A group of friends streams their gaming on Wednesday nights. But not all the action is on the dining room table.

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Chapter 7 -- Chocolate Chips

The sound of my phone dinging with a message is what jolted me awake, but it was the smell wafting into my room from the kitchen that kept me there.

Good thing, too. The dream was already fading from my mind, but it had involved Lunea, Burg, and rather acrobatic activities I didn't want to contemplate in my waking state. I found my hands idly moving to cradle my baby at the thought and pulled them violently back to my sides. One of them landed on something unexpected and furry and lifting it up to get a blurry look I recognized it as the stuffed puppy Brian had given me the night before.

I stared at it.

It stared back with its glittering eyes and innocent, adorable doggy smile.

I sat it on my pillow and gave its head a small pat. Not like I could blame my dreams on an inoffensive piece of fluff.

"Urgh," I grumbled as I sat up and searched my end table with bleary eyes and clumsy fingers, looking for my phone. I found my glasses first, and slipped them on, rendering my eyesight problems solved and shortly thereafter found the phone, which had vibrated its way to the floor. A few swipes later and I had the message pulled up:

Carmen: Heya, sweetie! Just a reminder to wear panties under the body suit.

I rolled my eyes. "They're men's bikinis," I said to nobody in particular. They were the closest concession I'd been willing to make to Carmen's wish that I wear "appropriate" underwear with her costumes, but she made a point of referring to them as panties every chance she got.

NP, I texted back before dropping the phone back on the end table and deciding to investigate the mouth-watering aroma drifting into my room. Costume concerns could wait: Brian's pancakes absolutely could not.

I was padding my way toward our kitchenette when Brian turned around; what seemed to be the last batch of pancakes making their way to the platter, already piled high with buttermilk goodness. He gave me a huge, sappy grin and held up a finger, then turned back to the griddle, shutting things down and stacking his dirty dishes while I settled onto one of the stools at the island and eyed the pile hungrily.

Getting a better look at the platter close-up, I had to swallow before I drooled all over myself. "Ohmigod, chocolate chip?" I pumped a fist in the air. "I didn't know we had any in the house!"

"We wouldn't have had any if I'd let you know we did," Brian said, returning to the island with dishes, butter, and syrup.

I frowned. "I eat one bag of chips, and I get branded untrustworthy for life."

"Two bags."

I shook my head. "That other one was peanut butter chips and doesn't count," I said, taking the plate and fork he offered me and spearing a couple cakes from the platter. "'Sides, I'd told you to buy the large bag."

"That was the largest bag the store had."

"Then it's the store's fault for not selling big enough bags." I added a pad of butter between my cakes and started sliding the top one around on top of the bottom one, spreading the butter with it, then poured a healthy dollop of the syrup on top.

Brian watched me fix my cakes, then took three for himself, going heavier on the butter and syrup than I had.

I took a bite and felt my eyes flutter as the chocolate and syrup hit my system. Brian slid a glass of milk across to me, and all I could do is give him an appreciative and thankfully closed-mouthed grin.

That was it for conversation until the pancakes were almost gone.

"Only four?" Brian asked, chuckling as he put the extras in a freezer bag. "You usually eat at least six."

"Stupid bodysuit," I groaned, leaning back as much as I dared on the stool and stretching.

"If it's that tight, probably best you don't try to eat more anyway. Might all go to your boobs."

"I don't have boobs!" I huffed, crossing my arms across my currently unpadded but still wire-enhanced chest.

"You ain't flat," Brian countered, still putting away the breakfast fixings and loading the dishwasher. "Even without the help."

"That's pecs," I argued, for some reason wishing I'd put the bra on instead of just wearing the jersey I normally slept in.

"Pecs don't jiggle when you jump."

"I don't have boobs," I said again, more forcefully than I'd intended, and almost fell off my seat. "And I need to pee," I said, climbing down from the stool and turning my back to him. I did my best to ignore his chuckling as I stomped off toward the bathroom.

"Stupid Brian," I grumped as I undid the snaps on the bodysuit. "Stupid bodysuit," I grumped, as I slid my underwear down and dropped on the seat. "Stupid... pecs," I grumped, as I poked one of said pecs as I sat.

It was hard to tell through the baggy jersey, but perhaps it did have a little jiggle to it.

"I do not have boobs," I said again, crossing my arms to ensure no more jiggling would occur.

I'd had the same argument with Maria back when we were in high school. I'd always been pretty skinny, but never really bony. Instead, I'd always just kinda been a little soft. Yes, that included my chest.

