slightly. It’s enough to make me grab the seat with both of my hands and squeeze hard. 

“Oh, my God,” I cry out quietly.  

“Getting there as quick as I can, baby,” Bradley says. 

I can hear it right now, like a fog has cleared; he’s scared. He’s very scared. Scared because our friend is hurt and alone, scared because I’m in labor, scared because I might have a fever, scared because we’re still ten minutes out and I can’t sit still, scared because he’s about to become a father, scared because I can hardly speak. 

Blindly, I reach out for him, find his hand. And then I hold tight to him, embedding my nails in his palm. If I could, I would kiss his palm, close his fingers around it. But I can’t get up from my knees.

The pain becomes more intense--so intense that I can’t help the groan that tumbles out of me and into the quiet car. I’ve never made that noise before, never heard anyone make that noise before in my life. It’s guttural and desperate--a noise I’d hear in the woods behind my grandparent’s cottage. But it’s warranted; the pain is searing, burning, a thousand pounds of fire.  

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: bestiesssss I love Rooster so much--love putting him in little situations!! remember to reblog if you're enjoying this story, please!! kisses and smooches and love!! last chance to guess the name and gender!!!! ☺

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley bradshaw fluff #dad!bradley bradshaw #rooster top gun #rooster x reader #top gun rooster #rooster x oc #rooster angst #top gun maverick #rooster smut #rooster x wife!reader #top gun bob #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun fandom #top gun fic #top gun fluff #hangman top gun

[acefms]

MEET SOFIA !

basic info.

NAME: sofia elena acosta.

AGE: thirty-five

BIRTHDAY: september 2nd

ZODIAC: virgo

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: divorced, and single

SEXUALITY: bicurious

OCCUPATION: midwife

• Sofia grew up in a wealthy family, the eldest child and only girl out of four siblings. Her father a high profile lawyer while her mother was a stay-at-home mom who was never really home at all. The children were practically raised by nannies, Sofia always the fierce protector of her younger siblings and basically took over the role as second mother. Despite this, Sofia loved her parents. Until she was a teen and felt the horrible weight of their expectations and harsh criticism.

• Rebellion began to kick in, and soon she found herself swept away by a charming young man so far from the world that she grew up in. Falling fast and hard, the two made the rash decision to marry when she was only twenty-two years old. Because of this decision, her family disowned her. And the brothers she’d helped raise chose money over loyalty.

• Their marriage was chaotic but passionate as could be, and during that time Sofia felt the freest she’d ever been. Sadly, life seemed determined to pull them apart, and after five years together they decided to part ways. This has left Sofia with an empty feeling in her heart, especially considering her job. The two had always talked about having a big family, and now she watches night after night as other people begin the life she always dreamed of.

• Ever since then she’s found it difficult to let anyone get too close, and can often come across as quite closed-off despite having a truly caring heart.

headcannons.

• while Sofia is always busy with work and pretty much lives off leftovers and coffee, she is actually a very good cook. when she was growing up she loved making food for her brothers, it always made her happy to see them fed and well.

• sofia is a excellent piano player. piano lessons are one of the few things that her parents pushed her into that she actually enjoyed. she can play any song after listening to it a handful of times without reading the music. if she wasn’t a midwife, she probably would have become a piano teacher. she still could be later in life.

• sofia has an intensive vinyl collection. like she’s so proud of it. she absolutely loves to listen to old songs while she’s at home doing pretty much anything. and dances and sings her little heart out when she’s alone.

• wine? wine. she loves wine. like if you offer her a glass it’s unlikely that she’ll say no. she will insist that’s she’s not a wine snob, but she may be just a little bit.

• she’s loves to read! though these days she only finds time during her small breaks at work and a little before bed at night. contemporary fiction is her favourite genre.

• she loves musicals and going to the theatre. hopelessly devoted is thee only song choice when she’s drunk and fancies a sing song.

