#teen pregnancy story | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mediumgayitalian · 29 days

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———

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You see a hostess’ station?”

“No.”

“Then why haven’t you sat yourself?”

“‘Cause I’m not here to eat.”

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

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

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

“Go home, kid.”

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

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

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

Naomi snaps her mouth shut.

“Well,” she says, and nothing else.

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

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

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

“And why would I hire some pregnant kid?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naomi shrugs.

“You deaf, or stupid?”

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

“Not deaf. And that’s rude.”

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

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

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

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

———

Di doesn’t believe in paycheques.

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

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

Maybe she should look into an apartment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clean the grout.”

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

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

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

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

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

Naomi smiles triumphantly.

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

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

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

Di even almost smiles at her.

———

“Naomi, go home.”

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

“I need to work.”

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

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

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

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

Like she’s about to burst.

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

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

“Jesus Christ.”

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

Two callused hands on her biceps, dragging her upright.

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

A hand digs around in her apron pocket.

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

No jingle on the door. A flipped sign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…You remember the exact date?”

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Di rolls her eyes.

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

“What kinda money do you have?”

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

“Yes, obviously, I meant savings.”

“What you pay me,” Naomi repeats.

Di purses her lips. “Well.”

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

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

Naomi looks at her in alarm.

“Di, I can’t —”

“Fifty a night,” responds the man quickly.

“Try again.”

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

“Rate’s a rate, Di.”

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

“Two hundred a week.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not asking, Jed.”

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

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

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

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

Jed just his chin out.

“I don’t owe her shit.”

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

“Ain’t how this works, Di.”

“Says who? You?”

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

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

(…Well.)

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

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

Di nods once. “Fine.”

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

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

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

A motel, Naomi realises.

“Clear, kid?”

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

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

Much, much bigger than her car.

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

Naomi does the math fast in her head.

“Twenty hours.”

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

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

God, she’s missed pillows.

“Thank you, Di,” she says quietly.

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

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

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

———

naomi art

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tomsbly · 8 months

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Ken number FIVE — Rex!

CW: Incest (I absolutely do NOT condone it irl, but this is a work of fiction. Putting this warning in so people who aren’t into that will enjoy the morph only and move on!)

Rex was always the typical younger brother: energetic, obnoxious, bratty, yet always everyone’s favorite. His behavior was always overlooked since he played sports, was doing alright at school and was one of The Boys. After blowing up on TikTok, he solidified his title as the popular, hot, fuckboyish guy. And his older brother, Cody, hated that.

He really, really wanted to be genuinely happy for his younger bro but his insecurities got the best of him. The timing was awful too. Rex, freshly 18, would be graduating high school this year and he was at his peak. Cody… Cody was not.

Being three years older than his brother, he was already in college, yet still living with his family. It was cheaper that way. He wasn’t really passionate about learning, but he didn’t have any other possibilities, or so he thought. He worked part-time, but the job sucked, he couldn’t work full-time because of college and he couldn’t even start a family since he and his long-term girlfriend broke up. While his brother was being his best, Cody was horny, alone and depressed.

With his newfound popularity, Rex found a lot of friends, mostly boys, muscular and fuckboyish, just like him. Since his parents weren’t at home most of the time, just him and Cody, he started inviting them over to hang out. You know, like the boys they were. They would play video games, listen to music, just chill and have a good time. But after several weeks it got kind of boring… Their solution? Alcohol. Cody was 21, so Rex begged to get them beer or some shit, so they can spice things up a little bit. Cody was hesitant at first, but then he thought:

“Why not? But only if you will all behave and won’t wreck the fucking house. You will be the ones cleaning up after.”

The boys agreed, so Cody got them some beer and vodka, too much vodka maybe. After leaving the teens with the booze, he went upstairs to his room to get some sleep. Two hours later, he was woken up.

Moans…

Loud banging…

Groans…

A loud “I’m coming… fuck…”

His heart sank to his stomach. Oh no. What has he done?

Cody ran downstairs to see the boys all naked, having some kind of an amateur, fucked up orgy. There were clothes everywhere, cum on the walls and empty bottles of lube on the floor. Rex saw his brother first, pulled out his dick out of his friend’s hole and slurred:

“Oh hi, Cody… We… um… we went a little wild, hehe… Do you wanna-”

“Rex, what the hell? You promised me everything’s gonna be alright!”

