Potentially Pregnant Platitudes (Pearl POV)

Copy + Pasted (with light edits) from my chapter over on Sexual Privilege.

Piercing through her sleep, Pearl hears the man who fucked her stupid not nine hours ago as he shuts the door to her bedroom with a quiet click. Then there’s the running of the shower, a soft pattering down the stairs, the rusty clang of his truck door being slammed, and the fading sound of its engine as he heads off to do whatever it is Chase Wallin does. She’s never claimed to understand how his brain works.

There he goes.

Mom’s at a conference, Macy’s at her new summer job. The bed feels strangely empty beside her.

Pearl is officially alone in the house.

Just her, and her thoughts.

Great.

Her brain releases itself from the final trappings of sleep as she pulls herself up onto her palms. There’s some midmorning birdsong trailing in through her window, but the building below Pearl is quiet.

Her room reeks of sex.

She shifts a lock of hair clinging to her sweaty, clammy cheek.

She reeks of sex.

Her thighs are sticky, her hair is a veritable rats’ nest, and her only currently adorned article of clothing that she last wore god knows when seems to have some serious complaints about this reunion, what with the sweat marring her skin and the chest it was meant to contain being significantly more outward than the last time she put it on.

Weirdly enough, the mattress itself seems drier than expected. She supposes most of the sexual fluids just ended up inside her.

Inside… her.

She’s got a big gooey pile of someone else’s DNA inside her.

Shower first, unraveling the emotional and biological ramifications of your friend repeatedly smashing his crotch against yours later.

At least stripping down is quicker than usual.

Despite all the heat Pearl’s body put itself through the previous night, the warm water is soothing against her sore muscles. And now that she’s in a new environment, all those muscles are finally catching up and making it impossible for her to ignore just what exactly she put it through. Her legs decide they’re just a little too much like jelly to support her weight, so she plops her bare ass down on the shower stall floor. There’s a dull, oddly pleasant ache throughout her lower half, at its strongest and spreading outwards from a cleft nestled between her thighs.

Focusing on the physical task of soaping her body provides a semi-adequate barrier against the mess of feelings pooling in her stomach. Some of them are hormonal, some are emotional, a few are leftover remnants of dulled arousal, and a smidgen seems to have coalesced into something resembling excitement.

It’s that last one that feels the most confusing and unfamiliar.

Pearl hauls herself up, willing her legs to remain stable, and begins lathering shampoo against her scalp. As she rises, though, there is a soft but distinct splat at the floor between her feet. Having lost its battle against gravity and exited her reproductive system, the white stain mixes with the soapy shower water and quickly makes its way down the drain. The scent lingers, though; strong and undeniably masculine. Potent proof of what she let freely enter her body.

After exiting the stall and toweling down, Pearl grips the sides of the sink and forces herself to look in the mirror.

Despite the whirl of thoughts in her head, Pearl can’t deny the soft post-coitus glow emanating from her skin. And despite the fogginess of her future, she can’t deny how good her heart and body feel. Still feel.

Holy shit, I had SEX.

And it was fucking AWESOME.

Man meets woman, magical dance under the covers, yada yada.

A dude and his cock thought I was sexy as hell. He shoved his thing up my thing, and it felt AMAZING.

The biological, ego-fueled part in the back of her brain takes over for a split second. Pearl, the dour, composed, sarcastic Girl of Goth allows herself to do a whoop and a twirl in a moment of honest glee.

I FUCKED a guy. A guy fucked ME.

…CHASE fucked me.

Chase, one of my best friends.

Chase, who I am positive has never given me a more-than-platonic thought or look before yesterday. And the feeling was mutual.

…

Food first, figuring out the parameters and consequences of your weird new babymomma relationship with your asshole friend and his dick like dynamite later.

Having the kitchen to herself on a weekend morning is nothing new for Pearl. What is new, however, is her manner of dress. Or rather, undress.

Before heading downstairs, she had slung a fuzzy bathrobe over her shoulders and decided that that was more than enough clothing for the moment. She didn’t even wrap it around her front.

The bottom of her stairs opens up right in front of her living room window. On her way to the kitchen, anybody who happened to glance in the direction of her house would have been able to see the entirety of Pearl Nowak, in the flesh, and nothing but the flesh. All her goods on display for the world to gawk.

