#A Place for Commas and Dots

[p0orbaby]

A Drop in the Ocean

summary: you buy barça for alexia

warnings: none

a/n: requested on the back of a similar one i wrote

word count: 1.5k

-

You don’t even think about it anymore, the money. The commas and zeros stopped meaning anything the moment they started adding up faster than you could count. You don’t remember exactly when it happened, just that it did. One day you were checking the balances on your brokerage account religiously, watching the stock tickers on your phone at breakfast, and then at some point—probably after that second meeting in Geneva or maybe the fourth trip to Dubai—you stopped caring altogether. The accounts became endless, infinite, numbers that only existed on a screen and held no weight in the real world. You could buy anything, do anything. You do.

You’ve bought Barcelona FC. For Alexia.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult purchase, and that’s what bothers you, how easy it was. You’d made a few calls, orchestrated a few backroom meetings with men in navy-blue suits who wear Patek Philippe watches but don’t know how to spell "integrity," and within weeks, it was done. The club—one of the most storied institutions in world football—was now, for all intents and purposes, yours. They were failing in every department that mattered, so it wasn’t hard to make them see reason. The board was crumbling under its own corruption and incompetence anyway, the men in charge having long ago stopped caring about anything other than their own salaries. They saw the numbers you offered and couldn’t sign the dotted lines fast enough.

You’re sitting in the back of your Bentley Bentayga—the V8 model because the W12 felt too much, like gilding the lily—watching the city of Barcelona pass by in blurred streaks of sunlight and shadows. You don’t drive yourself anymore; it’s not that you’ve forgotten how, but why would you bother when you can pay someone to do it for you? You’re sipping on an iced Americano from a local coffee roaster that isn’t La Colombe but isn’t Starbucks either—because Starbucks is for tourists and people who don’t care what real coffee tastes like—and tapping your thumb against the cool glass, counting down the minutes until you get home. Home isn’t the place you grew up, or even the first penthouse you bought in Barcelona—God, you’ve already sold that one off—but the sprawling villa in the hills that overlooks the city like a predator watching its prey.

You’d bought the house because Alexia liked it. You had taken her to see it on a whim, even though you knew you’d buy it regardless of her opinion. But she’d loved it, her eyes lighting up in that way they do when she’s genuinely moved by something, not when she’s just being polite or trying to please you. It’s rare, that reaction, and you’ve noticed it only happens when she’s either on the pitch or somewhere quiet, somewhere she can breathe. It makes you feel something, a tightness in your chest, almost a panic, like the world’s collapsing in on itself, but in a good way. If there even is a good way for that to happen.

Your phone buzzes, vibrating against the buttery-soft leather of your seat. You glance at it and see it’s a text from her.

Training's over. Home soon?

You smile, the kind of smile that makes the people around you uneasy, because they never know if it’s genuine or not. It is, but it’s small, fleeting, like everything in your life that isn't Alexia.

On my way. You send the reply quickly, almost too quickly, like you’re not supposed to care that much. But you do. You always do.

You met Alexia when you were young—stupid young—back when you still believed that success was something you had to fight for. She was everything you weren’t: grounded, focused, humble. Even now, with all the accolades and the Ballon d'Ors and the fanfare, she still feels *real* in a way you don’t anymore. She still eats cereal for breakfast sometimes, not some overpriced organic granola shipped in from the Swiss Alps. She’ll sit on the sofa in her sweatpants and watch trashy reality TV with you, her feet in your lap, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like she’s not the face of women’s football, the woman everyone wants to be. You want to be her too, sometimes.

But then you remember: she’s yours. And you’re the one with the power, the one pulling the strings now. You’re the one who’s going to fix everything for her.

You think about the RFEF, the Royal Spanish Football Federation, and how utterly revolting they are, how they’ve mishandled everything about the women’s game. It makes you angry, but not in the way normal people get angry, not in that quick, fleeting way. Your anger is cold, calculated, the kind of anger that doesn’t make itself known until it’s too late. You’d called in favours—favours you didn’t even know you had—and now you’re restructuring the whole thing from the inside out. The old guard, the men who’ve spent years belittling and undermining women’s football, will be gone soon, and they don’t even see it coming. You’ll replace them with people who actually care, people who understand what’s at stake.

Alexia doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t need to. She already carries enough weight on her shoulders; you see it in the way she moves, the subtle slump in her posture after a long day. She’s been fighting this fight for years, but you can take it from here. You’ll make sure she never has to fight again.

When you finally pull up to the villa, the sky is turning that particular shade of burnt orange that only seems to exist in Spain. The driver opens your door, and you step out, the sound of your Louboutins clicking against the cobblestone driveway. You’re wearing something understated but expensive—a cream-coloured silk blouse from The Row, tailored trousers that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and a watch that could fund a small country’s healthcare system for a year. You’ve always preferred quiet luxury, the kind of wealth that doesn’t scream but whispers, softly, in the background. Alexia likes that about you. At least, you think she does.

You walk through the front door—minimalist, custom-made, imported from Italy—and the scent of jasmine fills your lungs. Alexia’s perfume. She’s here.

You find her in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa, her legs up on the coffee table, still in her training kit. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably reading up on whatever the media is saying about the latest match, and she looks up when you walk in. There’s that smile again, the one that makes everything else disappear for a moment, just a moment, but long enough to matter.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, like it’s only meant for you.

You cross the room and sit next to her, pulling her legs into your lap, your fingers automatically tracing circles on her shins. You don’t say anything for a while, because neither of you needs to. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence that only comes when two people have been through everything together and still come out on the other side.

“I bought the club,” you say, casually, like you’re talking about picking up milk from the store.

Alexia looks at you, her eyes widening for a second before she catches herself. She’s good at that, at pretending nothing surprises her, but you know her well enough to see through it.

“You did what?” she asks, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“I bought Barcelona,” you repeat, leaning back against the cushions. “They were fucking it all up, especially with the women’s team. I’m fixing it. For you”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and you can see the gears turning in her head, trying to process what you’ve just said. It’s not that she doesn’t believe you; she does. It’s just…a lot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She knows as well as you do that you don’t *have* to do anything. You want to.

“I did,” you reply, your voice firm. “Because they don’t care about you. Not like I do”

She looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of wanting to argue but knowing there’s no point. You’ve already made up your mind. You always have.

“Thank you,” she says eventually, and the sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. You’re used to people thanking you, sure, but it’s always perfunctory, transactional. This is different. This is real.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and soft, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You don’t think about the money or the power or the corruption you’ve spent years navigating. You don’t think about the board meetings or the backroom deals or the restructuring of the RFEF. You just think about her, and how she’s the only thing that makes any of it worth it.

When you pull back, she’s smiling, and it’s that smile again—the one that makes your chest tighten and your heart race in a way that nothing else does. Not even the money.

“Let’s go fix everything,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you already have.

[mochinomnoms]

*blinks at u* hey so my brain is eating itself and this won't let me sleep so

*pulls out a megaphone* NSFW ALERT

Okay yes octotrio foursome i know for a fact that the tweels love making their sweet partners forget about their insecurities for a moment yuu and zuzu are mostly receiving WE KNOW THOSE TWO EELS ARE CUNTS (affectionately) and like overstimulating, sweet aftercare is clearly followed but now? They know you and Azul are very spent but oh how they love to bring out such debilitating states out of you two, voices breaking and thighs trembling wanting to stop and close "Too much!" they coo and tease in response "You can take more right?" it is their form of making you two take a break! Making your bones feel like jelly and mushing your brains up, forget about anything now darling! Feels too good to stop right?

Both of those greedy bastards get you and Azul into missionary, the dominant hands of each twin on your hips to hold them in place while the other can bring even more attention to your sensitive zones, so so messy! The amount of lube mixed with saliva and semen that coated yours and Azul's inner thighs from the previous positions, the three of your partners do love to pick apart and see what makes each scenerie unique so sounds, states everything is so important to them! The sloppy sounds that Azul causes when he thrusts into you and how with this position you two can clearly see what's going on, bodies trailed with hickys and bite marks you get masturbated by Floyd while Jade fingers Azul all while still going! Seeing how Jade looks down at you, you can see how he is whispering on Azul's ear giving light kisses every now and then along his neck. They know how much these little things can do for you two, they know and want to make the most of it! After some time of weakly thrusting the twins make Azul fill you up they eat up every breathless noises being made (they also made sure you and Azul held eye contact when bringing you two to the edge don't worry!)

Finally the twins seem satisfied with the state you two are in.. Maybe they can make it even better, Azul was catching his breath and then Floyd decided to steadily masturbate Azul's still twitching dick —"C'mon Azul we wanna see you paint shirmpy's body too!" —"Fufu~ you still have energy left Floyd?" —"Always have energy to make our little mates cum~" Azul threw his head back as he came again this time spilling on your abdomen

What a mess! Don't worry though you and Azul can go into the bath while the twins change the sheets, make small snacks prepare the wedding ceremony pull out fresh pijamas everything is ready for cuddling maybe taking a nap, watching something.. Or even just talking if you even can with your sore throat

They love, love you two this is just one of the many moments that make your relationship so special

AaaaaAAaAAaH this is the very first time I ever write something let alone smut! English isn't my mother tongue and I have forgotten how puntuaction commas or dots went! But this is very feeling charged hope that you can still get it! I think that now I can go curl up on my blankets and get some heavy sleep :3 nighty night Mochi!!

-Vaquita 🐄 (hope this isn't thrown in the dust.. I spent time on it and it could be forgotten forever ;( dramatically sobbing rn)

(you need to sleep love its good for the soul)

Omg no this is really good! I love when polyoctotrio includes the twins loving on Azul too, it feeds my soul! I think they really do get a kick out of overstimulating their partners, especially for someone as high-strung as Azul.

It gets frustrating when he gets too focused on work and starts ignoring his lovers. More so when their little Shrimp is running around busy with Grim and Crowley's tasks. The twins are feeling neglected by BOTH of their partners, what a sin!

The remedy? They con you two into coming into the bedroom to "relax" and unfortunately for you and Azul, relax means literally fucking the brains out of your head until you're too dumb to remember what you were supposed to do the next day.

The nice thing is, at the end, Azul is so sweet when he's like this! All the stress, and thoughts in general, are out of his mind and only filled with thoughts of his partners! He's so cuddly to the point that it's almost funny, with how Floyd has to pry his arms off you to properly wash you in the bath. It's awfully cute, so are you, though! You're clutching at Azul all the same, cherishing his affection as Jade attempts to dress you in your pajamas. Eventually the two get you both in bed again, curled into each other and practically knocking out the moment your heads hit the pillows.

A lovely polycule to be sure!

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (17/21)

21.9k words. TW: Mentions of death, recovery from physical violence, and trauma. Followed by fluff, love, memories, and the joy of survival.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Getting From There To Here

The nursery was hushed.

Not silent in the way a room is when it’s empty, but in the way a cathedral is quiet after the last candle is lit. It was late. The world outside had long since folded itself into night, and the house breathed in a rhythm only known to those who loved it deeply.

You were asleep—stretched across the couch, curled like a comma in Rio’s hoodie, one hand draped protectively over the curve of your belly. Agatha had fallen beside you hours earlier, a book left open on her chest, her reading glasses slid down her nose in surrender. The last flicker of the fire had gone out, but its warmth lingered like an afterthought in the grain of the floorboards.

And still, Rio hadn't joined you. She stood barefoot in the doorway of the nursery, one hand braced against the frame like she needed to touch the threshold before crossing into something sacred.

The final wall stood blank. The others were already wrapped in the soft green of late spring—vines curling like whispered lullabies up toward the ceiling, brush strokes etched with the memory of laughter and steady hands. Tiny footprints had been stenciled near the baseboard in paint no one had noticed. Her secret. Her offering. But this wall—this last wall—was for something more.

This was not decoration. It was devotion. Rio stepped inside. The floors were warm beneath her feet, kissed by the last heat of the day, and the air smelled faintly of fig oil, cedarwood, and the cotton softness of new beginnings. The room wasn’t still. Not really. It pulsed. With waiting. With memory. With hope.

She set her brush down gently beside the palette of hand-mixed colors she’d blended until they looked like dusk and birth and lullabies. A deep violet. The blue of a spring storm. A pale, comet-white that glowed faintly under the nursery lamp. She exhaled. And then—she began.

The first stroke was wide. Confident. A long curve that swept upward like a sigh.

Then another. And another. Not stars yet. Not galaxies. Just motion. Just gravity translated into pigment. The brush arced and dipped like her hips might while dancing—slow, deliberate, a rhythm older than language. “For your dreams,” she whispered, the words not meant for anyone else. “May they always be wide enough to carry you. And may no one ever teach you to shrink.”

The next strokes spiraled, soft and swelling like breath in the lungs. A nebula took shape at the corner of the wall, glowing faintly as she stippled white into the violet base. It bloomed like something breathing—something becoming.

She didn’t sketch. She didn’t plan. She just moved. Her hands knew what her heart had already built. A long arc of color swept down toward where the crib would one day rest—an aurora painted sideways, like a mother’s arm cradling sky.

“For your wonder,” Rio murmured, “because the world is going to try to take it. And I promise we’ll fight to keep it in your hands.”

Tiny stars dotted the canvas now—soft flicks of white against blue, the tip of her brush tapped lightly like a heartbeat. Each star felt personal. Placed. She traced the Big Dipper into the upper corner—but then veered, reshaping it into something else. Not a constellation of the old world. But a new one made for her. The one they would name together.

Vines crept into the mural from the baseboards—intertwined not with planets, but with the space between. Silver-green tendrils laced through the stars like someone weaving safety into the dark. They didn’t overtake the sky. They lived in it. Grew because of it.

“For your roots,” she said, dipping into silver and letting it catch the light, “because you’ll have them. But they’ll never bind you.”

A small comet trailed across the center of the mural, its tail glittering like the train of a dress—elegant and fierce. Galaxies spiraled toward the ceiling. Comets arced like laughter into the curve of a crescent moon. Stars dotted the edges where vines grew upward, soft and luminous, like roots in reverse—pulling light down from the heavens into the crib that would soon sit below them.

Beneath it, Rio knelt.

Her jeans stained with memory, her fingertips speckled with light. And there, in the corner where the wall met the trim, she painted the smallest shape yet: a tiny golden star. Not like the others. This one had six uneven points and a center lined in rose.

She hovered over it with care. And then—smaller still—she dipped the brush and wrote around it. Barely visible. But there. Small prayers.

A safe world. A full heart. A home that never asks you to shrink.

A name that will always be said with love.

A Mama who will fight for your joy.

A Mommy who will never stop learning how to love you better.

A Mamì who watches the stars to remember her own mother’s hands.

For the name we haven’t said yet.

For the name you’ll claim later.

For all the versions of you we haven’t met yet—and will love just as fiercely.

Tears slid down her cheek. She didn’t blink them away. She let them fall. They landed silently, darkening the fabric of her shirt at her knees, her chest rising slow as if each breath was a prayer not yet spoken.

The paint glistened wetly under the light of the nursery lamp, and Rio sat back on her heels, her palms open in her lap like she had just placed something sacred at an altar. She looked up at the wall. It wasn’t just a mural anymore. It was a welcome. It was a promise. It was a sky that would teach her daughter to dream.

Made not from pigment, but from hope. From devotion. From quiet promise. Galaxies swirled toward the edges like open arms. Vines cradled planets and stars like lullabies held in cupped hands. And at the very center, Rio left a circle—empty, soft, waiting.

Not forgotten. Reserved. “That’s where we’ll hang your name,” she said, voice thick and cracking. “So the stars will learn it, too.”