• growing up with three brothers she learned to be a quiet protector from a very young age. it’s why she’s so good in intense situations now. if something goes wrong she is good at staying calm and assessing the situation. she will not panic in a moment of chaos. she’ll break down about it later if need be, when finally alone.

possible connections.

ex husband — I’m going to put up a wc for this because my soul needs it, honestly. definitely a chaotic due who bring out the best and worst in each other. literally the love of her life. If you ask her if she’s over it she’ll say yes convincingly but he’ll always have a place in her heart.

best friends/ride or die — literally the one constant person in her life. the person she can be 1000% herself around/her safe place. her everything in friendship form. taken by marco.

sibling vibes — she doesn’t see much of her siblings anymore as they want to stay in their parents good graces, so this would be someone she’s took under her wing in that sense.

let your hair down friend — probably the one person who gets her to let her hair down every once in a while and focus on something other than work. their nights probably consist of a lot of wine and dancing.

casual hook-up — exactly that. happened one night while she was drunk and has potentially happened more than once.

#info | sofia. #let me know if you wanna plot connections !

[enrapture]

So what was the last non-sexual thing that caught your hyperfixation? What’s your current interest?

This answers both lmfao.

The band Waterparks, started in the middle of last year very slight with 1-2 songs that hit for me at the time and reminded me of how I was feeling during that period but then evolved as soon as dec - January where it really blossomed started out as curiosity and I have since run down the rabbit hole. *awsten knight’s* ^aka the singer of Waterparks I’ve been collecting his own clothing brand they drop a piece every week and they’re limited to 300 each drop they get sold in literal mere seconds I WISH I WAS JOKING. Its a bloodbath but thanks to this one account on Twitter I follow I’m able to get some pieces ahead of the drop because she guesses passwords which is her thing which helps a shit ton. But sometimes you HAVE to fight for your life if you want that piece. Thank god for PayPal pay immediately lmao but sometimes even that is too slow. People are quick as fuck. But it’s fun. and I’ve managed to get a few not all of this season’s drop. But still little wins! I’m so excited to receive this one tee I bought over the weekend it’s going to be here on the 20th! I’ll have to show it off as soon as it comes! You’ll have to remind me. I’ve got so many *3* good investment because they’re kinda limited as well. vinyls of the same damn album (intellectual property) because awsten said to lmfao and they’re diff colors. I also have a bitten CD by the band for one of the singles off the album and I have another cd of intellectual property with 2 bonus songs on it. recently not too long ago collected the “greatest hits vinyl it glows in the dark* and “fandom” I’m hoping to collect “entertainment” on vinyl but they’re all so expensive on eBay a little bit but I want a unique color so bad and they’re so hard to find kinda and then get the cluster CD. I need to get a CD player now that I think about it... Collecting merch as of recent this girl from texas managed to get me a t shirt and some booty shorts I’m so excited about wearing because I wasn’t able to get them when I went for the show. It was packed as fuck (I also met them a few weeks ago DIDNT go as planned like at all but still was a good time) :,) but I also have grown a major crush on the singer but that’s aside from the fact lol.

Other than that I’ve also been tryna get certain clothing items I think are so sick that awsten wears that I think would look better on me so that’s what I’ve gotten recently is some nike air trainer 1 sp’s c: and I fucking love them. I got some that fit but now I’m tryna sell like two pairs I impulse bought that I thought would fit me that don’t 😭 curse men’s sizes for not fitting women’s feet like the size chart claims. But it’s all good. That’s all as of recent. Besides finding new music (I’m adding to my Spotify playlists that I absolutely hate making but enjoy it in a way) and trying to clear my head - taking a step back and thinking things through and figuring out what I want and what’s best for me personally without anyone else’s judgment clouding my decisions. Im wanting better relationships for myself. Setting healthy boundaries and realizing my worth is all. Not being easily accessible anymore. :)

I hope this answered fuck I’m so sorry for tangenting. (Also trying not to apologize for myself or my emotions / feelings as they’re valid even though I just did lol)