Not that there were any passerby strolling her quiet suburban street on this particular Saturday morning, but she could hope.

It’s my house, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, I’m an adult now.

This is fun.

As she yanks a bowl from the dishwasher and rustles in the pantry for an easy breakfast, Pearl mutters a verse under her breath:

“Whole pussy out
Dirt in my mouth
Sing a little ditty when I stroll down South”

…

I spend way too much time on the internet.

Her movements are practiced, automatic. A whole half-box of sugary cereal into the bowl, milk from the fridge, spoon from the ‘clean’ side of the sink. As she moves to put the carton back, though, she bumps the overly-full bowl with her elbow, causing some of its contents to slosh onto the counter. Pearl curses and starts to grab a rag, but a realization gets her to pause.

She does a double take at the pool of milk dripping in rivulets from the counter onto the kitchen floor.

Pearl then snaps her head down to stare at her chest. Under her collarbone are two rounded sacs of fat, large enough to obscure her feet, capped with nipples lightly stiffened from her bout of in-home exhibitionism.

She pokes the side of one breast, sending it into a brief sway.

If everything went according to plan, these things would be making that stuff soon.

…Dude.

Like, what the fuck.

“You can DO that!?” she yells down at her own tits.

I’m gonna be a cow.

She lifts her other breast up, then lets it bounce back into place against her ribs.

Fucking… human vending machine. Living baby food dispensary.

After years of sitting stagnant in her peripheral, her mammaries would finally get to serve their biological function.

At least they’ll finally be useful. For something other than being Chase’s playthings, anyway.

With that thought, memories from the previous night bubble, unbidden, to the surface of Pearl’s mind.

Of Chase’s body pressed against hers, of his hands tracing the outline of her breasts, his palms skirting over her nipples through the thin fabric of her top. Staring at her like she was something to truly behold.

Memories of their lips pressed together, wet and frantic. Of gripping his shoulders, of moaning into his mouth, high on arousal for the man on top of her.

Memories of the pole between his legs, unfamiliar yet exciting, firm for her. Lusting for her. Seeking entrance into her body.

Memories of the head of his cock, swollen and insistent, bumping against her pussy, lips a stark deep pink against the paleness of her skin, sending a wet shiver up her spine.

Memories of that same cock, wholly bare and unprotected, just how she agreed, gently splitting her open. Nothing between the smooth skin of Chase’s member and the walls of her vaginal canal.

Memories of that same canal widening, embracing its guest. Of Chase entering her in deeper and deeper strokes, cockhead like a homing missile pointed towards Pearl’s uterus.

Of their bodies moving in tandem to meet each other. Of sounds escaping her mouth, throaty and girly, every time he bottomed out inside her. Of feeling her friend in her deepest parts.

Of the rush of blood from her brain to her groin as he brought her to orgasm.

Of Chase picking up pace, movements increasingly primal, as he pushed himself closer to his own. Of muddy concern taking hold as her brain and body swum in the warmth and rush of sex.

Of Chase soothing her worry, breathy and heady. Of telling her what she wants, what she wholly consents to. Of confusion, acceptance, and then embrace. Of growling in his ear to make it so. Do it. Cum inside me. Knock me up. Make me pregnant.

Of the warm explosion underneath her skin. Of their mutual, sweaty collapse.

Of her friend slipping out of her body, her tunnel feeling suddenly empty as it released its mate.

Of the light trickle of something warm and virile as it silently leaked from her lower lips.

Of staring, still flushed and panting, into the face of the man she now wanted to make her a mother.

Of falling asleep with her hand interlocked in his, together pressed against the small of her stomach.

Of briefly waking in the middle of the night, her almost-bare body pressed against his wholly nude form. Of how natural it felt. Of quickly falling back asleep, heart and womb feeling equally full.

That fucking asshole.

How dare he fuck up our entire friendship.

How dare invite himself over. How dare he get me so hot and bothered. How dare he fuck me. How dare he look at me like I’m made of solid gold. How dare he make me feel so stupidly fluttery inside. How dare he make me cum harder than my own fingers ever have. How dare he cum inside me. How dare he make it feel so good.

How dare he make me want him. How dare he make me want to have his child.

How dare he make me want to do it all over again.

After four years of ribbing, of digging, of playful insults and easy camaraderie, he thinks he can just waltz into her room, say some words, and uproot their entire dynamic?

