Was it simply a coincidence that "weed of the sea" and "pregnancy" rhymed?
I feel like such a moron for posting this. I can't give it much attention because I have a SeSa fic to write (but with my new work schedule, Monday and Thursday nights are not for serious writing--they are for sleeping and maybe a little silliness). And I hope my dearest turps33 can forgive me for committing chapter fic, but... well... Kary wanted Chris MPREG and what's a llama to do? (I seriously doubt this is what she wanted, though.)
*NCONCEIVABLE (or some title like that. Not going to post this as a real fic in snarkyllama_fic until it's complete.)
1.
Chris was a psych major, so he knew a thing or two about the old nature/nurture debate.
Take, for instance, the mysterious case of the peanut butter-and-seaweed sandwiches. His mother had craved peanut butter and seaweed during each of her pregnancies, and, lo and behold, when Chris' sisters began spawning, they craved peanut butter and seaweed, too. Nature? Or nurture?
Was Bev passing a horrendously-mutated, weed-eating X-chromosome on to future generations? Or had his sisters somehow learned the behavior from her? Was pregnancy so associated with that foul concoction in their subconscious minds that they began craving it as soon as they found out that they were pregnant? And, was it simply a coincidence that "weed of the sea" and "pregnancy" rhymed?
Chris had a niggling feeling that he maybe knew the answers to these questions after his third visit to the Asian grocery in as many days, and he was pretty damn certain of it after he ran out of bread and discovered that, oh my god!, peanut butter and seaweed served on fucking graham crackers was Manna from Heaven.
The answers went something like this: Bev had had at least one mutant baby; Nature was a wily bitch; Chris had been knocked up; and the fucking Backstreet Boys ought to come with a fucking warning label. Caution! Our Tour May Be Unbreakable, But Our Condoms Are Not.
Chris was so fucking screwed.
He could handle being a mutant. He could handle, if he had to, the whole pregnancy thing. He'd seen enough pregnancies, and done enough tours, to know nine months, no matter how awful, didn't last forever. But there was no good way to wrap his head around the fact that he was carrying Jane Carter's grandassbaby. No way at all.
Chris liked Nick. He liked Nick a lot, but he needed to find a more suitable baby-daddy ASAP and that was a problem. He really didn't have any good prospects at the moment.
Well... there was Justin...
Justin loved him. He had no doubt that Justin would step up to the plate after an "Eww, assbabies!" freak-out or two and the whole "How do you solve a problem like La Biel?" thing.
But Justin was perhaps even more unsuitable than Nick. Twenty-five percent Lynn Harless' nurture plus twenty-five percent Jane Carter's nature would add up to one one-hundred percent fucked-up kid who would inevitably break Chris' heart by getting the most hideously inappropriate cherub tattoo ever on his, or her, eighteenth birthday. There was no way Chris was going to let that happen, not to his baby.
Chris rubbed the soft curve of his belly reassuringly. Oh, he knew that at this point, his belly was all pizza and beer; at only three weeks after the condom incident, his baby couldn't be more than a thought and a tiny ball of cells, but that needn't stop him from making it a promise.
"Don't worry, Tiger," he told his belly. "I'm going to make sure you have two kick-ass grannies. You'll be the luckiest kid alive and you'll never have to get an incestuous tattoo or listen to Aaron Carter songs, okay?"
With that said, he petted his belly again, and took his graham cracker sandwiches and a glass of milk up to bed. Hey, he was pregnant now. He obviously needed a nap before tackling something as tricky as the whole baby-daddy problem.
*NCONCEIVABLE (or some title like that. Not going to post this as a real fic in snarkyllama_fic until it's complete.)
1.
Chris was a psych major, so he knew a thing or two about the old nature/nurture debate.
Take, for instance, the mysterious case of the peanut butter-and-seaweed sandwiches. His mother had craved peanut butter and seaweed during each of her pregnancies, and, lo and behold, when Chris' sisters began spawning, they craved peanut butter and seaweed, too. Nature? Or nurture?
Was Bev passing a horrendously-mutated, weed-eating X-chromosome on to future generations? Or had his sisters somehow learned the behavior from her? Was pregnancy so associated with that foul concoction in their subconscious minds that they began craving it as soon as they found out that they were pregnant? And, was it simply a coincidence that "weed of the sea" and "pregnancy" rhymed?
Chris had a niggling feeling that he maybe knew the answers to these questions after his third visit to the Asian grocery in as many days, and he was pretty damn certain of it after he ran out of bread and discovered that, oh my god!, peanut butter and seaweed served on fucking graham crackers was Manna from Heaven.
The answers went something like this: Bev had had at least one mutant baby; Nature was a wily bitch; Chris had been knocked up; and the fucking Backstreet Boys ought to come with a fucking warning label. Caution! Our Tour May Be Unbreakable, But Our Condoms Are Not.
Chris was so fucking screwed.
He could handle being a mutant. He could handle, if he had to, the whole pregnancy thing. He'd seen enough pregnancies, and done enough tours, to know nine months, no matter how awful, didn't last forever. But there was no good way to wrap his head around the fact that he was carrying Jane Carter's grandassbaby. No way at all.
Chris liked Nick. He liked Nick a lot, but he needed to find a more suitable baby-daddy ASAP and that was a problem. He really didn't have any good prospects at the moment.
Well... there was Justin...
Justin loved him. He had no doubt that Justin would step up to the plate after an "Eww, assbabies!" freak-out or two and the whole "How do you solve a problem like La Biel?" thing.
But Justin was perhaps even more unsuitable than Nick. Twenty-five percent Lynn Harless' nurture plus twenty-five percent Jane Carter's nature would add up to one one-hundred percent fucked-up kid who would inevitably break Chris' heart by getting the most hideously inappropriate cherub tattoo ever on his, or her, eighteenth birthday. There was no way Chris was going to let that happen, not to his baby.
Chris rubbed the soft curve of his belly reassuringly. Oh, he knew that at this point, his belly was all pizza and beer; at only three weeks after the condom incident, his baby couldn't be more than a thought and a tiny ball of cells, but that needn't stop him from making it a promise.
"Don't worry, Tiger," he told his belly. "I'm going to make sure you have two kick-ass grannies. You'll be the luckiest kid alive and you'll never have to get an incestuous tattoo or listen to Aaron Carter songs, okay?"
With that said, he petted his belly again, and took his graham cracker sandwiches and a glass of milk up to bed. Hey, he was pregnant now. He obviously needed a nap before tackling something as tricky as the whole baby-daddy problem.