#the outfits are fine her scales are just too light

[rambrandt-the-painter]

jolene gets a two page ref sheet fuck it

[kathlare]

stage lights & stolen glances

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie steps onto the iconic stage of Wembley Stadium for her first performance at the Summertime Ball, but her nerves threaten to overwhelm her. With her family's support and a timely, heartfelt pep talk from Lando, she finds the courage to shine. As she takes the stage, her confidence grows, fueled by the electric crowd and Lando's unwavering presence in the audience.

Wordcount: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff, smau

request over here!

July 16th, 2024 - London, United Kingdom

liked by f1wagwatch, landonation, and others

f1gossipalert: 🚨 Spotted! Lando Norris and both his and Amelie Dayman's families at the Summertime Ball in Wembley Stadium this weekend. 🎤✨ All eyes were on Amelie as she slayed her first-ever performance at the event. 👏 Lando’s all smiles and cheering for his girl – no surprise, since he’s always been her #1 fan! 😍 Looks like they’re hitting new milestones together, both on and off the track! 🙌💫

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f1fanatic99: Lando showing up to support his girl like the proud boyfriend he is 😩💯

→ f1gossiper47: @f1fanatic99 Bet he was just happy to see her on stage

f1girl25: Did anyone see the way Lando was looking at her on stage? 🔥🔥

mclaren_moments: Lando in the crowd like "yeah, I’m dating her, get in line" 😎💅

→ f1fanatic17: @mclaren_moments He’s probably out there singing her songs too 😂

f1fanboy2010: Imagine getting to watch your girlfriend perform at Wembley and still have to keep your cool with all those people around 🥴 → amazing_lando: @f1fanboy2010 Lando’s cool factor just hit a new level 😎💯

f1fanatic21: Lando really knows how to pick 'em, huh? 🔥🎤

f1gossiper69: Ah, the classic “supportive boyfriend” post. Cute, but did we hear a rumor about them possibly taking a break? 👀💔

→ landosupporter88: @f1gossiper69 Haters gonna hate, but we ALL know Lando's the biggest Amelie stan 💅

f1fansbykevin: So we’re just ignoring the fact that Lando’s looking like a snack here too? 👀💥 → landoisbae01: @f1fansbykevin Ain’t nobody ignoring that, he’s looking fine as hell 😎🔥

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The buzz of the crowd in Wembley Stadium was electric, the air thick with excitement as the anticipation for the Summertime Ball grew. Amelie could feel the heat of the stage lights on her skin, the vibrant pulse of the music vibrating through her body, but none of it helped to quell the nerves twisting in her stomach.

She was about to perform for tens of thousands of people, and though she had graced many stages before, this felt different. This was Wembley—an iconic venue that she’d dreamed of since she first started performing.

Her team was running around backstage, putting the final touches on her look, adjusting her mic, but nothing was easing the rising panic inside her. She could hear the crowd's roar in the distance, each second bringing her closer to the spotlight.

—Amelie, breathe,— her mom, Victoria, said gently, rubbing her shoulders as Amelie stood in front of the mirror backstage, adjusting her outfit one last time. —You’re going to kill it out there. Just remember why you started this.—

But no matter how many times Victoria reassured her, the jitters wouldn’t go away. Amelie took another deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to focus. Her mom saw the tension in her, though, and she knew just the thing to do.

Turning quickly, Victoria approached a member of Amelie’s team. —Find Lando,— she said, voice low but urgent. —I think she needs him.—

Meanwhile Lando was sitting in the stands with his family, surrounded by the noise and energy of the crowd, but his focus was entirely on Amelie. They were all cheering for Amelie, but there was an undeniable feeling of nervous excitement hanging in the air.

It was their first time seeing her perform on this scale, and Lando couldn't help but feel proud. She was his girl, and she was about to own the stage.

But when a member of Amelie’s team appeared, signaling Lando with a quick wave, he knew something was up. The man gave him a nod, and Lando immediately stood up, excusing himself from his family as he made his way toward the backstage entrance. He wasn’t sure why, but the urgency in the look on the guy’s face made Lando’s heart beat a little faster.

He made his way through the maze of corridors, quickly finding his way to the back of the stage where Amelie was preparing to perform. As he entered the area, he spotted her instantly. She was standing near the side of the stage, hands trembling slightly, her gaze fixed on the ground. She didn’t see him approach, but he could tell from her body language that she was struggling.

Lando’s heart dropped at the sight. She was always so confident, always so in control. But right now, she looked like she was about to collapse from the weight of it all.

—Hey gorgeous,— Lando said softly, stepping close to her, his voice soothing and familiar.

Amelie’s head snapped up, her eyes lighting up the moment they landed on him. A relieved smile tugged at her lips, and she quickly closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around his neck.

—Lando,— she whispered into his neck, her voice shaky, —I don’t know if I can do this.—

Lando chuckled softly, his hands sliding down her back to comfort her. —Of course, you can. You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. And you’re going to crush it.—

He pulled back slightly to look her in the eye, his thumb brushing her cheek softly, his gaze dark and full of affection. She looked perfect, as usual, but right now she needed him. And he needed her, too.

—You’ve got this, Ames,— he whispered, leaning in closer, his breath warm against her ear. —I’ll be right there, watching you, supporting you every step of the way. You don’t need to do this alone.—

Amelie felt the heat of his words spreading through her body, calming her nerves and igniting something else—something she’d been trying to keep under wraps all day. The feel of his hands on her back, the warmth of his body so close to hers, the sound of his voice—it made her heart race in a way that had nothing to do with performance jitters.

—Promise?— she asked softly, her lips grazing his ear as she pulled away slightly.

Lando’s lips curled into a grin, that playful glint in his eyes. —I fucking promise.—

She laughed nervously, her hands trembling against his chest. The touch of his skin under her fingertips, the solidness of him in front of her—it was a comfort she could always rely on.

But there was something else simmering underneath her nerves, something that had been there for a while now whenever they were together. The pull between them was undeniable, and as much as she tried to keep her focus on the performance ahead, it was hard when all she could think about was how he made her feel.

Before she could stop herself, she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him, her lips urgent, needy against his. She had no idea why she felt the sudden surge of heat, but she didn’t care. Lando’s hands cupped her face immediately, returning the kiss with just as much intensity.

Her body pressed against his, the taste of his lips igniting a spark that Amelie couldn’t ignore. The rush of passion was instant, and even though they were in the back of the stage, mere feet away from hundreds of people waiting for her to perform, it was hard to care about anything else.

They pulled back for a breath, both of them panting slightly. Lando’s fingers dug into her waist, and his eyes were dark, filled with something more than just love. —You’re killing me, Ames,— he murmured, his lips trailing along her jawline. —You’ve got to be fucking joking.—

Amelie smirked, running her fingers down his chest teasingly. —What? Can’t handle a little kiss from your girlfriend?— she teased, her voice low and sultry. She was feeling confident now—empowered. The moment they had shared, the way he held her, the way he made her feel... it worked.

Lando groaned quietly, his hands sliding lower. —Baby, you know what I want to do to you right now, but I can’t. Not here. Not before you go on.—

She laughed softly, the sound light and carefree. —Well, I’m not that distracted,— she said, pressing a teasing kiss to his lips. —I’ll get on stage and do what I came to do. But I might just think about you while I’m out there.—

Lando raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. —You’re a fucking tease, you know that?—

Amelie smirked and gave him a playful shove, stepping back as she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. —Let me go do my thing. I’m not gonna let my nerves get the best of me, not when I’ve got you cheering me on.—

Lando stepped back, nodding with a wink. —I’ll be right here, baby. And when you’re done, I’ll make sure you get all the attention you deserve.—

Amelie gave him one last look, filled with affection and excitement, before she walked toward the stage entrance, her confidence returning in full force. Lando watched her go, his heart swelling with pride, knowing she would absolutely own this.

The crowd's roar reverberated through the stadium as Amelie stepped onto the stage, the spotlight hitting her like a wave. She could feel the pulse of the music beneath her feet, and the beat of her heart seemed to sync with it. For a moment, she hesitated, caught in the sea of lights and faces. But then, she remembered Lando.

His smile, his promise, his touch. His words echoed in her mind: You’ve got this. It was all she needed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the nerves dissipating as the music swelled around her.

She moved to the center of the stage, the rhythm taking over. The crowd erupted into applause as her voice filled the stadium, powerful and confident. She could see them all—the fans, the familiar faces of her family and Lando’s in the stands. But it was the one person she kept searching for, the one who had calmed her nerves just minutes before, who made everything feel right.

Lando was standing just off to the side of the stage, not in the private grandstand as originally planned, but in the open for everyone to see. His presence was undeniable. He was watching her intently, a soft but proud smile on his lips, eyes fixed on her every move.

Amelie could feel the electricity in the air, the buzz of excitement that hit a new peak when Lando stepped into view. His smile was wide and proud, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing that mattered in that vast stadium. She couldn’t help but grin back, her nerves slowly melting away as the rhythm of the song took over.

The crowd went wild when they spotted him, whispers of "Lando!" and "Look! It's Lando Norris!" filling the air. Cameras flashed, and the energy in the stadium seemed to shift, becoming even more electric. But for Amelie, none of that mattered. She could feel his presence like a warmth in the pit of her stomach, a constant, grounding force that calmed her heart.

And there he was, standing in the middle of the chaos, her biggest supporter, right in front of the stage. She could see him mouthing the lyrics to her song, his lips syncing along, and it made her heart swell with pride. He was in his element too—no longer the reserved F1 driver, but just Lando, her boyfriend, the guy who would do anything to support her.

Her voice grew more confident with every word, the energy of the crowd feeding her performance. She danced, she sang, and most importantly, she let herself feel the moment. She wasn’t just performing for her fans; she was performing for herself, for the people who loved her, and for the guy standing right there, cheering her on.

Her voice grew more confident with every word, the energy of the crowd feeding her performance. She danced, she sang, and most importantly, she let herself feel the moment. She wasn’t just performing for her fans; she was performing for herself, for the people who loved her, and for the guy standing right there, cheering her on.

Mid-song, Amelie’s eyes found Lando again. He was standing at the edge of the stage, his eyes locked onto her with such intensity that it made her knees weak. She winked at him, throwing in a playful, teasing smile as she sang the next line, and to her surprise, Lando winked back, mouthing "You’re amazing, Ames."

The flirtation, the intimacy, the connection—they didn’t care who was watching. They weren’t just two public figures; they were two people who were absolutely, undeniably in love, and the world was witnessing it.

As she hit the chorus, she felt a surge of confidence. She twirled around, arms spread wide, basking in the sheer joy of the moment. Her heart raced, but it wasn’t from nerves anymore. It was from the rush of performing on this stage, knowing that Lando was right there, supporting her every step of the way. The crowd could feel it too—the electricity between them was palpable.

She threw herself into the performance, singing with all the passion she had in her. The crowd’s reaction was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the way Lando’s eyes never left hers. He wasn’t just watching her perform; he was watching her be the woman she was meant to be.

The next chorus came, and Amelie pushed her nerves aside completely. She was on fire now, the excitement of the crowd, the music, and Lando's unwavering support igniting something in her. Her steps were precise, confident, and when she reached the center of the stage again, she threw her arms out wide, soaking in the applause.

With one final spin, she let go of the last of her nerves. The music swelled to its climax, and she finished the song with a fierce, confident note. The crowd erupted into cheers, but for Amelie, there was only one person she wanted to see. She glanced at Lando one more time as she took a bow, and his proud, loving gaze was all she needed.

The roar of the crowd seemed to fade as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, but her heart was full, her soul lighter than it had been all day. Lando had been right there, supporting her without hesitation, and it made the entire moment even more special.

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liked by hayesgrier, madisonbeer, and others

ameliedayman: Mila’s first wembleyyyy thank you @capitalofficial for having us at your summertime ball. 80,000 of you singing along did not feel real :’) you’ve been so good to me UK thank you!!!!

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landonorris: Can confirm the hottest performer and the hottest crowd 🔥 Wembley’s never seen anything like you 😏 → ameliedayman: @landonorris And you’re the loudest fanboy there 🥰 don’t stop 😘

alexwolffofficial: Wembley? More like Milabey. You crushed it 💪✨ → ameliedayman: @alexwolffofficial STOP, you’re making me blush 😳😂

thisisrozzi: Iconic doesn’t even cover it. You OWNED that stage! 👑🎤 → ameliedayman: @thisisrozzi Awwww love youuuu 🥹❤️

fan4norris: How is Lando not combusting seeing his girl like THAT on stage? 😩🔥

hateralert56: Meh, overrated. Wembley’s seen better. 🙄 → f1fanatic90: @hateralert56 Keep crying while she keeps winning, babe 💅

f1dramaqueen: Amelie serving LOOKS, VOCALS, and STAGE PRESENCE 👏👏 Wembley is quaking!

capitalofficial: She’s the moment. Lando’s the hype man. We’re just lucky to witness it 👏 → ameliedayman: @capitalofficial Best. Comment. Ever. 🙌❤️

maxfewtrell: Wembley? Casual. Can you chill with the world domination for like five seconds? 🤣 → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell No. Next question. 😌💅

pietrapilao: Literally screaming. I got goosebumps during Espresso 🔥☕ → ameliedayman: @pietrapilao I saw you crying, don’t lie 👀😂

haterenergy: Why is she performing at Wembley? She's overrated.

groupiealert: Lando looking at her like she’s the only person in the world… I’m so single. 😭 → landostan87: @groupiealert Same...