What even is their dynamic now?

Friends with benefits? Fuckbuddies? Lovers? Casual chums who Hooked Up That One Time?

…Future parents?

She can still vividly remember how they met. Two months into ninth grade, young and dumb as ever. **** to partner together on an English assignment (screw you too, Mr. Lebovitz), and resenting the process all the while. And through their mutual loathing of Kafka, high school English, and Mr. Leboshitz, they built a strange but lasting friendship. He laughed with her whenever someone tripped on their own feet, she became the first person to officially kick his ass in Brawl. They never even considered moving beyond friendship. What would have been the point?

Other members of their ragtag group trickled in over the years, but stupidly enough, her friendship with Chase had been the most consistent part of Pearl’s life for the bulk of her teenagehood.

Until yesterday.

She can still picture them freshman year, sitting in some random stairwell, mocking The Metamorphosis together. Her, thin and budding, with a ratty backpack dangling a Flareon charm. Not even allowed to wear makeup yet. Him, with bad haircut and brace-face, barely even an inch taller than her.

They’ve known each other since they were kids. In many ways, they still are kids.

And now they’d be making a kid of their own.

Oh god.

All at once, her anxiety comes to a head. Pearl lets the bathrobe fall off her shoulders and collapses into a kitchen chair. Gripping her hair in her fingers and curling inward, she braces for the onset sensory overload: the regular drip-drip of the milk off the counter, the discarded robe settled in a heap on the floor, the chair’s wooden varnish cool against her vagina as a reminder of just how naked she is and just how much things have changed–

Thoughts and panics of her body morphing and changing, of morning sickness, of intensive labor, of pushing a living human out of her body–

…Of cradling a living human that she made in between her arms, of raising its mouth to her breast and letting it feed, letting her own body give it sustenance. Of staring into its face for the first time.

Of watching her creation speak its first words, take its first steps.

Call her Mama.

Pearl slowly uncurls her body, and releases a wet sniffle. Whether it’s from lingering worry or blooming hope, she can’t say.

After mopping the floor, hanging up the bathrobe, and finally putting some food in her stomach, Pearl flops face-first onto the living room couch. Head smushed against the cushions, she contemplates what to do with the rest of her morning. And for the first proper time, it occurs to her that’s she’s officially graduated. She’s free.

She’s also completely unemployed with no established plans for higher education.

Pearl rolls onto the floor.

Suddenly, contemplating the crises within her own body is a lot more appealing than thinking about her empty waste of a future.

“…What would I even look like pregnant?”

With a new thought to focus on (god, please), Pearl arises and dubiously approaches the floor-length mirror hung in her hallway. Her reflection stares back at her, naked as the day she was born.

Damn.

I am a pretty fine piece, aren’t I? No wonder Chase wanted a taste of this.

She juts out her chest, sticks out her tongue, and strikes a stripper-like pose for an invisible camera.

Hello, O Goddess. Goddess of Femininity. Goddess of Fertility. Goddess of badassery. Goddess of pure fuckin’ sexiness. Goddess with nice tits and a bangin’ body.

She breaks character to put her hands on her hips and glare her doppelganger in the eye. “Goddess of Chase’s DICK, more like!”

She maintains the staring contest for another couple of seconds before breaking and laughing at her own stupid expression. Never in a million years could she have imagined herself doing this, thinking like this.

God, Chase. What are you doing to me, man.

Why’d I even come here again?

Mentally shaking herself from her vanity mindset, Pearl places a hand on her lower tummy, as though she can somehow feel the deeper parts within.

She turns to glance at her side profile, and traces an invisible curve from her ribcage to her crotch.

In her mind’s-eye, Pearl can vividly see herself in nine months. Belly round and taut, having grown outward more and more each day. She bites her bottom lip.

…I’d look pretty good, apparently.

She once again cups a breast in her hand, gently kneading a nipple between two fingers.

These are gonna get even bigger, aren’t they.

She rolls her eyes and half-snorts, half-giggles.

Bet Chase will appreciate that.

For the seven millionth time this morning, Pearl pictures him. Pictures him cradling her breasts, heavy with milk. Pictures him inside her again as they celebrate her fertilization, pictures herself riding him while he cradles her belly, round with child, their child–

She give the ceiling a guttural cry and starts whacking her skull with her knuckles. “Get out of my head, you– fucking–“

Involuntarily, Pearl’s legs clench together, desperately trying to alleviate the pulsing wanton desire between them.

