Work Text:
It all starts as a joke.
Or well, a dare, if you want to split hairs about it.
It’s never really clear when it comes to you and Rose.
The both of you never learned when to quit it when it comes to committing to the bit. You’d think you and Rose would have figured out by now that you’re each other’s best/worst enablers and will keep yes, and-ing yourselves and each other until the heat death of the universe and beyond, but alas. It’s probably wishful thinking at this point. But hey, hope springs eternal and all that shit. Because if the both of you haven’t learned your lesson during the time you’d goaded each other into getting matching nipple piercings when you’d both turned twenty-one, then it’s just never gonna happen.
But you digress.
It starts because one of Roxy’s old uni friends is getting married to some alpha they met at a mating run. And Rose, who’d just listened to you go on a whole rambling tangent about how reductive and archaic the practice is—it had been a common talking point during your mandatory Gender and Dynamic Theory class back in film school and had, unfortunately, stuck—had smirked at you from across the table and asked, as casual as you please, “have you ever participated in a mating run then, cousin dearest?”
To which you’d snorted and said, “uh, no, I just said it’s reductive and archaic. Keep up, Rosie.”
“Oh, so you’re content with echoing someone else’s sentiments without confirming them for yourself?” She’d then simpered over a cup of whatever herbal leaf water bullshit she and Roxy had been on for that week, tone challenging in that specific way she knows you’re helpless to resist.
Which, of course, meant that a week later, you were at a mating run upstate that you’d signed up for in a fit of pique. You’d thought—hoped—that your manager would step in and veto the entire thing, but Karkat had only brought out Terezi to cackle in your face and grumbled something about how it’d be good publicity for your image, leaving you no choice but to commit to the bit and prove Rose wrong.
And then you’d gone and actually ended up enjoying yourself.
Sure, it’s maybe not in the way that other people normally enjoy mating runs, but you’ve never done anything normally in your life, so why even bother? You ran circles around everyone, even punched an alpha or two (or three) for shits and giggles, and when you’d collapsed in the backseat of Rose’s car, the usually unbearable ache of the incomplete mating bite on your neck had been completely drowned out by the rush of endorphins singing in your veins.
Rose had, unfortunately, won that particular bet/dare/what-the-fuck-ever, but you wound up with a new thing to do that’s not related to your work, as well as a way to make your unbearable heats just a bit more bearable, so you figure it’s not a total wash. And now here you are, three years later, with fifteen mating runs under your belt and zero actual matings.
“Here I thought the whole idea was to get caught,” Jane muses from the front seat of Roxy’s dinky little rental as your cousin pulls up to the parking lot.
Rose is out on a cruise with Kanaya and her family, so the dubious honor of carting you around to your mating run has gone to Roxy. Not that you need to be carted around—you do actually have a valid driver’s license and you’re a much better driver than what your cousins give you credit for—but Roxy’s in LA for the weekend with Jane for some girls’ trip or something and insisted on picking you up from the studio and driving you. And well, driving while you’re in preheat isn’t your most favorite thing in the world, so you’d let Roxy herd you into her tiny rental where you’d spent the last thirty minutes folded up like a damn pretzel in the backseat.
“Oh, don’t bother, Janey, it’s his whole thing,” Roxy says, turning to you with an eyeroll that you meet with an unapologetic shrug.
Because hell fucking yeah it’s your whole thing.
Mating run organizers hate to see you coming. You’ve been banned from no less than three mating runs around New York, ostensibly for “starting fights with alphas”, but you suspect it’s really for “setting a bad example for other omegas,” by not letting some loser alpha catch and mate you. There’s even that one run out in the Hamptons that one of your actors suggested to you where the organizers threw a whole stink about the incomplete mating bite on your neck, one of them even going as far as to email you about getting it surgically repaired first before attending the run. Which, okay, (1) the fucking audacity, and (2) your mother, your aunt, and Rose have been trying to convince you to get rid of the mark for years, and if three of the most overbearing broads in your life haven’t managed it, then what chance does some Barefoot Contessa Ina Garten wannabe have? You’d shown up to the run regardless and when they’d banned you afterwards, you’d pulled out the email threads and set Terezi loose on their asses for omega discrimination.