“Everything’s alright, bro..!” Rex was growing really tired at this point. “It is kinda your fault that we all fucked… you got us booze…”

“I- Rex, please…”

“Please what..?” Rex sighed. “Cody… if you get to fuck one of us, will we make it up to you?”

Rex smirked at Cody. He knew he hadn’t had sex with anyone in a while.

Cody blushed. He was exposed. And so was his bulge. Rex saw that.

“Oh… someone’s excited..!” Rex got on his knees and now was facing his older brother’s throbbing dick, still inside the boxers that he started to pull off.

“You know I can take care of you, Cody… Just don’t be mad…”

“Rex!” Cody recoiled. “I can’t fucking do this! You’re… you’re my brother! It’s wrong… I- I just…”

“It was also wrong to buy us alcohol…”

“How much did you drink?”

“Oh, enough to not… not think about… the future… or today… just let me suck you off and we’ll forget about it…”

“Rex, I-”

But even super drunk, Rex was quicker. He took off Cody’s underwear, now admiring the dick he only got glimpses of before. He started to suck his older brother off. Cody was shocked, but his bro’s mouth felt too good to stop. He gave in. After a minute, Rex looked up at Cody.

“Dude… I’m kinda… done… I can’t…”

“Oh, so you won’t even let me finish?”

“I…”

“Turn your fucking ass around.”

Rex was too out of it to not oblige. Cody spread his bro’s ass cheeks and a single drop of cum leaked out of his brother’s hole. Even though it was used today already, it didn’t stop Cody. Nothing could.

“I just need to cum somewhere, dude. And show your friends how it’s done.”

Cody grabbed onto his brother’s hips and started pounding his hole. With each fast, aggressive, almost careless thrust Rex was more and more lost. He didn’t know what to feel. Was it pleasurable? Forbidden? Embarrassing? He didn’t know and could only whimper as his older brother was close to finishing. None of Rex’s friends were in the right state of mind to stop this. Or remember it.

Even though the boys were all hungover the next morning, they did their best to clean up and were trying to piece together the events of the night. Rex’s best friend, Dawson, could actually remember the fact that they had sex and wanted to talk about it privately. So they came up to Rex’s room and he told his friend everything. Rex was shocked, but at least he lost his virginity to his best bro. But Dawson wasn’t the only one who remembered that night. Cody did too. And he heard everything. It was great to know that his brother was oblivious to who’s cum stained his underwear, so he kept quiet. For a few months, at least.

After several weeks, Rex developed some pregnancy symptoms. He obviously brushed them off as a stomach bug or stress or sleep deprivation or… He soon ran out of excuses. His “oh, it will go away in a few days” bloat didn’t go anywhere, so he was beginning to worry. He could still hide his "bloated" belly under a hoodie at school, but it was April already. This won’t work for long, especially at the gym.

He always went there with his friends, his bros. They all wore either tight or super loose clothes to show off their bodies and loved to go shirtless. But Rex couldn’t do that anymore. His friends were questioning the fact he wore a 3XL t-shirt all the time and didn’t take it off at all. He was so confident before, what happened. Dawson noticed it first. One day they went to the gym alone. After their normal workout, it the locker room, Dawson asked Rex that question.

“Dude, what’s going on with you? You can tell ME, you know…”

“Daws, I- I don’t really wanna talk about it…”

“About what?”

“Ugh…”

Rex turned to his friend and lifted up his shirt to reveal his three-month bump that he tried so hard to conceal. Dawson was puzzled.

“You’re afraid of a… bloat?”

“It’s not a fucking bloat, dude. It’s not going away. I don’t even gain weight anywhere else, so it’s not fat. And I am sick a lot… I just… I don’t know…”

He took off his shirt completely, putting his belly on display. Dawson got closer and touched it. It clicked.

“Dude… Do you think I knocked you up that night..?”

Rex’s heart sank to his growing stomach.

“I… Wh… I can’t! You can’t! I can’t have a fucking baby! I- It’s not…”

“Rexy, please, calm dow-”

“HOW THE FUCK CAN I BE CALM WHEN I FIND OUT THAT I AM FUCKING PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD. I AM FUCKING EIGHTEEN. I AM A FUCKING ALPHA, DUDE.”