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

solo Louis fans are so miserable. They are currently whining that Louis is not doing enough with two weeks to go before release date. They are blaming some evil ban that blacklists Louis and they are blaming Harry (who holds supposedly a terrible grudge) and Louis' "incompetent useless" management and label. The announcement of the signings didn't stop the complaints as they would rather he appear on SNL or in GQ or something. Don't they know how fortunate they are to get personal interaction from Louis? That his idea of promotion might be meeting his fans? He might prefer to be talking to fans rather than doing media or television performances or photoshoots. They are also complaining that his promotion will be heavily UK/US based whichokay, that is fair, but that seems to be the way for most of the English speaking music world. We in other countries are used to it and he didn't come to my country recently but he was in Europe. They say that he is not being considered for festivals when he seems like he'll be doing his own tour most of the summer when festivals are anyway and he played several festivals last year and most festivals have not announced their lineups for next year so how do they know? They talk about others driving fans away but the non stop comparisons to other musicians and the focus on what he's NOT doing are way more negative and off putting. As a wise person often says, there are many ways to have a career in the music industry and not all success looks the same. Maybe this is Louis choosing what success looks like to him. I wish they'd stop comparing him to other people all the time whether that's Harry or Niall, or Lewis Capaldi or 5SOS. No one is above criticism and speculation is a part of fandom but as that wise person says, he is the best decision maker in his life and if this is how he wants to proceed, then good for him. I'm hoping for a little more happiness as we are getting a whole album full of new Louis music and he's touring next year but not holding my breath that these fans will ever be satisfied. Sorry to unload on you but do you know of any positive Louis blogs?

I really don't find the 'fans who believe X are Y' ideas particularly illuminating. There are plenty of miserable fans out there who believe Louis is with Harry. Miserable fans are miserable - and I feel like the complaints have got weirder the more he is getting recognised commercial success (the 'why isn't Louis treated like Springsteen line is next level).

What infuriates me when fans supposedly evaluate promo - is that they're not evaluating promo - they're talking about promo makes them feel and then pretending that's an assessment of how effective it is. Fans want promo that doesn't cause them distress and seems prestigious - and almost all supposed evaluation of promo is about those two elements.

So much of promo isn't visible, because it's about relationships, or tedious things like figuring out how many different vinyls to preorder, (or even just doing interviews in advance).

Anyway my advice is ignore the whining and enjoy that Louis has released a great album and the strategies they've used seem to be working, while being sad about the smashed up arm and hope he recovers soon.

#This is from a few weeks ago #I haven't personally seen it #but the idea that there might be fans #who are complaining that Louis does too much publicity in the UK and US #while also complaining that Louis' team don't do enough to push him to specific markers of commercial success #is really funny

[alltheselights]

I just got done having a bit of a rant at someone else about this. I’m seeing accusations that Louis used us to get money by making sure merch dropped before the interviews. I’m seeing how he uses us constantly and all sorts of stuff. I’ve been a long time believer that if the stunts get to you so bad, perhaps you should step back. I saw someone say that there’s no place for thenLouies who’ve been here from the start because of the stunts. To me they’re nothing. I’m here to support Louis and the music he makes. I feel like some people may not be here for the right reasons.

I don’t even understand that logic because babygate has been something being mentioned periodically for the past year. Prior to this bit of promo, it was just mentioned in July in an interview. Louis’ sisters mentioned Freddie even more recently than that. Fans were aware of this when THEY made the decision to buy merch and vinyls and CDs. They did not make those decisions blindly and they were not tricked into doing it. Babygate hasn’t ended and I don’t understand how anybody could have possibly thought we were getting through promo for this song or album without it being mentioned.

I’m absolutely annoyed that it’s mentioned! I’m annoyed that Louis is participating and I don’t understand why after so many years of nothing. So when I see that stuff, I do get annoyed, I do get frustrated, and I do roll my eyes. I want better for him and I think he deserves to be free of that and more importantly, to be able to define himself SOLELY by his talent rather than his personal life, as he's able to do in about half of interviews these days. It also sucks that it’s often the longer interviews that end up with the most stunt mentions BECAUSE they are longer (it happened with Alt Press, it will likely happen with Dork and I hope people aren’t surprised when it does).