[felassan]

Thoughts on the DA:TV Companion Concept Art:

General

I love that we saw these and I think the art is beautiful!! it's so cool seeing different versions of a character, different ideas for a character, and how things translated from concept arts into the character models in the game. I can't waaait to look through the rest of The Art of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, with a fine-toothed comb!!

each character has iconic color palettes and iconic shapes and stuff :)

I feel like there is a lot to examine in these pictures, even with the spoilery text redacted!! 🔍🔍

I'm so extremely curious about what the redacted text says. 👁️

It looks like the geometric patterns drawn behind the characters are slightly different each time?

In the ones where multiple different outfits are shown for the character, do you suppose that these are only discarded concept ideas, or are some similar to some of the alternate outfits for the companions that we can find or upgrade for them in the game?

in some of the pages, there appears to be additional parts of the page blanked out/redacted rather than just the paragraph of text. I wonder if there are small text captions or even additional small drawings in those spaces that also needed to be redacted for spoiler reasons 👁️

In some of the sections below I just described what part of the art I was referring to, in others I popped in images because I was finding it hard to describe what I meant ^^

Also, the associated tweet mentions the BioWare Gear Store-exclusive variant of the artbook. The link in it just takes you to the general Gear Store website landing page at the moment. At the moment, the BioWare Gear Store variant of the artbook is out of stock (it went out of stock really quickly after release). However, CM Violet mentioned in the Discord that "We are planning on another printing [of the Gear Store variant of the art book], but no date yet! I'm sure we'll announce it when we have more news!" [source: the official BioWare Discord]

Bellara

Bellara's page is the only one I think with no name. did her name have to be redacted too bc of a spoilery reason?

I LOVE Bellara's pages. she's just so 🥺 (clenching my fist). some aspects of the design of Bellara's clothes remind me of butterflies or butterfly wings.

Left: the angle of this one reminds me of her party icon art. Center: this one shows a different design concept for her vallaslin. in this one she also has different earrings. in the full version of this drawing, it looks like she is holding some kind of tool in her hand (makes sense considering her Tinker ability), while in her other hand it's a piece of cloth, reminding me of the way mechanics are sometimes drawn holding rags during their work. her posture in the full version of this drawing is like 'You can fit sooo many triangles inside this bad boy [the giant elf head artifact/sculpture]'. hhh. Right: can anyone make out what the text above her bag says? ^^ btw, this bag design is so cute. edit: thankyou to @squidaped-oyt who mentioned in the replies of this post that this looks like it says "Foldable map"! more on that here.

HELLO??, this ancient elven sculpture/artifact thing is extremely 👀. the scale of it compared to Bellara is massive. there are beams of light coming from its eyes and the triangle set in its forehead. the triangular parts are a now-familiar aspect of ancient elven magic-tech and artifacts. the nose bridge reminds me of the design of elven nose bridges circa Dragon Age II - only he has a pointed part on his in addition. the bald head we're all familiar with from ancient elven statues, in-world murals/wall paintings etc. is it just me, or are the teeth also pointy? I wonder what this thing is.. was it just decorative (a head of a giant statue)? (this kind of thing in this Veil Jumper/Arlathan Forest concept art comes to mind). was it an art piece representative of a particular Evanuris or one of their chosen? or did it have some kind of actual function - maybe it was part of a giant protective automaton kinda thing? what this head really reminds me of is Codex Entry: Vir Dirthara: Signs of Victory -

The pages of this book—memory?—describe a monument made in a single afternoon by a thousand-thousand toiling servants swarming over a lump of fallen stone as large as a collapsed mountain. By the end of the day, the stern figure of Elgar'nan stares down into a valley, carved out from the foothills of the rock. The slaves have disappeared. Light radiates from the eidolon's narrowed eyes and its open, snarling mouth. "Hail Elgar'nan, first among the gods! Mark his victory eternal!"

Could this be [part of] one of those sorts of monuments/eidolons? It sure looks like it's snarling through its open mouth. And it has narrowed eyes and light is radiating from them.

The other things it reminds me of are: 1. the ancient elven sentinels (the magic-bot kind, not the Abelas and crew in Temple of Mythal kind), two. like maybe it's a giant one of these. 2. these big ancient elven hands and the Dead Hand landmark (see Trivia section) in DA:I, which is found in the Dales and contains an elven shrine and is not far from Ghilan'nain’s Grove.

Horace Medford wrote of that landmark,

"The great stone hand was something of a mystery. One assumes it is a piece broken off from a larger whole. If so, judging by the size of that one hand, I imagine the entire sculpture to be... well, large enough to require the use of obscenities to describe it. Thus I have only one question: where is the rest of the statue? It is difficult to imagine how something so large could go missing."

like maybe the head from Bellara's concept is the giant head to a similar kind of pair of giant hands (of either type).

(^ post which discusses these both here)

Left: the way this bracelet thing is worn gives it the impression of a watch, which is cool and fits her machinist/inventor kinda vibe/aesthetic :) Center: the cloth, a bit dirty from active use (what a thoughtful touch), tucked into her belt :) Right: I love the eyepiece/monocle look!! It's giving Artificer, it's giving gadgets. does anyone else think Bellara and Dagna would get on super well? 💜

These are all super interesting and I love that they were thinking about the different parts of Bellara's kit and belongings like this. in the top row, it looks like the book on the left is the closed version of the book on the right. Bellara's book full of research notes :D what I wouldn't give to browse through it!! I love how she's filled it with different bookmarks, it gives you an insight into her mind and the way it works. on the front is one of those ancient elven golden faces (like on Solas' armor's knees in Trespasser, on the Sentinels in the Temple of Mythal, on the ancient elven Deluxe edition of DA:TV armors, etc). inside, it looks like she has pressed a flower, which is so lovely. on the right-hand page, I'm really curious about the drawings there. what is it of? a map, a diagram? it reminds me a bit of the map of Arlathan Forest in the Veil Jumper issue of Dragon Age: The Missing (and it would make sense for her to have a map, Arlathan Forest is changeable lately). and if you squint, maybe that's an 'X marks the spot'? also extremely curious is the drawing on the left-hand side of the page:

Who is this depicting? the figure's headshape/headpiece/mask reminds me a lot of the Evanuris headshapes. and the general vibe of the drawing reminds me of the ancient elven Evanuris mosaics (example). Sylaise-y? but maybe it's not an Evanuris and it's more like a figure from Bellara's past? the way the flower is pressed on this page makes it look tender, like memory. or if it was an Evanuris, it makes it look like an offering or token. perhaps Bellara's vallaslin correspond to Sylaise or whichever member it is. there was a time before the gods came back the way they did in DA:TV.

It's also really cool to get a look at the fold-out material thing. do you think she usually carries this rolled up at her belt or in her bag? it looks like somewhere where she stores various kinds of ancient elven triangle fragments, or maybe it's even some kind of strange map. A map of a bunch of different reality-fragmented Veil Bubbles or something would look really strange no doubt, not like a normal map.. edit: more on that here.

Davrin

It's neat to see different hairstyle versions of Davrin! the shape of the blue sword reminds me just a lil of Starfang, which is really nice. and we saw Davrin with a griffon-wing shield like there is in these concepts in the character reveal trailer.

Comparisons of the various vallaslin designs he has in his concept arts to the final one in the game. (in some of the concepts, his vallaslin look a bit bluer, which reminds me of his tarot-style art from the party selection screen). though, in the right-most version, it looks more kind of like a circlet, a Samara Mass Effect-type situation instead :)

This on his heel is totally a spur. makes sense, for a Warden that may one day be a griffon-rider like the Grey Wardens of old :') (at least in the sense of visual language, like "spur - riding - horse - griffon").

We see Davrin equipped with an additional dagger/shortsword like this in the warrior gameplay video, albeit not this specific one, if you go by the handles.

He maybe has some stubble here. ^^

In this version of Davrin, it looks like he has a staff. (though, he still has a sword here too). Is it a polearm kinda deal, or was there a time during development when Davrin was a mage? perhaps the elf in this concept art is a version of Davrin? that elf is wielding a staff to fight, and there are some similar aspects in the outfit designs, like the considerable collar.

interestingly, his staff here reminded me of the staff held by the elven figure on the front of the DA Vinyl art. 🤔

^ Looking at that staff-Davrin concept more generally, it's interesting that this version has more overtly Grey Wardenny-parts to his armor compared to his final look, like the griffon symbol on the chestplate and shoulder.

This Davrin holds out his arm, like a falconer. in Dalish culture, the hawk is a sacred animal of the Huntress Andruil.

And this Davrin straight up is a falconer. how cool!! due to image resolution I'm not sure if the darker parts on the raptor are parts of its plumage or accoutrements, but in falconry, the birds sometimes do wear these types of accoutrements. Falconer Davrin Concept reminds me of that one DA:I Dorian concept art where Dorian had a monkey haha. :D the attention to detail in Falconer Davrin is neat too, you can see that on the hawk-perch arm he has a thick extra cover on his arm, due to the sharpness of raptor talons and grip. I really love Falconer Davrin's griffon shoulderplate, and when looking at the more geometric diamond design of his vallaslin here, what struck me was its resemblance to the diamond geometric pattern behind him.

Harding

Harding is the only one on the concept art among the named characters there who is listed as her surname rather than her given name haha. she's just Harding just like Hawke is Hawke, that's just the way it is.

The flower and leaf pattern in the top left is cute, I wonder if it was inspiration for the flower and leaf stitching Harding has on the collar of her casual clothes in the game. In the concept art it looks like the kind of design that you might have on the leatherwork on the front cover of a beautiful leatherbound journal or something. :) In the central picture she's holding and appreciating a blue flower, which is so cute ♡ and which ties to what was said about her loving plants, raising plants, and nature. she has what looks like the Inquisition hairy eyeball symbol on her belt pouch as well as on her knee pads. (;;) the version of her to the left of that shows her with her hair down, in a more pony-tail like sort of style. on that version of her, you can see flower and leaf floral patterns curling up the bottom of her cape. (very pretty).

To the right of the central image, there's a big diagonal blank rectangle of content which has been removed, presumably due to spoiler reasons. Was this also text? It seems like a weird angle to have placed text at. Maybe it's a drawing of an object of some kind being hidden? A different version of her bow perhaps? (this is the case in a few of the companion concept arts btw.)

The tailored coat and pinstripe pants version of her is so cool. :D look at the tails on the back of her coat in that image. dapper. Harding formal wear? :D

of course, the two most !! images from Harding's one are these ones. copying over my thoughts from that post,

Presumably this is to do with Harding’s new magical stoney earthy powers. (In the second image, along with the bow, it looks like half her face, part of her neck and her arm itself is also stone/crystal). The glass-like shiny parts reminds me of quartz or something. :)

I do wonder if (if they are still things in the game) perhaps those two images or the stoney parts of them could also potentially have done with being redacted for spoiler reasons? how I wish the Harding image was higher resolution so we could take a closer look at stone-Harding..! somewhere off in the distance, Varric "haha, you'd be Harding in Hightown" Tethras is like "haha, Harding, you're hard/hardening" hhhh. 💀

In the image with her hood up, the blue veins on the bow remind me of blue lyrium veins. I also wonder, is she holding the stone/crystal bow with her stone/crystal arm, or is the bow simply growing from the arm? does the hard surface of her body when it's like this repel or take less damage owing to its hardness? is this something she might be able to do in gameplay later on as her story (and powers) progress?

it stands to reason that if you can turn other people/things to stone, as she did to some ghouls in the release date reveal trailer, you might also be able to extend this power to yourself. presumably this ability is tied to the Titans, the dwarves as their children, the Stone, maybe a restored (in Harding's case) connection to that, the way dwarves used to be. it also reminds me of how golems are created using live dwarves. Caridin said "It allowed me to forge a man of steel or stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier." 👀

Btw, speaking of Harding's magical powers, I wonder if Harding dreams at night now..?

Lucanis

it looks like there's a spot on Lucanis' page other than the text at the top that is blanked out/redacted. I wonder what it contained.

part of the geometric designs behind him reminds me of his eyes motif.

some of the alternate outfits for him look really like, majestic. in the one with the manbun, he has big poufy shoulder pieces and huge sleeves.

I wonder if any concept art of clean-shaven Lucanis exists anywhere? ^^ I'm really curious about what he looks like clean-shaven, or without a beard as he was in The Wigmaker Job.

I'm losing my mind at all the different concept ideas for Lucanis' hair, especially the one with the curled forelock and LUCANIS MANBUN omg. but I like his feathery mullet that he has in the game the best. :D

The design and coloring of his sword is just so COOL. The oil-like iridescence, purple-black, is like corvid feathers.

What a lovely sketch, lovely pencilwork. ◕‿◕ his eyebrow is slightly raised and you can see here again that his nose is slightly 'crooked' (perhaps he's broken it in the past?). I love this sort of feature sm in every character that has it.

In this one his eyes are doing the glowing purple thing again. again he is not defeating the possessed/dead/abomination/-somethingelserelatedorsimilar-is-going-on with him allegations. this one has a hood in an Assassin's Creed sorta style and the general vibe is like a ninja. the shoulder pieces look feathery, and the cloak/coat looks like feathered wings or tailfeathers. this piece feels the most "The Demon of Vyrantium" in vibe hh 👁️ And are you guys seeing this?? Here it looks like has claws like Wolverine hh!! :D though he could simply also be holding multiple knives in between his fingers (of the sort you can see at his belt in another concept, I've put that one just below here to show them), or have a bladed gauntlet, etc.

This person coming at you in the night, no wonder the evil Venatori magisters are scared of him :)

Coffee, no doubt :) cool mug shape.

Bird design again on this leg-piece.