“REX, STOP IT FOR FUCK’S SAKE. IT MIGHT NOT EVEN BE A PREGNANCY, WHAT THE HELL DUDE??”

Rex shut up. They changed without talking to each other. They caught a few weird looks from men on their way out, but it wasn’t as bad as Rex trying to buy a pregnancy test. He told the cashier it was for his girlfriend, but did it so awkwardly that they only chuckled in response.

As soon as he got home, he locked himself in the bathroom and did the test. The five minutes of development felt like an eternity. Then, he looked at it.

Positive. Of course it was positive.

He couldn’t believe it for a few seconds, but then it hit him. He could be a father. He could give birth. It was terrifying. He clutched his belly and started crying. It was too much. Even after sex ed. I happened to him, and now what?

He was crying loud enough for Cody to hear him. He knocked on the bathroom door.

“You alright there, dude?”

“…”

The crying has stopped, but something was definitely up.

“Hey, what happened, man? Can I come in?”

Rex opened the door without saying anything. Cody came in.

“Why are you crying, dude. You haven’t cried like this in a while…”

Rex didn’t know what to say. He was holding on to the positive test in the pocket of his trousers.

“Please… Please don’t tell mom and dad…”

“What… Did you fucking kill someone?”

“It might be worse…”

Rex took the test out of his pocket and gave it to his brother.

“It’s mine, Cody…”

“What the- DUDE. That’s- That’s… cool..?”

The thought of his brother being pregnant with his child struck Cody mid-sentence.

“I don’t fucking know what to do. It’s Dawson’s… He told me that he fucked me that night you bought us booze. I found cum on my und- Fuck, dude, it’s so embarrassing.”

Cody was trying to come to his senses. He couldn’t figure out if his brother possibly being pregnant with their child was creeping him out or turning him on.

“Did you think about abortion? I mean, it’s so early to have a kid.”

“I want to talk to Dawson first. Maybe he wants it, even if it’s not from a girl… I just… I can’t…”

Rex hugged his older brother and started crying again. Cody didn’t bring himself to tell the truth, so he hugged Rex with his left hand and put his right on his bro’s belly.

“It will be okay. I promise. If you decide to keep it, I’ll help you out.”

Rex didn’t stop crying.

He told Dawson about the baby the next day. As Rex thought, he was actually down to become a dad. Probably because he wasn’t the one carrying.

Rex kept the baby.

He and Dawson graduated during the first week of May. Even though it was getting hot in California, the robe covered Rex’s belly up. They didn’t know if they were in a relationship at that point. They separated from the friend group and only hung out with each other. Dawson started to feel something towards Rex, but he still wasn’t sure. Rex was only able to be free with Dawson. And his brother. He was only comfortable being shirtless with him and Cody. Only they could touch the bump. Dawson was very gentle. He began to kiss and rub his bf’s belly and Rex didn’t resist. It felt nice. It felt warm.

The fact that he kind of disappeared from social media didn’t help his image. The last things he posted were some selfies from when he was only about 10 weeks along. His fans started to question his absence and it was getting to Rex’s head. He should do something, post something, come clean to everyone.

That’s why he decided to take some pictures on their upcoming vacation. Rex, Cody and Dawson planned to go to Miami for a week to relax. Rex was hesitant before, but now he was the most eager of the three to go. Dawson couldn’t make it because of his new job he took up and Rex and Cody went alone.

The next few days were spent on the beach, tanning, swimming of just napping in the shade, Rex’s preferred pastime. The pregnancy was getting to him. Reaching the fifth month of pregnancy, Rex’s energy was fluctuating. He would be filled with energy one day and just barely making it out of bed the next day. Most of the time, he just wanted to sleep. After six days of this, Cody wanted to do something different. He wanted to go out. Maybe he could find a girl to bring back with him.

Rex was absolutely against it, his sleepiness and gravid belly were the reasons he stayed at the hotel napping and looking through the photos taken by his brother a day before. The beach, their lunch, and a ton of photos of the bros: Rex putting on sunscreen on his belly, him sunbathing, eating lunch, him and Cody flexing on the beach, Cody’s sunburnt back, his nudes… Rex shivered and brushed it off. He chose one picture to post, taken at the balcony of their hotel room. No caption, no hashtags, the photo will say it all.