But I’m still here because I choose to be. I still love Louis and I still support him. I still think he’s talented and deserves to sell a lot of albums and singles. I still think he deserves a million times more success than he has. I still think that he’s a good person who is doing the best that he can in a situation that lacks a lot of the opportunities and privilege that Harry has, who I also continue to support despite mistakes he’s made and his own very frequent, very public stunts.

And even if, one day, I choose to leave the fandom and get tired of all of this, I still recognize that my choices for what to buy or not buy, what to do or not do, and how long to stay or not stay, are my own. Not his, not anyone else’s. We’re all responsible for our own choices in fandom.

#asks

[lestatlioncunt]

hi hello can i get a 🤥😭🕷️🌱 and 🌏 for fenix? 👀

hiii thank you so much nico, fenix my beloved fenix...let's see what assholery he's up too <33 hsfksfkf

oc asks

🤥 LYING - are they good liars? do they have tells to show they're lying?

ohh he’s such a good liar...he is. he lied for most of his life as a job, changing up his identity, his name, sooo many times, preteding he’s someone he’s not...he mastered the art of lying truly. i think the only way to tell he’s lying is knowing him real well, you know how you can tell if someone very close to you like a best friend is lying or something with them sounds fishy? you don’t know why but you feel that bullshit is being served, well yeah that’s how it goes for fenix. be it maybe a slight variation to his tone, his speech pattern or his behaviour but you just feel it. the best way to not be fooled by this man is knowing him and that’s not exactly easy dskfh

😭 CRYING - what makes them cry? do they cry easily?

he doesn’t cry easily, mainly because he doesn’t like to show when something is troubling him or making him sad so he just bottles up everything. the times he cried are so few (and even fewer the times when someone saw him cry), he lets out tears out of frustration mainly, when he’s losing someone he really really cares about..COUGHING vesper COUGHING

🕷️ SPIDER - what is their biggest fear? do they have any irrational / mundane fears?

being left alone for the rest of his days and losing all the people he loves lmao dramatic little man. this comes mainly from the fact that he knows he’s not the easiest to deal with sometimes and he’s scared that one day the people he loves will be too fed up with him to continue putting up with his antics. also he’s scared of heights, the thought of falling makes him anxious. he tries to be an Adult about it and often challenges his own fear but god...he’s so funny, sometimes he’s scared to look down from up a pair of stairs fdhskfjh

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

he had such a sad childhood </3 i’m so sorry babygirl. the most vivid memories are probably the little “treasure hunts” he used to do with his brother and ephraim, their adoptive father. exploring abandoned buildings searching for something incredibly old, like books, vinyls. that still sticks with him since he keeps doing them and also is the reason he has such a vintage soul. that is one of the few happy memories he has from his childhood 

🌏 EARTH - will they give up the world for someone they love? is this decision easy for them?

yeah. just yeah. not sure if we are talking about death here or complete destrusction of the world for someone he loves jfsfk but he would do that, no second thoughts. i said this once but he would literally do anything for vesper, he could throw away any kind of morality for her if it means saving her life or making her happy. the only thing that makes his life worth living are the people he loves, if he loses them then there’s no reason to be alive any longer

#morvaris #ask #THANK YOU NICO I'M SENDING U A KISS MWAH #i love him so much...i'm holding his hand rn..he's my bestie #oc: fenix

[purplesurveys]

1514

What was the best thing to happen to you this week? Probably watching Lollapalooza (online, lol) with my friends. Angela’s workplace held a mental health break that day and Reena and I filed leaves so we can all be together since it took place Monday morning where we are. We haven’t gathered since the last concert in Seoul last March so it was something I had really been looking forward to!

Where do you put your keys when you get home? We have a key holder on the wall near the door. But sometimes I’ll do a complete Robyn and inadvertently leave the key by the door and only remember once someone in the house calls me out for it lol.