Left: a take on the now-iconic Antivan Crow bird-masks. really cool design. here it's giving Batman, it's giving masquerade ball. I really hope we see him wearing a Crow bird mask of this sort at some point during the game!! 🧎🕯️🧎 it's a big missed opportunity if not imo hh. Right: Lighthouse casual-wear, or something very close to it. his vibe in this art is also similar to his vibe in the Lighthouse group shot.

Veilguard symbol on his chest? some of the alternate outfits include a more Veilguardy purple to them, and this one reminds me of how the Veilguard symbol looks for Rook here for example.

Lastly, in this main one, his general shape is sooo triangular. :D and his face/expression here really captures this description of him from Tevinter Nights:

Lucanis stared ahead, focused and intense. He was the kind of man you couldn’t look away from—until he looked at you.

In this one I also get the sense of dark circles under his eyes, which is a trait that in fiction reminds me of coffee-drinkers. ^^

Emmrich

Both staffs in Emmrich's concept art are different to the one we see him with here, but the bigger one on the concept art is close to it.

In this concept it looks like Emmrich has a scar on his chin.

Left: without his jacket on, he looks so svelte. the gold parts on his boots/knees remind me of the gold headpieces fixed to walking dead in the Necropolis. they are also hexagonal in shape, which I've become convinced is part of Nevarra's visual design language (and therefore part of Nevarran architecture, fashion/culture etc. :D he has so many bracelets and rings. Center: he looks so happy here and in the one next to it! these versions of Emmrich seem to lean more to the purple side of his color palette. these ones have a sorta futuristic vibe. you can see some of the tools of his trade at his belt, and it's a different version of his staff. here the skull floats at the top of the staff and burns with green fire, rather than being fixed to the pole of the staff. Right: Emmrich with big hair! quiff-like, and it looks like a large part of it is white rather than gray.

in this alternate outfit he's wearing a work apron with tools of his trade on the front. he's holding a glass flask that is filled with green liquid and billowing green smoke. I wonder if Emmrich is skilled at alchemy? do you think he has a lab, or that his room in the Lighthouse might be filled with stuff like alembics?

Looking again at Emmrich's outfit in these arts - from the back, the back of his coat reminds me of depictions in art and tv/film of the blood eagle?? (if you are sensitive or squeamish to gore and things of that nature, please don't google that!). the lines on the back of his shoulders remind me of musculature. The repeating pieces down the center of the bottom part of his coat reminds me of a spine. and the back of his gold belt-piece from behind straight up looks like a pelvis. the skeleton and body imagery here is an amazing art direction/symbolism for him!! what a bigbrain idea. is that sort of detailing why the design of the front of his coat looks like someone's chest has been opened on an operating table?

also, the long coat reminds me of labcoats. :)

I wonder if the bracelets and things are a Nevarran cultural thing/common fashion in Nevarra, or more of just an Emmrich thing? ^^

lastly his expression in the one on the right is so gentle and kind.

Neve

There are two spots on Neve's page other than the text at the top that are blanked out/redacted. I wonder what they contained.

I love that they tried out differing concept/designs for the look of Neve's leg, and what looks like a stand for it as well. they're all really neat and you can see serpentine aspects in all of them. a person could also have more than one.

this image contains another great reference for Neve's wand-cane thing. here the orb in the middle looks like a big pearl, like from inside a mollusk. the ring around it is definitely evoking the body of a snake coiling.

The concept art contains a blond version of Neve. because of her ice powers, it reminds me a bit of Emma Frost (Marvel). look at that Neve's heeled boot, and the size of her hat!!

I prefer the Neve they decided to go with in the end. ♡♡ ^^

Taash

oh my goooood. breathing in and out rapidly into a paper bag. oh my godd. she looks sooo cool!! I'm posting the whole thing again here just bc omggg.

Most versions of Taash have the green crystal horn. her concept arts show versions with different skin colors. her eyes in some of them look green. I love all her different-version Lord of Fortune / Rivaini gold pieces. in the top-left hand version of her, her bigger shoulder-piece is really cool (the right-hand side one); it could at once be a piece of spiky dragon bone or a piece of a big spiky sea-shell (both ideas work perfectly for her character and background). I've said this before when talking about Taash's design, but I love the parrot-break design of one of her weapons. it's very piratey. in this page, we can see several different versions of the parrot-beak weapon. also, I love all her different facial expressions.

in the right-most Taash concept, the dragon tooth-like pointy bits on her gauntlets look like they're made out of gold, not tooth. her big piratey boots are so cool and they even have a gold coin on them! you can see the spike braided into the end of her ponytail, and in that drawing the dragonscale-looking parts of her iconic armor look even more scaley, owing to the way they graduate from a full covering of scales to a partial covering to not present (in a way that reminds of how on some fantasy arts of things like dragons, there can be softer/less protected areas of their hide with no or less scales, like towards their undersides):

The bottom-left most illustration looks like it might be her iconic armor, only seen from the back, which is good to have a reference of. the design of her sword scabbard is cool, it's like the segmented flat of a dragon or sea-serpent's tail. in that image it also looks like the eye of her parrot-weapon is matched by an eye on the scabbard. something about the designs of her sword and scabbard remind me of weapons like daos. from behind, it also looks like her gauntlets might have thicker armor on one-side, better protection for the upper side of her forearms. the fingers of her gauntlets also look taloned, in a way that reminds me of Fenris.

Okay now let's talk about the concept in the center at the top! this version has longer horns and more spikes in her ponytail, in fact the ponytail here looks like a dragon tail as a result. it reminds me of Flemeth's dragony hair from Dragon Age II onwards. this version also looks like she may have blue-ish facial tattoos, or it could be vitaar. it also looks like she may have a second, smaller set of horns. in this version, the red ropes are cyan-blue instead, and she not only has the spikes/teeth on her gauntlets, but also on her boots (knee 'pad' and the heel, like spurs). in this version, her swords are dragon wing-shaped, which is pretty metal. I can't tell if the triangular piece that hangs down in the center is from the front piece of her clothing or the back piece, but it gives the impression of a dragon tail.

Lastly, the concept in the center at the bottom: here her boots remind me a lot of Dragon Age II Isabela, who is of course, also a piratey type of character from Rivain. the giant axe here is cool, the shape of its blade also evokes the shape of a dragon wing and it looks like the handle might be made of bone. the way she's carrying the axe here reminds me a bit of how Iron Bull carries his weapon in this art piece. the teal and gold color scheme of this piece reminds me of the gold and blue/green of some Ancient Egyptian things, and round her neck it looks like she is wearing a torc.

[andyoullhearitagain]

Every Quarkfit Ranked From Worst to Best Part 4

Part 1

5. Space Zebra Print:

Some more top tier pattern mixing. Neither of these are zebra print and yet to me they both read that way? Odd. I LOVE the colors on this one. My only major problem with this one is I oddly want MORE trim? I just wish there was some more detailing down the center front of the vest piece, and maybe something on the sleeves? We hardly ever see it full length from the back (bc like why would we?), but I LOVE the shape of the tails.

4. Red and Blue:

I like the yoke/stripe through the sleeves and the chest a lot, and I like that their contrast is the wrong side of the fabric. Love the little highlights of green and yellow in the bias trim. Love that the sleeves are super short to reveal the sleeve cuffs. The light colored shirt is very nice because it creates nice contrast right next to his face (this is why traditionally your shirt is the lightest part of your suit). It also looks great with the Klingon marriage fur robe thing.

My only real problem with this outfit is that I think cutaway coats in general are a little unflattering tbh. This is the costume that he wears the most without the jacket and he looks like such a little businessman 😭.

3. Mondrian:

Quark is really demonstrating some high-level pattern mixing here but he's following the rules - different scales and similar but not identical color pallets. I love love love the texture of the shirt.

In fact I think this is my favorite of his shirts, and I like that it bears pretty much no resemblance to a modern dress shirt. I love the little double trim on the collar and it's echo on the sleeve.

And I love the weird little Space Fashion shape of the front hemline.

2. Red Striped Tails:

Love the color palette on this one, I'm a suckered for red and pink and purple together. Love the little bias panels down the front.

And look at the pattern matching at the back of the collar!

I also love that the tails go all the way down to his ankles!

Cons: Once again it's a little too Earth for Quark. He looks like a regular Terran ringmaster. He also looks like the Mayor of Munchkinland, but I'm pretty sure the Mayor of Munchkinland is on Quark's fashion inspo mood board so that's fine.

1. Aztec Cherry:

Aztec Cherry my beloved ♥️. I love her. Love the fabric. Love the shape of the lapels. Love the lovely soft roll line. Love the trim on the seamlines.

My only quibble is that it's a little close to his skintone, but they balance it out by putting the blue right next to his face. I love how there's like eight fabrics in this costume but they all balance so nicely.

[pluck-heartstrings]

My mind is in shambles, I hope you know that. Here I am tangled up into like 3 different gauges and types of threads trying to determin the difference between steel grey and platinum and what becomes a hand and what becomes a dress while making her look like a creature of distinct parts. Should I double strand some cool pastels into her dress to make an Aurora affect ton mimic sun and moon taking on sun rise and set adjacent coloring? Or try and make her as acurate as possible with flat coloring so my brain doesnt itch? Maybe I could try and ombre her skirt in an attempt to make her face as striking as possible? Like a singular blinding star in the sky. Do I use micro thread for a tiny, figurine like statue, or more versatile larger gauges that look messier but allow for more variety, but a floppier plush like design? How much do I have to pay you for a reference sheet or should I go all and just freehand her a dress design? What color is the gem on her circlet I cant find a reference?!?! I know its non canon but she's about to get my ballet slipper pattern feet and become and en point queen. I could streamline the design by forgoing feet altogether and make a stand and thick skirts and pose her and straight up make like 10 of her! GOLDEN PRINCESS PLUSH! Oh my god, sleeping beauty dress split in sun and moon colors I can't. I feel a deep connection with Sun to the point of pulling my hair this princess has me in a death grip. Her aesthetic got me quaking. *her god damn head is a nightmare!!!!!!!* I've got a third of a two year project left to do *that I was paid for, and can not put on hold* or else I would be elbow deep in dragon scale patterns trying to make 3D eyelashes!

And part of this design process is trying to like... reverse enjineer Fazco type branding. What parts of ger are most marketable and thus, simplified and emphasized? With her and sun being the only two without "cool accessories" my brain wants to go whole fucking ham into the rose prop that will most likely be her signature and remove her legs so her skirts can become an inverted rose. I'll bet they'll be all over her merch.

Ima go die now. Or lie down and shake from overstimulation. Princess fixation always be hitting at 2 am.

Nelly I'm shaking you. I'm kicking my feet in a furious attempt to keep it together.

If there was a head of merch at Castle Faz I'd hire you in a heartbeat. You understand. /italian gesture hand/ No matter what happens Castle Faz is still a FazCo business and they'll do whatever it takes to make a profit.

Shitty little cheap plushies of the Princess? Fly off the shelves. Every little girl either buys one of the Princess cap crowns or a plush. Their parents bring them back to Castle Faz because the doll basically disintegrates with too much playing so they have to return to get a replacement. But the die-hard fans that follow the company and turn a blind eye to all the mysterious circumstances of the past? Those are the ones that shell out BIG BUCKS for the high resolution, hand painted figures. Especially one of the newest character in their lineup, the first in however many years. The Princess isn't well known yet, but if the business does well then she'll be the marketing face for the brand.

Her aesthetic is platinum, with an array of subtle colours. Picture fine particles of glitter that catch the light and refract into a multitude of colours. Because of her simplistic mask and hat, she looks good in all colours. That means her merch can change often, and it does! Dress up Princess dolls with changeable outfits for every occasion, holiday, theme.

See now you got me goin'

[captain-lessship]

Pale

Request: Hey, so I had an idea that I was wondering if you could do. Basically, an angst/hurt/comfort fic between Enid Sinclair and a vampire Male Reader, where the reader is distraught because he knows that one day, Enid will pass away while he lives on, being immortal and all.

A/N: Not me giving reader a while ass backstory for no damn reason.

TW(maybe idk) mentioned sickness and death(kinda cause like vampire transformation)

You smiled as you watched the girl paint your nails black and purple, switching on the opposite finger. 

“Stop moving! I’m going to get it on your skin.” She said, holding your hand still.

“Sorry!” You said with a light laugh. Your gaze falling on the intent look on Enid’s face. 

She soon finished the last nail, you pulled it from her to look.

“It would’ve looked better if you didn’t move as much.” She huffed.

You smiled, “I’m sorry! I just get antsy.” 

She laughed, “It’s fine, now we gotta let them dry.”

“In my book, this is one of the better styles.”

She let out a giggle again, “Alright, alright what is it?”

“You’re from what? I bet they didn’t let you wear nail polish, even if was a thing back then?”

“1842, actually.” You said, now smiling at her. “ I made it through all those times just to love you.”

“Did you just rhyme?” 

“Perhaps.” You stood up from the bed, “I better go.” 

“Aw,” she frowned, “okay, bye.” She stood up to hug you. 

You pulled her into a hug, feeling her warmth. She looked up at you with pale blue eyes. You gently pressed a kiss to her forehead before pulling away, “Goodnight, love.” 

As you shut the door behind you, you felt a weight come to your heart. 

One hundred and ninety-eight years. 

You been here for one hundred and ninety-eight years. As you walked the number echoed in your head til to came to the window that was at the end of the hallway. Rain was dripping down it, droplets chasing each other. It reminded you of your last night alive. 

Your skin was blazing but you were trying to breathe. It stung and hurt. The doctors had said that your injuries from the accident had been infected and pneumonia had set up because of your typhoid. 