2 AM. Rex finally decided to post this picture, so everybody could find out what happened first thing in the morning. He texted Dawson that he’s going to finally do it and tapped “Post”. As soon as the picture was online, he turned off his phone. He just wanted to sleep calmly for a final time. Five minutes later, a drunk Cody opened the room’s door.

He was shirtless and barefoot, his shorts barely staying on his hips, covered in stains.

“Heeyyyyy maaaaan, how’s it goinnn?” If it was obvious to Rex before, Cody was really drunk.

“Dude, what the- How much did you drink?”

“A few beers, some shots, I don’t really remember. Does it even matter?” Alcohol made Cody go angry in seconds.

“Yes, it does. We’re not even home. What were you thinking?” Rex gulped.

“Don’t you fucking remember the night I got you knocked up? You were so drunk you can’t even remember how you begged for my cock and let me breed you?”

Rex’s heart skipped a beat. Cody sobered up in an instant. Rex felt a flutter in his belly. His baby kicked for the first time.

Their baby.

#mpreg #mpreg belly #tomsbly’s mpreg ken thing #mpreg morph #mpregnancy #mpreg kink #male pregnancy #mpreg story #pregnant male #pregnant man #mpreg celeb #manpregnancy #manpregnant #mpreg ken #mpreg gym #teen mpreg #rex campbell #cody campbell

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statementlou · 9 months

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hello :) could you maybe explain a little bit how dan wootton blackmailed louis?

ugh sorry for taking a while to get to this. The problem is I feel like the only two ways to answer this are by spending a week and a half of full time labor sifting through old posts and evidence to get every detail right and lay out an airtight case, or to halfass something very serious, and so I felt a little stuck. So since I can't seem to find a good halfway point, apologies but here is the half assed version, if you want to get into it more I invite you to do your own deep dive or talk to other people, but here's how I remember things. Louis has almost never on video explicitly said things about Larry not being real and/or anything negative about fans and their theories (mostly the opposite), up until the last couple years when he obviously decided to make a major change he didn't talk about Freddie much at all let alone saying he was his kid, honestly not that much about Eleanor even; except for in two major interviews with Dan Wootton, each of which lined up with a serious traumatic Tomlinson family event that they managed to keep out of the tabloids until the very end (Jay's illness and Fizzy's struggles with substance abuse). After the fact of those events a lot of small things that didn't make sense at the time came together to look very much like Louis traded those interviews (and those answers) for having his family's private matters kept private. Story trading of this kind is a publicly known real thing that happens, and there were various clues that suggested he was being leaned on about those stories to lend legitimacy to the idea that it was something that happened in these cases. Given what we know about Dan Wootton and how he operates even before the recent flood of information and even more now, I think it's more than likely that he has been holding the threat of outing Louis (as he has done to many other public figures) over his head for over a decade, and has used his family's tragic struggles to get Louis to dance like a fucking puppet for him and I will REJOICE at his downfall when it comes whether it is now or 20 years from now... because someday it will, he has made too many enemies to stay above it forever

#I did start to try to deep dive before I realized it was too much #but I was reminded that when Louis was doing txf as a judge while fizzy was struggling #many people thought he had been pressured somehow into it; later when we knew what had been going on people were like #oh maybe he just wanted to be close to home to deal with fizzy stuff or somethng #but also: keeping fizzy stuff quiet would potentially be the info we didn't have at that time that could answer that q too of what they use #given the DW🤝simon jones🤝simon cowell cursed connections #(for the newbies: simon jones aka DWs bestie is Louis' publicist for no apparent reason even now long after he has gotten free of the rest #of the modest/syco/simon cowell shitshow)#anyway another example of story trading in our fandom is zayn's baby sister's teen pregnancy #which was known to the fandom early on but kept super quiet by respectful fans- during this time Z did some unprecedented actual interviews #for no obvious reason #and then iirc pretty much the day she turned 17 a very lowkey article reported on her marrying her bf and mentioning a pregnancy #but as if it was recent not like 7 months along #and even when she gave birth soon after it was all kind of... glossed over and around and not reported until a little later #blah blah blah #I felt like it was weird to talk about this for some reason but when I thought about it #I don't know if it matters. Like maybe talking about him not being a dad and being gay or whatever at all is bad #but assuming we're doing that anyway. why not talk about the struggles around that #and the creeps holding it over his head #dan wootton

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wildlife4life · 3 months

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Seven (+) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by the super amazing @daffi-990 @lover-of-mine @try-set-me-on-fire @fortheloveofbuddie @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @jesuisici33 and @diazsdimples. Thank you all so much and I am super excited for your upcoming works!