A desire centered on Chase, to grab him and slap him and kiss him and roll around in bed with him. To mash bodies, to embrace his cock, drive it to spill his seed directly into her. To copulate. Procreate. Reproduce.

To ignore the soft wetness trickling its way down her inner thigh.

It seems that, on top of everything else, he may have inadvertently given her an impregnation fetish.

Great. Just… great.

She refocuses her gaze on the reflection in front of her. Her own depraved self stares back. Cheeks and neck red, a light shivering in the shoulders, all the confidence from moments ago having evaporated. Right hand having subconsciously drifted to cup her mound.

She pries her wrist away. As needy as she may be, she knows this is not the time. She doesn’t have Chase’s consent, anyway.

“Down, girl,” Pearl murmurs to her own vagina.

What a conversation that would be. ‘Yo Chase, mind if I fingerfuck myself to the fantasy of you turning me into your own personal broodmare?’

She won’t give him the satisfaction.

Not yet, anyway. She knows she’ll cave eventually. But eventually is not right now.

And right now is time to get her head on straight and figure out where the hell to go from here.

And that starts with putting on some damn clothes.

15 minutes later, Pearl is lying sprawled on her bed, clad in a pair of purple panties and the one plunge bra she owns. Her head is tilted to the side, eyes glaring in frustration at her closet, as though maybe it would burst into flames if she only stared hard enough. Then she’d have an excuse to not wear anything.

Unfortunately, it’s probably not an excuse the police would accept.

Up until yesterday, Pearl would have said her typical style was rad as hell, and anyone who disagreed could fuck right off. And she still believes that, but her wardrobe had always been built first and foremost around being comfy. Old jeans, faded graphic tees, soft hoodies. But now, they’ve stopping giving her the same kind of comfort. They feel too… restrictive. Like if she went out in them, she’d just be hiding parts of herself.

Is there such a style as ‘black metal babe’?

Honestly, there probably is, but the current contents of Pearl’s closet don’t quite fall into that specific category. Not nearly enough, anyway.

Her eyes land on one particularly baggy t-shirt that she bought at a concert some years back. It was the first one she ever attended with a friend, a month after meeting Chase. It’s honestly one of her most treasured memories. She hasn’t worn it in forever. He’d probably get a kick out of seeing it again.

And then a ridiculous idea forms in her head.

Screw it.

Pearl sits up, undoes the clasp at her back, and lets the girls bounce free from their prison. The bra gets flung into a corner of her bedroom, quickly joined by her panties being kicked off her ankles. Previously, she would have been uncomfortable with her undergarments lying around her floor where guests could see, but now, she doesn’t care. Let them look.

Ten seconds later, she’s wearing a black Sabaton graphic tee, and nothing else. The hem extends just far enough to cover her butt and the very tops of her thighs, as long as she keeps a close eye on it. It indeed only fits a very loose definition of ‘dressed’. She can still keenly feel the absence of anything else underneath or below the shirt, but hey. Under all their clothes, everyone is naked, or so her logic goes. Most importantly, she feels free. She feels comfortable.

Pearl twists her torso from side to side and relishes in the too-unfamiliar feeling of her braless boobs moving under her top.

She feels badass.

“Look out world, I’ve got tits and I’m not afraid for you to know it.”

It’s certainly a solution for now, albeit an unorthodox one. It’s clear, though, that her entire ensemble is in sore need of updating. Past Pearl got most of her clothes from thrift stores and merch stands, but Pearl Nouveau is in **** need of freer, breathier garments. Which means she needs to go shopping. Great. Maybe she’ll let her sister drag her someplace. She’d probably be over the moon. Bleh.

Pearl grabs her phone off her bedside table. The screen alights displaying a text from Chase asking her to call once she’s up.

What, does he think he occupies my every waking thought? Pff, as if.

She swipes the notification away, opens her contacts, and drafts a message to Macy.

Contact: Can of Mace
Pearl: Do you have tomorrow off

Her sister responds within fifteen seconds. Work must not be all that riveting.