All they could do was keep you as comfortable as possible. You coughed loudly, whispering filling the room. 

A cool hand touched your head and you moved your eyes to look at your mother, worry on her pale face and dark eyes. 

“Shh, it’s alright.”

You smiled softly, “’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, dear.” 

“I love you.” You said. 

“I love you too.” You coughed away from her, towards the window. A knock came.

She shushed you again, “I found a man that will help.”

You lolled your head back to her, watching her walk to the door and open it. In stepped a short man in a rather odd outfit. He walked to you and spoke.

“Widow Carmines, leave us. I will do what I can.”

Your mother walked out the door, leaving you with the stranger.

“Can you sit up?”

“No.” You barely whispered.

“Perfect.”

That shocked you until a hand slapped over your mouth, you couldn’t fight. You felt a sharp stab in your neck.

A rumble of thunder brought you from the memory. Tears filled your eyes.

It was so long and it would never be over.

That’s when it hit you. You’ll never be over. But she will be. She’ll grow, she’ll live, she’ll die. 

And you’d be here. You will never grow. You’ve already lived. You will never die. 

You had met many people in your time but the fact, and the fact that it was a fact, that you’ll say goodbye to Enid one day broke your still heart. You looked at yourself in the mirror.

You wanted to smash it in hopes it’d take what you were with it. You began to cry, you opened the window, letting the rain hit you in the face. You climbed out of it and scaled down the wall. 

You didn’t know what you doing or were you going but you needed away. You walked around the outside of the school as the storm raged, water falling by the bucket full, lightning blaring through the sky and thunder rolling.

You walked to the trees, watching them move and listening to them creak in the wind. You laid down, watching the orchestra of the sky play.

Until it stopped.

It stopped. 

You sat back up and looked the huge circular window, where she stayed. You might not have your forever but you could have hers. You walked to the building and climbed the wall.

You gently pulled the window open, listening and looking at her. You watched her sleeping from, chest moving up and down, light snores leaving her. She was beautiful. You stood there like a guardian angel, watching for discomfort or distress. You wondered what she dreamed about in the hours of night. 

You walked to her, water barely dripping from you. You gently pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

You knew where Enid kept a stash of your clothes, surely she would mind letting your borrow back your own clothes. You quickly got changed and put your sopping wet clothes in a random bag you found. You walked back to her bed and tapped her on the arm, she stirred slightly.

“Darling, it’s me.” You whispered to her half-sleeping form.

“Hi.” She said with an adorable yawn following.

“Hey.” You smiled, “Can I lay beside you?”

“Sure,” she scooted over and flung back the covers to let you in. You slid under the covers and pulled them over yourself. She nestled into your chest and led her hand up to your hair.

“Why’s your hair wet?”

“I was having a moment in the rain.” You whispered to her, almost as if it were a lullaby.

“Are you okay?”

You sighed, “I just realized that one day, hopefully very far from now, I’ll have to let you go.”

“You mean when I…” she didn’t want to finish it.

“Yeah. But I want you to know that you’ll always, and forever be my love. And I will keep you in my heart. Forever.”

“I love you.” 

“I will love you longer.” 

She laughed lightly, “I know that.” 

You smiled as you squeezed her close.

You’ll have forever to remember her.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐕.𝐈

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

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

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women in my condition. 

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

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

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

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

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

I am not tired anymore. 

“What?” 

My voice is weak, disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A wedding present?” 

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

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

“But my period--!” 

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

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

“You’ve still had your regular period?” 

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

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

Oh, my God. Pregnant again. 

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

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

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

“Your wedding was nine weeks ago, yes?” 

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

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

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

I nod--just barely. 

A baby. My baby. Bradley’s baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our baby. We are going to have a baby.  

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

“This was an accidental pregnancy, yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

It’s crackly, broken, weak. 

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, God. 

Dr. Travett nods once, softening. 

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

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

“Yes,” I confirm, “both.”

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

“Any cramping? Spotting? Morning sickness?”

The vein across my nose throbs.

“None.”

She nods. 

“Have you been overly-tired recently?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A baby. A baby. A baby. A baby.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The baby.   

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet thing,” I whisper finally in introduction. 

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

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

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

How big is my baby at 9 weeks gestation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nuzzles his nose against me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes me hum, makes me feel pleased. 

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

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

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

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

It chokes me again--my love for him. 

“Once or twice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The aloneness lasts less than five minutes. 

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

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

“Y’get lost in there, baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kitchen door closes behind me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Faye?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Been down one time / Been down two times

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it’s an olive,” I finally say.

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

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

The room feels quiet after he says that. 

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

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

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

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

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

I shake my head. 

“No, you’ll be there, too.”

His brows scrunch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative.”

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

Bombs away, baby. 

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

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

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

Pregnant. I am pregnant.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nine weeks,” I add softly.

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

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

“Real subtle of us,” I laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An olive, huh?” 

His voice is tearful. 

I nod, cupping his cheeks, thumbing his tears. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips are salty and damp. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What should I say?”

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

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

He swallows, nodding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you thinking about?”

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

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

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

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

“Stupid happy?”

He flashes a pretty grin, nodding. 

“Downright vapidly happy.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could I do anything but comply?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what you want, mama.”

Mama. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, he listens. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” I cry, “fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mouth,” is all I can manage. 

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

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

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

“Off,” I tell him, breathing hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, mama,” he encourages, “cum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Caroline by Bobby Goldsboro is playing now. 

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

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

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

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

This breaks his resolve instantly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, the cord is tight, weak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’alright, baby?”

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

I nod, biting my lip. 

More than alright. Perfect. 

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

Another affectionate squeeze on my hip. 

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

We both laugh, our voices hoarse.

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

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

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

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

He hums. 

“Does that make me your old man?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘M so excited,” he whispers. 

“Me too,” I return, nodding. 

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

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

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

He shakes his head. 

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

I hum, nodding, stretching my aching shoulders. 

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

“Boy or girl,” he asks softly. 

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

“Girl, I think,” I say finally. 

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

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

A daughter. 

I’m swooning. 

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

He is still beneath me, behind me. 

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

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

I swallow, nodding. 

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

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

There’s another beat. 

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

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

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

“A DILF?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. I know he needed to hear it.

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

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

His laughter rumbles his chest. 

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

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

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

He nods, rubbing my belly again.

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

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

April 27th, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stifled a laugh, glancing back at his phone.

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

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

Another crack of lightning flashes across the sky. 

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

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

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

“Who needs ‘em, anyway?”

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

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

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

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

“Surprised,” I answer, though. 

He groans, squeezing my arm. 

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

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

“What’s got you blushin’, mama?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Under?”

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

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

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

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

Keep steady, heart. Keep steady.

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

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

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

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

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

Mama. Everyone is calling me that nowadays. 

“Good. Tired,” I tell her. 

“Exhausted,” Bradley corrects. 

I nod, cheeks pink. 

Dr. Travett tuts, nodding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twins run in the family, right?”

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

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

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

“Crossing your fingers for one or two?”

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

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

Dr. Travett glances at me through her lashes.

“Nervous?”

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

“A bit,” I tell her, biting my lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Travett hums, tilting her head.

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

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

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

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

“Says your due date is November 21st.”

Just like I calculated. 

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

“Ready to hear the heartbeat?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Faye,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

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

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

“I know,” I whisper, “I know, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

That’s odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re we gonna call them?”

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

“The baby?”

He nods. 

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

“Or it,” I tease, “got any ideas?”

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

He hums, sucking in a breath. 

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

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

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

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

“Dagger three?”

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

He’s teasing me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 May 30th, 2021 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” I whispered, “your turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Faye,” he greets. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Bradshaw’s!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he’s the one that prompts us. 

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

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

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

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

“Nursery,” Bob echoes finally, brows quirked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[silverstarfics]

I’m convinced I wrote this in my sleep because I don’t remember writing most of it and I am ridiculously tired right now. But hey, the prompt was ‘let’s celebrate’ so I wanted to write something light-hearted without thinking too much so I guess I’ve achieved that goal

@thunder-pride

AO3 link

Thunderbird One had a very large, very conspicuous pride flag painted along her hull.

Given their current surroundings, this did not stand out as much as one might expect, but it was certainly a marked change from that morning. Somehow, in the five hours since Alan had last seen the Thunderbird in the hangar to now, at Sydney Pride, the transformation had taken place without any prior warning or even the smallest of hints.

It wasn’t as if their support of the community wasn’t public knowledge – along with the fact that several of them were part of the aforementioned community. Gordon had somehow talked Brains into creating him a second baldric in pink, yellow and blue and promptly switched out his usual yellow for the pansexual-themed sash every pride month. Virgil had a tiny flag painted onto the Jaws of Life. Alan himself had slapped as many stickers as possible onto his astroboards.

International Rescue wasn’t even supposed to be making an appearance. These sorts of things usually had to be organised in advance with the help of their hardworking PR team.

Today, they were here as themselves. There wasn’t a flash of blue uniform to seen, although admittedly their outfits still stood out in the crowd; Virgil’s because of the intricate details of the design he’d painted onto his shirt, Alan’s because he couldn’t decide on a single colour scheme and so had opted for all of them, and Gordon’s because he resembled a walking disco ball. If Alan had considered his brother’s Hawaiian shirt bright then this was blinding and that was before he’d gotten hold of the glitter spray.

The glitter spray was currently in Kayo’s possession as Gordon demanded she reapplied it. His offended squawks were almost loud enough to be heard above the crowd.

“You nearly got it in my eyes!”

Kayo’s eyeroll was practically audible. “Stop whining. You’re fine.”

“I’m blinded, Kay.”

“You’re not, but we might be. How many sequins are you wearing?”

“Not enough.”

Neither of them had yet noticed the Thunderbird descending towards the top of a nearby apartment block in full view of the crowd. In their defence, the event was loud and so the rumble of VTOLs was mostly lost in the mix of music and merriment. But the clamour of voices and delighted shouts was fairly hard to miss.

Alan stared at One for a long minute, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes to check if his vision was playing tricks on him. It took a moment to remember that he’d probably just smeared glitter across his face. Dangit.

“Holy shit,” Gordon exclaimed gleefully, finally glimpsing One. “He actually did it.”

Kayo tossed the glitter spray into Gordon’s bag. “I thought Scott was busy today?”

Gordon waved a hand vaguely. Kayo hooked her fingers through the mesh of his shirt and yanked him off the curb. He twisted to face her with an offended yelp and Alan reached back to steady him before he could slip on the mess of confetti coating the street.

“Start talking, fishboy,” Kayo demanded. It was genuinely impressive how she managed to maintain an intimidating aura whilst wearing rhinestones. “What do you know?”

Gordon attempted to back up a pace. “To be fair, he didn’t lie to you. He has been busy today. Just… you know. Arranging certain things. Like, uh, surprises.”

“Gordon, I swear.” Kayo jabbed a finger at him until he went cross-eyed. “You know I hate surprises.”

“You’ll like this one!”

Alan was still caught up in the pride flag on Thunderbird One. It wasn’t just a small painting but a large-scale expanse of colour over her silver hull, sparkling in the sunshine. Cameras flashed and phones buzzed. #ThunderPride was probably already trending across social media. He spun around to Gordon with a breathless grin to match the giddy joy which had been fizzing under his skin ever since they’d touched down on Australian soil that morning.

“Did you know?”

Gordon gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Possibly. I might have mentioned the fact that this is the first pride you’ve been to since you came out. Or, you know, ever. I mean, I just intended for him to turn up but apparently he took ‘showing support’ to the next level. Which is awesome.” He fished his phone out of his pocket. “Oh, hey. We’re trending.”

“Scott’s trending,” Kayo corrected.

Gordon elbowed her. “Actually, Thunderbird One is trending if you want to be technical and boring.” He rose onto his toes to glimpse something over her shoulder. “If you turn around now, you’ll see your surprise.”

The streets were packed with so many people that it was near impossible to pick anyone out from the rest. Confetti drifted in the air, constantly churned into glittering clouds. Music sought out any hint of sadness and banished it to leave joy and acceptance in its wake.

Alan had never seen so much colour in one place. He couldn’t stop smiling. Even Kayo seemed at ease, with her flag wrapped around her shoulders and the flower crown that Virgil had talked her into wearing. Then she let out a shout and flung herself at the person who had arrived with Scott.

“Hello, darling,” Penelope greeted her, unable to repress laughter as Kayo pulled her into a hug. She had little beads woven into her blonde hair and had embellished a pastel pink dress with pins. The flag painted onto her upper arm was not her own, however. “I’m wearing it in John’s honour since he won’t attend such a crowded event,” she explained, sensing Alan’s confusion.

Kayo looped an arm around Penelope’s shoulders. “You told me you had a conference today.”

“I did, but not anymore. We thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“We?” Scott questioned, arms spread to let Gordon cover him in glitter spray.

Penelope gave an exasperated sigh. “It was mostly Scott’s idea.”

“Mostly,” Scott echoed. “It was entirely my idea, but whatever makes you happy, Pen.” He batted away Gordon’s hands. “Okay, squid. That’s enough glitter.”

“You can never have enough glitter,” Gordon declared.

Kayo stole the glitter spray. “I’m confiscating this.”

Scott scanned the crowd. “Where’s Virgil?”

“Oh, we sent him to get food like an hour ago.” Gordon didn’t seem particularly concerned by their brother’s disappearance. “Queues are crazy. He’ll probably be back soon. He won’t miss the parade anyway and that starts in ten minutes.”