“Sure you don’t need me to pick you up later?” Roxy asks, peering out of her window once you’ve unfolded yourself out of the backseat, and you try not to grimace at the thought of having to contort your legs to fit back in again.
You shake your head. “Nah, s’cool. I’ll get an Uber or hell, maybe I’ll bother Karkat on his day off.” It’s a joke, mostly because Karkat has threatened to quit as your manager if you interrupt his movie weekends one more time, I swear to fuck, Strider, but partly due to the fact that Karkat actually enjoys micromanaging your life to an alarming degree and probably already has some poor intern tasked to pick you up later in anticipation of the whole thing.
Which is why, when Roxy huffs and tells you that, “one of these days, Kitkat will murder you in cold blood,” you only laugh and wave her and Jane off, before sauntering away towards the registration area.
You’ve gone through this whole song and dance enough times that signing in for the run is a relatively painless process. Of course, it helps that Karkat has taken it upon himself to actually register you properly for these things, and all you really have to do is show up and flash your government-issued ID to prove that you are, in fact, the one and only David Strider—Hollywood darling, award-winning auteur, and America’s one and only sweetheart.
Once you’ve proven your identity and gotten a flimsy wrist tag for your efforts, you change into your running duds (read: strip off the sweatpants Roxy insisted you put on over your teeny-tiny running shorts). It’s as you’re making your rounds—nodding at a couple familiar faces, chatting with some of the run’s organizers, and getting your usual shots from the medical tent, all while steering clear of any alpha participants—that you catch a familiar scent and nearly trip on air. You spin on your heels like some old-timey cartoon to try and catch it, heedless of the curious eyes on you as your lungs fill with the scent of polished steel and fresh oranges.
Bro.
Where—?
Pushing your aviators on top of your head, you scan the crowd for Bro’s familiar silhouette, heart stuck in your throat. You’re suddenly and painfully aware of the incomplete mating bite on your neck. It aches, a stabbing and all-encompassing thing, throbbing in time with your racing pulse. You’d think the pain of it would have faded or, at the very least, lessened at this point. It’s been ten years, after all. You should be over it by now. You shouldn’t still be carrying the grief of smarting over a failed incomplete bond stupid bite that your brother probably didn’t even mean, and yet—
“Mr. Strider?”
And yet, you think cynically, flicking your shades back over your face when you don’t catch a glimpse of Bro’s stupid hat or his pointy anime shades. What did you expect? He’s not going to come for you. You quash the urge to touch the mark on your neck, focusing instead on the nervy young woman—one of the run’s many beta assistants, Joey, you think—who’d called your attention.
“Yeah?”
“The run’s about to start, sir,” she says, and it’s only then that you finally notice that all of your fellow runners have gathered by the edge of the woods. You scan the small clearing again for even the slightest hint of Bro, only turning away when you accidentally catch the eye of some random alpha.
Shit.
Now you’re gonna have some bozo doggedly sniffing out your trail once the run starts.
Nice job, D.
You give the assistant a stilted, “thanks,” before making your way to the starting line. Get your head in the fucking game, you think furiously, cursing under your breath when you spot a couple more alphas, and even a few betas, giving you elevator eyes. Ugh. You’ve done your best to cultivate a certain reputation for being off limits, not to mention highly litigious, and you’re gonna be so fucking pissed if you’ve inadvertently ruined it all because you had Bro on the brain.
God, Bro’s not even the only person you know who smells like oranges. It’s a pretty common scent, all told. Hell, one of your omega interns even smells like those tiny mandarin oranges your aunt likes to buy. And really, now that you stop and think about it, why would Bro even be here of all places?
You haven’t heard from your brother—half-brother—ever since your mother caught you together in your makeshift nest during your first presentation heat at sixteen. The last and only piece of news you’ve heard about him was that he’d run away from home a year after you’ve been sent to live with the Lalondes. Your mother only told you about it after five years have already passed, ensuring that you had absolutely no way of contacting him again.
Needless to say, your relationship with her has been strained ever since.
You feel bad about it sometimes, because on one hand, yeah, you get it. It couldn’t have been fun walking in on your stepson balls deep in your newly-presented omega kid. On the other hand, couldn’t she have just—fuck, you don’t know—scolded the both of you? Or hell, waited until your heat was over before separating you and Bro, instead of dragging you on an impromptu cross-country road trip, while hopped up on shit that you’re pretty fucking sure the WHO banned an entire decade ago for causing birth defects or some shit?
