h3llcat:

Night Moves – 695 words

Clydeland – ABO, Mpreg

There’s always that moment between sleeping and waking where dreams and reality meld into one, a moment of fog until the mind catches up and sorts what had been happening in the subconscious from what’s happening in the physical world. Clyde is certain the words “crisp sandwich” being whispered in his ear go solidly into the “dream” category.

He turns his cheek into his hair fanned out across the drool damp pillow, squinting into the dark at the illuminated red numbers of his alarm clock. 3:37 AM.

“Clyde!”

The sharpness of the voice at his side makes him jump and he lumbers over to grope in the warm bedding for his mate. “Stens?” The word is garbled with sleep but laced with concern, lone hand finally finding the curve of a hip and travelling up and over until it rests across the omega’s distended belly. “What’s wrong, darlin’? Somethin’ the matter?”

“I want a crisp sandwich.”

Clyde sighs with relief that it’s just another craving, settling back down and nuzzling his face against the base of Stensland’s neck. “You want a what now?”

He isn’t sure why that was the wrong thing to say, but immediately knows he’s fucked up when Stensland goes stiff in his arms. “Darlin’?” He hesitantly lifts his head back up, movements slow like he’s trying not to provoke a bear into attacking.

“You don’t even care about the culture of my people!” Comes the banshee shriek. Then a sniffle. And then the sobbing.

“Oh, darlin’, oh, baby, don’t cry now. A crisp sandwich is like a… like an Irish thing?”

Stensland half growls half bawls something that Clyde assumes to be an affirmative.

“I’ll get you a uh… crisp sandwich… alright?”

“You can’t just buy it , you have to make it ! Are you telling me you won’t even make our baby crisp sandwiches?! Do you even care about us at all?!”

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, ‘course I care, Stensland. You just wait here now.” Clyde reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor, and, with a promise to not come back until he has the ingredients for the best crisp sandwich Stensland has ever tasted, he presses a kiss to his temple and hurries out the door.

“Howdy, Siri. What in the hell’s a crisp sandwich?”

* * *

Finding butter with a good “Use By” date in one of the few stores open at four in the morning was a larger task than Clyde had realized, but he makes it home before five, brown paper bag laden with supplies balanced precariously between the stump of his left arm and his chest while he struggles for the keys in the deep pocket of his sweatpants.

He half expects to find Stensland fast asleep, sandwich cravings forgotten, the case more often than not when he wakes suddenly requesting this or that. Instead, he opens the door to a familiar ambience, Dawson Leery’s earnest voice preaching love and friendship interrupted occasionally by the plastic rustling of a potato chip bag.

He presses the door closed with the tip of his shoe and holds his breath in preparation for another outburst, but he’s greeted with a warm smile, tear tracks long since dried on glowy cheeks. Stensland’s slouched comfortably in his worn corduroy armchair, favorite striped t-shirt doing its best to contain his belly, threads of the side seams stretched beyond what could reasonably be asked of them. There’s a jar of mayonnaise in one hand, a spoon in the other, and a bag of Cheetos held upright between bare thighs.

“Hey, baby. I got the ingredients for your sandwich.” There’s still a hesitance to the way Clyde moves as he sets the bag down and edges the perimeter of the small den until he’s close enough to land a quick kiss to the top of red hair in desperate need of a wash.

“That’s okay, I made flavored mayonnaise.”

“You… uhh… you what?” He watches with an increasingly common mix of horror, fascination, and unconditional adoration as Stensland grabs a handful of cheetos, drops them into the jar, and mashes them around with the spoon. Clyde swallows down a gag. “Looks delicious, darlin’.”