“By we sent Virgil to get food,” Kayo interjected, “Gordon means that he bugged Virgil into agreeing to get some by being annoying as fu-”

Penelope clamped a hand over Kayo’s mouth – the only person who could get away with that without immediately being murdered. “There are children around.”

“-fudge,” Kayo finished. “Annoying as fudge.”

“It’s not my fault that I have a fast metabolism,” Gordon protested. “I get hungry quickly, you know that. I’m a growing guy!”

“You haven’t grown in years,” Scott pointed out.

“Shut up, Scotty. Not everyone can have your freaky height.”

“John does.”

“John’s weird.”

Kayo cut in with a mischievous smirk. “Just accept the fact that you’re short, Gords.”

“I am not short!”

“Uh huh,” Scott deadpanned, propping his elbow on Gordon’s head. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Gordon shoved him away. “I can’t believe you’re bullying me at Pride. Isn’t that a hate crime? Rude. Get outta here, Scooter.”

“I painted a flag on One,” Scott defended himself. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

“You painted a flag on One for Alan.”

“I painted it to show support for everyone.”

“But mostly for Alan.”

“Wait, really?” Alan tore his gaze away from the crowd to stare at his eldest brother. He couldn’t quite keep his voice steady as emotion spread outwards in his chest. “You did that for me?”

Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him close. “It’s your first Pride, Allie. That can be pretty overwhelming. I just wanted to make you feel as supported as possible.”

“Because you’re a softie,” Gordon stage whispered.

“Whatever, shortass,” Scott retorted, ignoring Gordon’s outraged gasp. “Yeah, Al, it’s mostly for you, but it’s also important for people to know IR supports them.”

Virgil finally reappeared with armfuls of various goodies which Gordon and Kayo dived on like a pair of ravenous gulls. His gaze travelled from Scott to TB1 and then to Penelope.

“Scott,” he sighed fondly, “When I said don’t go overboard, this is what I meant. You were supposed to show up with a pride flag.”

“And I did,” Scott agreed cheerfully. “I just happened to paint it on my Thunderbird, that’s all. John suggested using a hologram but that felt like cheating. Go big or go home, right?”

Penelope seized Kayo’s hand. “The parade is about to start!”

Gordon barrelled ahead, a livewire of pure energy. “Hurry up! I want a good view!”

The entire day had been a whirlwind so far. There was an undercurrent of pure joy which wove through every soul present; the elation at having the precious freedom to celebrate themselves and the people they loved. Smiles were exchanged freely. Everyone seemed welcoming and kind. Compliments were treated like currency. Alan was struck by a wave of pure fondness for everyone around him, so much so that it left him momentarily frozen.

“Hey.” Virgil’s hand landed on his shoulder. “You okay, Allie?”

“Yeah.” Alan jolted himself out of the trance. “Yeah, I’m great.” He grabbed Virgil’s hand. “C’mon! Let’s celebrate!”

[spuddlespud]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks to my lovely friends for the tags, sorry it's taken me a couple of weeks to get round to it. There's a couple of these from bits of writing that never went anywhere so I wanted to share bigger chunks.

@untethereddreams - Light, Rain, Rich, Grime, and Stack

@winterandwords - talk, wait, remember, and something.

@ahordeofwasps- guide, lied, sighed, pride, and collide!

I'm tagging: @littlepatchofhell @inkspellangel @eccaiia @talesofsorrowandofruin @aohendo @lady-grace-pens @writingamongther0ses @primroseprime2019 @azriel-alexander-holmes @bardic-tales @sapphsoon @gloriafrimpong

Your words should you choose to accept them are: tree, mirror, footstep, hand, hair

LIGHT - ???

Everything suddenly went black. The sirens screamed in response, repeating their competing jingles to each other in an endless cycle. Fantastic. A power cut. She stumbled over to the dresser, tearing through and tossing things on the floor until she found it. The light came on after a few turns of the handle and she descended the stairs feeling like Florence Nightingale.

RAIN - a Workers Guide to Demonology

The bus stop itself is nothing remarkable. It smells faintly of piss, but thats just humanity for you. A group of dour faced people stand silently staring at their phones. One of them swears when a drip of mossy rainwater falls on their head from a crack in the bus shelter roof.

RICH - ???

Scowl deepening, she tugged angrily at her cuffs, trying several times to slide the sodden discoloured sleeves up her arms, eventually giving up and rolling them. "And what do you think you're laughing at." She yelled up a the mocking figure. "Trust me, if you could see your face right now, you'd be laughing too." This was followed by even more laughter which devolved into snorts. Molly definitely wasn't a delicate giggler.

Having successfully rolled up her sleeves, Beth began to scale the hill, pulling on tree roots with a grunt. "That's pretty rich coming from someone who starts snorting like a pig every time she finds something vaguely amusing." "I am pretty rich, I've got you visiting every day haven't I?" Beth finally made the last few feet up and over the ridge of the hill. Despite her breath catching in her throat from the beauty of the woman in front of her (and also from scaling a massive fuck off hill), she still managed to paste an unimpressed look on her face. "That is the biggest load of tripe I've ever heard!" Of course this earned nothing but another undaunted giggle. The woman moved closer. She was an inch or two taller than Beth (not something she ever let Beth forget). Her simple green dress was covered in a multitude of different stains, each one Beth well knew was related to some kind of mishap with one or other of Molly's potions. 

GRIME - none

STACK - Dragonsbreath and Skelefellas

"Fine, I'll go get it from the back." She looked over to where Andrew was poking his skull head from behind a stack of haunted books. "And behave, you!"

TALK - The Bite

She took a big swig of bitter coffee, letting it out half a sigh at Charlie’s next words “I was bitten by a werewolf.”

Of course werewolves were the next step. It was only a matter of time. “It’s too early in the morning for this Charlie, can we talk about it this evening once I’ve got a pint in me?”

WAIT - Old Inn Door

The bullet barely grazed her skin as she'd carefully aimed at the closest brute. His fellow soldier just looked confused as she carefully positioned herself so that he followed his friend in a pile on the floor., her bonds loosening with every shot. Not waiting for his body to hit the floor, she rushed to the door, clumsily using her shoulder to shut the bolt behind the door, even as angry footsteps sounded in the hallway.

REMEMBER - A Workers Guide to Demonology

Outfits have changes much since I was last on this wretched rock. All three are dressed similarly enough to make it clear that that is the current fashion. Their black pointy hats are tall, and I have no idea what purpose they would serve. Their dresses are much shorter than I remember them being.

SOMETHING - ??? (I'm sharing a big section because it's something that never became something and I think it's cute)

This floor wasn't going to get the best of her. She'd decided that as soon as she'd slammed the bucket down and seen the wave of soapy mess slop onto the floot. The burning smell of lime was already starting to make her feel dizzy and every scrape of the brush against the floor sent a pain shooting down her raw rubbed knuckles. A thick layer of sweat was building up under the coarse material that covered her back. But this floor wasn't going to get the best of her.

She dropped the brush for a second, sitting back into kneeling position. She tried to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, sighing when it determinedly bounced right back into it's previous position.

"Here, watch out" a gruff voice said as a hand reached down to pull the strand of hair back and tuck it behind her ear, just below where her cap sat.

She smiled up at the figure standing above her, the gentle touch of calloused fingers against her cheek sending a giddy thrill through her. In other circumstances the looming figure could have been interpreted as intimidating, but Meredith had come to know that slightly lopsided smile well over the last two years she'd been in this house. She'd never seen those large hands raised in anger, neither had she heard that gruff voice raised above a speaking level. Jack was undoubtedly the softest soul Meredith had ever known.

Jack smiled back, a shy smile but gentle none the less.

Meredith stood up, intending to say something clever and inspiring like "How's your day?"

Unfortunately she never got to finish the question as in the process of getting up she stepped on a particularly soapy patch of floor, sending her foot slipping back from under her, her back slamming into the ground in the process, knocking over the brimming bucket of limewater.

Jack had instinctively reached out to grab her as her tumultuous decent had begun, and had leaned over fast enough for the falling bucket to knock her off her feet and tumbling down after Meredith. Landing in a heap. Jack's large frame gained an "oof" from Meredith as she practically fell on top of her. GUIDE - The Familiarity Between the Owl and the Pussycat

"...and then I saved that ungrateful runt, at great personal risk. And you know how he thanks me? Instead of coming back here to stay safe, he's back out playing at hunting. Are you even listening to me?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Séamus" Bathsheba sighed "You know what Midnight's like, you're the much older, and obviously much wiser and much cleverer one. It's upto you to guide him."

The response from Séamus could almost be described as a snort, but she new she'd managed to placate him a little.

LIE - A Worker's Guide to Demonology

Except that as I'm drifiting off one of the stupid humans decides it's the perfect time to start pounding on the bedroom door. "Ellie! Ellie! You need to get up. You're late for work."

Knowing how stupid mortals are I decide on mubling a minimal effort lie. "It's okay, I have the day off."

Ha! Got her. Easy as pie, whatever that means. Time once more for sleep, glorious sleep.

"You don't have the day off. You told me you had to train the new staff member this week."

SIGHED - ??? (I think I've posted this one before)

Belle fake sighed, finishing the last bite of her biscuit. "Fine, what can it hurt. But we've got to have all the protective measures in place before there's any funny business. I'm not having a repeat of the time we summoned the banshee."

PRIDE - Dragonbreath and Skelefellas

It was always nice to see Skully without their official skull  make up on. There was a red tinge to their cheek from rushing down the  tower stairs and their hair was practically standing on end, proving  that whatever they had been working on had distracted them from any  hairbrushing since they woke up. Damn did they look good though.

Trying  to maintain the annoyance on her face, after all she did have some  pride, Saph pointedly rearranged her now diminished workspace on the  table so that they were’t in any danger of more knives falling off.

Skully  slammed their hands down on top of their immense pile of books.  “Saphire. My darling. The light of my life. You love me, more than  anything right?”

This couldn’t be good. Saph sighed, mentally  waving goodbye to her dream of spending the afternoon training and  having tea with Andrew.

COLLIDE - nothing

[littleporksausage]

Yet another skin release, yet another disappointing prestige skin, this time for Katarina.

My main gripe with prestige skins when it comes to design is that they're just... boring? And I don't mean that they lack detail or skill, absolutely not, the in-game effects are stunning. But the design details are just stripped away

Let's look at the latest prestige skin, Faerie Court Katarina. First, the base one

I won't get into splashart structure too much, since that is a different topic entirely, but I will mention the colour palette is vastly different from other skins in this line, already distinguishing Katarina as someone in a different position, an outsider even.

Now, for design details. I'll list the ones that stick out to me the most

The blades are very thin, resembling insect wings or some type of mandibles. Insect

In the wing patterns there are eyes, reminiscent of some species of moths, and the wing shape is sharper, again leaning more towards moths instead of the butterflies of other skins

While it is a very fantasy design, the outfit clearly has armored pieces in it, immediately establishing her as a warrior of some sort, albeit distinct from Kalista. Her outfit is light, but protective, maybe less a brawler but more a, you know. Assassin (this is all ignoring the boob window. We all know the deal with boob windows, in a design analysis it may as well not be here)

The shoulder pads have scales and fur. The scales fit in with the general bug theme, while the fur further alludes to moths

A splashart specific design detail - in the art Katarina looks like she's emerging from a cocoon. The butterfly and moth theming is very strong

Now, let's compare that to the prestige version of the skin

Here the colour palette is, of course, changed to fit the prestige style, which is completely fine. The composition is more reminiscent of other prestige skins aswell, which means that Katarina's pose and surroundings don't reflect the theme as well as the base splashart.

And for the details I mentioned above

The blades are now shaped exactly like Katarina's base swords, with the added wing shapes at the handles

The wings are more rounded, and in the spots that had the eyes, there are now holes (which. Why. Cmon)

The armor pieces are all gone, including the shoulder pads with the fur and scales

The outfit has more fragments reminiscent of butterfly wings and flower petals

These changes are not inherently bad. They make for an attractive design. My issue is that the design is boring. Clearly a lot of thought went into the base design, adding many subtle but recognizable visual allusions to moths and insects in general. The prestige skin has nothing of the sort, only having some flaps of fabric that look vaguely wing-like

I think the design philosophy of prestige skins is immensely disappointing. I noticed that trend first with Star Guardian Syndra and Space Groove Nami, who both had those same issues, taking away the pieces of original design that made those designs unique and representative of their skin line

When Riot announced they would be changing the way they treat prestige skins, I was excited to see what they come up with, but honestly? All these prestige skins do is make me appreciate the base ones more

[avirtualdrive]

Sorry in advance.

I'm drafting this up and adding onto it whenever I want to say something until I get self conscious and hit post.

Anyway, I love Levi. Everyone already knows this.

I created Lazarus and made him the way I did because a large part of his whole struggle with masking is based directly off of my own issues. I've always felt the need to repress my excitement and to avoid coming off TOO strong about the stuff I like, because I got made fun of badly, by both friends and my dad alike

I figured it was easier to just not say anything. I still struggle with talking about my interests without having the lingering fear that I'll be mocked for whatever I say. But I want to. To be more honest, I mean. So I'm doing all this

It was kind of cool, seeing a character that basically is super similar to me interests-wise except FAR more open about his cringe... and is intended to be, like, a LOVE INTEREST. I didn't really think people could find those sorts of traits loveable. But I found it all very endearing on her. It made me think about myself more.

I was kind of jealous actually. Yes of the 2D character sorry I'm sure he would find that very funny though. But I envied her ability to keep talking and not care if other people were obviously annoyed by him. I look up to him for that... All these years later and I still struggle with it but I want to try harder. I need to embody the spirit of Leviachan. She's motivated me to feel less ashamed of myself. Thanks!