A sharp whistle snaps you out of your reverie, and it’s only thanks to your high school track training that you don’t stumble and fall flat on your face. Instead, just like Coach Spades intended, you go off like a shot. You have no destination in mind and no strategy to speak of, but the idea, as always, is simple enough.
Don’t get caught.
Just as you’d expected, you have a bunch of alphas and betas immediately gunning for you. Idiots. They must be new to the mating run circuit, or at the very least, delusional enough to think they’d be fast enough to catch you, which is frankly hilarious. You weren’t your state’s track champion for nothing. All those afternoons spent running in the forest that surrounded your aunt’s mansion and chasing after the Lalonde’s cats have, funnily enough, trained you for mating runs, and it’s not long at all before you lose all of your pursuers.
It’s honestly a little embarrassing how quickly you get rid of them, especially when you’re not even at your best. Hell, you haven’t broken out the flash-step once. Any other time, you’d probably bait someone just for hell of it, get some alpha pissed off enough at you that they resort to violence, so you can be justified in throwing a punch or two. But something in your omega hindbrain warns against it and for once you listen, opting instead to put enough distance between yourself and the rest of the group. It’s just in time too for the temporary heat blockers to wear off, the prickling warmth of your preheat rearing its ugly head as the mating run really begins.
You only manage to count up to five before the moaning starts up all around you, quickly followed by a deluge of horny pheromones assaulting your senses.
“Jesus,” you mutter, doing an about-face and picking your way down another trail that won’t put you smack dab in the middle of what sounds (and smells) like an orgy.
The good thing is you've participated in this particular mating run enough times that you’re well aware of the surrounding terrain. You know exactly which routes to take and which ones to avoid, which shaded area is favored by couples and which copse of trees some alphas like to stake out to catch any stragglers. It’s a bit like the woods around Rainbow Falls, except instead of needing to keep an eye out for mountain lions or serial killers, you’re trying to avoid panicked omegas and rutting alphas.
With a snort, you make for a small clearing that serves as a picnic area. You usually avoid it since it’s almost always swarming with alphas by now, but the route is strangely empty, almost abandoned. Later, you’ll curse yourself for acting like the first chick who dies in every survival horror film, but right now you head down the path in a steady jog. It’s only when you’re already by the clearing’s entrance that you finally, finally notice that you’re being watched—no, not watched—tracked.
Because you’re being hunted down.
Like prey.
And then it’s like a switch flips in the back of your head and you’re suddenly on high alert, hackles rising.
It’s the first time you’ve felt like this during a run. Hell, it’s the first time you’ve felt like this ever. There’s always been a part of you that knows that none of these alphas or betas could ever hope to catch you, much less mount and claim you. Because as much as you don’t like thinking about it—there’s already so many things wrong with you, according to Rose at least, without adding incest to the mix—there’s only ever been one alpha you would’ve willingly submitted to. Anyone else is canon fodder. Extras. It’s why you still haven’t gotten rid of the incomplete mating bite on your neck, because a small, stubborn, pathetic part of you is holding out hope that your brother will finally complete it, and now—
The scent hits you just as the alpha does. The horribly familiar bouquet of musk, polished steel, and fresh oranges undoes you effortlessly, and before you can so much as shift back on your heels, you’re grabbed by the hips and thrown onto a nearby picnic table.
“Shit!” You hiss, catching yourself on your elbows and knees as your aviators clatter to the ground. The alpha settles heavily on your back, pinning you down, the table and bench protesting under your combined weight. “What the fuck—!”
“Caught ya, Davey,” your older brother’s voice croons into your ear, and ohshitfuck, the sound of it shouldn’t make your dick hard, shouldn’t make your pussy leak, but fuck, it does. Especially when Bro—because of fucking course it’s Bro, who else could have caught you, who else would you have allowed to throw you around like a sack of rice?—noses at the throbbing scent gland behind your ear and says in a rumble you feel down to your toes, “I could smell you all the way from my truck.”
And you can’t help the way your scent thickens in response, a burst of sweet caramel and apples filling the air like you’d walked right into the caramel apple stall at the state fair. “B–Bro,” you say, only for your next breath to stutter out in a gasp, as Bro traces a finger along your slit through your soaked shorts. “What—what are you doing here?” You ask, craning your head over your shoulder to see—oh, oh—your older brother looking back at you with sharp amber eyes and a nearly imperceptible smirk.