Another tag day, another snippet of NFL Buck. Back to Eddie's perspective! This time, we are delving into this au's version of his and Shannon's background and relationship. WOOO! (Every previous NFL Buck post can be found here) Enjoy!

Buck gave Eddie a very befuddled look, "Um, if this is your way of breaking up with me, I think you skipped a few major steps here." Eddie rolled his eyes, "Make sure the equipment manager gives you an extra thick helmet Buckley. All those previous head injuries are catching up to you." His boyfriend gave a half hearted glare, but didn't make a comment, allowing Eddie to explain. "They're for Shannon." "Ohhhh." Evan finally caught on and Eddie can't help but roll his eyes again. "I keep forgetting your un-repressed ass is still married to a woman." The jerk had the audacity to crack jokes and give Eddie a cocky grin. "And that makes you my mistress." Eddie fired back. "Meh." His boyfriend shrugged uncaring. Which is fair because he's the mistress who beat the odds and convinced the husband to leave his wife. Though did it count if the wife left first? Eddie shook his head, pushing aside that thought, knowing it would lead down an emotionally twisted path he didn't want to get into at the moment. Picking up the divorce papers, Eddie returned them to the manilla envelope labeled with only Shannon's name. "Look, with the move to Houston I am obligated to inform Christopher's mother of his whereabouts. I did the same when we moved to Austin, though back then I was hoping that by telling her we were out from under my parents roof, she would return." Buck grimaced, "Considering you showed up for our not-a-date, date, that didn't happen." Eddie nods, unable to meet the younger man's saddened gaze. The hurt and anger towards his soon to be ex-wife, was all twisted up with a healthy dose of guilt and the love he would always have for her. It felt unfair to Evan to still love her. His feelings towards Shannon used to be less complicated. Before Eddie bent under his parents expectations, she was one of his closets friends. Much like Buck, she was easy to talk to, made him laugh, and didn't pressured him to be anything more than himself. Eddie never did express his disinterest in girls to her or how his eyes tended to linger a little too long on some the guys on the football team (he has a type, repressed or not). The subject of girls and dating didn't come up, until his dad made an off hand comment about his son not bringing any dates home to meet. Eddie panicked. And when Eddie panicked, he came up with some awful ideas. Kissing Shannon after his baseball game because he knew she had feelings for him beyond friendship, was one his worst. Back then, Eddie hoped that treating Shannon as more than friend would lead to feelings of actual attraction and romantic love. It didn't. Further expectations, additional pressure lead to more panic and stupid decisions. Then one day during his senior year, Eddie found himself with a positive pregnancy test in hand and Shannon begging him for a solution. He was down on one knee with a ring his mother shoved into his hands two days later (Eventually Eddie would learn the silver band with a small lone diamond was a promise ring from Adriana's cheating ex.) Shannon said yes, Eddie's Uncle Paco ordained their wedding at the local rec center, and Christopher Edmundo Diaz was born May 8th, 2008, just after Shannon took her last final (her water broke as she handed in her math test). When Eddie held his son, he instantly knew, his entire heart belonged to this tiny little boy, but right on the heels of that love came the cold dredges of panic. On May 9th, 2008 Eddie acted upon yet another awful idea and signed up for the Army. Neither he nor Shannon made it to their high school graduation. Instead the first tear in their relationship was being formed with angry shouts, heartbroken sobs, and a hastily packed duffle tossed into an old truck.

I will admit, I am not the biggest Shannon fan, but I am not a Shannon basher either. Her and Eddie both made mistakes, and that will be shown in this au, as Shannon was a big part of Eddie's journey and the mother of his child. Hope you all enjoyed!

Tagging (no pressure): @theotherbuckley @disasterbuckdiaz @devirnis @exhuastedpigeon @bekkachaos @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @hippolotamus @rainbow-nerdss @spaceprincessem @athenagranted @eddiescowboy @evanbegins @elvensorceress @malewifediaz @911onabc @911-on-abc @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @thekristen999 @princessfbi @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @glorious-spoon @buddierights @prosperdemeter2 @lemonzestywrites @gayedmundodiaz @cal-daisies-and-briars @transboybuckley

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