It's raining here. Since he can control water and it's mentioned in canon that he's caused storms and stuff before, every time it rains, I think of it like her saying hi. Especially at work. But if I'm at home, I like to go outside and sit on the porch (there's a roof, so I stay dry) - it's like we're spending time together. It's cold out when it rains, but I feel so warm thinking about her

I want to call him all kinds of sweet names and praise her for her talents just to watch his face light up and observe his expressions as he goes back and forth between being really happy and rejecting the idea that someone could think so highly of him. I do, though. I'm being honest!!!

Cosplayer that makes most of his outfits himself, game developer, coder, artist, a pro-level gamer, she can sing, she can dance, probably a lot more eluding my mind somehow but point is she's good at so many things how does he not see how impressive he is...........

Speaking of singing her brothers mention they don't like going to karaoke with him because he sings for hours at a time. I think you are all of weak character I would sit and listen to her beautiful voice for as long as she was willing to sing

I love you no thoughts just I love you

Lie down in my front yard with me we can lay a blanket on top of the grass I want to watch the clouds

I'm usually averse to kissing, largely because of OCD germ fear related reasons, but I always think about kissing her. Her lips are probably not that soft - chapped, for sure, probably bites them a whole lot from worrying too much or from trying to rein in his envy - but that's fine by me. She'd apologize for it, though. I know.

Be quiet. I love you even if you don't know what you're doing. I don't know what I'm doing either.

I want to lay on top of her while we're in her bathtub bed and she's in his demon form so I can gently (very, very lightly) trace over his scales with my fingertips. Do we think she'd be ticklish? I think he'd be ticklish. Just a little bit, because I want to hear quietly giggling in the dark.

Laying on top of her... ah, her heartbeat... he's alive. Has been living for far longer than I have. One of her older brothers says he's like 10 million years old, and surely he can't be THAT far behind, so... Just how long ago were you born? I'm happy you were. But for real, how old ARE you?

Humans live significantly shorter lives. It's sad. Despite that, I would want to spend mine with her. I wonder if I would ever have any major impact on her life the way he has mine

I remember, once, when I was much younger and in the Girl Scouts and on what was basically a field trip out to a city where we played this one live-action magic roleplay game. My wand from there was broken by my little sister a long time ago, but I could always just get another one if I ever went back there. And I do want to go back (though not to that specific city, because they closed the location) because I think she would really really love to play something like that.

Also, that same city was out on the beach. I remember while we were there early in the morning I caught a jellyfish in a cup and thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. I think I really fell in love with jellyfish after that. I would draw them all over my notebook pages til there was no more space. And now there's Levi, with jellyfish in her room and the jellyfish inspired aquarium outfit.

I really do think a lot of things in my life were destined

I love you

No more, actually

[sorcerornobody]

Saw a friend do this, decided to do it on Tumblr where I can type a lot more (and edit it) rather than making a super long Twitter thread.

I'll just put a "-" for any question that I don't have any characterisation developed in order to give much of an answer to. I've never set out to build a character for my WoL, most of the details just... happened. I might come back to edit this with more details in future.

Also, some spoilers if you're not up to date on Dawntrail MSQ and some side content from earlier expansions.

Name: Sumire Medeis, Sumi for short.

Race and main job: Raen Au Ra, Red Mage. Though she has a main job for each role, so also Gunbreaker, Sage, Viper, and Bard.

Striking feature: The most striking would probably be her freckles? Which, although not visible on her character model, she has all over her body. Something decidedly not striking, on the other hand, is her heterochromia, because it's relatively subtle.

Age: I changed my mind on this at one point, but the settled answer now is that she was 23 at the start of ARR. How old she is now depends on whether we count irl years passed since I started playing, or how much time we think has passed in-universe.

Personality: Most of the basic WoL traits: determined, friendly, etc. Something of a gremlin streak, often goes for the funny dialogue options. That said, while the playing dumb options in Dawntrail could also qualify as funny, I didn't pick those – she's intelligent, and self-assured (but not smug) about it. She's very patient (up to a point) in general, but has zero patience for bullshit. Her default response when irritated is snarkiness.

Clothing: As a general rule, anything that doesn't show a lot of skin but does show her scales will be very favoured – she's proud of her scales. She tends to go for relative simplicity, though some details are nice. But anything too elaborate tends to be right out. For colours, purple. Lots of purple. Some blue. Occasional red accents. A constant across nearly all of her outfits is a set of light purple flower accessories: a cherry blossom corsage in her hair, a tritelia earring, and a Byregotia choker (though several of her higher collar glamours cover that one up). You can check out this follow-up post for pictures of most of her main glamours.

Childhood: No gritty backstory or drama here, just a normal childhood in a loving family. Not boring, but unremarkable.

Goals: -

Making a living: No one thing, really. She gets gil wherever she gets it and likes to avoid spending it (especially for crafting, she's very self-sufficient and will gather most materials herself).

Favourite food: -

Worst fear: Losing the people she cares about. Cliché but true.

Hobbies: -

Favoured party role: DPS for the most part, but an all-rounder. Prefers to off-tank in two-tank content, usually, but willing to step up. Experiences all combat but especially tanking and healing on a stress curve where having an easy time is fine, having a tough time is stressful, and having an absolutely balls to the wall frantic time is very stressful but absolutely exhilarating. Of course, one could argue that's technically my gameplay style rather than Sumi herself, and from a character-canonical point of view, she's a true all-rounder who is always more than happy to main-tank when needed and kick the absolute shit out of enemies (in a "what needs to be done" way, not a bloodthirsty way).

Talents: Omnicrafter and gatherer. Could probably also be an academic if she ever laid down the adventuring life, since she's well-versed in so many disciplines (and started as an Arcanist).

Hometown: Undetermined as yet – it's probably never going to be anywhere we actually visit, because it would feel weird to go to her homeland and have no acknowledgement of it. That said, I've come to the conclusion that she hails from somewhere in the East, likely around Dalmasca. She has Thavnairian heritage somewhere in her family tree, and while her immediate family is all Auri, one of her great-grandfathers was a Veena Viera.

Parents: Just two normal Raen Au Ra, good solid parents who raised her well, no real ideas on them beyond that.

Siblings: She's the "oldest" of four quadruplet sisters (Kasumi, Makoto, and Chihaya), and has two younger twin brothers (Keiho and Kansui). Yes, their mother is exhausted. Yes, this is entirely because I was too lazy to differentiate the character designs of my alts beyond giving them different hairstyles and variations on Sumi's heterochromia. And yes, the three sisters are a reference to Persona 5 since, after naming Sumi (not specifically named after P5R), it amused me that there were three other P5 character names in the female Au Ra naming pool. Quick personality rundown: Kasumi (WHM) is shy and bookish; Makoto (BLM) is very caring but puts on an edgy front; Chihaya (MNK) is very energetic and bubbly; Keiho (WAR) is basically male Sumi; Kansui (DRG) is an incredibly socially anxious bean. Again, you can look at the follow-up post if you want to see what her siblings look like.

Other family: Obviously, the found family of the Scions. When Fourchenault disowned the twins, Sumi was fully prepared to immediately draw up adoption papers if necessary. Also under found family are the characters of my two best in-game friends.

Thoughts on love: She loves love. She has plenty for other people, though I wouldn't describe her as especially romantic. Although if G'raha Tia ever got the courage to ask, she'd consider marrying him – she finds him extremely endearing.

Thoughts on sex: An enthusiastic and very bi(pan?)sexual yes.

Thoughts about gil: As mentioned above, she hoards it, but in a frugal way rather than a greedy way. Which she does mostly to avoid having to worry about ever running low.

Faith: Not really, even before she encountered every mythical being under the sun. She's still happy to consider Thaliak her patron just for symbolic reasons though.

Enemies: Anyone who threatens the world at large, obviously. And, no surprise, if you threaten her loved ones in particular, she's liable to end you with extreme prejudice.

Role models: Mmm, nah. People she respects and admires, sure, but not to an extent that I'd call them role models.

Fondest memory: -

Biggest flaw: -

Beliefs: Pretty big on forgiveness, unless someone does, like, multiple heinous things. Hello Zoraal Ja. But the thing that matters to her is whether people try to make amends and be better, which is why she's willing to work with Gaius, and why she (mostly) forgives Bakool Ja Ja. Mostly. He still needs to do a little more work as of the end of 7.0 because releasing Valigarmanda was REALLY bad, but he's firmly on the road to full forgiveness.

Thoughts on allied societies: Mostly ranging from a good deal of respect to a great deal of respect for them. The main exceptions are kinda just tolerating Namazu, and absolutely fuck moogles.

Greatest regret: -

Any secrets: Not really. But then, I'd also say that if she had any.

[taughtdefense]

Send   △ YOURS △  for receiver to sit in sender’s lap.

it’s not often you go to parties of this scale, but you wanted to have a night of fun with your friends. there’s nothing explicitly to celebrate, either. the all valley isn’t for another two months. kyler’s annoying, & a huge pain in your ass, but he certainly knows how to throw a hell of a house party. kyler said his parents on some business trip or something like that, so they could have the party there. you don’t really know or care. outside of the warring dojo fights that crop up, trainings, & the parties he throws, or just clowning on him in group chats ( particularly with robby, ciro, landon, nolan, cal, sulien, theo, scarlett, krista, talia, cosima & tory ), you rarely interact with him.

the party is in full swing. the music blaring across the speakers is way too fucking loud ( thank god for your earplugs & your ability to tune certain frequencies out… that comes in handy whenever kyler speaks, really ), & the amount of people here makes it feel like its hard to move or breathe. people are everywhere, practically wall-to-wall. half of the kids here are from encino, with their entitled, rich snootiness & designer outfits that look impractical for any sort of movement. your own car ( the black rolls royce ) is parked two blocks away from his house; you did not want to get trapped in by other cars, which was a very smart move on your play, given the amount of people in the room.

you’re completely sober, dancing along to the music with tory in the center of the living room. tory's only had half a can of some light beer, so she's fine. your hands are on her hips & her arms around your waist, looking at each other like you’re the only two people in the room. it feels natural, & it’s nice seeing her smile & enjoying herself. she certainly deserves a break & a chance to let loose like this.

your friends are scattered throughout the house ( cosima & scarlett near the beer keg, ciro in a corner brooding. you saw landon & jaime near the outdoor pool earlier, his hands on her hips as they swayed to a previously-played song ), but you keep looking over in robby’s general direction, just to keep an eye on your boyfriend & make sure he's doing okay. the party quickly turned insane. everything else doesn’t matter to you in the slightest — not kyler’s annoying voice, the booze that’s cheap & awful, or the jealous looks you & tory are getting from other teens. not even the karate feud. just robby & tory.

❝ i think i should know how to make love to something innocent, without leaving my fingerprints out. ❞ you sing along to the song blaring over the speakers, still looking at robby as you sing the lyrics, gaze turning slightly heated. tory laughs lightly when you card your fingers through her long blonde hair, immediately following up with the next lyric. ❝ now, l-o-v-e's just another word i never learned to pronounce. how do i say ❝ i’m sorry ❞, 'cause the word is never gonna come out? ❞ she sings. you laugh lightly, secretly knowing that that words aren’t exactly true coming from her. she would do anything for you two. it’s a sentiment you completely share with tory. you’d do anything for them. you can sense the love, trust & respect she has for you & robby, as easily as you breathe. she hasn’t said the words out loud to either you or robby ( yet ), but she’s so completely in love with you two. she’s never been more sure of anything in her entire life. what you, tory & robby have is real. it's more real than the relationship this version of you, tory & miguel had, which had crashed & burned.

you glance over tory's shoulder at robby, holding intense eye contact with him for a few seconds. tory's back is towards robby on the couch, so she can't see him, but she's aware he's there. then, you break eye contact with robby, leaning down to kiss tory heatedly, pulling her flush against your body, purely out of habit. she meets the kiss halfway with a little hum of surprise at your show of possessiveness, especially in public, immediately getting lost in the kiss. she kisses you back with equal fervor, which makes you overjoyed. ( there's a few wolf whistles, but you both ignore it, simply focusing on each other. ) her hands slide from your shoulders to the front of your shirt. your eyes slowly open, & you stare right at robby as you make out with your girlfriend, even deepening the kiss.

it’s clear she's enjoying the more possessive side of you, maybe a little too much, based on the way her eyes flutter shut & her airy sigh. you don’t even need to pull away from tory to extend your arm outwards, flipping off some random dude who tory saw glaring at you a few minutes ago. he’s no one important. he clearly wishes that it was him dancing with tory like you are. tory follows suit, but flips off a brunette that’s a handful of inches shorter than her, even with her heels. by the look on her face, the girl wishes she was in tory’s position, staring up at you.

too fucking bad. tory & robby are yours, & you're theirs.

neither of you pull away from the heated kiss until tory needs to get air back into her lungs, which takes a little longer than you were anticipating. she pulls back, panting heavily, & you look down at her lovingly. her eyes are glazed over, face dusted a light pink, & the tips of her ears are red. she's never been kissed that long or that intensely before in her life. that was a new one. you smirk at her, amusement flickering across your whole face. she recognizes that smirk immediately, & she practically melts against you. you hum softly, then lean down again to capture her lips again, which makes her sigh. more amusement spikes through your bloodstream. intoxicating, addicting & heady. it gives you a head rush.

you force yourself to pull away from tory before this kiss can become as intense. tory can’t seem to stop her head from spinning, & it’s a little like there are stars in her eyes. her brain seems to shut down for a few seconds, rebooting when you gently graze the tip of your thumb against her jaw.