But I didn't have boobs, and Maria had even agreed when I'd finally consented to let her and Carmen measure me. They'd consented that I'd barely qualify for an A cup, if that, and it was just puppy fat.

I looked up from where I was sitting on the commode to the bra I'd given a quick hand-wash the night before and tossed over the shower rail. Finishing my business, I washed my hands and checked to see if it was dry. Since it was, I pulled off my jersey -- fighting not to lose my glasses in the process -- and slipped the bra on over my head, taking a few moments to adjust things for comfort.

Looking in the mirror, I couldn't help but frown. "Now I have boobs," I conceded, reaching up and gently poking one again. The bra did its job: the support minimized the jiggle, and the padding minimized the impact. I rolled my eyes and slipped my jersey back on before heading back out to the kitchen.

"Better now?" Brian asked, putting the griddle on the counter to dry. The rest of the dishes were already chugging along in the dishwasher.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Well, make it up to me by paying for lunch today while we're out."

"Okay. Wait. Why are we going out?"

Brian pointed at the trash. "That was the last of the buttermilk, and the chocolate chips, and we need to pick up a few other things too."

I felt woozy for a second as the implications of going out hit me. "Can't you go on your own?"

"You don't want to?"

"I can't!" I squeaked. "Not like this!" I waved down at myself.

"Don't bother me," he said, smiling. "And you could just take it off."

"I..." I stopped. "I can't."

"Why not?"

I sighed. "I told Carmen I'd wear it all day today," I said, resting a hand on my bump.

"Sure," Brian said slowly, giving me a long look. "But I doubt she meant you should embarrass yourself in public. If you don't think you can wear it out, I'm sure she'd understand."

"Maybe, but." I looked down and away. "The convention's next weekend, and I'm not used to it?"

"Well," Brian started to speak, then stopped himself. "All right, I want you to go shopping with me today, so maybe if you just wear something loose, nobody will notice."

"Y'think?" I asked, looking down at myself. I didn't see how I could hide it.

"Yeah. Just throw on a baggy hoodie or something, or... wait here," Brian said, dashing out of the kitchenette and down the short hall to his room. A few seconds later, he returned and handed me a pile of cloth. "Problem solved."

I unfolded the bundle and looked at... "One of your shirts?"

"Sure," Brian said, shrugging. "You tend to wear your clothes a bit tight, so you're right, I don't think you've got a hoodie loose enough that the baby wouldn't show. So."

I looked at the shirt, then at Brian. Then back at the shirt. Then back at Brian.

Brian grinned at me, seeming as proud as if he'd just solved world hunger.

"You realize how ridiculous I'll look walking around in one of your tents for a shirt?"

"Just try it on."

"...Fine."

Once again, I found myself storming off, this time back to my room, apparently to get dressed to go grocery shopping.

I tossed Brian's shirt on the bed and frowned at it. It was a long-sleeved button-down, blue-on-white plaid. It would be a last resort.

I walked over to my closet and began digging through what was on the rail and what was in the drawers beneath, grabbing a few options and tossing them on the bed next to Brian's last resort shirt, then got to work getting dressed.

The problems started with pants. My baby bump pushed the front of any pants I tried on out and down, which would pull the back up and tight, turning every pair of what were already mostly skinny jeans into ass-huggers. Shorts fared a bit better, but being currently hairless, my legs stood out like crazy, at least to me. So, tight-ass jeans it was.

Delving into shirts, I immediately ran into similar problems. I wouldn't call my wardrobe 'tight' per se, but in context, nothing I owned did anything to hide either the baby or my enhanced boobage.

I looked at the third hoodie in a row and felt deflated. It would have been too hot for a Louisiana August anyway, but even without that, it made me look, well, pregnant.

"I should just take the suit off," I told myself as I stripped the hoodie off. "Why not?"

That really was the important question. Why not?

I flopped back on the bed, in between piles of rejected clothes, and thought about it.

In the pros column of removing the bodysuit was, of course, the simple fact that I wouldn't be wearing the bodysuit. I wasn't sure exactly what Carmen had made it out of, probably some form of silicone, but it was heavy, and warm, and pressed on me in weird ways. If I took it off, I'd avoid all those things, and be able to wear anything I wanted.

Less self-consciousness. Less chance of public embarrassment. Less questions.

In the negatives? If I got used to wearing it now, it really would be easier to handle when the convention came around. Plus, I had promised Carmen I'd wear it. That might not seem like a lot, but I took promises very seriously and hated breaking them without a good reason.