Do you prefer hot coffee or iced coffee? Iced. For the longest time I thought I preferred hot coffee, then I discovered iced when I was in college and my life was changed hahaha.

What's your phone background picture? Lockscreen is this really cool shot of Hobi at Lollapalooza. Home screen is of Taehyung posing by the Eiffel Tower.

If you could move to any country, what would it be? Canada or New Zealand.

Have you ever seen a snake in the wild? Nope.

What's your favourite movie from the 80s? Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Do you have any posters, paintings or other artwork on your walls? Yeah but it’s as all over the place as the rest of my room is. I have some Audrey Hepburn prints that’s been up since I was in high school; and I have a couple of BTS posters up from the BE and Butter eras.

What would your dream wedding be like? Big, lots of guests, live band with lots of dancing, the whole shebang. I hate hate hate being the center of attention for the most part and I like to keep it lowkey when it comes to gatherings I hold, but a wedding is the one thing I’d be more than willing to let loose for.

Would you ever take a trip to space if given the chance? If I was part of some credible research project then yeah; I’d definitely do my own digging beforehand too before making any decisions. I would never go to space for commercial purposes.

How do you cope with anxiety? Given that work is the main trigger for my anxiety, I just shut down my laptop when I know it’s time to stop. I clear out my emails before the day ends and refuse to answer clients beyond 6 PM. Occasionally I will leave my phone downstairs and spend time at the rooftop so I can be *completely* alone and not be bugged by notifications that might come in.

Are you expecting any phone calls or emails? No, never during the weekend.

What's the weather like in your part of the world right now? It’s been rainy; too rainy, in fact. We currently have a typhoon in the country if I’m not mistaken, but temperature-wise I am a happy camper. Can you believe I currently have the fan turned off in the middle of the year?

What was the last takeout food you ate? Not a big surprise at this point for anyone here who knows me but I got sushi again last night, hehehe. I paired that with gyoza in my quest to try to like it - alas, it failed and I still super dislike the strong chive taste that comes with it.

Who makes you laugh the most? Putting IRL people aside, probably Jungkook?? The man is a living breathing meme and he doesn’t even know it. But as for people I know, I’d say Hans.

Do you know anyone with the same middle name as you? No, but I’ve seen it as a surname.

What did you have done the last time you saw a dentist? Wisdom tooth extraction.

What does a successful relationship look like to you? That’s a difficult question primarily because everyone’s dynamic is different. 

What do you like to put on your baked potato? Bacon and cheese, very basic. I don’t have baked potatoes much so I stick to what’s usually put in them.

What field of science interests you the most? Biology.

What's the closest shop or restaurant to your house? McDonald’s is literally a cartwheel away from my subdivision’s gate. But my area is pretty commercialized so we have a bunch of shops within walking distance - there’s also a Chowking, Shakey’s, Burger King, Starbucks, a vinyl store, flower shop, furniture store, a bank...and lots lots lots more.

Do you have any family that live in another country? Oh, so many. Filipinos migrate a lot and it’s not surprising; this country needs a lot of fixing up and there are simply more opportunities to flourish abroad.

What colour is your couch? Gray.

Do you know how to care for plants and keep them alive? Nope, I’ve always been terrible with them.

What was the most memorable birthday you've had? The one I had last year was pretty special. It was my first birthday post-breakup and it was a pleasant surprise to have moved on and be happy by that point; I was expecting to still be in a really rough place. I couldn’t celebrate beyond family so I sent over food to co-workers and friends, and then I gave my family my first-ever birthday blowout; and I was also a VERY new Army and had the entire dining room and my cake decked out in BTS cutouts hahaha.

Would you rather go to the beach or the mountains? I’ve always preferred the beach/sea. I’m only ever in the mood for mountains in the morning, when you can catch the sun rise and feel the cool morning breeze.

What do you do for work? I work in public relations as an account manager. To badly describe my job, I know what big campaigns your favorite brands are having before they’re ever announced to the public.