❝ h-holy fuck. ❞ tory stutters. your smirk widens just a fraction, but it's enough to fan the flames that are racing throughout tory's body. you pull back to look at robby, just to gauge his reaction. tory follows suit, bright-eyed, blushing & very happy, running a hand down the front of your black t-shirt possessively, her black-painted fingertips. you pinch her hip in response, making her giggle. giggle. instantly, you raise an eyebrow, & tory flushes a dark red, giving you a look which would have been a lot more threatening if she wasn't clearly affected by what you'd just done. she cheerily tells you that she's going to grab some food from the kitchen, then talk with scarlett, krista & cosima. you nod, then she leaves you alone in the center of the living room, but she promises she'll be back next to you soon. that makes both human & eldritch parts of you very happy. you watch her leave, taking note of the way her hair sways across her lower back with every step she takes.

tory nichols is fucking ethereal. a goddess incarnate.

with tory moving away from you, you instinctively gravitate towards @taughtpain , moving to sit next to him on the couch, but you don't touch him. not yet. ❝ hi, my love. ❞ you greet happily, like you & tory hadn't just made out in front of him. you don't care what anyone else thinks. you never have. you'd sensed a few people taking a video of yours & tory's make out session ( undoubtedly, to post on social media some time within the next two seconds, if it's not posted already ), & you almost started laughing. tory was a little preoccupied with trying to get her brain to restart, so she hadn't realized what was going on. but you saw. let them stew in their jealousy.

the second you look at robby, it's like an internal switch in you flips. where you'd been more possessive with tory, you're... softer, with robby. even the look on your face changes to one robby should be familiar with by now. you lean forward, kissing his forehead ( & not his lips ), just to be a little shit. the smirk falls from your lips after a few seconds, but the amusement on your face holds fast. ignoring the eyes on you, you carefully swing a leg over robby's other hip, pulling yourself up onto robby's lap in a single, smooth motion. like you've done it a billion times before ( you have ). you technically don't even need to stabilize yourself for this by placing your hands on his shoulders; you just do it to have an excuse to touch him. you keep your gaze locked with his.

❝ i think tory really liked that. i know i did. ❞ you comment, having the audacity to bat your fucking eyelashes at your boyfriend. sitting on his lap like this... it's nice. like being with tory, being with robby like this just feels natural. an idea hits you suddenly. there's no visible change in your expression, but if there was a lightbulb hanging over your head, it would have lit up. you lean forward, lips grazing the shell of his ear teasingly. you whisper: ❝ please kiss me. i don’t care who’s watching. ❞ into his ear, then pull back to lock eyes with him. you're goddamn insatiable ( you knew this ), but you're so full of genuine love for your two partners.

[crazed-reviews]

Review: Spirit Riding Free "Abigail" Deluxe Fashion doll from Just Play

When I purchased my Lucky and Spirit set, I also bought Abigail! This doll is based off the character of Abigail Stone from the Dreamworks Animation TV series, Spirit Riding Free, which was a loose sequel to Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.

The series focused on 12-year-old Fortuna "Lucky" Prescott as she adjusts to life after moving to a small westen town. There, she befriended a wild stallion, whom she names Spirit, as well as two girls her age, Abigail Stone and Prudence "Pru" Granger.

This particular doll has a different outfit than her series counterpart. There were two lines: one with Pru, Abigail, and Lucky (who call themselves the PALs, based on their friendship and initials) in their series outfits, as well as the trio in new outfits.

Here's Abigail in her package. The front has Abigail posed in front of a background of a fence, with mountain scenery. The bottom advertises the series being on Netflix, and has a CGI image of Abigail and her horse, Boomerang. The back has a large CGI image of Abigail, and smaller CGI images of Pru, Lucky, and Abigail, advertising the other dolls available.

At the top, there's a description that reads in both English and French:

"A sweet and exuberant girly-girl, Abigail can talk a mile a minute about the things she loves."

Here's the backdrop Abigail was attached to.

Right out of the box, she's pretty tall! She's about the same height as a Barbie doll (though most of her height comes from her large head). I assumed she's be a touch shorter, like the 10 inch Miraculous Ladybug dolls, but I'm quite pleased with her size.

Abigail comes with a three piece outfit that consists of a blouse, leggings, and boots, with no extra accessories. I really like Abigail's outfit! In fact, I prefer it to the original Abigail doll's outfit. I think it really suits her, and reflects her kind, girly personality, but still practical, as she's active and rides horses.

Abigail's blouse is pink, with a floral pattern and lighter pink accents. It has gathered puffed sleeves, a V-neck, and printed dark pink drawstrings.

Her leggings are printed to resemble light blue jeans, and are quite stretchy. I really like the look of these! Usually, printed jeans look quite odd on dolls, but I think these look great. The pattern is actually in scale with her as well, which really helps.

Her boots use the same mold as the boots that come with the Pru doll in her series outfit. They are dark blue. There's some molded stitching on the sides, but nothing particularly flashy.

Abigail has 11 points of articulation, with movement at her:

Head

Shoulders

Elbows

Wrists

Hips

Knees

Her joints actually have a wide range of movement, but the cut of the limb the joints attach to restricts the movement. Abigail's right wrist is pretty ragged, which makes it a bit floppy. Her knees are also very tight, which made me worried about snapping them (nearly all online reviews of the dolls when they were still sold mentioned the knees snapping, but I suspect they may have forced the knees too far), but they seem to be holding up fine.

Abigail has side-glancing blue eyes, pink lips and blush, and short blonde hair. I think she has a sweet expression. Her eyebrows are much more shapely than her series counterpart, who has thin, even eyebrows. She also has side bangs, which are held aside with some thread. The bangs, as well as a bit of hair on the other side of her part had hairspray to help keep it's shape. The rest of her hair is really soft! It was a bit uneven in the back, but overall looks great.

From the back, you can see the pattern on both Abigail's blouse and jeans go back to the back, instead of being confined to the front! The Lucky from this line wasn't as lucky (ha, get it?), as her vest is only on the front of her shirt.

Abigail's ankle boots are a navy blue, with some molded stitching. They use the same mold as the Pru in her series outfit's boots. They are nice and snug on her feet.

Overall, Abigail is adorable, and I'm very happy to have her. My biggest complaints are just how tight her knees are, and how loose her right hand is. I think she's very cute, and bares a decent resemblance to her character in the TV series. I would give her an A-.

Abigail is definitely a special gal, and I can see myself purchasing more Spirit Riding Free dolls.

[thefrostyknight]

What's under the hood?

So, the great debate of what species Doctor is continues, but with the look under the mask in the anime I feel like throwing in my thoughts.

So, beneath the mask Doctor has white hair and pale eyes with red highlights. Nothing too extreme. No hint of ears, etc.

Generally, hair color does correspond with an Operator's animal's fur/scale/feather/skin color.

The red highlight however, I find interesting because it seems similar to a couple of Operators of the same race.

Both Gravel and Click's eyes change color in their E2 (and in some sprite art) from brown and blue respectively to a pink/red. Click's record stats she exhibits her eye pigmentation change when under extreme stress, and while I don't have a screencap for Gravel, I believe her eyes flash a different color in Near Light when she is fighting Platinum.

The rest of Click's file is someone giving the Doctor an emergency button in case her behavior becomes aggressive, but such an event has already happened and the Doctor was fine and able to handle it.

That could be chalked up to the Doctor's usual ability to handle Operators, but I think it's more interesting if it is because the Doctor can relate to such a transformation--

I believe Doctor is a Zalak and specifically based on a lab rat. Wikipedia claims they're often used in psychological and biomedical research.... both of which the Doctor specializes in.

There may also be something more to Gravel's affection with her S2 being called "Rat Swarm" despite her being a prairie dog.

There is circumstantial evidence in JT-8-2 that Doctor may have pink eyes, giving solid proof Doctor's eyes may change from gray to pink.

Some people theorized the ghoul and pink-eyed bastard are Kal'Tsit and Doctor, however new story chapter seem to imply specific Sarkaz Lords.

Scavenger's Outfit also has her with redder-eyes compared to her base art, but they may also just be reflection from the background.

In conclusion, Doctor is a lab rat and thus their and Kal'Tsit's relationship can be further boiled down to:

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Meeting the Family // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: Hello there, could I please request Anthony bridgerton and reader fic where hes introducing the reader to his family for the first time and shes really nervous but the family ends up loving her more than him? Thanks, I absolutely love your work!! Please dont overwork yourself darling❤ - @lespaceboi

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I had so much fun with this request, I love it so so much. I only hope you do too! Lowkey posting this early bc I’m watching the euros final tonight and I won’t have time. 

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, light angst, some worries, lots of fluff, family fluff, Anthony being cute, dialogue heavy, declarations of love.

Word count: 3.6k

Her hands shake uncontrollably as the carriage clatters through London. Taking calming breaths, (Y/N) does her best to stop her shaking hands by gripping her shawl tightly. Her maid, Jayne, looks over at her in concern. “We can always turn back, my lady,” Jayne whispers, “I’m sure Viscount Bridgerton won’t mind postponing to another day.”

(Y/N) smiles warmly at her maid; grateful for the care in her voice. However, she shakes her head. “I’m afraid it can’t wait any longer, Jayne. Anthony’s sister and her husband have travelled all the way from Scotland.”

Jayne sits back against the carriage bench, nodding her head understandingly. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” She offers in comfort.

“I can only hope,” (Y/N) whispers, casting her gaze out of window and into the London streets.

She had met Anthony Bridgerton when shopping for ribbons. An unusual time and place to meet anyone, but Anthony had strolled into the shop and asked to see the best ribbons in the place as nothing would be better than the absolute best for his nieces. (Y/N) had giggled at the tone of his voice; unused to seeing such a powerful figure in such intimate settings. Her laughter had drawn his attention to which a conversation began. By the end of the Viscount’s visit to the ribbon shop, he had asked to see her again.

The visits continued in secrecy, or in as much secrecy as one could afford when holding a peerage. The relationship blossomed; what was once considered a friendship was turning romantic, and (Y/N) could not help her feelings for the Viscount. He had captured her, body and soul. She counted every blessing that Anthony felt the same.

The first glimpse of Bridgerton House steals her breath away. The red brick stands out amongst the paler buildings; Anthony’s wealth already obvious but further personified by the sheer scale of his home. The sweet scent of the violet hyacinths perfume (Y/N)’s carriage; their aroma bringing a small smile to her face as she remembers a masquerade party in Chiswick, a balcony and Anthony’s hands on her waist.

Her carriage rolls to a natural stop; (Y/N)’s heart in her throat as she tears her inquiring gaze from Bridgerton House to Jayne. Jayne smiles and squeezes her lady’s hand, a silent offer of support for the afternoon.

“They’re going to love you,” Jayne whispers, bolstering (Y/N) as best she could as the door to the carriage is opened by (Y/N)’s footman.

Now closer, Bridgerton House is much grander. The deep green iron gates pronounce the family’s wealth further. (Y/N) gulps as she takes step after step down the path to already open front door. Her steps falter slightly as she catches sight of Anthony waiting in the entrance; his hair the usual untameable mess that endears her so.

“You came,” Anthony breathes in greeting; his eyes wide with barely concealed surprise as he takes in the sight of her on his doorstep.

“I came,” (Y/N) answers just as breathlessly. Even the sight of him was enough to leave her gasping for breath; there were moments in their prolonged courtship that she couldn’t quite believe he had chosen her, that he wanted her. As Anthony stands there, his white shirt unbuttoned from the collar with his waistcoat undone, she realises that this is the most casual she had ever seen him. His outfit wasn’t proper, but she doesn’t want it to be. She wants to see him from every angle; she wants to know every Anthony there is. So far, she had found herself besotted with each and every one.

Both remain silent as Anthony offers his arm to her. (Y/N) uses the silence to quash the nerves rioting in her gut; she had never been this nervous, not when she was presented in front of the monarch for her season, and not when she danced with the Prince of Wales at his birthday celebrations two years ago. Now, however, her nerves were beginning to get the better of her.

Anthony pauses their journey. “Are you okay?” He asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“I’m nervous,” (Y/N) confesses bashfully, “What if they don’t like me? What if they hate me so much that you end things? I’m having so much fun with you, Anthony. I don’t want this to end.”

“Hey,” Anthony whispers, taking her face in his hands, urging her to look at him, “You’re going to be fine. They’re going to love you, I know it. I’ve spoken about you so much they feel they already know you.”

“You talk about me?” (Y/N) asks, her voice small.

Anthony presses a kiss to her forehead. “Constantly. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out with how much I talk about you.”

“You’re really very sweet.”

“Only because of you,” He flirts, pushing his luck by kissing her quickly.

(Y/N) laughs softly against his mouth. “You’re incorrigible.”

Anthony laughs gently, pulling away from her lips but keeping hold of her hands. “I’m as nervous as you,” He confesses, “But I have you by my side to help me get through just as you have me through this too. Any time you want to go, let me know and I’ll call your carriage back round.”

“Thank you,” She whispers before Anthony continues on down the hall, his hand squeezing hers tightly.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Anthony asks, double checking, voice wavering as they stand outside the door to the drawing room. “My family can be a bit much to meet all at once.”

“We’re nothing of the sort!” A masculine voice shouts from behind the door.

A surprised laugh leaves (Y/N) lips. She covers her mouth to bring back the mask of perfect decorum, not wanting to insult a member of Anthony’s family. “I’m ready when you are,” She whispers, smiling at the eldest Bridgerton.