Downstairs, you were awoken by a kick to your side. Then another. Low. Playful. A rhythm. Not gentle this time. Not the fluttering stretch of sleep, but something decided. Sharp, playful—your daughter shifting low and strong like she was rolling her shoulder, bracing her stance, winding up. Back in the nursery, Rio froze mid-stroke.

The paintbrush hovered in her hand, comet-white dripping from its tip, catching in the lamplight like the tail of a star. Her breath stilled. She turned slowly, like she could feel it through the walls. Through skin. Through time itself.

Then—

“Rio?” Your voice drifted down the hall, muffled by blankets and late-night softness, but laced with that familiar edge of dry affection—the kind that only came when your back ached and your bladder had been tested one too many times.

“Your daughter is playing softball in here. I swear to God, she’s got cleats on. I think she just hit a double off my bladder.”A pause. “It’s midnight.” Rio covered her mouth, choking back a laugh. “Come tell her drills start at nine a.m., please. Maybe she’ll listen to her Mamí.”

The affection in your voice cracked her wide open. The laugh that escaped her was quiet—low and reverent—the kind of sound someone makes when they’re in the middle of praying and suddenly, God answers back with a joke. She turned back toward the mural. Her eyes were wet now, and not from the paint fumes. Because the wall behind her wasn’t just glowing. It was listening.

“You heard me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked—just slightly—on the “me.” She pressed a kiss to her fingers. Then leaned down and kissed the baseboard, right where the vines curled under the tiny golden star. The same one she’d ringed in rose-pink and dusk. The one that hadn’t yet been named.

A soft wind nudged through the crack in the nursery window. Spring air, cool and damp with moonlight, brushed against the back of her neck. The mural shimmered under it—an entire galaxy alive in a nursery that wasn’t quite finished but already holding everything. “I’m coming, baby girl,” she whispered again, this time to both of you. “Coach Mamí says bedtime.”

She straightened slowly. Her feet shifted back across the painted wood floor, the mural still drying behind her—stars pulsing in gentle spirals, galaxies wound tight around the edges of the room like protective arms. Vines shimmered in silver and violet, laced between constellations. A horizon blooming up a wall that had never known such wonder until her hands touched it.

She turned once more before leaving. One final look. At the blank circle in the middle of the sky. Left untouched. Saved. For a name. For a voice. For a girl who had already started calling back. And then Rio stepped through the doorway, stardust still flecked across her hands, and moved toward the sound of you, tired, sacred, and waiting.

-----

The house was dark, save for the soft golden wash of a single lamp in the living room—its glow barely reaching the kitchen floor. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Rain whispered faintly against the windows. And from the hallway came the gentle rhythm of Rio’s bare feet.

She moved quietly, her hand still marked in silver paint, the scent of it trailing behind her like starlight caught in cotton. You didn’t turn your head at first.

You were half-asleep—barely—your body stretched across the length of the couch, one knee drawn up, the throw blanket bunched around your thighs. The hoodie swallowed you whole, sleeves pushed to your elbows, the hem riding high over the full curve of your belly. One hand cradled your side. The other was rubbing slow, sleepy circles where movement rippled under your skin.

A soft thump. Then a roll. You blinked slowly and whispered to no one in particular, “She’s running plays. Right here under my ribs.”

Another long stretch followed—a limb pressing high on the left side of your belly, dragging like a slow underwater current before vanishing. You winced, eyes narrowing with exaggerated drama, and mumbled, “She’s gonna have aim like her mama.”

Rio's voice came low and amused from the edge of the room. “She already does.”

“Honey?” you called softly, voice warm with sleep, but lined in affection that had lived there long before this baby. “Your daughter’s doing her warm-up stretches on my liver. Again. It’s midnight.” Another jab pressed up under your ribs, firm and insistent.

Rio stepped into the light like something made from dusk and paint and devotion. She was barefoot, her jeans smeared with lavender and silver, her hands marked with nebula blue. There was a smudge of violet on her cheekbone, a streak of stardust across her forearm. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a mural—and maybe she had.

She crossed the room quietly. Then dropped to her knees. No ceremony. Just instinct. Her shirt clung damp at the base of her spine, the collar still turned from where she’d dragged it across her face earlier. The sight of her made something in your chest unclench.

She looked up at you like you were more breathtaking than anything she’d painted tonight.

Her hands found your knees first, thumbs brushing over the bare skin there like she was still anchoring herself to gravity. Then she leaned in and kissed you. Soft. Unrushed. A touch that said you’re still here, and so am I. The warmth of her mouth pressed gently to yours, her fingers curling under your thighs.

Then she pulled back and ducked down lower. Her hands slid beneath the fabric of the hoodie, pushing it up just enough to reveal the skin of your stomach—warm, flushed, tight from movement. The moment her lips touched the swell of your belly, your daughter kicked. Hard. Right under Rio’s mouth.

She gasped, laughing, pulling back just enough to stare at your belly like it had just sassed her. “Oh, so now you’re wanting to practice, huh?” she murmured, eyes wide with mock offense. She kissed your stomach again, grinning. “That wasn’t a kick, that was a bunt.” Another little thump. Closer to your hip this time.

Rio chuckled and rubbed slow circles around it. “We’ll have to talk about proper training hours, Sprout. Midnight conditioning drills are for the postseason.” She dropped her voice into mock-coach register. “Bedtime means bedtime. No two-a-days. No drills at midnight. No running on your poor Mama’s bladder.”

You laughed softly, still watching the movement beneath your skin. “She doesn't listen to me anymore,” you murmured, eyes shining with exhaustion and adoration. “You're the coach now.”

Rio pressed her forehead gently to your belly, her arms cradling your thighs like prayer. “And she’s gonna make one hell of a shortstop.”

Behind you, Agatha shifted slightly in her sleep, still curled in her corner of the sectional, her book long since slid to the floor, one hand curled near her face like she was still holding your name. You looked down at Rio—kneeling, smiling, paint-smudged and beautiful—and reached forward to tuck a lock of her damp hair behind her ear.

Rio’s voice was soft and reverent. “She kicked the second I finished. Like she was saying thank you.” Then Rio kissed your belly again, this time slower, pressing her mouth to the taut skin like she was sealing something in place. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Well... you haven’t seen it yet.”

She paused. Then grinned against your skin. “But judging by her enthusiasm? She’s very happy with it.”

You blinked sleepily, smiling. “So she gave her review mid-flip?”

Rio nodded solemnly. “A very enthusiastic five kicks out of five.”

Another little bump echoed beneath her hand. You both laughed. Behind you, Agatha stirred faintly on her end of the sectional, still curled into herself like a cat in the corner of a sunlit rug. Her book had slipped to the floor an hour ago, her glasses askew, her fingers twitching once in sleep like she was dreaming something she didn’t want to wake from.

Rio watched you for a moment. Watched the rise and fall of your chest. The way your hand cradled your belly like it had always known how. The way your daughter moved in time with your touch. She exhaled softly. Then rested her forehead against your knee.

“She really heard me,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “Right when I finished. Kicked like she’d been waiting for her sky.”

You reached forward and slid your fingers into her hair, pushing it back from her face with a slow, sleepy kind of affection. “She knew it was from you.”

Rio smiled. Then tilted her face toward your stomach again. “Hey, Mamí’s girl,” she murmured, pressing a kiss just beside your belly button. “Practice is over for the night, sweetie. We start again in the morning. Nine a.m. drills. Stretching optional.”

She kissed you again. Soft and reverent. And your daughter pressed back. A slow stretch. A roll. Like she understood, the house held still for a beat. Three heartbeats. One sky. And a field of stars drying just down the hall.

The kettle had just started to sing.

It was late afternoon, the kind of hour where the sun dipped low enough to paint the floorboards gold and hush settled over the house like a lullaby. Rio moved easily around the kitchen, barefoot and humming, sleeves rolled, wrist flicking open the tea tin like muscle memory. You could smell lemon balm and orange peel, the calming blend she’d been giving you every evening since week thirty. The air was warm with steam and rosemary, a single candle flickering near the window like a sleepy guardian.

Agatha sat in her usual spot at the dining table, posture relaxed but elegant, one leg crossed over the other as she flicked idly through her phone. Not grading. Not reading. Just skimming—an aimless loop of faculty emails, campus updates, and local headlines.

You were curled on the couch in Rio’s hoodie, one hand cradling the round curve of your belly. Your daughter had been slow today. Sleepy, content. You could feel her tucked just under your ribs, limbs stretching in long, lazy arcs. Every now and then, she shifted, and you’d glance down to watch your skin ripple like tides.

It was a quiet you trusted. The kind you’d built. Agatha scrolled once. Then again. She wasn’t really looking for anything. Just passing time. Until she froze. She sat up slowly. Uncrossed her legs. The shift in energy was so small it might’ve gone unnoticed—except Rio turned immediately. Her back went straight. Her eyes locked on Agatha’s face.

“What is it?” she asked. Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her body had gone utterly still. Her thumb hovered over the screen. The candlelight caught the edges of her glasses.

You sat up a little. “Aggs?” Agatha blinked once. Then again. Her mouth parted, and the breath she let out was barely audible.

“Holy shit.” Her voice didn’t rise. It dropped. Like the weight of what she read had anchored it.

Rio crossed the room. “Agatha. What’s wrong?”

Agatha tilted her phone down slightly. Her eyes were wide, but not with panic. Not with grief.

With something colder. Older. “He’s dead.”

Your stomach knotted. “Who—” you started, already knowing.

“Chase.” The name sucked the air out of the room. Agatha swallowed. Her thumb tapped once. She began to read aloud.

“Man Killed in Police Pursuit Two Weeks Ago Now Identified as Chase E. Whitmore, 35.”

The kettle shrieked behind Rio, forgotten. She reached over and turned off the burner without looking away from Agatha.

“The police have released the name of the man responsible for the head-on collision two weeks ago that left a woman in critical condition. Two weeks prior, Police responded to reports of an assault outside a bar late Friday night. Witnesses stated the suspect—Whitmore—had been harassing a woman for more than an hour and became violent when she attempted to leave. She sustained severe injuries and was transported to the hospital in critical condition.”

Agatha’s voice dropped another octave, each word sharp as flint. “Authorities stated that Whitmore fled the scene in his vehicle when officers arrived. A high-speed pursuit followed, where. He reached speeds over one hundred and fifteen miles per hour before crossing over the median and into oncoming traffic. The head-on collision left the other driver hospitalized. Whitmore was extracted from the wreck and pronounced dead at the hospital.” She exhaled. The phone in her hand trembled.

She scrolled further. “Toxicology reports show his BAC was more than four times the legal limit. Authorities also confirmed the suspect had a prior felony assault conviction, spent two years in prison, and was on 15 years of probation. The Whitmore family has declined making comments at this time.”

Agatha looked up. Her gaze found yours. “They’re talking about you.”

The quiet that followed didn’t scream. It settled. You didn’t cry. You didn’t blink. You inhaled once—slow, deep, sacred. Then let it go. Your hand slid across your belly, grounding yourself. Your daughter rolled gently beneath your palm, as if responding. As if hearing it.

You looked up at them both. “And the world just got so much safer.”

It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t spite. It was truth. A breath released after too many years spent holding it. Rio exhaled hard through her nose, then crossed the room, dropping to her knees in front of you. Her hands slid up your thighs, steady and warm, and she pressed a kiss to your belly. Your daughter responded instantly—a firm kick, right beneath her lips.

Agatha moved next—like gravity pulled her down beside Rio, her knees catching the wood floor, her palms finding your belly with careful, reverent ease. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her forehead dropped against your side, and she just breathed there, like she had to.

The three of you stayed like that—held together by the body of the moment, by the weight of memory and relief. The article still glowed faintly on the screen behind Agatha. But it didn’t matter anymore.

That chapter had closed.

Your daughter shifted again. Agatha whispered something beneath her breath—too soft to catch.

You looked down at her. “What did you say?”

Agatha lifted her head slowly, her hand still resting firm and warm over your belly. Though her eyes were inscrutable, her voice remained composed. “I said...” She hesitated briefly before nodding, assured and definitive. “Good.” There was no malice in her tone; only a sense of certainty. Not cruel. Just certainty.

Rio looked up at you from where she knelt, her body still coiled with something quiet and ancient. Her gaze didn’t stray from your face—not once. She studied your breath, the set of your jaw, the subtle way your fingers pressed into your thigh.

Not for panic. For proof. You were still here. “How do you feel?” she asked.

You let your head fall back against the cushion and exhaled. The kind of breath that scraped out from the basement of your ribs, carrying years of tension with it. “Like I can finally sleep with both eyes closed.”

A beat. The words sat there like a prayer. Agatha reached for your hand, threading her fingers through yours with the ease of someone who had done this in the dark before. Her thumb stroked the back of your knuckles in slow, grounding circles.

Rio leaned forward, both palms flat on her thighs now, her voice low. “I thought I’d be furious.”

You tilted your head toward her. “You’re not?”

She shook her head. “I was. Years ago. I thought the only way I’d ever be okay was if I saw him punished.” Her throat worked. Her jaw twitched. “But this? This feels like... gravity.”

“Like truth finally caught up with him,” Agatha added. “Not justice. But inevitability.”

No one said anything for a while. You all sat in the silence of it—three bodies sharing breath, steady now. You looked down at the small photo again, still folded on the coffee table. Her face. His. The matching expressions of quiet pride. The warm-lit lie.

You pressed your hand to your belly and waited for your daughter to move. And she did. Not fast. Not startled. Just a slow stretch of leg against your ribs. Present. Living. Unbothered by ghosts. “He tried to end my life,” you said. “And the world didn’t even blink when he died.”

Agatha's voice was quieter than before—almost reverent. “We survived him.”

You looked down at your joined hands. At the faint silver scar on your knuckle from the night he cracked your ribs. At the calluses on Agatha’s fingers from years of turning pages and clutching your hand too tightly in courtrooms. You didn’t need anything else. So you said it. “Let them rot in hell.” The silence afterward wasn’t silence at all. It was release. It was knowing.

And then—

A flicker. Something pulled at the edge of your memory. The moment the words survived him landed, your body remembered the one time you weren’t sure you would. Not right away.

--------

*flashback*

The morning light crept in slow and merciful, filtered through drawn curtains like it knew too much had already happened. The room was hushed, blanketed in that particular kind of stillness that follows grief and near-catastrophe. Outside, the wind shifted against the house, brushing softly at the windows like it didn’t dare knock. Inside, everything stayed exactly where it needed to be.

Except for the pain.

It was already waiting for you. Before your eyes opened. Before breath fully filled your lungs. It sat low and heavy across your body, dull and searing all at once—like someone had stitched glass between your ribs and weighted your chest with stone. Even the shallowest inhale scraped your insides like rusted wire, snagging every nerve as it went.

You didn’t dare move. Not yet. The bruises had deepened overnight—violently, unapologetically. What had once been flushed red was now turning the color of thunder. Ugly violets and oil-slick blues spilled like storm clouds across your torso, blooming beneath the skin with a kind of feral elegance. The worst of it wrapped around your ribs, where the fractures pulsed with every breath. Dark, sick curls of purpling stained your hips and the tops of your thighs—violent fingerprints of impact, of memory.

It was the second morning since the alley. Only two days. Somehow, that made it worse.

Two days wasn’t enough to forget. Not enough time for distance. But it was just long enough to feel like maybe you should be doing more. Just long enough for the bruises to settle into permanence. For shame to begin whispering lies in the back of your mind, low and cruel. You shifted—only a fraction. Just to ease the tight pull of a muscle in your leg.