For once, he’s not wearing his stupid anime shades or a baseball cap, and as if to make up for the douchebaggery points he must lose without them, he’s gone and popped the collar of his white polo. It shouldn’t work, it should look ridiculous, but Bro’s always been handsome in that classically masculine way you’ve always been embarrassingly into. Even more so now that he’s grown into his looks; the high cheekbones and full lips that made him look awkward when you were teenagers are devastating on him now. The fact that he’s built like a brick shithouse doesn’t hurt either.
“I thought that was pretty obvious,” Bro tells you in a casual drawl, before grinding the thick, hard curve of his cock against where you’re wet and wanting, shocking a moan out of you. And look, okay, you know that Bro’s big. Intimately, in fact. But over the years, you figured it was just your brain exaggerating, embellishing—nothing like a little movie magic to keep the fantasy alive. You’d been sixteen, after all, and a virgin besides; anything would have felt massive to you back then. Except you’re no longer sixteen and definitely not some untried virgin, and even through the layers between you, you can tell that Bro will split you open once he gets that third leg masquerading as a cock inside you. “But hey, I’m down for a demonstration,” he continues with a harsh tug on your shorts and underwear, dragging them down your thighs effortlessly.
It leaves you exposed, vulnerable, in a way you haven’t been in years, and yet you only feel yourself getting harder and wetter. Your dick slaps wetly against your stomach just as a thick glob of slick drools out of your cunt, like your body’s desperate to let your alpha know that you’re fertile as fuck. Ripe and ready for the baby your brother will fuck into you.
“I—wait,” you start, shaking your head as if to clear the heat haze you’ve fallen into, even as your hips push back against the two fingers Bro slides between your swollen folds. “Bro, I’m—” It all feels too much too fast, and you’re suddenly reminded of your first heat, the makeshift nest you’d made in the back of your shared closet, and how Bro had diligently worked you through it like a good older brother should, except not. Because brothers don’t do that, and you shouldn’t want Bro’s bite on your neck, shouldn’t want his cock stuffing your cunt full, shouldn’t want your brother’s seed filling your womb and getting you fat with a litter or two or three. “Stop!”
And Bro does, drops his hands and steps away, leaving you reeling at the sudden lack of contact, the air freezing on your molten core.
“Bro?”
“Getting some mixed signals here, D,” Bro huffs when you meet his eyes over your shoulder, smoothing a large, calloused hand over the small of your back where your shirt has ridden up. He doesn’t move any closer, leaving enough room for Jesus and the rest of the boys, and it’s maddening. “D’you want this or not?”
And god fucking damn it, you do. You wanted it at sixteen, even when your mother had screamed and cried and tried to claw away the still-bloody bite on your neck, and you want it now at twenty-six, even after a decade of no contact with your brother, your alpha—
“Please,” you whine, leaning down until your cheek is smushed against the table, spreading your legs as far as your ruined shorts will allow. You feel your blush spread from your cheeks down to your navel (just like the twinky little omegas in those amateur pornos with the shitty lighting that inevitably find their way to your work inbox), especially when you drop your shoulders to arch your back, showing off your leaking cunt; presenting for your alpha. “Bro,” you whine again as you feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes, “I want it, please.”
For a single, terrifying moment, Bro doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. The bastard’s scent doesn’t even change, because of fucking course your control freak of a brother would find a way to restrain his own scent, meanwhile you can already smell the astringent panic in yours. And you’re just about to say fuck it and start crying just so he’ll touch you again, dignity be damned, but then you hear the telltale sound of a zipper being undone, and Bro says, in that drawling Texan twang, “well, since you asked so nicely.”
It’s the only warning you get before Bro’s sinking his cock in you, inch by inexorable inch. His hands are tight on your hips as he splits you open, leaving you no choice but to just take it. And it’s—a lot. Calling it a third leg doesn’t even feel like an exaggeration anymore, because even with all the slick leaking out of your pussy and the preheat hormones flooding your veins, you feel the stretch, the strain, and yet you’re still babbling out a litany of, “yesyesyesyesyes,” as Bro bottoms out with a grunt, balls slapping against your cunt.