“Sooner rather than later,” Anthony whispers before opening the door, giving her the first glimpse at his family.

The Bridgerton brood sit around the large drawing room. Sisters and brothers, husbands and wives – they all mix together as they wait for Anthony and his new beau. Each all fall silent as Anthony and (Y/N) enters the room; their first glimpse of her, their first conversation with her. Anthony had spoken about her constantly but refused to let any family meet her until they were both ready.

Now that moment had arrived.

“Mother,” Anthony introduces to the silent room, “This is Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” (Y/N) exclaims, smiling at the Bridgerton matriarch. “I’ve heard so much about you all,” She continues, casting her gaze around the room.

“It’s a pleasure for us too, dear (Y/N),” Violet announces, “Anthony has been nothing but a ball of nerves since he announced you would be joining us.”

(Y/N) nods at the matriarch, feeling herself become speechless as she takes in the sheer size of Anthony’s family. It isn’t hard to tell who the Bridgertons are among the group are; they each have the same eyes and smile. “It’s lovely to meet you all,” (Y/N) announces, repeating her earlier words, unable to keep the nerves from entering her voice this time.

“I’m Benedict,” The second eldest introduces, jumping up from his seat on the couch, holding his hand out for her to take.

“The artist!” (Y/N) gasps, “I’ve seen some of your work. You’re exceptionally talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict blushes, excusing himself with a pat to Anthony’s shoulder, a silent sign that Benedict already approves.

“Help yourself to some tea,” A younger woman exclaims in the brief silence between conversations, “I’d get up to greet you, but it would take twice as long as the conversation itself.”

“Please don’t strain yourself,” (Y/N) offers graciously, “Congratulations on your pregnancy.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m Daphne, and this is my husband, Simon.” Daphne introduces, her hand landing on the thigh of a handsome man.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” (Y/N) greets, making her way to an empty seat at a nearby table. There she pours two cups of tea, one for her and one for Anthony, knowing he would be dropping by in a minute or two. The tea steeps as (Y/N) helps herself to one of the many biscuits, taking a small bite of the buttery concoction before reaching for the milk and sugar. This is a routine she has practiced many times before, knowing exactly how long to stir her tea so it wouldn’t burn the tip of her tongue with every sip.

It’s takes less than two minutes for someone to join her at the table. (Y/N) offers the young woman a polite smile, “I’m (Y/N).”

“Eloise Bridgerton,” introduces the young woman.

“A pleasure to meet you,” (Y/N) repeats, feeling herself already grow tired of the words.

“Are you educated, (Y/N)?” Eloise enquires; her keen blue gaze dancing over the young woman.

(Y/N) finishes her sip of tea before nodding at Anthony’s younger sister. “I am,” She answers, “I studied under a very thorough governess, and I am fluent in French and Latin, but I’ve also been fortunate enough to sit in on some lectures at Oxford and Edinburgh.”

“How?” Eloise all but demands, ignoring the stern stare of her mother as she leans forward, elbows on the table. “You must teach me your ways.”

(Y/N) represses an amused smile at Eloise’s antics. “My favourite cousin, Sylvester, was a student at both. I often annoyed him into letting me attend in secret whenever I visited.”

“Did you attend any interesting lectures?”

(Y/N) nods, happy to further indulge the brunette. “Sylvester was a student of medicine, beginning his education at Oxford before continuing on to Edinburgh where he lives now. I’ve attended a few medical lectures, but I pressured him into letting me attend a philosophical debate surrounding Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman.” (Y/N) shakes her head, amused at the memory, “Sylvester didn’t find that one nearly as thrilling as his medical lectures.”

“Anthony!” Eloise calls, gathering the attention of all her brothers, “I’m keeping (Y/N) for myself. You’re going to have to find a new beau, I’m afraid.”

Anthony chuckles, leaving his brothers to their own conversation. “Pray,” He begins, “Just what are the two of you talking about.”

“(Y/N)’s education. Did you know she’s sat in lectures at both Oxford and Edinburgh? I daresay I might attend a few myself.”

Anthony’s hand lands on your shoulder; a warm squeeze has you turning to meet his stare. His smile is fond; his eyes are bright with happiness. “Are you inciting further rebellion in my little sister?”

“Of course not,” (Y/N) playfully scoffs, “Just letting her know that should she want to attend any lectures, I have a connection for her.”

A laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he catches sight of Eloise’s excited wiggle in her chair. “I’m glad you’re getting along,” He murmurs to (Y/N) quietly, dropping an unexpected kiss to her hair before entering a debate with Eloise, explaining why she cannot go about interrupting lectures at prestigious universities.

Leaving the siblings to their bickering, (Y/N) stands from table, wanting to stretch her legs and discover more to the drawing room. By this point in the afternoon, the appeal of company has worn off. The large family now broken off into their own conversations; Francesca and Michael remain sat close together on the couch under the window, Lady Violet remains sat by her eldest daughter – the matriarch keeping a weather eye on her pregnant daughter.

(Y/N) smiles fondly at the scene before turning to one of the many fixed bookshelves in the room; leather bound volumes line the shelves. There wasn’t much for light reading, she thinks to herself as she reads the spines. Much about the War of the Roses and the subsequent Tudor reign, not much in the way of Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.

“You’re very pretty,” A young girl announces from behind (Y/N). She turns to find two girls, both no older than four or five, their hair matching pigtails, curled into ringlets.

(Y/N) kneels to their height, ignoring the pinching of her corset as she smiles at the young children. “Why thank you,” She states gratefully, “But you know what I would really like?”

“What?” The eldest of the two asks, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Gorgeous pigtails like yours,” (Y/N) smiles, gesturing to their hair.

Both girls break into wide smiles, already won over. “What are your names?” (Y/N) asks.

“I’m Amelia,” The eldest states proudly, “I’m five and a half.”

“I’m Belinda,” The second girl introduces, “I’m four.”

“Well it is lovely to meet you both,” (Y/N) compliments, “My name is (Y/N).”

“We know,” Belinda chimes. “Uncle Tony talks about you all the time.”

“He does, does he?” She murmurs amused; catching sight of the brunette doing his best not to intervene on the conversation taking place with his nieces.

Amelia nods. “All the time!” She cries happily. “He talks about your hair, your eyes, your smile.” She breaks off, leaning towards (Y/N) to whisper in her ear. “I think he’s in love with you.”

“Do you think?” (Y/N) questions, unable to keep the eager hope from her voice.

“I know,” Amelia nods sagely, “I heard Uncle Tony tell Mama and Papa.”

(Y/N) presses her lips together to keep the wide smile from growing across her face. She had known that Anthony felt very deeply for her though he had never uttered a word. With a quick glance in Anthony’s direction, she gestures for the two girls to come closer. “Can you keep a secret?”

Amelia and Belinda nod silently; too excited to hear what (Y/N) has to say. “It just so happens,” (Y/N) whispers to the two girls, “That I also love your Uncle Tony.”

“You do?” Belinda squeaks.

“I do,” (Y/N) nods seriously, “I love him very much.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Amelia asks; her blue eyes wide with burning curiosity.

“I think on some level he already knows, but I plan on telling him very soon.”

Both girls squeal in happiness, leaving (Y/N) behind as they run towards their parents. Daphne and Simon greet their children with open arms, wide eyed at their level of noise as they demand their voices to be heard over the hubbub of the rest of the family.

“I don’t suppose you’d enlighten me to this particular conversation,” A warm voice sounds from behind her. The way his arm slips around her waist, as if it were his home, tells (Y/N) that Anthony has found her once more.

“A secret for another day,” (Y/N) teases, turning to face the man that had captured her heart so wholly.

“Will you tell me later?” He asks, pushing out his bottom lip in a pout that has her giggling.

“Perhaps,” She whispers, leaning ever closer to the Bridgerton. “Only if you promise me something.”

“Anything,” He whispers seriously, “I’d give you the world if I could.”

“I know you would,” She murmurs, “But all I’m asking for is for you to not pester your nieces over what I told them.”

“How did you know?” Anthony asks, voice glum.

(Y/N) brings a gloved hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Because I know you, my dear.”

Anthony leans into the touch, turning his face slightly to press a kiss to her wrist. “I like being your dear.”

“I like being yours too,” She replies earnestly. “Now, I’ve spoken to most of your siblings. Do me the honour of introducing me to Francesca, she came all the way from Scotland, it’s rude that I’ve neglected her.”

“Yes, my darling,” Anthony responds, taking her hand and leading her to the couch where Francesca sits with her husband, Michael.

The day continues in a similar fashion. Bridgerton House had never been quiet when the whole family was in attendance; raucous laughter and loving bickering filled its many corners with noise. The life and laughter of the family bringing the house to life.

As the grandfather clock ticks closer and closer to the evening, (Y/N) finds herself lamenting the fact that she must leave the Bridgerton family so soon.

“I must take my leave,” She announces to sad cries to Amelia and Belinda, already so attached.

“So soon?” Benedict asks, frowning as he wonders when he’ll get to continues his conversation with her. So few wanted to talk about art nowadays.

(Y/N) meets Anthony’s gaze, hating how sad he looks. “I’m having dinner with my parents and their friends. An occasion I simply cannot miss, I’m afraid.”

“Do we know them?” Violet asks in an attempt to delay the inevitable. She had grown fond of the young woman over the course of the afternoon, seeing how perfectly she fit amongst her family, how she brought out the best in her eldest son.

“The St. Clair’s?” (Y/N) enquires, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. “My father has worked with Lady Danbury’s family for a long time. Gareth and I are old friends.”

“Have a wonderful time,” Violet announces, “But please visit us soon.”

“I would love to,” (Y/N) smiles, crossing the room to be by Anthony’s side.

Offering her goodbyes to the large family, (Y/N) takes Anthony’s offered arm, hooking hers through his as they descend the grand marble staircase to the foyer. “Your family are lovely,” (Y/N) compliments as she takes care not to trip over her skirts on the stairs. “You all care for each so much, it’s clear the moment you enter the room.”

“My mother and siblings are the best people I know,” Anthony murmurs, walking beside (Y/N) at a steady pace in order to delay her departure by a minute.

“I can only hope they liked me,” She worries, her teeth biting into her bottom lip in a way that has Anthony restraining himself by gripping her arm tighter.

“You were wonderful,” Anthony murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheekbone before helping her into her carriage.

“Thank you for today,” (Y/N) calls, sticking her hand from the window to prolong the contact between Anthony and herself. She wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye; wasn’t quite ready to leave him.

“Thank you for coming,” Anthony answers, kissing her hand before tucking it back through the window of her carriage. If they didn’t say goodbye now, they wouldn’t say goodbye at all. If she didn’t leave, he would most likely offer marriage on the pavement than somewhere proper.

Nodding to her footman, Anthony watches her carriage leave. He stands on the doorstep to Bridgerton House until her carriage is no longer in sight. Only then does he let himself release the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Weariness washes over him as he turns to face his childhood home. Inside, in his mother’s drawing room, await his family. Each one ready to give their verdict on the woman he has had the good fortune to fall in love with.

Sighing, he kicks at the ground, knowing he cannot delay this any longer.

His mother and siblings are where he left them; his mother’s drawing room. They fall silent at the sight of him; each clearly unwilling to make the leap and be the first to broach the elephant in the room.

“What do you think of (Y/N)?” Anthony asks; voice loud in the ever so silent room. He meets the eyes of each of his siblings, not missing the way Daphne leans into Simon or the way Michael reaches for Francesca’s hand. They’ve all found their love matches; it was now Anthony’s turn.

Colin takes the fall for his family, standing to face his eldest brother and titled peer. He clears his throat, fidgeting on the spot before he eventually pauses all movement, breaking into a smile to declare, “We all loved her!”

“You do?” Anthony asks, falling onto a nearby couch in shock.

Violet smiles at her eldest son. “We do. (Y/N) is a sweetheart and looks to be just as taken with you as you are with her.”

Blush begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. “I can only hope, dear mother.”

“It’s true,” Amelia chimes, her young face bright with joy. “She told Belinda and I.”

“You have found your love match, my darling boy,” Violet states warmly.

“It does help that (Y/N) is a trifle more tolerable than you, dear brother,” Benedict teases, laughter bright in his Bridgerton blue eyes.

“And so educated!” Eloise gasps, “We had an enlightening conversation about Wollstonecraft’s Vindication on the Rights of Women.”

“She was wonderful with Amelia and Belinda,” Daphne murmurs, her hand falling protectively over her pregnant stomach.

“Why do I get the feeling that you prefer (Y/N) to me?” Anthony murmurs, mischief bright in his eyes and evident in his voice.

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Gregory points out, “I only hope (Y/N) can keep up with your obsession with Pall Mall.”

“A worthy obsession,” Anthony argues, mind wandering to the games he could play with (Y/N).

“She’s wonderful,” Violet interrupts, a large smile on her face as she takes the final say.

Anthony smiles widely at his mother; constantly grateful for her love and care throughout his life. She had been lost after the death of his father, as had Anthony, but Anthony had never truly understood what it would feel like to lose someone you love as wholeheartedly as his mother loved his father.

Until now, that is. The mere thought of losing her sends a lance of pain through his chest, cutting short his breath and increasing his panic. Anthony shakes his head to rid himself of such thoughts and feelings.

Calm enough, he faces his family once more. “I plan on proposing to (Y/N),” He announces, showing his family the ring box that has been sitting heavily in his trouser pocket all day.

“Thank goodness,” Francesca murmurs, smiling indulgently at her big brother. “I cannot wait to call her sister.”

“Indeed,” Anthony murmurs, a loving smile on his face, “I cannot wait to call her my wife.”

******

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