Pain struck like lightning. White-hot, immediate. A searing arc across your side that felt like your ribs might split again under the weight of it. Your breath caught. A sharp, ragged gasp that didn’t even make it halfway into your chest. Tears came before you could stop them—hot, furious, uninvited. They clung to your lashes, then slipped quietly down your temple and into your hair. The door creaked open before you could cry out.

“Hey—hey, my love.” Agatha’s voice, low and alert, broke the stillness as she crossed the room fast but careful, a prescription bottle in one hand, gauze tucked beneath her arm. She dropped to her knees beside the bed, her presence anchoring, her voice softening immediately. “Easy—don’t move. Breathe through it. I’m right here.”

Your throat was too tight to answer. You just nodded. Agatha’s hand hovered at your ribs—close, never pressing. Waiting. She didn’t touch until your eyes met hers and you gave the smallest nod. Then her palm lowered, warm and steady through the blanket. Not applying pressure. Just being there.

Rio entered a second later, barefoot, curls still damp from the shower and frizzing at the ends. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed to her elbows, and the glass of water in her hand gleamed with condensation. She crouched at your other side, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We picked up everything Ezra prescribed,” she said, setting the glass down with infinite care. “Hydrocodone, the muscle relaxer, the anti-nausea tablets. She said you’ve got to stay ahead of the pain. Don’t wait for it to spike. So… we’re doing that now.” You nodded, even as your jaw trembled. The tears betrayed you.

Agatha leaned closer, brushing one away with the back of her finger. “How bad is it?”

You hesitated. The answer was obvious. But the words still came out wrong. “Not too bad.”

Rio’s eyes flicked up, sharp with love and impossible patience. “You just flinched from moving and have tears running down your face, sweetheart. Try again.”

You let out something that could’ve been a laugh—but it caught in your throat like a blade. Your body recoiled instantly, the motion jarring your ribs. Agatha’s hand moved to steady you, her voice low and stern. “Easy. No laughing yet.”

“I hate this,” you rasped. “I feel like I should be doing more by now. I can’t even—God, I can’t sit up without feeling like I’m being ripped open.”

Rio reached for the pills Agatha had poured into her palm and gently offered them into yours. “You were nearly beaten to death,” she said. Her tone wasn’t sharp—it was devastatingly calm. “You’re doing more than enough just by being here. Alive. Breathing. That’s everything.” You stared at the pills. They were so small. It felt absurd that anything so small could stand a chance against something this big. This loud.

Agatha watched your hesitation. “We can help you sit up. We’ll move slow. Just breathe with us.” Rio slid one hand behind your head, the other at your shoulder, her grip light but assured. Agatha shifted, adjusting the pillows behind you, then moved to sit at the edge of the bed, knees folded beneath her.

“Lean against me,” she said softly. “Let me hold the weight.”

And you did.

The pain was immediate. Sharp, splintering. But it didn’t drown you. Because they were everywhere—steady hands, patient breath, soft voices anchoring you in place. By the time you were upright, propped against Agatha’s lap, your forehead was damp with sweat, and the tears had returned—softer now, less panicked. Just exhaustion. Just truth.

Rio lifted the glass to your lips. The water was cool, a mercy against your dry throat. You swallowed the pills slowly, one at a time, the muscles of your throat working like you were learning how to do it again. It felt like ceremony. A private kind of sacred. Agatha exhaled, warm breath against your hair. Her hand never left your side. “You don’t have to be strong today,” she whispered. “You just have to be.”

You let out a small sound—half-sob, half-breath. “I feel useless,” you admitted.

Rio’s response was immediate. No hesitation. No room for doubt. “No.” You looked at her. Surprised by the fierceness in her tone. Her voice didn’t rise. But the steel in it was unmistakable. “No, you don’t get to say that.”

She leaned in, hand still resting against your shoulder, eyes burning. “You fought for your life and you’re still here. That doesn’t make you weak. That doesn’t make you slow. That makes you a fucking miracle.” The words hit harder than expected. Not like a blow—but like the gasp after surfacing. Like truth. Your breath hitched, your body trembling with the effort of keeping still. Another tear slipped down your temple.

Agatha bent forward and kissed the crown of your head. Her lips were cool against your heated skin. “And you’re ours,” she murmured. “That makes you sacred.” You swallowed hard. The pain was still there—how could it not be?—but it quieted under their touch. Their words. Their love.

Agatha adjusted the blanket over your hips again, pulling it gently up across your side. “Try not to move too much until they kick in,” she murmured.

“I won’t,” you whispered. Your hand, trembling, found its way out from under the blanket. You reached for them. Rio caught your hand immediately, threading her fingers between yours, her thumb grazing across your knuckles with infinite care. Agatha rested her own palm over your wrist, grounding you with quiet, radiant warmth.

You didn’t need to ask for more. They stayed. And as the meds wound their way through your bloodstream, slow and sure, the pressure behind your ribs began to dull. Not vanish—but soften. The fire receded just enough to let you breathe again.

The meds dulled the sharpest edges, but the ache remained. Deep and constant, like an old drumbeat echoing inside your bones. You were propped against the pillows again, swaddled in a nest of warmth, but your skin itched faintly beneath the film of sweat and dried sleep. Your scalp was sticky at the roots. The tenderness along your ribs had grown tighter, and something inside you whispered: you needed to feel clean again.

Just as you opened your mouth, your voice low and tentative, Agatha moved closer, kneeling at the edge of the bed. “Do you want to get cleaned up a little? A sponge bath, just like before?”

You nodded slowly, grateful, relieved. She didn’t wait for you to say more. She knelt beside the bed, brushing her hand gently along your forearm. “You comfortable with us helping you again?”

You nodded, slower this time. “Please.”

No fanfare. No pity. Just motion. Purposeful. Devoted. Agatha’s hand slid to your shoulder, and Rio moved around to gather what they needed. She didn’t say a word at first—just went straight for the fresh towels, her body moving with the rhythm of someone who had done this before. Someone who would do it again. You didn’t see them exchange a glance, but you felt the shift—how their movements synced like muscle memory. They were already in motion before you could hesitate.

“Let’s try to stand,” Agatha said gently, looping her arm around your waist as Rio came to brace the other side. “We’ll go slow.” You tried, but your body faltered at the edge of the bed. The pain flared sharp beneath your ribs. You winced.

“I’ve got you,” Agatha murmured, sliding one arm around your waist, her other bracing under your arm. “No rush, honey. We’ll take our time, as much as you need.”

Rio moved to your opposite side without needing a cue, her palm cradling your elbow, her touch light but anchored. You rose together, barely more than a breath between motion and stillness. Getting out of bed was always a quiet war—your ribs flaring in protest, your hips aching beneath the bruises—but their hands knew exactly where to be. They didn’t rush. Every breath was matched. Every wobble caught.

The walk was quiet. Just your steps, their murmurs, the soft creak of the floorboards under bare feet. You passed the bedroom mirror without looking. The bathroom was warm already, soft light from the window illuminating the tile in golden streaks. A clean towel had been laid across the counter. The sink was half-filled with steaming water, the faint scent of coconut and honey hung in the air, curling into the soft light of the window.

The second you made it to the toilet, the urgency hit—sudden, undignified, impossible to ignore. Your body trembled as you moved toward it, breath catching again in your chest, but Agatha guided you down with a steadiness that bordered on divine. Her touch was reverent, never invasive, always waiting.

When your fingers twitched toward the toilet paper, just out of reach, Agatha was already kneeling. “I’ve got it. No shame here, remember?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. Just helped. Gentle. Precise. Kind. She flushed for you, helped you stand again, then guided you to sit on the closed lid. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. A thick towel was wrapped around your legs, still warm from the dryer. It fell heavy across your lap like a blanket of intention. Agatha took her time, kneeling at the basin. The cloth she wrung out dripped faintly, steam rising in threads like smoke. She touched your wrist lightly before beginning.

“Tell me if it’s too hot.” You nodded, already breathless from the effort of getting here. The first touch of the washcloth was exquisite relief. Agatha started at your collarbone, careful and slow, the cloth passing over your skin like it was smoothing the air itself. The scent bloomed with each pass. Her fingers moved with practiced gentleness, tracing the clean curve of your shoulder, then down your arm, pausing at the bruise blooming like ink near your bicep.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t avoid it. She honored it. Rio moved in close, dipping her own cloth into the basin, her body pressed near but never crowding. She started at your other arm, brushing over the edge of a healing scrape with a softness that made your breath catch. She whispered as she moved. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just breathe. We’ve got you.”

Your head lolled slightly forward, too heavy to hold upright, but Agatha adjusted her position without comment, supporting your back so you could lean against her as she kept working. The top half of you was clean now. Skin still sore, still bruised, but no longer caked with yesterday. Your body trembled with the effort, but you stayed upright. They stayed with you.

“Okay,” Agatha murmured. “Time to stand. I’ll hold you. Just lean into me.”

Her arms circled your waist, slow and deliberate. You rose again, wincing, your cheek landing against her shoulder. Her tank top was warm, cotton-soft. You inhaled—her scent, her steadiness, the safety of her heartbeat beneath your jaw. She wrapped the towel around you to stay warm. Solid and safe. You didn’t have to hold your weight alone—she took it, one slow breath at a time.

Rio crouched again, her hands moving with care and speed down your thighs, your calves, your feet. She worked quickly, never pausing for more than a glance upward to make sure you were still steady. The chill of the air kissed every patch of newly cleaned skin, raising goosebumps across your calves. You shivered.

“Almost done,” Rio whispered. “Hang in there.”

Before you could speak, Rio was already moving. A clean shirt—one of hers, oversized and worn thin with age—was draped over your shoulders. The cotton was sun-soft and smelled faintly of eucalyptus and their detergent. She eased your arms into the sleeves.

Then the boxers—old, gray, soft around the waistband.

She crouched before you again, folding the fabric open with reverent hands.

“Here—lift your foot just a little”

You did, barely, and she slipped them on. The boxers were worn and loose, the cotton so soft it felt like breath against your skin. The shirt followed next, oversized and draping over you like a lullaby. No seams tugged. No fabric clung. No pressure. Only care. Only warmth. Only them.

Her eyes never left your face, always checking.

“Loose enough?”

You nodded. Her hands lingered just long enough to adjust the hem before she stood.

Agatha eased you back down to sit. You exhaled shakily, not quite pain-free, but no longer fighting your body. The scent of soap clung to you now. Your skin was warm. Clean.

Agatha guided you gently back to sit on the edge of the tub’s closed lid. Her hand lingered at your shoulder, steady and sure.

“All done, love.”

Rio leaned in, her lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that lingered just a second longer than usual. Her curls tickled your cheek as she murmured,

“You smell like coconut and rebirth.” It wasn’t meant to be funny. It wasn’t meant to be anything but the truth.

And for a moment, you breathed in the scent rising from your skin—creamy and sun-warmed, like tropical oil and safety. Like the promise of softness. Like something miles away from a bloodstained alley.

You gave the barest smile.

But even that small gesture pulled something inside your ribs. Your whole body winced. The exertion of sitting upright, of standing and being touched and held and washed, had pulled the last threads of strength from you.

Rio’s voice broke through gently as she stepped back toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna go change the sheets,” she said, already moving. “They should be warm still. I want you to crawl into something fresh, something clean.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. She was gone before you could answer, and Agatha stayed with you, crouched by your side, her palm still tracing slow circles against your spine. But her hand paused.

The tremor had started small—at your fingertips. But now it was spreading like a tide, up your arms, down your legs. Not from cold. Not from fear. From effort. From depletion. From the weight of healing.

Agatha moved slowly, shifting to kneel in front of you. Her eyes swept your face. “Hey.” Soft. Careful. “You’re shaking.” You blinked at her, trying to hold your body still, but it wasn’t listening. Your limbs trembled openly now, your shoulders hitching with every breath. You hadn’t noticed the tears forming until one slipped down your cheek and hit the towel still draped around your legs.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She reached up, brushed the tear away with the side of her thumb. “Rio?” she called, not sharply—just loud enough to summon.

Rio returned with a folded blanket in her arms, her eyes widening the second she saw you. She dropped it without thinking, crossing the space between you in three strides.

“Is it the pain? Or is it—can you walk?”

You nodded—barely. A nod in name only. But it was enough. They didn’t question it.

Agatha slipped her arm beneath your ribs, mindful of every bruise. Rio braced your other side. Together, they lifted you—not rushed, not panicked. Just steady. Certain.

Each step was a lesson in surrender. Your feet touched the floor, but it was them walking you forward. The hallway blurred—Rio’s voice low and constant at your ear, Agatha’s hand pressing gently at your waist, thumb moving in small circles through the fabric of the shirt she’d just helped you into.

By the time you reached the bedroom, you were more breath than body. More ache than anything else. But then you saw it.

The bed had been remade—fresh sheets in a pale ivory cotton that shimmered slightly in the morning light. The duvet puffed gently with the warmth still trapped inside. The scent hit you the moment Rio pulled the comforter back.

Coconut. Not just soap anymore. It was in the sheets. The laundry soap Rio always used—the one you used to tease her about smelling like summer and daydreams. It wrapped around you like arms.

Agatha guided you gently down. The second your back touched the sheets, you felt it—warmth sinking into your bruised skin, drawing the tremors from your limbs like balm. The cool of the room faded beneath the heat of clean cotton, the scent of coconut folding in around you like it belonged inside your bones.

You sagged into it, tears slipping again, this time not from pain. From relief.

Rio tucked the comforter over your legs, then bent and straightened it with more care than a blanket should ever need. “There,” she murmured. “There she is.”

Agatha sat on the edge of the bed, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. Her hand stayed, cradling your temple, her thumb sweeping gently over your brow. “You’re safe now,” she whispered. “You’re clean. You’re home.”

You blinked up at them, lips parting around a breath that didn’t hurt as much as the one before it. “Thank you.”

Rio curled onto the bed beside you, arm draping gently across your waist—just enough pressure to ground you, not enough to press against the bruises. “You don’t need to thank us,” she murmured. “We’re just loving you.”

Agatha leaned down, kissed your cheek. Her voice was barely a breath. “And we’ll keep loving you through all of it. Even the parts that shake.”

The sheets cradled you, warm from the dryer and smelling faintly of coconut and fabric softener. They clung to your skin like they had been waiting for you—clean and forgiving, wrapping around every bruise like balm.

Your body hummed with exhaustion. Not the sharp kind, not anymore. Just the slow unraveling of effort. The tremors had dulled to a faint twitch in your fingertips, and your breaths came shallow but steady. Agatha sat at your side, finishing the last loop of your braid. It wasn’t tight—just enough to keep the strands off your neck, the ends curled and still slightly damp.

“There we go,” she whispered, tucking a loose piece behind your ear. “Back and out of your eyes. Just how you like it.” You sighed, your body easing into the mattress as the last tremor left your hands. For a while, there was only the hush of the room—the distant hum of wind against the window, Rio’s quiet exhale beneath your cheek.

And then the bed shifted. You blinked your eyes open to see her slipping out, tucking the blanket around you in the space she left behind. “I’ll be right back,” she murmured. “Don’t move. Gonna get you something to sip—just a little. We want to keep the meds down.”

Agatha stayed with you, her thumb stroking slow arcs across the crest of your shoulder, her eyes never leaving yours. You didn’t realize how thirsty you were until Rio returned a few minutes later, holding a small tray: a can of Sprite already popped, a glass with a few melting ice cubes, a packet of saltines, and a vanilla pudding cup with a spoon already tucked inside.

“Let’s try a few bites,” she said softly, already lowering herself back into bed beside you. “A couple crackers, a few sips, then you can melt into me if you want.”