Macy: no but the store closes at 2 on sundays y
Pearl: Want to go clothes shopping with me
Pearl: I’ll let you choose where
Pearl: I need new a new crop top. Among other things
Macy: :OOO
Macy: holy ffukcing shhit
Macy: unhand my sister
Macy: bodysnatcher
Pearl: Oh my god
Macy: pearl would never ever go 2 a clothesstore that didnt look like someone died in it
Macy: she doesnt even know what a crop top is
Pearl: Your window of opportunity is rapidly closing
Macy: no no STOP ILL DO IT
Macy: but srsly where is this coming from
Pearl: I told you I need clothes
Macy: ?

She considers whether or not to tell Macy about the possible pregnancy. It would be a relief to know she has someone in her corner. At least, someone other than the guy doing the impregnating.

Pearl: And I have news that I think I want to share
Macy: O? big news? bad news?
Macy: omg pearl r u dying??
Macy: its ok ill take care of the funeral if you leave me ur computer
Pearl: Fuck off no
Pearl: Bad news no. Big news probably
Pearl: I just need to get stuff off my chest are you gonna do your sisterly duty or not
Macy: awwww
Macy: of course Im always here for u boo
Pearl: Cool. Now go back to being a **** to capitalism
Macy: youre more important. but ok :) :) love you

And now she’s committed. If Pearl attempts to back out, if she tries to hedge the issue, she knows Macy will hound her until she spills every detail. Macy is far better at reading her and prying her open than Pearl would like to admit.

She supposes that’s the territory that comes with siblinghood.

God, what’s she even going to think? Would she be supportive?

For that matter, what would their mom think? Would she be excited to be a grandparent? Or would she be horrified at the prospect of her child having a child before she herself is even forty-five?

Should she be horrified?

The dull light of Pearl’s phone screen offers no answers. She tosses it face-down on her bed.

For as long as Pearl can remember, Macy has talked about wanting kids. How would her older sister react to being an aunt before she’s even a mom?

She settles tentatively in her swivel chair and stares out the window at the world beyond. And through the pane, Pearl’s eyes alight on a family scene.

Their neighbour across the street – Annie, Amy, something to that effect – is guiding her two children towards the family minivan. The younger one is saddled snugly against her hip, the elder one trundling alongside her, babbling animatedly about something or other. Annie-Amy listens and responds, all smiles, as she slides the first gremlin off her side and straps him into a carseat. As he flails his tiny arms merrily against his constraints, she plants a loving kiss on the side of his cheek.

Could I really do that? Could I really be like that?

Legally speaking, Pearl is an adult. But in too many ways, she still feels too young to be dealing with any of this. Last week, her biggest concern was getting a decent grade on her physics final. Yesterday afternoon, it was whether or not she should attend a high school party and whether or not her friends would be there.

Now, against all odds, she is actively wanting to make herself responsible for an entire other human being. Her own human being. That she will make. That she will birth. Because that’s a thing her body can do. For some fucking reason.

Growing up, Pearl never saw the appeal of kids. They were grimy, inane, and frankly a little intimidating. Not to mention an overwhelming amount of time and effort for seemingly little payoff. Pearl figured she would die alone with no one but an army of reptiles. Maybe a couple guinea pigs.

Now, that idea seems to have been quickly and swiftly deposed for a vision of herself ten years from now, surrounded by a gaggle of tiny minions, born and raised by her own loving hand. Bouncing a toddler on her knee while more of her spawn play boisterously at her feet, her tummy round with yet another.

What have I become.

She’s been an adult for all of eleven weeks. She’s been out of grade school for all of twenty-two hours.

And here she is now, on the cusp of being a teenage mother. And terrifyingly, incomprehensibly, wonderfully, she could not possibly be looking forward to it more.

Hormones are a hell of a ****.

What the hell else is she going to do now that school’s over, anyway? Gap year? Use nepotism to get a low-end job at her mom’s firm?

Pearl has spent the last sixth months watching as her friends submitted letters to out-of-state colleges or planned for trips across Europe, while she herself silently tried to avoid thinking about what these changes and separations would mean for her own life. She stubbornly focused on just making it through her senior year, ignoring the terrifying mystery of what comes after for the sake of her own sanity. Whenever someone prodded her about her own plans, she would feign nonchalance or joke about dying in a blaze of glory.

But now, thanks to Chase making a split-second decision to appease his own horniness, she actually has direction for the first time in her life.

While her friends and classmates are off earning degrees and chasing careers, Pearl will be building a family.