“Fuck, yer tight,” Bro hisses, and some stupid omega part of you preens, even though you know from his tone that it’s about to be followed by some backhanded comment or other. “Hasn’t anyone else fucked you here, Davey? Bet you got all those Hollywood alphas lining up to get their knot in your pretty pussy.”
Called it.
Still, the question brings you up short, and you feel your entire face burn at having to answer it. And you know you’re gonna have to, because you know Bro, and you know he doesn’t say anything for no reason. If he’s asking, then he wants to know—no—hear the answer. “N–no,” you sputter, shaking your head, “I don’t—I’ve never—”
Behind you, Bro scoffs derisively. “No need t’lie, baby brother,” he says and starts to roll his hips in deep, grinding thrusts that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s a smooth and steady slide, deceptively unhurried, but you can feel the way it’s building up. A gradual, calculated swell intended to turn you boneless and brainless in a matter of seconds, and it’s all you can do to hold on, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the picnic table, each breath leaving you in a moan as Bro slams into your sweet spot over and over again. “I ain’t gonna be mad that I’m getting some Hollywood exec’s sloppy seconds.”
You blink, once, twice, replaying Bro’s words, before your upper lip curls in a snarl.
Motherfucker.
He did not just call you some Hollywood exec’s sloppy seconds.
“Ffffuck you!” You spit out, blindly whipping an arm out to hit Bro, only for your asshole brother to catch you by the wrist and wrench you up until you’re pressed tight to his chest, all your weight resting precariously on his front. “I’m nnh—” you stutter, trailing off with a high, keening sound as your new position forces Bro deeper, letting him slide all the way in, right to the mouth of your cervix, “—nnhghAH–ah–ah—not lying!”
Bro, in true douchebag fashion, just hums out a, "is that right?” before mouthing wetly at your mating gland, teasing. “Why hasn’t Hollywood gotten to fuck your pussy, D?” He asks, bucking his hips pointedly when your answer gets lost in a breathy whine. “Tell me,” Bro murmurs as he reaches down to wrap a hand on the base of your weeping cock, “why haven’t you let anyone fuck your greedy cunt?”
“Because you told me it’s yours!”
A stunned silence follows your admission, and you have half a second to feel like a total dumbass for taking something Bro said while you were both out of your minds to heart, before the tang of oranges fills your lungs and Bro drags you in for a bruising kiss.
It’s nothing like the clumsy “practice” kisses you shared as teenagers. This time, there’s no more pretense or prevarication, no need to lie about some nonexistent girl in your class that you want to mack on. Bro kisses you with a single-minded focus, mapping your mouth with lips, teeth, and tongue, taking note of your reactions and preferences like you’re one of his machines. What makes you moan, what makes you whine, what makes you pant mindlessly into his mouth. All the while, he’s jacking you off with an expert hand and driving into you, the head of his cock ramming against your cervix with each rattling thrust, bringing you closer to the edge.
“Can you cum like this?” Bro asks once he pulls away, punctuating the question with a clever twist of his wrist on the downstroke that has your inner walls clamping tight. “Just from your pretty omega dick?”
“I—no,” you gasp as you’re pushed back down onto the table, Bro following you with a slam of his hips. You’ve tried it before, during your second heat and the one after that, and all you’ve gotten for your troubles were a sore wrist and a chafed dick. “I can’t—”
“No?”
“Bro, c’mon.”
You know what you need and it isn’t a hand on your dick. It’s a knot. Specifically, what you need is Bro finally knotting you, and this time, your mother won’t be around to drag you away, and your older brother can knot you and breed you all he wants, fill you up with his cum until it takes and you’re fat and heavy with his kid—
“Shit, D,” Bro chokes out, composure shot as he ruts into you desperately, and you think you must have said that last part out loud, but you don’t really care. Not when you can feel Bro’s knot pulling at your rim one last time before it pops in, locking you together. Not when you can feel the fleshy barrier of your cervix give way at the sudden pressure, pushing you right over the edge until you’re screaming, cumming and squirting all over the bench as your vision whites out.