“I do,” you rasped. “Want to.”

She smiled—warm, crooked, and tired in that way only deep love ever makes someone look. She adjusted her position as she slid in beside you, moving slowly, carefully, so nothing jostled the bed too much.

“I know you can’t lie on your side,” she murmured, setting the glass down on the bedside table and placing the crackers within reach. “But maybe we can cheat a little. Let me be your pillow.” She leaned back against the headboard, bracing herself with a few extra pillows. Then she opened her arms and crooked one knee slightly so her thigh made a soft ridge. “Come here, baby. I’ve got you.”

With Agatha’s help, you shifted—inch by aching inch. The pain flared under your ribs, but not like before. Not like fire. Just the deep, groaning kind of hurt that came with healing. Your head found her chest, just above her heart. Her hoodie had been traded out for a thin tank, the warmth of her skin radiating through the cotton. Her arm curled around you, not pressing—just there. Supporting. Anchoring. “Okay?” she asked.

You nodded, lips already brushing fabric, eyes half-shut. Agatha passed you the glass first. You took one sip of Sprite. Then another. The fizz tickled your throat, clean and cold and almost too sweet—but it helped. You chased it with two crackers, dry and bland, but the salt grounded you. Gave your body something to focus on other than the ache.

That was all you could manage. But it was enough. You leaned more fully into Rio’s chest, your good arm folded under your chin, hand resting lightly over her heart. You could feel it—steady and slow. Not racing. Just present. Agatha slid in beside you, tucking her legs under the blanket and curling around the edge of the bed like she’d been born to orbit you.

Sleep tugged at the edges of you again, but you fought it—fought the drift, wanting to stay tethered. Wanting to hold this moment, and her, and Agatha, and the warmth of clean sheets and braided hair and the taste of childhood.

Rio brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “You want to watch something? Stay awake with me for a bit?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Don’t wanna sleep yet.”

“Movie?” You didn’t speak. Just blinked once. She knew what that meant. She reached for the remote, scrolling gently through the interface while your body softened against hers, every click and flick of her thumb the sound of a ritual. Agatha brushed a few fingers down your temple, absently smoothing the edge of your braid, the braid she’d made with fingers that never trembled.

Then Rio stopped scrolling. “Well,” she whispered, the corner of her mouth tilting. “Look what we’ve got here.”

You tilted your chin up—barely—and caught the glow of the title on the screen. National Treasure. “Put it on,” you murmured. “Please.”

She hit play without hesitation. The music rose—brassy, dramatic, nostalgic. And suddenly, the world narrowed. Not in fear, not in pain—but in comfort.

Agatha rested her hand lightly on your leg, just enough to remind you she was still there. Rio’s chest rose and fell beneath your ear. The clean scent of her skin mixed with coconut and static and something sweeter.

You were on your back—because anything else was too painful. But with Rio beneath your head, her arm curled lightly around your waist, and Agatha beside you, all tension began to bleed from your limbs. You’d eaten enough. You’d sipped enough.

The movie played on, its soundtrack a low hum of brass and wonder, flickering across the bedroom walls like golden candlelight. The world of treasure maps and secret keys filled the silence, but your focus was no longer on the screen. The details blurred at the edges, lost in the warmth that wrapped around you on all sides.

You were still propped on your back—any other position was too much for your ribs—but Rio had shifted beneath you, adjusting until your head found her chest. One of her arms cradled your shoulders, the other wrapped loosely across your waist, her palm spread gently against your stomach like she was guarding something precious.

Your fingers rested against her ribs. The warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart, the smell of coconut clinging faintly to the collar of her tank top—it all worked its way into your bloodstream, calming, anchoring.

Agatha had curled in close from the other side, her body tucked against the curve of your leg. She sat just far enough to keep from pressing into your side, but close enough that the blanket shifted each time she breathed. One hand rested lightly on your thigh. The other had returned to your hair, idly brushing through the strands that framed your face, tracing the path of the braid she’d made earlier. Your breath was soft now. Slow. Slipping into stillness. They noticed.

Rio’s voice came first, barely more than a breath. “You still with me, baby?” You didn’t answer—at least, not with words. Just a faint, drowsy hum, your head nuzzling closer into her chest, your cheek shifting to find a better place over her heart.

She smiled. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. In the way her lips moved against your hair. In the way her fingers flexed, holding you just a little tighter. “You’re allowed to fall asleep, you know,” she whispered. “We’ve got you. You don’t have to fight it.”

Agatha leaned closer then, her voice a lullaby in the half-dark. “You don’t need to stay awake to be with us, sweetheart. You’re with us always.”

Your body twitched faintly beneath the blankets—residual tension, the ghost of effort—but it passed quickly. You exhaled, long and shaky, and Agatha’s hand pressed a little firmer over your braid, smoothing it back.

“You’re safe,” she murmured. “You’re loved.” Rio’s fingers moved slowly over your side, never too much pressure, never too fast—just warmth, tracing small circles through the thin cotton of your borrowed shirt. She ducked her head to kiss the top of your hair.

“I love you,” Rio whispered, her voice low and aching. “So much it hurts.” Agatha was quiet for a moment. Her eyes traced the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth softened by exhaustion. Then she leaned down, pressing her lips to your temple with infinite care.

“I love you too,” she breathed. “More than I’ve ever had words for.” For a moment, there was silence. Then—

You stirred. Just barely. The smallest twitch of your fingers against Rio’s ribs, the ache in your muscles rising again as you tried to move. You shifted—slowly, trembling—but you moved. Your hand stretched across the blanket, blind and reaching until it found Agatha’s thigh. You squeezed, weak but certain. Your voice came next. Cracked. Hoarse. But clear. “I love you.” A pause.

Then softer still, a breath shaped into something truer than anything you’d spoken in days— “I love you both.”

Rio’s breath caught. She ducked her head, kissing the top of your hair again, her lips lingering like a benediction. “We know, baby,” she whispered, arms curling tighter around you. “And we’re yours. Every part.”

Agatha’s hand slipped beneath the blanket, lacing her fingers with yours. “You don’t have to reach anymore,” she said gently. “We’re already here.”

You didn’t answer. Not in words. You didn’t need to. The weight of your body softened against Rio’s chest. Your thumb pressed faintly against Agatha’s palm. And the last of the tension slid from your frame as the movie played on, flickering gold across the ceiling, forgotten.

A story about maps and lost treasures carried on in the background while your own story—this story—folded you into something quieter. Something whole. Agatha pulled the blanket higher over your shoulders, tucking you in with the kind of devotion only someone who meant it could offer. She smoothed the edge of your braid. Rio kissed your temple once more, and stayed still—steady—her chest rising beneath you like a lullaby.

“Sleep now, my love,” Agatha whispered. “We’ll still be here when you wake.”

“Always,” Rio added, brushing her knuckles over your spine. “Forever, if you’ll have us.”

You drifted. Not alone. Never again. Held between them like breath. Like a promise. Like love.

-----

It was late morning. Soft and quiet—the kind of quiet that only lives in houses where love has stood vigil. Light streamed through the slats of the blinds, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Dust hung suspended in the air like memory. Down the hallway, the coffee pot hummed a slow, familiar rhythm, and the scent of honeyed toast and citrus tea wove through the room like a thread you’d never stopped following.

It had been a week.

Seven days since you’d survived, and your day started with waking up in coconut-scented sheets with pain pulsing through every breath. Seven days of whispered medicine, sponge baths like ritual, food fed in slow, careful bites, and voices gentler than you thought the world allowed. Seven nights of Rio’s hand on your belly just to feel the rise and fall. Seven mornings of Agatha braiding your hair with fingers so steady they felt like spellwork. You were still hurting.

The swelling had eased, your face no longer tight with tension. Your cheekbones had returned to their shape, your jaw no longer felt foreign. But the bruises lingered—deep and dark, pooling in your skin like oil slicks. Your ribs still ached with every breath. And the bruises you couldn’t see—the ones beneath bone, behind your eyes—throbbed loudest in silence.

But even then—something inside you stirred. Move, it whispered. Try. Just once. Try again. You shifted your leg beneath the blankets.

It wasn’t graceful. Your thigh seized and your ribs pulled sharp and angry. But you moved. Across the room, the chair creaked. Then the hush of wool brushing wood. You didn’t need to look. “I’m awake,” you murmured, your voice rough but solid. “I want to try.” She was already rising. She didn’t ask what you meant. She already knew.

Rio stirred beside you, the blanket falling from her shoulder. Her curls were a halo of sleep and sunlight, her eyes soft as dusk. Her hand found your thigh, grounding you before the world could tilt. “Okay,” she said, warm and quiet. “We’ve got you.”

Getting upright was a pilgrimage. Each breath had to be counted. Every motion negotiated. Agatha moved first—her hand slipping under your arm, touch reverent, like she was holding sacred glass. Rio was behind you in seconds, her palm against your spine, tracing circles that said still here. Still breathing.

“You’re okay.”

“One more breath.”

“There you go, baby.”

You stood. Wobbly. Shaking. But standing. The floor was cold under your feet, grounding and real. Your knees buckled slightly, and pain screamed in your ribs, but you were upright. Alive. Your hands found theirs—one in each—and you clung like the earth might fall away if you let go.

You leaned against Rio’s chest for a moment. Her arm folded tighter around your waist, cradling you like something she’d never let fall. Agatha steadied your hand in hers, knuckles pale with quiet urgency. “Want to try the kitchen?” Rio asked, eyes locked on yours. You nodded. Just once. But it was enough.

A second step. A shuffle. Then another. Your feet moved, slow and deliberate. Agatha walked just behind you, always a breath away. She didn’t lead. She followed your rhythm. Rio walked backward ahead of you, her hands hovering near your waist, her eyes fixed on you like she could will the floor to stay steady.

Every breath was earned. Every inch was sacred. A flash of memory hit—sharp and bitter. A week ago, your legs had collapsed under you. Your world had blurred to white. Now, the hallway stretched before you like a second chance. Your ribs screamed. Your fingertips clutched Agatha’s with white-knuckle determination. And still, you walked. You reached the kitchen.

The light there was warm, spilling in from beneath the cabinets like a golden hush. The kettle sang softly, its voice persistent but kind. The scent of honey and toast clung to the air, layered with the brightness of Rio’s tea.

And then you saw it. The couch had been transformed. Not just furniture now. A shrine to belief.

A soft throw folded at the corner. Pillows fluffed and arranged. A mug already waiting—steam curling up from it like breath. The cushions had been rotated for extra firmness beneath your back. Every detail tuned to your body. To your arrival.

They had prepared for this. They had believed in this. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far,” you whispered, breathless.

No one rushed to fill the silence. Agatha simply moved to your side, guiding you with quiet devotion. Her hands on your shoulders, feather-light. Your descent into the cushions was slow, measured. Pain flared through your ribs as you sank down, sharp but not unbearable.

Rio was already in front of you, kneeling, sliding a pillow behind your lower back, brushing the blanket over your knees like she’d been born to this moment. Her hands were firm. Familiar. You melted into the shape of it.

Into the shape of home. Your breath came in shallow waves. But you weren’t in bed. You weren’t surviving. You were here. Rio settled in beside you, her hand on your knee. Her eyes glossy with awe. “You did it,” she whispered. “You’re here. Alive” She handed you the mug.

“Lemon balm and honey,” she said. “Drink it slow.” You curled your hands around it. The warmth seeped into your palms first, then deeper—through bone, through blood, through breath. The scent bloomed up into your face. You sipped.

You exhaled.

Agatha sat beside you, folding herself into the corner of the couch. Her arm draped along the cushion’s back, her fingers finding your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think,” she whispered. “And I already thought you were strong.”

You stared down into the mug, tea trembling in your hands. “I really didn’t think I could make it this far,” you said again, this time smaller. More raw.

Rio leaned in, cupping your jaw. Her thumb brushed gently over your cheek. “You don’t have to think it,” she murmured. “We’ll believe for you.”

Agatha leaned in then, her voice low, her breath warm against your temple. “You’ve already done the hardest part.” You closed your eyes. The tea in your hands. The warmth at your back. The pressure of Rio’s palm, the scent of lemon and coconut still clinging to their skin. You were whole in a way that didn’t need fixing.

You took another sip, slow and tentative, and grimaced. “The hardest part…” you murmured, “…is trying to sip this slowly. Because it’s my favorite now.” There was a beat. Then Rio laughed—really laughed—full and bright and real. It burst from her like sunlight breaking storm clouds. That sound cracked something open in your chest that had been locked since the alley.

You smiled. A breathless, wobbly thing. And then, for the first time since that night— You laughed with her. Not because the pain was gone. But because you weren’t.

----

Months had passed since the attack. The room smelled like coconut oil and lemon balm. Clean laundry. Rio’s bergamot cologne. Agatha’s worn linen robe draped on the hook by the closet door. Your things were folded on the chair, your earrings hanging beside Agatha’s. The boots by the door weren’t just yours anymore—they were part of the whole. The light spilled into the bedroom, soft and sure, curling along the edges of the hardwood and warming the corners of the rug. Outside, a breeze stirred the trees. Inside, everything was still.

You had lived here for weeks, but it felt like longer. Like your body had always known where to rest in this bed. Like the rhythm of the kitchen had always matched your mornings. Like the laughter that lived in these walls had always made space for your name.

You stood in front of the mirror now, shoulders squared, breath slow. Your reflection met you like an old friend. The blouse you wore was soft navy—cool and clean, like water. The fabric lay gently against your skin, sleeves rolled at the forearms, collar open. The charcoal slacks were sleek, unfussy, tailored just enough to feel like armor. You hadn’t added anything else. No jewelry. No makeup. You didn’t want distraction.

The scars were visible.

One traced the line of your hairline—faint, but permanent. The place where your skin had split open that night. Another cut along the top of your cheekbone, soft and pale, still healing into you. A third just near the curve of your jaw, small but impossible to miss in the right light.

They would fade. But they would never disappear. You had chosen not to cover them. They belonged to you now. But even so, your thoughts were spinning—faster than your breath could catch them. You were staring straight ahead but no longer seeing the mirror. Not the reflection. Not the room. Only flashes—hallways, lawyers, the weight of a courtroom full of eyes.

You hadn’t moved in minutes. And then—a hand. Gentle fingers brushed against your arm. Warm. Firm. Rio. She stepped close, no rush in her movements, her voice low and near your ear. “Hey.” You blinked. Your breath stuttered. Her hand slid up to your shoulder. “Come back, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” You turned your head slightly. Her eyes met yours in the mirror—soft, steady, waiting. “You’re not in there,” she said gently. “You’re here.” A moment later, Agatha appeared behind you both. You hadn’t heard her enter—but her presence was unmistakable. She moved slowly, deliberately, until she stood at your other side, her reflection joining yours like a missing thread.

She looked at you. Really looked. At the scars. At the way you were standing. At the way your body trembled, even though you were trying to keep it still. Her hand came to rest lightly at your back. “You're choosing to show them,” she said softly. “That’s strength.”

“You don’t owe the court your healing,” Rio added. “You owe them the truth. That’s it.”

You swallowed hard, voice caught in your throat. But your eyes never left the mirror now—not with them standing beside you. “I’m scared,” you whispered.

“and that’s okay,” Agatha murmured. “You’re walking into a room where power was once taken from you. But you’re not going there to get it back. You already have it.”

“We’ll be right there,” Rio said. “In the gallery. Front row. Watching every breath you take.”

Agatha’s voice dropped lower, warmer. “If you need strength—find us. You don’t have to say anything. Just look.”

