(no subject)
-
She knew she was pregnant pretty much from the start - suspected, anyway, wasn't quite sure whose it was and tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about Rial's hands, clumsy on her skin and Ramon's accent slip-sliding around her teeth as he swore into her mouth the next morning. She didn't do anything cliché, didn't rest her hands on her belly or burst into tears, just looked at her muscled figure in the mirror and wondered what she was going to say.
In the end she waited until she got the test before telling Rial. His face twisted in an awkward combination of joy and something like bitter regret - he knew she didn't love him, he knew it hadn't been a planned child.
He suggested abortion, finally, did it quietly and tactfully and pointed out that no one would ever have to know.
"I'm keeping it," Plourr said flatly, and that was that.
Rial tried not to show how happy he was, but she saw it anyway.
-
He talks dirty to her only once, all hands over her face and lips whispering fuck baby yes c'mon gonna fuck you hard and she gives him exactly what he wants, gives him delicate whimpering screams and follows his lead tentatively until he's gotten off and is lying there, satiated on the bed. Then she punches him in the mouth, hard enough to snap his head sideways, and tells him that she's not some ten-credit whore.
He rubs his mouth and looks at her with new respect, with new interest and tells her that that's okay because he wouldn't pay her anyway.
-
She never told Ramon she was pregnant, he noticed when she was finally feeling decent enough to go to him and when he peeled her tunic off her stomach was just starting to round out in a gentle swell. He mostly stared, then lit a fat cigar and stared into space while she folded her arms across her breasts and waited.
After a while she cleared her throat. "I'm pregnant, not invisible."
Ramon looked at her as though seeing her for the first time and nodded thoughtfully, leaving the cigar to smoke in an ashtray while he ran his fingers over her belly. Like he hadn't heard her, "It's mine?"
"I don't know." She didn't, wouldn't know until the geneticist told her. They'd ran the obligatory tests to make sure that the family relationship wouldn't be a problem, but the results were late.
"It's a boy," he said finally, and pulled her down onto the bed with him.
-
She knows he gets with other people, girls mostly. Hell, she's seen him try to pick people up in front of her. It's never really a problem, though, she's a constant through his life while the girls come and go and always seem to leave him like they think he loves them.
He laughs about them later, or reminisces about their good and bad points. Sometimes she'll feel little flickerings of something like jealousy, but not often. Mostly she just kisses the words hungrily out of his mouth, ignores the way he compares her thoughtfully to the slut of the week.
She knows about Random only vaguely. She's never seen him, Ramon doesn't talk about him more then once. She thinks maybe he was another one-night stand that could have been more and wasn't.
-
It was a boy, in the end. She was in labour for thirty-six hours as he fought the birth every step of the way, three weeks late and slow to emerge. Rial stood solemnly outside the door, she thinks by the sight of his hands afterwards he must have been biting his nails. The people cheer when the announcement goes out.
"I thought he'd have been a girl," Rial admits, with not the slightest trace of disappointment in his tone. And, softly, "Do you think he looks like me?"
His hair, a good shock of it already grown, is dark brown shading to black, his eyes baby-blue. Plourr knew they were going to darken before she even saw them. Plourr knew he looked like his father before she entered the last stages of labour, before rippling pain blotted out rational thought.
"He does, a bit," she admitted. "Looks like his father."
Rial smiled brightly, and Plourr tried not to think of the betrayed look the geneticist had shot her when she announced that there would be no problems. He did look like his father.
That was the problem.
-
She goes out with him once, to a club where the lights are low and the music has a backbeat that vibrates through her and sets her teeth on edge. He buys her drinks she's never heard of and shows her off like a trophy, long legs and a top that shows off her breasts like she's just another one of his one-night stands. He goes to take a piss and the men crowd in next to her, grinning, leering, asking how much he paid for her, they'll pay higher.
She smashes a glass into his face without a second thought. When the police come to break up the fight she's got blood trickling from a cut on her cheekbone and she's high on life. She fucks him in the back of his car, wild with released control, and he doesn't take her out again.