Was public reception a good enough reason?

I'd lived in Bayonet for almost eight years. I'd gone to college here, built a life here after college, made friends here. It wasn't the biggest place in the world, but it wasn't tiny either, and the likelihood we'd run into someone I knew was relatively high.

Then again, a lot of folks assumed I was a woman anyway. Hell, I had college professors who were still calling me Miss when I graduated, and last time I'd seen our apartment's super, he'd done the same. A few folks might bat an eye, but even for the folks who knew me by name, how many of them would care?

Of the ones who might ask or say something, how many of them would find it any weirder if I was doing this as a guy or a girl?

Then, there was the other, much weirder part to consider...

Did I *want* to take it off?

There was the immediate mental Yes, for all the reasons mentioned above. But there was another part of me that disagreed.

As part of my research into what Lunea would go through with her pregnancy and motherhood, I'd read a lot of articles about daily life as a pregnant woman. The feet swelling, the challenges of handling the growing child. But I'd also read about so many good things, too: the sense of fulfillment, the feeling of contentment and love that came from knowing your baby was there.

Once again, I found myself gently cradling my baby bump, but this time I didn't jerk my hands away.

I felt like I'd gotten a bit of that in my normal roleplay sessions as Lunea. I'd certainly tried. But last night, there had been something different. As silly as it may sound, actually carrying around the weight of my baby, feeling the pressure, having that physical presence -- artificial as it may be -- had made everything more intense.

I didn't like the bodysuit... but I liked the feeling of being a mom-to-be. That was terrifying in and of itself, but again, there was a part of me that didn't want to give it up just yet.

*Sigh.*

I sat up and reached for Brian's shirt. I'd agreed to at least try it on, so that's exactly what I was going to do.

I felt like I was donning a poncho as I slid my arms into the sleeves, then bunched the sleeves up as much as I could so my hands were clear to do up the buttons on the front of the shirt, all but the top two. With the shirt buttoned, I rolled the sleeves up, one, two, three times, 'til they fell just past my elbows, with enough material in the cuff I was afraid if I rolled them up any more I'd look like I was wearing floaties.

I tugged the shirt this way and that a bit, swimming in it, then looked in the mirror again.

And laughed.

The wide collar of the shirt left a lot of neck and chest on display, and a quick bend showed me a generous view down into my wire and padding-enhanced cleavage. It did, in fact, hide my baby bump, but mostly by virtue of being so big and loose that it made me look like a twelve-year-old wearing their dad's clothes.

Or, I guess more accurately, with the bedhead I still sported, a girlfriend wearing her boyfriend's.

I stopped laughing as I considered that.

Here I was, standing in the apartment I shared with Brian, wearing his clothes, after having eaten a breakfast he'd fixed for me. As far as most people were concerned, that was probably three-quarters of the way to qualifying for the morning-after girlfriend role.

Still looking at myself in the mirror, I played with my hair a bit, using my fingers to brush it all to one side instead of the gelled spikes I normally would do. Without the gel, my hair tended to fold over in a bit of a soft wave, shiny and straight.

Stare.

Fuck it.

Brian was sitting on the couch with his back to me when I walked back out of the room. "Sorry that took me so long," I said, plopping down next to him with shoes in hand.

"No prob, I'm used to... it..." he trailed off as he looked at me, his jaw going slack.

"What?" I asked, tying up my converse.

"Uh... you're still wearing your glasses," he said after a long pause.

"Yeah, well. One more thing to make me look different than I usually do," I told him, which was true. I usually only wore my glasses long enough to find my contact case and put them in, but seeing how I looked in the mirror with the tortoiseshell frames and slightly too-big lenses, it felt like keeping them on might help people not recognize me so quickly.

"Ah, yeah. Good idea. You look, umm...."

"Like I'm thirteen?"

Brian laughed, the spell seeming to finally break. "I was gonna say you look cu--... good."

"Oh," I said, blushing a bit. "Well... thanks." We shared another awkward look. "So! Uh, where to first?"

"Right," he said, standing up. I did the same. "I wanna go by the game store first. Heimdall Nine is out today, I'd like to pick that up. Then the grocery store?"

"Sounds good to me," I agreed, grabbing my messenger bag and heading toward the door. "So, how about we get started before I change my mind?"

"As you wish, milady," Brian said in the voice he used for Burg, passing me and holding the door open.

I gave him another sideways look but said nothing as I stepped out and into the hallway.

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NOTES:

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