You nodded, throat tight. “And if you need to cry,” Rio said softly, “do. If your voice shakes, let it. You’re not there to prove anything. Just to speak.” You closed your eyes, just for a breath. Their hands were on you. Their reflections beside you. The scars on your skin catching the morning light like silver thread.

You opened your eyes again and exhaled. “I’m ready.”

Agatha pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and deliberate. “We love you.” Rio kissed your cheek, just beside the faintest edge of one of the scars. “More than anything.”

And you didn’t need to answer. Because the way you stood—still trembling, but standing—was already saying everything.

*End of Flashback*

-----

You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until Rio touched your knee. Her hand was firm, warm. It didn’t ask—it anchored. She slid her palm up over your thigh and leaned in, close enough that her forehead brushed yours. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice a thread spun from earth and breath. “Come back. You’re here. You’re safe.”

You blinked, slow and heavy. The room swam for a breath—half memory, half now. Then Agatha’s hand found the base of your skull, her thumb sweeping behind your ear like she could rub the past away. “You’re not there anymore,” she murmured, quiet and certain. “You’re home.”

The couch beneath you was solid. The candle’s scent—wax, rosemary, lemon balm—was real. The warm weight of Rio’s hoodie around your belly held you like a cradle. And then— Movement. A small jump beneath your skin. You gasped. Then again. And again. “She’s hiccuping,” you said, smiling even as your breath stuttered. You looked down at your belly with wide eyes, fingers spreading in wonder over the firm curve of her. “Feel her.”

Agatha didn’t hesitate. Her hand slid gently beneath yours, her palm curving against the rhythmic little jumps. Rio reached up, kneeling higher now, her palm joining the warmth. Three hands layered there. Three hearts beneath them.

Your daughter hiccupped again, sharp and insistent. Agatha let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “She’s like a heartbeat with her own agenda.”

Rio grinned, brushing her lips to the side of your knee. “She heard us and decided to drum back.”

You laughed—a real laugh, raw and full, the kind that made your ribs ache and your eyes sting. You pressed your hand down more firmly, your thumb tracing lazy circles over the top of her movement. And then you looked at Rio. Really looked. She was still kneeling. Still watching you like she was taking inventory of every breath. And you said it. “I knew I was safe.”

Rio blinked. Your voice didn’t shake. “Even in it. In the memory. I never felt alone. Because I remembered... how you came running. How you were always counting my steps. Even before I let you love me—you were already there.”

Rio’s breath caught. Her jaw flexed. Her eyes flickered down, just for a second, then back to you. “You’re damn right I was.”

Agatha’s hand stilled over your belly. Her fingers curled into yours. “You were never alone,” she said, voice low and steady. “Not then. Not now. And never again.”

You looked between them—these women who had held your name in their mouths like it was worth gold, even when you’d forgotten how to say it yourself. “You mapped every room I walked into,” you said, tears slipping down your cheeks now, not from pain—but from clarity. “You learned my exits. You watched my hands. You remembered which direction I flinched. You made the whole world safer—just by showing up.”

Rio moved first. Her arms wrapped around your legs, her cheek pressed to your thigh. Her breath trembled. Agatha leaned in closer and pressed her lips to your shoulder, whispering it like a vow. “We will always show up.”

You rested your head back against the cushion, their hands still on your belly, the hiccups still moving beneath your skin like tiny echoes. “She knows it, too.”

Your daughter hiccupped again—firm this time, like punctuation. Agatha’s hand flinched softly against your skin. Then stilled. Then curved. Her fingers traced the exact spot of the movement like she could soothe it with a whisper.

She leaned in close. Her lips brushed the soft cotton stretched over your belly. “Sweet girl,” she murmured, voice low and rich with reverence. “Are you alright in there?”

Another hiccup answered her. Agatha smiled. A rare one. The kind that came from deep knowing, not performance. She tilted her head and pressed her cheek to your belly, her silver streak brushing the side of your shirt. “That’s a strong yes, I think.”

“Or an indignant ‘stop talking, Mommy, I’m busy.’” you teased gently, your voice full of affection. Rio shifted closer, still kneeling in front of the couch, her chin now resting on your thigh. She blinked at your belly like it was some mystery just out of reach—something alive and magical that she’d never stop believing in.

“Can you imagine,” she said, “what it must be like for babies to sneeze for the first time?” You turned to look at her, brow raised.

She smiled wide, a little breathless. “No, think about it. They’ve never had cold air in their noses. They don’t know sound or light or dust or pepper, or whatever. And then suddenly they sneeze and they’re like—”

She mimed a tiny full-body jolt, wrinkling her nose and flapping her arms in a startled little shake. You burst into laughter. Agatha did too, soft and bright, her forehead still pressed to your skin.  “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.

“I’m serious,” Rio grinned, kissing your knee through your leggings. “What a way to discover your own body: hiccups and sneezes. The world welcoming you with one surprise at a time.”

Your hand drifted down to rest beside Agatha’s, fingers overlapping. Your daughter shifted beneath them both—no longer hiccupping, just slow and stretching again, content beneath the weight of touch and laughter. You felt something rise up inside you. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t fear. It was longing, sharp and aching. But also holy.

You looked down at them—Agatha with her cheek still pressed reverently to your belly, Rio with her fingers curled gently around your calf, both of them grounding you in the present with nothing but breath and love—and you said it. Quiet. Real. A spell, a promise, a plea.

“I hope that hiccups... a sneeze... and a scraped knee are the worst things she ever has to endure.” Agatha’s breath caught. Rio reached for your hand. Held it like an oath. “Amen to that,” she whispered. The candle flickered gently in the corner. The kettle was cold now. But your bodies were warm, pressed close and full of everything that made this house a home.

“On a very real note,” Rio grinned, kissing your knee through your leggings. “Sprout, I really want to be the one holding you when you sneeze for the first time. I have questions.”

------

The house had stilled again. Not into silence, but into that full-bodied hush that settled over sacred things. The kind of quiet that only came after truth had been spoken, and the people who loved you had held you through it. Where pain had passed, and love remained, humming like a low drumbeat beneath everything.

Your daughter had finally stopped hiccupping. Agatha lay curved around you like a comma, her hand still resting over your belly with the steadiness of a vow. Her thumb traced quiet, unconscious circles into the fabric of Rio’s hoodie—slow and grounding, like she was still listening to your pulse.

Rio sat on the rug, one arm slung over her bent knee, her other hand trailing idle patterns into the floorboards. Her expression was unreadable—still and vast in that way she sometimes got when her mind slipped toward something deeper. But you felt it shift in her. The stillness changed.

And then she moved.

Not suddenly.

Not with urgency.

Just... purpose.

She stood slowly, brushing her palms along the worn thighs of her jeans. Her body unfolded with quiet care, like a ritual she'd rehearsed alone in the dark. Then she looked at you.

And that smile—the one she only ever gave when something mattered—broke gently across her face. “I want to show you something,” she said, low and warm, like the words had been waiting all day to be spoken.

You blinked up at her, half-curled under the blanket, your legs draped across Agatha’s lap, belly rising beneath the soft weight of Rio’s hoodie. The firelight from the kitchen still glowed faintly, casting the room in honey and shadow.

“What kind of something?” you asked, your voice full of affection. Rio hesitated—just long enough that you knew it wasn’t casual.

Then she answered, her voice soft as breath. “The nursery.” That word dropped into the quiet like a stone into water. The ripple moved through you slow and sure.

You sat up straighter. “I thought you said the surprise wall wasn’t finished.”

Her smile turned slightly mischievous. A spark flickered in her eyes, soft and wild. “They are now.”

Behind you, Agatha stirred. She pressed her lips to your shoulder in a silent kiss before smoothing a hand down your arm. You felt the message in her touch: go. Rio extended her hand. You took it.

And the three of you moved through the house barefoot, the floorboards warm from the day, the air laced with rosemary and fig and the scent of dried lavender clinging faintly to the hallway rugs. You passed the window—the moon spilling silver through the glass like a blessing—and you could feel it all moving with you.

The nursery door was closed.

Rio paused there. She looked at it for a long moment, her fingers resting against the doorknob. Her shoulders lifted with a deep inhale—then dropped, slow and full. She turned back to you, and the look in her eyes made your throat go tight. Not tears. Not nerves.

Just depth. “There’s something I didn’t tell you,” she said. “About what’s inside.” You looked at her, then to Agatha at your side, then back to Rio again. Your heart began to thrum—not with fear. With wonder. Rio turned the knob and pushed the door open. And the room exhaled.

Light spilled over the floor like a sigh. The sage walls glowed a pale, tender hue. But it was the far wall that stopped you. Stopped everything.

You stepped forward on instinct.

A sky stretched across it. Not a flat sky, not a painting. Aworld, spun in spirals of violet dusk and soft comet-trails. Stars drifted like breath across the mural. Vines curled upward from the corners, their silver leaves laced with constellations. A nebula bloomed to the left of the crib space like something becoming.

You didn’t realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice. “Rio...”

She stepped in after you, voice reverent. Not proud. Not performative. Just full of quiet truth. “I did it while you were sleeping. After we painted the rest of the room. You and Aggie were curled up on the couch—safe. I couldn’t sleep.”

Your eyes moved slowly across the mural, following the path of color and motion—past vines and stars, past a comet tail that swept like a lullaby through midnight—and then down. There, near the center of it all: a single six-pointed star. Uneven. Gold. And at its center, a heart of soft, delicate rose. And beneath it, in the smallest script you’d ever seen—barely visible, etched with care:

For the name we haven’t said yet.For the name you’ll claim later.For all the versions of you we haven’t met yet—and will love just as fiercely.

Your hand went to your belly. You turned to Rio. “You made her a whole sky.” She nodded once. Her breath hitched—but she didn’t look away. And then she turned slowly, stepping toward the far corner. Toward the crib. Rio looked back at the bassinet then, her hand still tracing its edge.

Her eyes weren’t wet—but they shimmered with something older than tears.

“She used to whisper into it,” she said. “On the nights she couldn’t sleep. She’d walk the hallways with it beside her. Sometimes rocking it. Sometimes just pressing her palm to the wood.”

She swallowed. Her voice dropped, thick and beautiful. “She told it stories. Prayers. Hopes.” You felt your eyes sting. The room seemed to hold its own breath. “She said,” Rio continued, “that some nights... she could feel feet in the hallway. That the child she was waiting for had already started walking.”

The breath you took was shallow and sharp, like your chest didn’t know how to stretch wide enough for it. Your fingers gripped the rim. Agatha’s hand pressed gently between your shoulder blades.

Rio turned back toward you, her expression soft and unguarded. “She didn’t keep it for me,” she said, voice now barely more than a breath. “She said... she was keeping it for whoever I’d love enough to make a future with.”

Your heart clenched. Then—softly, instinctively—Rio looked down at the bassinet again. And said the words like she’d said them a thousand times before. “Te meces hacia las estrellas, mi amor—y ellas se mecen contigo.”

You stilled.

The sound of it curled through the room like thread through fabric. Rio smiled faintly; eyes distant with memory. “My Mamí used to whisper that when I was sick. My Abuela told me she said it when she was born, too. ‘You rock toward the stars, my love—and they rock with you.’”

She looked up at you now, eyes full.

“It’s what she’d say when the house was too quiet. When it felt like the sky had forgotten us.”

Agatha leaned in and kissed your temple, her hand brushing down your back. “She didn’t forget. She waited.”

You stared down at the bassinet, one hand over your belly, your daughter pressing gently from within like she, too, had heard the lullaby.

She rocks toward the stars. And the stars rock with her.

Rio turned toward the glider in the corner, her steps slow, deliberate. As though approaching something sacred. There, draped across the arm of the chair, lay the quilt. Not just any quilt. Her quilt.

Your breath caught, tight and silent in your chest. You hadn’t seen it in weeks. Not since Christmas morning, when Rio had unwrapped it from its paper and held it out like she was offering you a story stitched in cotton and memory.

She lifted it now like it was something alive. Like it breathed. Her fingers moved carefully, smoothing the edge where the seams met in a spiral, her thumb brushing one of the corners like she was greeting an old friend. “I brought it in this morning,” she said softly, not turning around. “I wanted it to be the first thing in here. The first thing that touched where she’ll sleep.”

The way she said it—it wasn’t just about preparation.

It was ritual. You stepped forward instinctively. Agatha was at your side, her hand sliding up the small of your back, warm and steady. You stopped beside Rio as she unfolded the quilt in slow, reverent motion.

Color bloomed between her arms. A patchwork of textures, years, and breath. The navy stretch of your college hoodie—the one you lived in before the pregnancy test turned your whole world inside out. The faded gray of that tank top you wore every night during the first trimester, when sleep was a stranger and nausea curled around your ribs like a fist.

A soft strip of lavender wool—Agatha’s scarf. The one she draped around your shoulders in January when your body felt too cold from the inside out. The one that still smelled like eucalyptus and firewood.

Your breath hitched as your fingers moved lower. There. A square of navy jersey, stitched with faded white lettering. Rio’s gym boxers.

You touched it gently, eyes wide. “These were—”

“The very ones. I wore them the night I held you for hours in your apartment. You wouldn’t let go.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your eyes stung. Just beside it, almost hidden in a corner, was a square of black cotton, thin, worn soft with age. Agatha’s band tee. The shirt. The one that clung to her like sin and sanctuary. The one she wore the night she found you asleep in her office. The one that made you blush the first time she leaned over you during office hours and whispered, I like the way you look when you’re trying not to smile.

 You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You kept that?”

“You used to fall asleep in it,” Agatha said, brushing her knuckles down your arm. “I couldn’t throw it out. Not after the way you looked at me in it that first week.” You traced the stitching like it held your whole life.

And then Rio turned it over. The indigo cotton backing shimmered like twilight. And scattered across it—hand-embroidered stars, each one a different shape, some trailing thread like comets.

You could barely breathe. “My Abuela used to say babies start life on this side of heaven,” Rio said softly, the words already half a prayer. “And every child in my family starts with a quilt like this. Handmade. Made from the scraps of the people who will love and hold them forever.”

Your throat burned. Your hands moved without thought, smoothing the quilt’s surface like you were reading Braille. You ran your hand over the stars. Your fingers trembled.

“This is...” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Rio crouched slightly, lowering the quilt to the bassinet. Not like she was laying down fabric. Like she was placing something holy. She spread it slowly, smoothing out every fold, every curve. And as she did, you saw the other pieces. The soft tan-and-white stripe—her Papá’s old work shirt. The golden floral square—her Mamí’s church skirt. And then, the deep sapphire fabric near the foot. So delicate it almost shimmered. Her Abuela’s blouse.

You brushed it with trembling fingertips. The threads felt like breath. Like music. “She used to say it was made of music notes,” Rio whispered. “She believed it helped her sing when she didn’t have the words.”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely stand. So you leaned against the bassinet, both hands gripping the edge, your forehead lowering for just a moment to rest against the rim. Your throat burned. Your hands moved without thought, smoothing the quilt’s surface like you were reading Braille. Agatha moved in beside you, her arm curling around your waist. Rio pressed into your other side, her shoulder brushing yours.

You all stood there together—leaning against something built to carry what came next. The bassinet. The mural. The quilt. And the child growing inside you. You looked down at the quilt—at every square stitched with memory and longing, at the stars scattered across the indigo sky—and your voice finally found its shape. “She’ll be held by all of them.”

Rio reached across and pressed her hand to your belly. A soft kick bloomed beneath her palm. “She already is,” she said.

Agatha pressed a kiss to your temple. “And she always will be.”