Have you ever been to see the circus? No, never sounded interesting to me.

Are there any words that you hate or make you cringe? I hate the word gunk. It sounds exactly like what it is.

What is the best house you've ever lived in? This one we’re currently living in.

What was the first CD you ever bought? Beyoncé’s I Am...Sasha Fierce.

Do you look in the mirror before you leave the house? Yeah.

What's the most unusual thing you've ever eaten? My mom likes to combine whatever’s in the pantry to come up with her own dishes. They’re always tasty but sometimes I just really don’t have a clue what the dish is trying to be hahahaha.

Have you ever seen someone quit their job in a dramatic way? Not that I know of.

What movie reminds you of your childhood? The Game Plan because I used to be obsessed with it. Watched it every day after school.

Do you know why your parents named you what they did? Dad says I was named after Robyn the Swedish singer, mom says my dad just liked the name. Never really learned the true story.

Do you have any bills that need to be paid? Yeups, this pay-later thing that I activated on a shopping app a month ago.

What do you like to dip your fries in? Mayonnaise or honey mustard.

Is your house clean or messy right now? Clean.

What was the last email you received? Probably work-related. I’m not checking it out.

Do you know someone who speaks without a filter? Yes. We have a workmate that we’re currently struggling with...in trying to be extroverted she will usually end up saying something super awkward whether between co-workers or worse, to media and clients. She literally asked Kata if she’s a rebel because she has fucking piercings. 

Are you in any social groups? I mean I have several groups of friends, but nothing online. I’ve tried to be on Army Twitter but being on there is like walking in a landmine field, so I didn’t last too long and never made any friends in my short time there.

How many hours of sleep did you get last night? Around 5. I slept at 2 AM after spending the whole evening out then I woke up at about 7:30. What's your favourite kind of museum? I like museums with artworks or artifacts the most, but I would be down for any kind of museum. Ancestral houses are great visits too. Do you believe in alternate universes? Yeah.

Whose house did you last visit? Angela’s last Monday.

What games do you play on your smart phone? In the Seom. My playtime on Rhythm Hive has drastically decreased since the former came out, hahaha.

Have you ever been to Los Angeles? No.

What was the first concert you ever went to? Paramore in 2013.

Do you know anyone who is colourblind? Nope.

What's your favourite season and why? Wet, because I’ve always preferred rainy/cloud weather to sunny.

Are you the youngest, middle or eldest child in your family? I am the eldest.

If you had to make something for a potluck, what would you make? I’d stick with buying takeout because I can’t guarantee what I’ll make would be edible to begin with. What kinds of decorations do you put up at Halloween? I don’t put up decorations for Halloween.

How many tabs do you have open right now? On this window, 8. What's something you've been meaning to do but keep putting off? Work. I’ll probably have to do some tonight since it’s reached a point where it can’t be avoided.

What's the first thing you check on your phone at the start of the day? The time, then Instagram.

Have you ever flown a kite? Not since I was 11.

Who was your favourite music artist when you were 16? Banks and Hozier.

What are three things you usually always have in your fridge? Eggs, bread, frozen hotdogs.

#survey #surveys

[cricutmakeronline]

Cricut Cyber Monday Deals 2023: Discover Exclusive Discounts

Being a professional crafter, I am waiting for Cricut Cyber Monday deals to arrive as soon as possible. Last year, I decided to add a Cricut machine to my craft room to enhance my crafting skills. No doubt, it was one of the best decisions of my life, as it took my crafting level to another level. With the Cyber Monday Cricut sale only a week away, I am focusing on buying some main supplies that will assist me in making more crafts and starting my own business.

During Cyber ​​Monday Cricut deals, I will be able to save a lot of money when buying any of their Cricut machines, tools, and materials. No doubt, the actual sale has yet to begin, but some attractive deals are already catching my attention. As a responsible crafter, let me suggest to you those offers.