Like all the paths her peers are pursuing, her newly minted future requires a plan. And despite usually being quite allergic to planning, she knows she’s going to throw herself at this one with all the fervor she can muster.

First thing first: identity affirmation.

Pearl pries open her makeup drawer and begins applying a liberal amount of eyeliner in an effort to feel a bit more like herself again. She needs a reminder that despite her complete lack of underwear, her possibly occupied womb, and her friend owning a piece of her soul, she’s still Pearl. And Pearl likes Scandinavian **** metal, shoot-em-ups, and having her face look like it’s been stylishly dipped in coal. She’s still herself. She just… might be popping out a kid within the next year. And giving that kid the best damn life it could possibly have.

She might also be distinctly more interested in having the world see her half-naked. But yeah, other than that, still her.

Some sacrifices would need to be made, of course. One can hardly raise a child on a steady stream of sass, sarcasm and swearing. But she can make it work. She doesn’t have to lose her cool factor. She can be a hot pregnant goth lady if she wants to. She can be pull off being a slutty vampiric MILF before she’s even twenty.

Holy shit, I can finally fulfill my lifelong dream of being Morticia Addams.

That is, if having heavy amounts of makeup on her face doesn’t affect the pregnancy. Pearl pauses halfway through putting on lipstick to read the absolute thesis of an ingredients list along its length, listing chemicals and complicated formulas that mean nothing to her. The thought that any of them could harm her unborn seems a little ridiculous, but if the rules expecting mothers have to follow includes things as random as ‘don’t eat fish’ and ‘avoid cat litter at all costs’, who knows what kind of weird magical bullshit her body can’t handle while she’s got a bun in her oven.

…God, I know nothing about being pregnant. What the fuck am I gonna be subjecting my body to?

Second thing second: figuring out what the fuck she’s gonna be subjecting her body to.

Doctors and mommy blogs are best avoided, please and thank you, so Pearl supposes some independent study may be in order. It’ll certainly be a lot more life-affecting information than studying Chaucer or optic nerves or whatever she spent the last month cramming into her brain before exam season. It’s all already fled her memory anyway.

A trip to the library it is. If she gets her friend with the god-powers to take her, she might just end up getting railed into the bookshelves. And as much as the idea may turn her on, it’s going to make actually learning anything an uphill battle. Then again, she’s always been partial to learning through doing…

Damn girl, you thirsty. Focus.

The other option would be combining it with tomorrow’s Sunday sister shopping spree. Maybe breaking the news in a library would make Macy less likely to immediately explode into squeals. Because let’s face it, that girl will melt at the mere mention of the word baby.

Yeah, this is probably gonna go just fine. She hopes.

Contact: Can of Mace
Pearl: Do you think we could go to the library too
Macy: um yeah sure
Macy: What’s up with you? Are you sure everything’s OK?
Pearl: I’m fine. Just nervous about my future. You can stop asking.
Macy: hmmmmmm. I think I might know whats going on

Shit.

Macy tends to be sharper than her sister would ever give her credit for.

Macy: library? new clothes? some kind of big news about ur future?
Macy: you can just tell me if you wanna go job hunting. you kno Ill help right
Macy: or maybe you wanna go to college after all? come to my school we can be roomies

False alarm.

Pearl: As if I’d ever willingly bunk with your ugly ass
Macy: ur just jealous no one wants to bone the personification of a hot topic kiosk :P

You’d be surprised.

Pearl: Seriously I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Cease your worry
Macy: stop worrying about my baby sister? Not on your life
Macy: but ok. you better spill everything tho
Pearl: Promise.
Macy: :)

So that’s taken care of. Pearl’s never been particularly attuned to the happenings within her own body, but that seems bound to change. In the meantime, maybe she can work out the basics.

Assuming she gets knocked up pretty quickly (and she’s sure Chase will be quite efficient), she would probably be giving birth in late March or early April. A spring baby. How cliché. Not to mention fortuitous.

It looks like she’ll be celebrating her nineteenth birthday either bursting at the seams or with a fresh newborn. Pearl hopes her child will at least have the decency not to eject itself on the actual day.

Her last period was, what, less than a week ago? The previous night’s excursion probably hadn’t took, but it shouldn’t be too long before one did. Because theoretically, the younger you are, the easier conception is. Something to that effect.

Damn this fertile teenage body. Just… really wants me pregnant.