You smiled, a tear slipping down your cheek. “She knows exactly where she’s going.” You stood with them in the quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a second womb—protective, sacred, pulsing with memory. The quilt lay nestled inside the bassinet, its layers like the rings of a tree: cloth pressed from your past, stitched by Rio’s hands, stitched by love. Your fingers drifted over the navy of your college hoodie, the gray of your first-trimester tank, the faded edge of Agatha’s scarf.

You leaned gently into the wooden frame, your body curving inward with theirs, three points of contact around a cradle built for something far more eternal than sleep. And then Agatha spoke—her voice low and anchored. “New mattress, by the way.”

You turned toward her, your brow raised slightly. She didn’t elaborate right away—just offered that half-smile of hers, the one that always meant she was ten steps ahead of you, just waiting for you to catch up.

“Rio took the frame down to Ezra last week,” she continued. “Had her check every inch of it—structural integrity, slat spacing, potential pressure points.”

Rio smirked, hands in her pockets. “I may have casually asked if we could X-ray it.” You let out a soft laugh, curling a little more into the edge of the bassinet. “She said it’s safe?”

Agatha nodded. “Ezra said it’s perfect. Beautifully restored. Stronger now than it was brand new.”

Rio brushed her hand gently across the quilt’s edge. “She sleeps here. This is her history. But for the first few weeks—she’ll sleep next to us. In the master. Feedings. Diapers. Panic-breathing when she sighs in her sleep.”

“Pretending we’re asleep while watching her breathe,” Agatha added, her voice laced with dry affection.

You grinned. “Oh yeah. I plan to stare directly at her face like a Victorian ghost.”

Rio laughed softly. “Same.”

And then—your gaze lifted.

Beyond the quilt. Beyond the bassinet. Past the swirling vines and stars and soft glow of comet trails on the wall. You saw it. The circle. That blank space near the center of the mural. Framed by stars. Cradled by painted branches. Deliberately untouched. Waiting.

You stared at it for a long moment. Something tugged in your chest—gentle but certain. You leaned forward slightly, breath catching. “Her name,” you said quietly, nodding toward it. “The wall’s still waiting.”

Rio followed your gaze. Her expression shifted instantly. Her eyes softened, her breath deepened, and for a moment she looked like a child seeing the night sky for the first time. “Right where it belongs,” she murmured.

Agatha stepped in close, her fingers lacing with yours. “We’ll paint it the day we bring her home,” she said. “Maybe the morning after. Maybe after the first night she wakes us at three a.m. just to remind us she can.”

You smiled, your head tilting toward her shoulder. “I guess we really need to narrow down our names, huh?”

Rio groaned, tilting her head back toward the ceiling. “Only a few more weeks. And we’re still operating a spreadsheet with an identity crisis.”

Agatha lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the color-coded chaos portal?”

“You say that like it’s not brilliant,” you replied.

Rio snorted. “It contains four tabs: celestial names, family names, names that sound like spells, and names that are just vibes.”

“Don’t forget ‘names we liked two weeks ago and now hate,’” Agatha added dryly.

You laughed—light and bright. “I still think Juniper Moon has potential.”

Agatha looked at you slowly, flat-eyed. “No.”

Rio grinned. “Not unless we also name her possible sibling Artemis Fern and buy a crystal shop.” You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You say that like it’s not a solid business model.” And then—quiet again. Not from tension. From reverence.

You all looked back at the mural. At the quiet, open circle where the name would one day be. Where it would be painted in gold or rose or star-silver, in whatever color your daughter chose with her eyes and her breath and her becoming.

Your hand drifted to your belly. She moved. A long, slow stretch. Pressing outward. Toward the wall. “She’ll let us know,” you whispered. “When we get it right.”

Agatha leaned her head against yours. “She already knows,” she said.

Rio stepped forward and laid her palm next to yours over the quilt. “And she’s waiting,” she said, barely above a whisper, “to hear it in your voice.”

And the three of you stood there—gathered around the bassinet, starlight painted above you, quilt folded with history at your fingertips, and a name yet to be spoken blooming softly on the wall.

Eventually, the quiet settled so deep it was hard to move. But you did.

Rio’s hand slid gently across your back as you stepped away from the bassinet, her fingers pressing into the center of your spine like punctuation. Agatha opened the door with care, as if stepping out of the nursery too fast might disturb the balance of stars and breath left behind.

The three of you walked out together, your steps slow, your shoulders brushing. And just as you passed the doorway, your eye caught it—

The moonlight. It spilled through the tall nursery window like silver ribbon, stretching across the floor and draping itself, perfectly, across the glider.

The chair glowed like something out of a dream. “Look at that,” you murmured, smiling. “She’s going to fall asleep right there while I hum the same three bars of some song I half-remember from the radio.”

Agatha glanced over. “You’re going to fall asleep right there while Rio hums the same three bars.”

“And you pace like an 1800s widower with a pipe,” Rio added, smirking.

You let out a low, warm laugh. “God, we’re going to be a mess.”

Agatha kissed your temple. “A coordinated, well-fed, ridiculously in-love mess.”

You turned to both of them, and the grin that spread across your face was sudden and helpless. “So, uh…” You raised a brow. “Can we go ahead and buy the rest of the furniture now?”

Rio barked a laugh. Agatha covered her mouth with her knuckles like she was trying not to look too pleased. “Actually,” she said, “I already did.”

You blinked. “You what?”

She turned toward you fully now, that rare sparkle in her eye—the one that only came out when she was deeply, secretly proud of herself. “I ordered everything at the beginning of the week,” she said. “After you brought it up. A few times. Loudly. With Pinterest boards and verbal footnotes.”

Rio was already grinning. “You mean after she left the website open on your laptop? Twice?”

Agatha tilted her head. “And sent me the link with the caption: ‘look at the baby acorn dresser you must admit this is fate.’”

You laughed so hard you had to press a hand to your belly. “You got the one I liked?”

Agatha’s voice softened. “The one you showed Billy. The one you said felt like something out of a poem.” You felt the heat rise in your throat. Your daughter pressed gently beneath your ribs, as if she knew. “It should all be here by next week,” Agatha added. “In time to set up everything... together.”

You looked between them. These women. Your wives. Your heart. And said the only thing that made sense. “I love you both so much it’s probably medically irresponsible.” Rio slipped her arm around your waist.

Agatha kissed your shoulder. And under the halo of moonlight, just outside your daughter’s nursery, you leaned into them—held, surrounded, ready. Because the name would come. And her room would be waiting. And so would you.

------

The bedroom was thick with the kind of quiet that only settled after the weight of long hours—the kind that padded across the floorboards and curled into the corners like breath. Outside, the trees swayed against the windows in slow arcs, and the breeze moved through the cracked pane with the faintest hum, cool and damp with the promise of spring.

The only light came from the bedside lamp: amber, low, and soft enough that it turned the air golden. It kissed the edge of the blankets, washed over the folds of Rio’s sweatshirt, and shimmered faintly against the metal rim of Agatha’s reading glasses.

Rio lay curled beside you, fast asleep, her body warm and relaxed with the weight of trust. One arm draped across your belly, her fingers curled loosely just under the swell. Her hair fanned across the pillow and over your thighs in soft waves, catching against the hem of your sweatshirt. She hadn’t stirred once since she’d dozed off. She always slept deepest when the three of you were close—your body, your scent, your daughter’s quiet shifting beneath her touch.

Agatha sat propped against the headboard, her red pen moving steadily across a student’s draft. She was dressed in one of Rio’s long cardigans, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair swept into a loose knot that had begun to fall free with the late hour. Her posture was elegant even in relaxation, her gaze sharp behind the smudged lenses of her glasses. Every now and then, she murmured softly—“clarify,” “check this citation,” “strong, but not enough”—before underlining a phrase and moving on. Her presence was unshakable. Solid. Comforting.

You sat on the opposite side of Rio, laptop resting on a pillow across your lap, the blue-white glow cutting a narrow line through the room’s gold. Your fingers moved slowly—scrolling through emails, marking a few unread, discarding the rest. Nothing urgent. Nothing heavy. But then your eyes caught the subject line:

Department Update: Bereavement Notice – Dr. Marcus

You paused. Then opened it.

Your hand moved before your brain finished processing the intention. You clicked “Compose” and watched the blank draft open like a held breath. For a moment, the cursor blinked. Waiting. You adjusted your posture, careful not to disturb Rio, then typed.

To: wmarcus@university.edu Subject: My Condolences

Dr. Marcus,

I saw the department’s notice and wanted to extend my sincerest condolences to you and your family. I understand how grief moves, and how silence can sometimes feel safer than kindness. I hope you’re finding what comfort you can, and that you’re surrounded by those who see you clearly.  I wish you rest and comfort in the days ahead.

With sympathy,

Mrs. Vidal Harkness

You hesitated one last time. Then pressed send.

A minute passed. Then two. The silence in the room didn’t shift—but your heart did. The weight of the day, the lingering memory of the article Agatha had read aloud over tea, still clung to your shoulders like static. Your fingers hovered above the keyboard again. Another email arrived.

You clicked. Agatha’s eyes didn’t lift from her paper, but you saw her brows twitch—just enough to say she’d noticed the subtle change in your posture. “Everything alright?” she asked, voice soft, still focused on the margins of a very unfortunate first-year essay.

You leaned back slightly, adjusting the pillow behind you. “Just got a message from Dr. Li. She wants to schedule one last thesis meeting for when Dr. Marcus gets back

. Agatha arched an eyebrow. “When’s he returning?”

“A little over a week.” The silence that followed wasn’t tense—just thoughtful. Agatha closed her red pen with a quiet snap, eyes studying you over the rim of her glasses. “Are you okay with that?”

You nodded slowly, adjusting the laptop off your lap and to the side. “Yeah. I think it’s just one final pass to finalize a date. Making sure all the logistics are in order.”

That made Agatha look up. Her gaze was sharp—but not alarmed. Just tracking. Weighing. “That’s enough time,” she said, nodding once. “You’ll have any of the revisions they want finalized by then.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not the meeting that’s bothering me.”

Agatha closed the folder slowly, letting the pen drop to the duvet. Her eyes stayed on you. “Is it Marcus?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just rubbed your hand across your belly, where your daughter had begun shifting again—slow stretches, a little roll beneath your palm. “It’s... everything. I sent him a note. Just to offer condolences. But...”

Agatha watched you, expression unreadable. But her voice was soft when she spoke. “That was kind of you.”

You nodded, then looked down at the screen again, its glow beginning to dim with inactivity.

“I just didn’t want to become the person who ignores pain just because it doesn’t come from someone I trust.”

Agatha’s gaze softened. Her body shifted, and she reached forward, brushing her fingers down your calf, grounding you with that simple touch. “You’re not that person and you never could be, honey.” she said. “You’re the one who still writes the email. Even when it costs you.”

You blinked, throat tight. Then you smiled. “Guess I’ve been hanging out with professors too long.”

“We’re insufferable like that,” Agatha murmured, smirking faintly. “But you love us anyway.”

From beside you, Rio made a soft sound in her sleep—half breath, half mumble. One of her feet shifted under the blanket and knocked lightly against your ankle.

“And she really loves us,” you whispered, reaching to trail your fingers down Rio’s bare shoulder. “That mural took hours.”

Your daughter moved against Rio’s hand, a slow, liquid shift beneath her mother’s palm. Agatha laughed softly—low and warm, the sound like candlelight flickering in the hush.

She didn’t speak at first. Just watched the moment unfold with a kind of softened awe. Then, wordless, she leaned forward, reaching over Rio’s sleeping form. Her hand rose gently, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. Her fingers lingered there, brushing against the curve of your jaw, her touch reverent.

Rio stirred in her sleep. Just enough. Her lips parted. A breath of Spanish tumbled out—soft, slurred, laced in dreams. “Mi cielito…” Her hand tightened instinctively over the swell of your belly, palm pressing in like she could catch the movement she’d only half-felt.

You both stilled. Your daughter gave a quiet roll beneath that touch—low and slow, a sacred kind of stretch. Present. Listening.

The moment held. You turned your head toward the laptop, the screen casting its fading blue across the blanket. The cursor blinked once. Then again. Waiting. Asking. But you didn’t type. You just watched.

Agatha reached over with graceful finality and closed the lid. Her fingers rested on it for a breath—like a benediction—before she leaned back, folding her knees under the blanket with a practiced grace that never quite left her. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

You shifted slowly, letting your body ease toward Rio. The blanket slipped higher around your hips. The gentle curve of your belly brushed against her, warm through the fabric. Her arm, still half-asleep, looped around you instinctively, her fingers splaying across the small of your back, anchoring you without ever waking.

The house inhaled with you. Then exhaled. The warmth of Agatha’s arm brushed yours. Rio’s breath evened again, steady against your shoulder. Outside, the wind moved in quiet waves, brushing the walls like lullabies.

Inside, you were surrounded—by sleep. By softness. By steady hearts that held you without question. Just warmth. Just love. Just a daughter still awake beneath your skin, already learning the cadence of this life. Listening.

And beyond the hush, the moon waited.

Watching. Quiet. Whole.

------

The afternoon light was syrup-slow and golden, spilling through the kitchen windows in thick, honeyed beams that warmed the tile and dusted the countertops like flour. The house smelled faintly of lemon balm, toasted bread, and something sweet from last night lingering in the oven. You leaned into the counter’s curve, one hand resting beneath the gentle weight of your belly, the other cradling the mason jar of tea Rio had made you just before slipping into her jeans. The glass was warm against your palm, the herbs settling in soft spirals as you swirled it absently.

Rio was at the door, lacing her boots, muttering about how you always managed to hide her good socks. Her curls were half-damp, pushed back from her face in a halo of afternoon light.  Agatha, beside her, was rolling the sleeves of her blouse with the kind of precision only she could make sensual, murmuring something about how if anyone was late for brunch, it wasn’t going to be her.

Your phone buzzed. You looked down to see Billy’s name on the screen, followed by: Can y’all come over before lunch? Asher’s insistent. Wants to show his favorite Aunties something first.

Agatha looked up from her bag. “Did he find another frog in the backyard?”

Rio grinned from where she was shrugging into her jacket. “Or bury a Hot Wheels car in the planters again?”

You laughed softly, fingers sliding instinctively to the spot just above your navel, where your daughter had begun to shift. She rolled once, slow and deliberately, as if she too was curious. “Whatever it is, he’s serious about it. Wants all three of us to see.”

Sunday stretched like honey across the sky—bright and easy, with clouds scattered thin like the remnants of a dream. The car was warm with the hush of contentment, the kind that followed a slow morning and a half-made plan. The car ride was easy—windows half-down, your fingers laced with Agatha’s across the console, Rio humming along to something warm and acoustic on the stereo, her fingers absently grazing your shoulder through the seat gap every time the car turned.

Billy’s house was tucked beneath a mess of trees, their branches green-tipped and budding with early spring. The driveway was scattered with sidewalk chalk. You climbed out carefully, hand on your back, belly forward like an offering to the day. Agatha steadied you as you walked, and Rio reached for the door. Before she could knock, Eddie’s voice rang out from inside. “It’s open!”

Rio opened the door. You stepped through first. And froze. All three of you did.

Balloons bloomed from every corner of the ceiling—lilac, soft green, dusky rose, gold dusted with shimmer like sunlight through a canopy. Banners fluttered from the ceiling in soft hues—sage, cream, lavender, gold. Garlands of pressed flowers and tiny constellation cutouts dangled from twine strung across the mantle. On the far wall, a massive sign in hand-painted script read:

“Welcome, Baby Girl.”