-
She named him Kirin, and he had the same black hair and dark dark eyes as Ramon. Plourr loved him with something like desperation, stopped going to the bar so that little curls of guilt wouldn't twist her stomach each time she thought about Rial.
When he was five, he babbled contentedly about whatever came to mind, and Plourr hadn't been to the bar since he was born. She and Rial had slowly stopped sleeping in separate beds, but she wasn't even sure when it had happened - she'd woken up curled next to him one morning and couldn't remember a time when she hadn't. His hands were big enough to cradle her head and gentle, soft. He gave her what she wanted.
Sometimes she thought he didn't give her what she needed.
-
He never asks her for anything, she returns the favour. She stays only if she's going to give him what he wants and they share drink costs now that she's actually got money. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, feels something like business. She'll do what he wants if he'll do what she wants. It's less frantic heat, now, less a sparring match and more a carefully calculated game of strategy.
All's fair in sex and war.
-
She went to the bar one last time, accidentally, reports in one hand and the two-year-old Princess Fiala on her hip. The other children were at home, all four of them - two with red hair, Fiala as well, one with Rial's chestnut-brown mop, one with black hair and skin a little more dusky then Plourr's own, dark dark eyes and a serious stare. She didn't stay long, long enough to give her room key back, long enough to pay up her tab for good.
Long enough to see Ramon in a corner with a man she didn't know. He glanced up like he felt her eyes on him, and raised an eyebrow. She wondered briefly how long it had been in the bar, if the fifteen years at home had translated into fifteen minutes here.
"Nice kid," he said, and tipped his glass towards her before draining it.
"Thanks," she said, and turned to leave for the last time.
-
Once - or more then once, anyhow, she doesn't keep track - he brings her home when they're both half drunk and the sex is messy, almost confusing and dotted with laughter, with half-gasps. She bites down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
It starts fading almost immediately, though, and she hears him grunt the wrong name into her hair as he comes, but that's okay.
It's a fuck story, not a love story.
She knew she was pregnant pretty much from the start - suspected, anyway, wasn't quite sure whose it was and tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about Rial's hands, clumsy on her skin and Ramon's accent slip-sliding around her teeth as he swore into her mouth the next morning. She didn't do anything cliché, didn't rest her hands on her belly or burst into tears, just looked at her muscled figure in the mirror and wondered what she was going to say.
In the end she waited until she got the test before telling Rial. His face twisted in an awkward combination of joy and something like bitter regret - he knew she didn't love him, he knew it hadn't been a planned child.
He suggested abortion, finally, did it quietly and tactfully and pointed out that no one would ever have to know.
"I'm keeping it," Plourr said flatly, and that was that.
Rial tried not to show how happy he was, but she saw it anyway.
-
He talks dirty to her only once, all hands over her face and lips whispering fuck baby yes c'mon gonna fuck you hard and she gives him exactly what he wants, gives him delicate whimpering screams and follows his lead tentatively until he's gotten off and is lying there, satiated on the bed. Then she punches him in the mouth, hard enough to snap his head sideways, and tells him that she's not some ten-credit whore.
He rubs his mouth and looks at her with new respect, with new interest and tells her that that's okay because he wouldn't pay her anyway.
-
She never told Ramon she was pregnant, he noticed when she was finally feeling decent enough to go to him and when he peeled her tunic off her stomach was just starting to round out in a gentle swell. He mostly stared, then lit a fat cigar and stared into space while she folded her arms across her breasts and waited.
After a while she cleared her throat. "I'm pregnant, not invisible."
Ramon looked at her as though seeing her for the first time and nodded thoughtfully, leaving the cigar to smoke in an ashtray while he ran his fingers over her belly. Like he hadn't heard her, "It's mine?"
"I don't know." She didn't, wouldn't know until the geneticist told her. They'd ran the obligatory tests to make sure that the family relationship wouldn't be a problem, but the results were late.
"It's a boy," he said finally, and pulled her down onto the bed with him.