+
CG: STRIDER I HAVE AN INTERN CRYING IN MY DMS SAYING HE CANT FIND YOUR FREAKISHLY TALL MEATSACK AT THE RUN
CG: PLEASE TELL ME YOU DID NOT GET YOUR SCRAWNY FOOL ASS KIDNAPPED ON MY DAY OFF LIE TO ME IF YOU HAVE TO
TG: nah man its cool
TG: my bro picked me up
TG: no need to call the cavalry vantas
CG: OKAY SMARTASS WHO THE FUCK IS THIS
TG: Huh.
TG: That’s pretty quick. You’re sharp.
TG: But I really am David’s brother, Dirk Strider. You can call Dr. Roxanne Lalonde to confirm if you want.
TG: Go on, I’ll wait.Delete PSTR413XX_CG_TG.log?
[YES] [NO]
TG: u fucker
TG: i had to talk kitkat out of callin the popo on ur ass
TG: you owe me bigtimez di-stri
TT: I’m already building you a hadron collider in your basement, Ro-Lal. What else do you want from me?
TG: ill send u a list
TG: ;)
+
When you come to, you’re lying in the backseat of Bro’s old pickup and something inside you warms at the familiar sight. Or maybe it’s the leather jacket Bro had thrown over your shirt, or most likely, it’s all the cum Bro pumped into you, still sloshing in your womb, kept inside by a squat plug that presses deliciously into your sweet spot when you sit up.
It could be anything.
“Did you seriously put a fucking plug in me,” isn’t what you mean to say, but it’s what comes out of your mouth once you manage to rub two brain cells together. You can’t help it, you’re still a bit dickpilled and Bro’s scent, rife with prerut pheromones, isn’t helping matters. If you’re being honest, it’s making things significantly worse.
And wetter.
So much wetter.
If you weren’t already plugged up, you’d be gushing slick and seed all over your seat.
Shutting the engine off, Bro lets out a small huff and turns on his seat, giving you a pointed look over his shades. And as if he’d just read your mind, says, as casual as you please, “can’t have you leaking pussy juice and my cum in the truck, D, I just cleaned it.”
You scowl back, swallowing down the, fuck your stupid truck, burning on your tongue, when you notice that you’re no longer at the mating run grounds. Instead, you’re in your driveway, parked right in front of your villa. The villa that only three people—Rose, Karkat, and Terezi—know even exists. The villa that Bro couldn’t possibly have known about, because if he did, then he would’ve tried to visit you sooner, unless—
“Hey, D, you with me?”
—unless he didn’t want to.
Your next breath lodges painfully in your throat, the earlier warmth in your chest cooling quickly at the implications. What’s all this then? God, is your fucking brother breaking up with you?
“You know where I live,” you say quietly, and it’s as much of an accusation as you’re willing to make without sounding like a crazy ex-girlfriend.
Bro only shrugs, watching you through the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that hard to figure out.”
“And yet you’ve never contacted me before,” you grit out and hey, whaddyaknow, turns out you’ve got more accusations left in you.
You get another shrug, but this time Bro pulls his seat back with a loud exhale and, only with the slightest bit of hesitation, takes his shades off. Letting out another sigh, he looks up and actually meets your eyes, and suddenly you’re treated to more emotion than you thought Bro was capable of. “Didn’t think you wanted to see me. Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s—”
“‘Course I know better now,” he mutters, cutting you off with a roll of his eyes, before reaching out to press a thumb into your mating gland.
The touch has you moaning, melting as hormones flood your veins, and before you know it, you’re standing on your doorstep, still wrapped up in Bro’s jacket, and watching in confusion when Bro doesn’t move past the threshold like some kind of fucking vampire. And you really should’ve expected this from Bro, but you’re getting hella tired of the emotional whiplash. He’s lucky you think the dick is worth it.
“You’re not coming inside?”
“Already did.”
And as if to remind you that Bro did, in fact, already come inside, your pussy clenches and you swear you can hear the way Bro’s cum splashes all over your walls. “Fuck off.”
“You’re signed up for two more runs this month, yeah?” Bro asks, and fuck, okay, you know you should be worried that not only does your estranged brother know where your secret villa is, he also apparently knows your entire schedule, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, especially when Bro adds, “I’ll catch you.”
“And then you’ll bite me?”
“I’ll make sure to breed you full too, Davey,” Bro promises, reeling you in for a kiss, “make you a mommy.”
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Okay.”
You can’t wait.