Streamers curled along the stair rail. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla and something warm and baked filled the air. Tables were lined with sweets and small, laughing faces. Familiar faces. Loved ones. Friends from the department. A few from your undergrad days. Your old TA cohort. The faculty from Rio’s lab. Women from Agatha’s book club, the ones she always said you’d adore. People from the university, the neighborhood, the ones who’d stitched themselves into your life without fanfare.

Rio’s mouth parted. Agatha blinked once, then again—slow and wide-eyed. Your hands flew instinctively to your belly, grounding yourself as your daughter gave one long, curious push beneath your ribs. You weren’t alone in your awe. Agatha stepped forward a single pace, her gaze sweeping the room with cautious reverence, like she was trying to absorb it all at once. Rio’s hand found your lower back. “Wait,” she murmured. “Wait—did you know?” You shook your head, speechless.

And at the front of them all—Asher, standing proudly on a stool in a little green T-shirt that read Promoted to Cousin in shiny letters. He beamed, “It’s a party for my cousin!” Billy appeared then—grinning from ear to ear, cheeks flushed. “We couldn’t have our favorite ladies miss out on a party.” He said as he kissed your cheek.

Eddie came up behind him, smiling like he was holding in tears. “They started planning this months ago. I swear to God, Asher has been walking around with this for weeks and didn’t say anything.”

Your throat tightened as Agatha reached for your hand. Her fingers were trembling just slightly. “You... did this for us?”

Rio’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We didn’t even...” She trailed off, overwhelmed.

You turned slowly in place, your hand over your belly as you looked at everything: the table covered in gifts wrapped in brown paper and twine, each tag written in different handwriting. A diaper cake shaped like a beehive. Onesies stamped with quotes from your dissertation, courtesy of Dr. Caldwell. A baby bath full of bathtime things, along with a little med kit for a newborn.  A bassinet filled with children's books. A felt banner that read Baby Vidal Harkness in golden thread.

And in the center of the table—a cake the color of moonlight. Hand-painted with little vines, gold-flecked stars, and a quote piped in delicate script: "For the girl who will grow into the world that loves her."

You couldn’t breathe, tears filling up your eyes before you even realized. And then, you couldn’t stop smiling. Your voice came out soft and cracking. “This is... too much.”

Billy stepped in close, arms wide, voice thick. “It’s not even close to enough.”

“There’s cupcakes with stars,” Asher whispered urgently. “And each of you has a chair. I made sure.” Your laugh cracked wide open then, loud and full and echoing through your chest. The kind of laugh that only comes when you feel safe. When the world has turned soft again after so much pain, Agatha bent without thinking, scooping him into her arms like she’d been doing it for years. He curled into her, whispering something about how great of a job he did and how much she loved him.

Rio turned toward you, her hand moving instinctively to your belly, cupping it with a tenderness that made your knees weak. Her voice barely carried over the swell of voices behind you. “She’s going to remember this,” she whispered. “Even if it’s only in her bones.”

You reached for Agatha and Rio without thinking—looping your fingers into theirs as Asher tugged at your other hand, pulling you toward the living room. People cheered. Someone started clapping. And beneath your palm, your daughter moved—one long stretch and press, like she could feel the joy around her, like she already knew it was for her.

The room was loud, bright, overwhelming. You closed your eyes. The room spun, slow and soft—not dizzying. Just full.

The room swelled with movement, laughter rising like the scent of vanilla and sugared citrus. Arms opened. Smiles widened. Friends spilled forward from every corner of the house, each embrace threaded with surprise and reverence—like everyone had been holding their breath until they saw the three of you walk through that door.

Rio held your hand tight as people took turns hugging her, voices overlapping with affection. “Mamí looks stunning—” “You’re glowing, all three of you—” “She’s going to come out with curls and a book, I just know it.”

Billy clutched Agatha and Rio both to his chest like he couldn’t hold them close enough. Eddie kissed your cheek and squeezed your hand, whispering that the cupcakes were mango and lavender—“The baby deserves flavor. But I have some of that cheery icecream Agatha mentioned you love now.”

You were still in the center of it all, floating somewhere between shock and awe, when Agatha turned slightly—her breath catching mid-step.

There, near the bookshelf by the window, half-shadowed by a string of star-shaped lights, stood Ezra like she always had—solid, grounded, watching with that quiet, knowing smile that said she’d been part of this story long before it ever found its first chapter.

She wore soft slacks and a collared shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a warm green sweater tied loosely around her waist. Her curls framed her face, smile quiet, watching it all like she was seeing something she’d prayed for and finally received. Her eyes found Agatha’s. And she smirked.

Agatha exhaled once, like she’d been holding it in since the door opened, and crossed the room fast. She didn’t hesitate, cutting through the laughter, through the shimmer of streamers and scent of cake. Her arms wrapped around Ezra like gravity had pulled her in, like this was one of the few people who truly knew the shape of her heart.

Ezra hugged her back just as fiercely. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just breath and fabric and the soft press of shoulders—two lives wrapped around one another in memory.

Then Agatha exhaled, her voice low and aching with something tender. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Ezra’s smile curled faintly. “Maybe.”

Agatha leaned back slightly to look at her, “Don’t get misty on me now.” Ezra said, Agatha laughed, giving another squeeze to her friend.  Ezra squeezed her back with a low “Mmmhmm,” and rocked her once side to side. “There she is.”

“Full of love and paint on your nursery walls, Sis” Ezra said, pulling back just enough to hold Agatha at arm’s length.

Agatha rolled her eyes, but her grin betrayed her. “God, I missed you.”

Ezra snorted. “Please. I saw you last week at her check-up. You tried to cover up your tears with a very convincing cough when she kicked during the ultrasound.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked open wide, full of old warmth. “Okay, okay, but—she kicked right as you were talking about how long her legs are. She knew she was being admired.”

“She’s your daughter. Of course, she knew.” Ezra tilted her head, letting her eyes sweep toward the living room where you were standing next to Rio, surrounded by gifts and glowing under the soft light of twenty paper lanterns.

Then she turned back, a mischievous sparkle in her gaze. “Do you remember when you called me? That night, right after she started flirting with you?”

Agatha’s face lit up with immediate, helpless laughter. “How could I forget? You didn’t let Rio or me live it down for weeks.”

Ezra widened her eyes in mock horror. “Weeks? Baby, I still bring it up every time I want to watch you squirm. You were pacing back and forth in your house with your phone on speaker like you were solving a federal case.”

“You were there after the first kiss,” Agatha said. “I called you that night, too. Remember?”

Ezra laughed softly, the sound rich and familiar, like wind threading through trees that had grown beside each other for decades. “You paced for another hour. Wouldn’t stop describing how she touched your face. I thought you were going to write poetry.”

Agatha groaned, but her cheeks flushed instantly. Ezra just grinned wider, eyes shining. “You remember what I told you and Rio that night?”

Agatha nodded slowly, the words already echoing in her chest. “What’s meant to bloom doesn’t need permission. It just needs light.”

Ezra’s smile turned soft and wide, the kind of smile only someone who’d seen every version of you could wear. “And look at y’all now.”

Agatha looked down, the memory pulling at her ribs. Ezra reached out, gently squeezing her hand—callused fingers warm and certain. “I remember when you dated Rio,” Ezra said, voice gentling with nostalgia. “You were so careful with each other. Like you were always waiting for the other to run. And then—somewhere along the way—you didn’t. You just stayed.”

She gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “I got the front row seat. I watched your wedding from five feet away. Cried through half of it, and you know I don’t cry at weddings.”

Agatha chuckled under her breath. “You did.” Her voice was watery now, even as she smiled. “You stood there holding a tissue and whispering commentary about Rio’s vows like it was a football game.”

Ezra waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes were wet too. “They were good vows. Deserved live coverage.”

She turned a little more fully now, facing Agatha with the kind of openness that only came from history. “I watched you fall in love. Twice. With her. With all of it. I watched you get scared. Watched you stay. Watched you soften. I watched the three of you build a home that made room for a world.”

Agatha’s hand lifted, pressed briefly to her chest, then drifted outward—toward the couch, toward you. “And now she’s carrying our daughter.”

Ezra reached up and tucked a curl behind Agatha’s ear with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things—because that’s what this was. A friendship that had witnessed grief and becoming. A friend who had watched you crack and bloom and crack again.

“I get to watch you three fall in love all over again with your little girl,” Ezra whispered. “And I get to be her doctor.” She grinned. “You know how ridiculous that is? I get to measure the heartbeat of the future you prayed for.”

Agatha inhaled sharply, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of her eyes. “No one else I’d trust with my girls.”

Ezra’s mouth parted, lips trembling around a breath—whatever she was about to say suspended between them, full and golden. But Agatha tilted her head, smirking, eyes narrowing with mischief. “Wait—where’s Jen?”

Ezra’s face brightened like sunrise. “Seattle. Panel on trans-centered midwife protocols. Flew out yesterday, swore she’d be back in time to rub my feet before Wednesday night rounds.”

Agatha huffed, nudging her shoulder. “Married less than a year and she’s already got you spoiled.”

Ezra shrugged, unrepentant. “She takes her vows seriously.” The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It didn’t beg to be filled. It just was—a warm breath between sisters, between lives shaped in tandem. Agatha glanced back toward the couch again, where you were laughing at something Rio was holding up—tiny baby shoes, maybe, or a stuffed bat in a tutu. She swallowed once. Ezra caught the look, her tone shifting—lower, closer. A question asked not as a doctor, but as someone who had walked with her through every season of change. “You ready for this next chapter?”

Agatha exhaled, her answer breath and truth at once. “Yes. And also? Not at all.” She gave a soft laugh, the kind that trembled at the edges. “I’ve read every book. Rio’s been packing a go-bag in secret for three weeks—she thinks neither of us have noticed. And somehow, she’s the calm one.”

She glanced down, hands curling loosely at her stomach like muscle memory. “I just want to make sure she feels loved. Supported. Safe.”

Then, quieter—barely audible beneath the hum of the party: “to make sure they both come through it okay. Her. The baby. I need them safe.”

Ezra didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to fill the silence. She just reached forward and rested her hand over Agatha’s. “Hey,” she said softly. “No panic. Look at me.”

Agatha did. Ezra’s voice was calm but certain, the kind that had steadied a thousand shoulders in hospital rooms and back offices and long drives home. “Everything is going to be fine.” Her thumb rubbed over Agatha’s knuckles. “She’s strong. The baby’s strong. You and Rio got the support. You’ve got me. And when it’s time? She’s not going to be alone, not for one second.”

Agatha nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek despite herself. “Okay.”

Ezra smiled gently. “Okay.” Then, with a nudge and a wink: “Now go eat something before your blood sugar dips and I have to explain to Rio why you fainted on a pile of tissue paper.”

Agatha laughed, the tension breaking, and leaned in to press a kiss to Ezra’s cheek. “Love you, sister.” “Ditto,” Ezra whispered, watching her go—back to you, back to the soft light of the room, back to the little life already waiting in the cradle of your belly.

You looked up just then and caught sight of her—Agatha’s silhouette framed by lanterns and streamers, a faint shimmer to her lashes. You smiled. Something about it broke her wide open. Agatha’s breath hitched and her feet started moving before she realized. She crossed the room without thinking, her eyes fixed on you like there was no one else in the world. Like everything in her belonged where you were. Rio hadn’t let go of your hand since the moment you walked in. She was all dimples and gleaming eyes now, pressed close at your side, her thumb drawing little half-moons into your palm. The kind of smile she wore only for you—proud, overwhelmed, certain.

Someone had tucked a plate of food into your hand at some point—soft rolls, mango salad, tiny quiches lined like flower petals around a mound of fruit. You hadn’t eaten yet. You were too full of light. Your skin shimmered. Not from makeup or sweat—but from presence. The kind of glow that happens when you’re safe. The kind that can’t be faked. The kind that settles deep.

Rio’s brow furrowed gently as she caught the slight shift in your weight, the way your hand pressed a little firmer against your lower back. “You okay?” she murmured, leaning in, voice meant only for you. You nodded, even as a small wince pinched at the corner of your smile. She was already moving, already glancing around—

“Alright, alright,” Billy called out, arms spread wide in front of a mountain of pastel-wrapped boxes stacked like offerings at an altar. “Before our mama-to-be stands too long and goes full ‘I told y’all I was fine,’ it’s present time.”

Eddie stood beside him with his arms crossed and a knowing grin—the kind you only earned through love and years. “No games. No chocolate in diapers. No guessing how big the bump is with string. Just gifts. And time. With the people who love you.”

The laughter that followed was soft and full, like breath released after a held prayer. Rio gently helped you into the softest chair in the room—one flanked with plush pillows and a hand-knitted blanket someone had already draped over the back. Agatha appeared a breath later and dropped into the seat beside you, her hand immediately slipping beneath yours to cradle your thigh, steady and sure. Rio slid in on your other side, shoulder brushing yours, her touch grounding like sunlight on bare skin.

Billy clapped once—loud and theatrical. “Let the showering begin!”

Asher darted forward, proudly holding a bag wrapped in brown paper covered with tiny constellations drawn in silver marker. He placed it in your lap like a sacred duty. Rio kissed the crown of his head as he darted back to Eddie’s lap on the floor.

You peeled the wrapping back to reveal a soft, gray baby blanket—embroidered at the corner in warm copper thread: “May you grow wildly and gently, like the stars.” Your breath hitched.

Rio leaned in, fingertips grazing the edge. “That’s from your journal,” she whispered. “Last fall. The night you couldn’t sleep and sat up writing by candlelight.” Agatha kissed your temple, her hand tightening over your leg. You said nothing. You couldn’t.

The next was a wide bag, nearly overflowing. Inside: a baby tub cradled smaller gifts—gentle baby wash, folded cotton washcloths, lavender oil, a soft-bristled brush. But woven in with them were things meant for you: a robe, long and soft and meant to wrap around a body still healing; a coconut candle; and two baby wraps one in deep plum and the other patterned with silver stars. You reached for the note tucked inside and opened it slowly. The handwriting was unmistakable—Ezra’s.

You carry her with your body now. Soon you’ll carry her with your arms. One day, you’ll carry her only with your stories. This is for the in-between. For her first bath. And for yours—when you need to remember how to breathe and remind yourself you’re doing an amazing job.

Your throat tightened. You blinked fast. Didn’t speak. You ran your fingers over each item like they might vanish if you looked away too long. And when you glanced up, Ezra was already watching you. You smiled. When you looked up, Ezra was across the room—watching with the kind of expression only a sister-friend and doctor could wear at once. You smiled. She smiled back.

Then came a stack of books—carefully wrapped and ribbon-tied. You peeled them open one by one: Julian Is a Mermaid, Last Stop on Market Street, Antiracist Baby, and a weathered copy of Where the Wild Things Are with a handwritten message tucked inside the cover: “For the first story you’ll ever read her. May she always find her way home.”

Agatha wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her knuckle. “Who gave us this one?”

“Dr. Caldwell,” Eddie said from the floor. “She said you’d know why.” You nodded, the air thick with memory.

There were more. A hand-knit cap in navy flecked with gold. A tiny onesie that read Future Thesis Writer. Diaper boxes lined the back wall—unwrapped and unapologetic. Small bags filled with burp cloths, tiny socks, plain white onesies. A gentle nod to the mess, to the mundane, to the beauty in the days ahead. Each gift was read aloud. Each name was honored. Each thank you—soft and full. Agatha reached for the next package and carefully unfolded the layers of tissue paper. Inside lay a soft cream-colored leather-bound journal, stamped with gold vines and wildflowers along the spine. She opened it.