Cricut Blades and Tools

For a very long time, I was facing problems while inserting blades and using them to cut the materials. Now, to get the perfect cut from the material, I am going to buy compatible and top-quality blades with precise cutting performance. Below, I have shared the list of the primary blades:

1.   Premium Fine-Point Replacement Blades

At the top of the Cricut Cyber Monday offers comes the Premium Fine-Point blade. This blade can cut light to mid-weight materials such as paper, cardstock, and vinyl. The life span of the Premium Fine Point blade depends upon the material type. The actual rate of this blade is $149.99, and the discounted price is $39.99. However, its price may decrease depending on the offers available during the sale.

2.   Deep-Point Blade + Housing

Referring to the Cyber Monday cricut sale, Deep-Point blade + Housing makes it easier for the crafter to cut a variety of materials for the projects. Besides, it comes with a steeper blade angle (60 degrees vs 45) with more rigid and more durable steel. Right now, this Cricut blade, along with its Housing, is in the price range of $37.99 with a discount rate of $22.79. Since I am waiting for Cricut Cyber Monday deals to commence soon, there are chances that I can buy this item at an affordable price without affecting my pocket.

3.   Knife Blade + Drive Housing

4.   Engraving Tip + QuickSwap Housing

Lastly, to achieve professional-looking results within the blink of an eye, I need to buy an Engraving Tip and QuickSwap Housing. The set holds the ability to write personalized text and create a monogram on any compatible material. Right now, you can buy the set at the discounted price of $29.39. While enjoying the Cyber Monday Cricut deals, I can buy the set for the $20.99 price range.

Apart from the Cricut blades & tools, it is time for you to learn about the Cricut Cyber Monday offers on cutting mats.

Cricut Cutting Mat

Cricut cutting mat plays a vital role in making any project. I need to place the mat to load the materials into the machine until they are Smart Materials. There are a variety of cutting mats that you can buy by paying different prices while attending the Cyber Monday Cricut discounts.

1.   Cricut Card Mat – 2 x 2 (2 ct)

With the Cricut Card Mat- 2 x 2, I get the facility to multiply my current card-making speed. This mat can hold up to 4 cards at a time and supports all kinds of cards. Right now, the mat is available at the discounted price of $21.59, and the prices will eventually lessen on the Cricut Cyber Monday sale.

2.   Cricut Mat Variety Pack, 12″ x 12″ (3 ct.)

3.   Cricut StrongGrip Mat, 12” x 12”, 3 Pack

4.   Cricut StandardGrip Mat, 12” x 24” (4 ct)

Finally, the Cricut StandardGrip mat is perfect for medium-weight materials as it holds the material in its place tightly. Right now, I can buy the mat by paying $42.978 with the discounted price of $25.79. In the event of a Cyber Monday sale, I can buy the item by paying around $20.00.

Frequently Asked Questions

Question: Do I Need to Wait for Cyber Monday to Buy Cricut Blades?

Answer:  No, it is optional to wait for the Cyber Monday sale to begin to buy the Cricut blades. However, if you want to get the items at an affordable price, then let the Cyber Monday sale come into action. During the sale, you will get at least a 50%-70% discount on every Cricut item and can buy it at an affordable price range without affecting your budget.

Question: Will There Be a Cricut Cyber Monday Deal 2023?

Answer: All the crafters are informed that the Cyber Monday sale will take place on 27th Nov 2023. Just every year, Cricut is going to decrease the rate of their products by at least 70% to increase e-commerce transactions in the market. The sale will remain active for only 24 hours, and the price will instantly get back to normal once the sale is complete.

Question: Will Cricut Prices Drop During the Cyber Monday Sale?

Answer: Yes, the price of Cricut products is undoubtedly going to drop during the Cricut Cyber Monday sale. Following the tradition, Cricut Inc. will give around 70% discounts on its blades and other accessories. All the crafters are looking forward to being able to get their favorite items at a cheap price range. 

Source :- https://xn--crcutcomsetup-xib.website/cricut-cyber-monday-deals-2023-discover-exclusive-discounts/