-
She knows he gets with other people, girls mostly. Hell, she's seen him try to pick people up in front of her. It's never really a problem, though, she's a constant through his life while the girls come and go and always seem to leave him like they think he loves them.
He laughs about them later, or reminisces about their good and bad points. Sometimes she'll feel little flickerings of something like jealousy, but not often. Mostly she just kisses the words hungrily out of his mouth, ignores the way he compares her thoughtfully to the slut of the week.
She knows about Random only vaguely. She's never seen him, Ramon doesn't talk about him more then once. She thinks maybe he was another one-night stand that could have been more and wasn't.
-
It was a boy, in the end. She was in labour for thirty-six hours as he fought the birth every step of the way, three weeks late and slow to emerge. Rial stood solemnly outside the door, she thinks by the sight of his hands afterwards he must have been biting his nails. The people cheer when the announcement goes out.
"I thought he'd have been a girl," Rial admits, with not the slightest trace of disappointment in his tone. And, softly, "Do you think he looks like me?"
His hair, a good shock of it already grown, is dark brown shading to black, his eyes baby-blue. Plourr knew they were going to darken before she even saw them. Plourr knew he looked like his father before she entered the last stages of labour, before rippling pain blotted out rational thought.
"He does, a bit," she admitted. "Looks like his father."
Rial smiled brightly, and Plourr tried not to think of the betrayed look the geneticist had shot her when she announced that there would be no problems. He did look like his father.
That was the problem.
-
She goes out with him once, to a club where the lights are low and the music has a backbeat that vibrates through her and sets her teeth on edge. He buys her drinks she's never heard of and shows her off like a trophy, long legs and a top that shows off her breasts like she's just another one of his one-night stands. He goes to take a piss and the men crowd in next to her, grinning, leering, asking how much he paid for her, they'll pay higher.
She smashes a glass into his face without a second thought. When the police come to break up the fight she's got blood trickling from a cut on her cheekbone and she's high on life. She fucks him in the back of his car, wild with released control, and he doesn't take her out again.
-
She named him Kirin, and he had the same black hair and dark dark eyes as Ramon. Plourr loved him with something like desperation, stopped going to the bar so that little curls of guilt wouldn't twist her stomach each time she thought about Rial.
When he was five, he babbled contentedly about whatever came to mind, and Plourr hadn't been to the bar since he was born. She and Rial had slowly stopped sleeping in separate beds, but she wasn't even sure when it had happened - she'd woken up curled next to him one morning and couldn't remember a time when she hadn't. His hands were big enough to cradle her head and gentle, soft. He gave her what she wanted.
Sometimes she thought he didn't give her what she needed.
-
He never asks her for anything, she returns the favour. She stays only if she's going to give him what he wants and they share drink costs now that she's actually got money. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, feels something like business. She'll do what he wants if he'll do what she wants. It's less frantic heat, now, less a sparring match and more a carefully calculated game of strategy.
All's fair in sex and war.
-
She went to the bar one last time, accidentally, reports in one hand and the two-year-old Princess Fiala on her hip. The other children were at home, all four of them - two with red hair, Fiala as well, one with Rial's chestnut-brown mop, one with black hair and skin a little more dusky then Plourr's own, dark dark eyes and a serious stare. She didn't stay long, long enough to give her room key back, long enough to pay up her tab for good.
Long enough to see Ramon in a corner with a man she didn't know. He glanced up like he felt her eyes on him, and raised an eyebrow. She wondered briefly how long it had been in the bar, if the fifteen years at home had translated into fifteen minutes here.
"Nice kid," he said, and tipped his glass towards her before draining it.
"Thanks," she said, and turned to leave for the last time.
-
Once - or more then once, anyhow, she doesn't keep track - he brings her home when they're both half drunk and the sex is messy, almost confusing and dotted with laughter, with half-gasps. She bites down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
It starts fading almost immediately, though, and she hears him grunt the wrong name into her hair as he comes, but that's okay.
It's a fuck story, not a love story.