And I guess I’m right there along with it.

She’s not going to complain about foregoing the monthly bleeding ritual for close to a year. That’s certainly a plus. Speaking of which…

Pearl queues up a download for a menstrual cycle tracking app. Once finished, she opens it and is greeted with a loading screen plastered with lilies and flowy fonts. All in all, she deems it too cutesy and ‘delicate’ for what is essentially a glorified pussy exsanguination calendar. At least it doesn’t ask for her star sign immediately upon entry.

Instead, Pearl is presented with a series of checklists and questions about the state of her flow and other vaginal fluids.

“‘Is your discharge cloudy or clear?’”

She sticks two fingers under her shirt and probes her entrance.

This outfit sure does make for effortless accessibility. That’s me, easy access chick. You’re welcome, Chase.

Her fingers come away lightly sticky. After many a salacious thought over the morning, her body is clearly still quite insatiable. She holds them up to her face and squints.

“…It looks like girlcum. What do you want from me?”

Great, now I gotta go wash my hand.

After some finagling and answering more pointless questions, Pearl finally accesses the piece of data that matters most to her at this moment. Apparently, she should be at her most fertile a week from tomorrow. Pound town officially has a set date, Chase willing. And it seems unlikely he wouldn’t be.

Third thing third: forming a support system.

Raising a child is not a one-woman job. Her family would likely have concerns, and they have every right to, but Pearl knows them well enough to be certain that they won’t abandon her, as much as her anxiety may try and tell her otherwise. Macy would revel in getting practice before she inevitably has her own kids. Their mom might be… apprehensive, at least in the beginning, but she would hardly kick her daughter to the curb over a teenage pregnancy. Besides, Pearl knows she always regretted not having a third. They’d all survive.

Pearl just hopes they can both tolerate sharing a house with a screaming infant. Maybe they can convert the guest room into a makeshift nursery?

That can hardly last forever, though. Eventually, she and her new family will need a space of their own. But all that will require funds and resources from a job she most certainly does not have…

Chase. Chase will be the provider. If his magical macguffin claiming powers are as effortless as they seem, he can damn sure get them some cash for the sake of his unborn child. Pearl won’t **** him to be a present father (as much as she hopes he will be), but she will absolutely hound him until he’s claimed everything that that child needs to grow up happy and healthy. After all, he still owes her for all the toying with her he did last night.

Pearl opens up his message page and stares at his contact title. Currently, it’s an inside joke from their last in-home gaming tournament, but that doesn’t really reflect their new dynamic. She deletes the name and tries to come up with a new one.

Contact: Big Fuckin Jerk

Tempting. And accurate, but not entirely all-encompassing. He’s a lot of other things too. For example…

Contact: Future Daddy

That just sounds like a kink thing. Ew.

Contact: Sugar Daddy

She snorts. That’s not much better, honestly.

Contact: Only want him for his dick and his cash

That’s not entirely true. Sure, that may be the bulk of it, but Pearl has to admit he’s got a couple good traits going for him. Only a couple, though.

Contact: Sperm Donor

A bit too clinical for someone she cares this much about. As much as it may confuse her to admit.

She deletes it once again and stares at the blinking cursor. Slowly, she types in:

Contact: what are we

Pearl sighs.

Keep it together. All in good time. Just focus on yourself right now.

Eventually, she settles on a title. Something short, sweet, and to the point. She presses enter and finally begins drafting a text.

Contact: [Eggplant Emoji]
Pearl: Hey
Pearl: Video games are back on for tonight. We're doing it at my place instead
Pearl: We need to talk

And just in case…

Pearl: ‘Talk’ is not a euphemism by the way

A million other questions buzz at the tips of her fingertips. About his powers, about his life, about his plans. About the nature of their relationship. About how much he’s going to help. About why he’s such an asshole. About dear god when can they have sex again. But she knows that it can all wait. Right now, she just wants to have a calming evening obliterating her best friend in Rocket League. Everything else will come after.

Pearl rises and gives herself one last look in her bedside mirror. Staring back at her is a young and capable woman, a gorgeous goth, a badass bitch, a future mother. She takes a deep breath.

If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it right. And if nothing else, the process of actually getting pregnant promises to be a hell of a ride.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. Chase seems amicable to the arrangement. Pearl smiles.

This is gonna be fun.