On the first page, written in clean, thoughtful black ink: Her name is waiting. Whenever you’re ready to write it down, this page will hold it. Fill this with those late-night prayers, sleepless night thoughts, and little moments. When she is older and experiences all of life’s journeys, she will be reminded how you loved her from the very start.

Agatha froze. Her fingers hovered over the page. Her breath caught. She passed it silently to Rio and to you. Rio touched her arm. “You okay?” She nodded slowly. Her lashes were damp. Then she closed the cover like it was something sacred and placed it carefully in your lap, as if it might take flight.

Billy’s voice was softer now. “That one’s from Dr. Li. She said the name should arrive like breath. Not be printed before it’s spoken.” There was a hush after that. Not silence. Something deeper. The kind that settles in when everyone in the room is listening to the same heartbeat.

Billy adjusted the stack beside him with flair, shooting Eddie a look as he lifted the next gift like it might bite. “Alright, this one’s dangerous,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Try not to scream.”

He handed you a small box wrapped in pink foil with glittering strawberries all over it. You opened it—and immediately laughed. A tiny, cherry-red child-sized guitar gleamed from inside, glossy and ridiculous and perfect. Rio’s head dropped against your shoulder as she burst into giggles. “Oh my God—”

Eddie, grinning, crossed his arms. “I expect Ballad of the Tomato 2.0 the second she can sit up.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said through laughter, wiping your eyes.

“And yet,” Billy added, “not wrong.”

Agatha covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “She already kicks in rhythm. You’re all doomed.”

The next gift sent another ripple of laughter through the room: a bubblegum-pink one-piece bathing suit covered in flamingos, complete with a matching floppy sunhat. Tucked underneath: a black onesie that read Born to Be Bold in metallic gold. And beneath that a tiny pair pf Doc Martens. You gasped. Agatha leaned in close, eyes wide. “Please tell me these are real.”

“Size one,” Eddie said proudly. “Baby stompers. She’ll be marching by Christmas.”

Rio picked one up, turning it gently in her palm, her voice soft and reverent. “She’s gonna destroy carpet. I love it.”

Then Billy raised one final box. “Okay. One more. From Ezra, Eddie, and me.” He passed it to you. You recognized it before you opened it—your breath catching at the shape, the stitching, the gold hardware. A black backpack. Sleek. Minimalist. Practical. Beautiful. The one you’d bookmarked on your phone six weeks ago and hadn’t mentioned to anyone. You looked up. “How did you—”

Eddie shrugged. “You talk in your sleep. Rio texts like a teenager. We had help.”

Agatha reached for the zipper. “This is the one with the insulated bottle pocket, right?”

“And the changing mat,” you murmured.

“And the snack compartment,” Billy added. “Which is for you. Let’s be honest.”

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your hand to your belly. Your daughter kicked—slow, certain. Rio placed her palm beside yours. “She likes it. Good taste.”

Agatha leaned in, her head resting lightly against your shoulder. Her voice was soft as a psalm. “She’s going to have everything she needs.”

You looked down at everything around you—the blanket. The bath. The books. The boots. The journal. The laughter. The room still echoes with love. The weight of it wrapped around your chest—not heavy. Holy. And you glowed.

------

The house had settled into stillness. Soft shadows stretched across the floor, drawn long by the dipping sun. The scent of frosting and lavender lingered. A crumpled party napkin drifted lazily across the coffee table as the ceiling fan turned in slow, sleepy arcs.

You sat on the couch, sun-dappled and tired, the curve of your belly rising beneath a borrowed throw blanket. The room still smelled faintly of vanilla frosting and sunshine. Streamers clung half-heartedly to the corners of the ceiling, and a stray balloon floated lazily by the hallway arch like it had nowhere better to be.

Billy moved through the kitchen, stacking empty plates and plucking cupcake wrappers from end tables with a hum in his throat. Ezra was crouched beside a cluster of gift bags, organizing them into neat little piles, her sleeves rolled to the elbow and a paper flower stuck in her curls where Asher had "decorated" her an hour ago.

Eddie had taken Asher upstairs after his inevitable sugar crash. The boy had passed out mid-sentence on the stairs, tiny Doc Marten boot still clutched in one sticky hand. His breathing now echoed faintly through the baby monitor in the hallway, slow and even. Agatha and Rio were outside, carrying the gifts to the car in quiet trips—shoulders brushing, their laughter echoing through the open front door.

Ezra brushed her hands on her thighs, then crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you with a soft sigh. Her body leaned against the cushions like she’d known them all her life. She patted your thigh, her hand warm and steady through the blanket. “How you feeling, mama?”

You looked over at her and smiled, the kind that came slow and full, like sunlight through leaves. “Heavy,” you admitted. “Heavier every day.”

Ezra chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “Comes with the job.” You nodded, adjusting the blanket as your hands instinctively cradled your belly. Ezra glanced at your belly, then back at your face. “You've got one more gift coming, by the way. From Jen.”

Your brow lifted.

“A birthing pool.”

You blinked. Then laughed. “Of course she did.”

Ezra smirked, eyes gleaming with affection. “She said just in case. In case this little girl decides she has her own sense of timing. Which, based on the kicking schedule I’ve seen, feels likely.”

“She knows we’re planning for the clinic, right?” you asked, arching a brow.

Ezra raised a hand in surrender. “Please. My wife is incapable of not being overprepared. Even if you don’t need it,” she added, “you could always use it for another baby down the road. Or gift it forward. We both know someone’s gonna need it eventually. Your smile softened at that. The next one. The thought settled quietly into your chest. You exhaled. Let your gaze fall again to your belly. “I’m nervous,” you admitted. “Not panicked. Just… nervous. But more than anything, I’m ready. I just want to meet her already.”

Ezra nodded, her tone shifting, slowing. “Of course you’re nervous. You’re human.” She reached for your hand and squeezed it gently. “You’re healthy. She’s healthy,” she said quietly. “But being nervous is okay. You don’t have to feel guilty for that. You’re stepping into something big. But you’ve got two amazing wives who are going to be beside you the whole time…” She smiled.“…and an amazing doctor, if I do say so myself.”

That made you laugh. The warmth of it bloomed in your ribs and softened the ache in your lower spine. You leaned your head back against the cushion and let yourself breathe.

Ezra gave your thigh one last pat and rose. “I’ll see you all later this week. We’re in the home stretch now. Thirty-four weeks and counting.”

You nodded. “We’re really close.”

“Closer than you think,”

The screen door creaked as Agatha and Rio stepped back into the house, arms empty now, cheeks kissed with sun. The light shifted behind them, catching in Rio’s curls and turning the loose flyaways gold. Agatha’s eyes found you first, still curled into the corner of the couch, blanket draped over your lap, a quiet kind of peace lingering in the slope of your shoulders.

They both paused at the threshold, exchanging a look—one part concern, one part quiet awe. Agatha crossed the room first, her steps slow, deliberate. She crouched beside you, fingertips brushing along your arm. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up,” she murmured, voice all velvet and worry. “Tired, sweetheart?”

You smiled, lazy and full, but nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay. Just… heavy. I swear the weight in my hips is getting heavier by the hour.”

Rio knelt beside your other knee, her hand finding yours with ease, like it had never not known the shape of you. She kissed your knuckles once, then cradled them against her cheek. “Let’s get you home, love,” she said softly, eyes dark and full of light.

Ezra straightened as she got up from the couch, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “Thirty-four weeks,” she called, voice warm with mischief. “That shift in your hips; completely normal. Baby girl’s getting ready to settle into position—she’s probably dropping lower into the pelvis. Gravity’s doing its thing.”

You groaned as you shifted upright, one hand cradling your lower back as Agatha and Rio helped you stand. “Well, she’s welcome to settle, but I’d appreciate it if she did it with just a bit more grace.”

Agatha laughed under her breath and brushed your hair back from your forehead. “She gets it from her Mamí,” she said fondly.

Rio tilted her head. “Hey now—”

“She does,” Agatha insisted, grinning. “The dramatics. The timing. The flair for performance.”

Rio kissed your cheek and murmured against your skin, “And the fight. She gets that from you.”

You let yourself lean into both of them, your body warm and tired and full of joy. Ezra stepped closer, brushing her palms together like she was washing off the last of the cleanup. “Have either of you tried lifting her belly for her yet?”

Ezra nodded, gesturing with one hand. “Just gently. One hand beneath the belly, the other bracing her hips or lower back. Helps shift the weight off the pelvic floor for a bit. It’s not a long-term fix, but it feels incredible—especially in these next few weeks.”

Rio’s eyebrows arched. “We haven’t, but we’re definitely trying that.”

Ezra turned to you and smiled, her voice quieter now. “Doctor’s orders.”

You laughed, low and breathy, your fingers laced with Rio’s, Agatha’s palm warm against your shoulder. And in that moment, couched in golden light, held in hands that knew you, surrounded by the echoes of the day’s love, you leaned into them both and whispered, “I’m ready to go home.”

------

It's wrapping up, friends. As always, comments make my day.

@6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @peskygremlin @holystrangersalad @loveshineslikethesky @dandelions4us @mustangmopar @maydaythingz @stevieswildheart13 @myharkness @fucklove-4-life @supergirl107 @jillisselt @claramelooo @im-tired-24-7 @littlegaybutterflysblog @skidney1 @nothingspecialnothingnew @idonutevnno @thembolesbo @bethany-zor-el-danvers @holystrangersalad @eternalfaeri @s1anwyck @alessandradenoir @ananas8292 @theevilqueenfr @n0body-is-perfect @alexaneb @team-blackstar @the-library-of-alexandria @mandolinvibes @julia203 @thatssomeplaygirlshit-blog @shydinodragonshark @myharkness @tiddiewitch @filmedbyharkness @dragynflies @quesadillasandchips @deeem-daynie @tvseries-writings @i8ev1

[spring002]

now playing. . . teenage dirtbag by wheatus notes: yes, this is out of character for scaramouche but also who cares? i think he'd be a stupid emotionally constipated guy

this is not a diary. this is a journal. i just have to write my feelings down because the stupid therapist my mother put me through said so. i'm not doing this because they said so. i'm doing this because i want to.

scaramouche wrote into his diary journal with a glittery purple pen. the ink flowed neatly on the campus notebook. he continued, 

i am a grown man in a way where i am at the cusp of adulthood, i am nearly 16. this is me properly expressing my feelings and not at all hiding a really dark secret. this is frankly evil and sickening that my body reacts a certain way to… that thing. 

scaramouche scratched out a word. his head bopping to the tunes of his playlist, his knuckles clenched tightly to the pen. it’s like the pen is a part of him now. 

thing… girl. thing-- that girl. that wrenching girl that makes my body convulse. when she’s near, i can feel my heart beating faster and the hair on the back of my neck prickles up. i don’t understand this feeling. i must hate her. that’s the reason. she makes me feel like i’m out of my body. i don’t like it at all. 

scaramouche paused, his pen making little dots against the page as he thought for a while. then his pen continued without him thinking, 

i don’t like this aching feeling that drags in my skin through my bones. it’s aching with every step i take. it drowns me. she makes it all whisk away. why is that? why does she make it feel better? it sounds twisted that she sounds like the charming prince and i sound like the princess. isn’t that evil? 

he pursed his lips, checking his surroundings like someone would appear behind him. dropping his pen on his bed as he skimmed his bedroom. nothing out of place, just need to… close the blinds, lock the door, open the box in the deepest part of his closet and open the invisible ink pen. 

he went to his station carefully (cleaning up the mess on his bed and moving to his desk). considering his workspace, he organized it, setting up the crucial part of the mission– his uv light stand (taking off the cap of the invisible ink pen and clicking the light). he adjusted his magnifying glass, biting his lips, as he wrote the first letter (he adjusted his glasses). 

i 

he can’t close his eyes now; he has to finish the mission no matter what. 

in the dream i don’t tell anyone

“comma,” he murmured to no one in particular but himself. 

you put your head on my lap. 

he shut his eyes, picking up his glitter pen hastily writing an excuse as if someone would actually see it. 

just kidding, i didn't mean all that feelings stuff because i am so attuned to them. why should i even write them?

[elsa-fogen]

At first i was going to reblog this from @justashadowlooker

but then it got too long and off-topic, i started retelling and quoting my own 10 years old fanfic, so i'm making it it's own post jjdsfjkdfgh

Too long don't read, was a Bloom fan, killed her hundreds of times, than became Icy fan, killed her few times as well, still a huge fan, wanna revive some of my old ideas

When i had just started watching winx, Bloom was my fav AAHAHHAH (it was 2008-2009 year i think). Buuut... being my fav means that you gonna SUFFER. It was always the case, even when i was little. But young me didn't know better than to just kill of a character. And Bloom died SO many times in my early fanfics and arts. I still remember one fic, it was also the first ever fic i posted on the internet, and it was horrible. I typed really slow at that time and i was looking at like 10 A4 pages of handwritten fanfic and was like... weeeell i don't need this part with description of the boat... i don't need this part about wind flowing in her hair or smth... i don't need spaces after dots and commas either. These were real thoughts of 9 year old me lmao.

the fic was about Bloom and Sky going for a boat trip date, but there was also some bitch that fell for Sky and her best decision was to throw Bloom away from the boat. As a result she was sucked into the screw of the motor or whatever this thing called. Sky dived after her and brought her back on the boat, but she died due to the blood loss.

In my handwritten version it was really long and tears queezing scene, but i was too lazy to type it all, so it basically was shortened to 1 (one) sentence: Bloom didn't make it to the port.

i also had a picture attached, it was i think a cover of some of the comics where Sky holds Bloom on his arms and they're stepping out of the water, but i photishoped it and added many wounds and BLOOD BLOOD EVERYWHERE!!!

I also remember photoshopping screenshots from the first winx movie, adding bloody wounds on Bloom and tears and trying to make her face sad lol. And also i remember, i didn't have access to the computer all the time in my childhood, and there was a weird time... when i'd got a chance to be on the computer, i would made a specific search in google, to find that one art with Bloom, being fucking stabbed, lying on the ground and crying, and touching the golden heart-shaped locket with the name Sky on it, and you could see that it was Sky's sword that stabbed her, and he was walking away in the distance. I could stare at that art for hours, imagining how it happened. I also remeber how the art suddenly stopped showing up at the search and i had only tiny squeezed jpg version of it, and i thought that google banned this art for being so violent lmao

Btw i found that art, it's by Chibiusa-Moon, here it is, and i remember it diffferently, i thought Bloom had enchantix on her lmao

BUT THEN SOMETHING CHANGED. I DON'T KNOW WHEN. I DON'T KNOW WHY. BUT ICY CAME AND DESTROYED MY LOVE FOR BLOOM, AND TOOK HER PLACE.

I suspect that it happened after i saw ep1 of season 3, because HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN IN THAT EPISODE?! SHE WAS ✨✨S L A Y I G✨✨ DAMN!!! She freed herself looking fab as fuck (i've only seen her battle uniform at that point, and her casual outfit shocked me, i was like HOLY SHIT?? DIFFERENT COLTHES?) (and it's if you forgen the HOLY SHIT, TRIX IN THE FIRST EPISODE OF THE SEASON?!!!), sayed the edgiest thing in the world, then freed her sisters, skated away from the giant snake ON HER DAMN HEELS AS A QUEEN!!!!! I think this was the moment when i fell for her. Maybe i'm wrong and it happened earlier, but this is all i can remeber.

Well, i also remember when my mom got me my first winx magazine and i was really disappointed that there were no Trix in the comic AHHASJGDAJS it was comic about bloom and diaspro going to the land of the dragons.

And, funny enough, i think i didn't kill Icy in my fics (mostly)

wait fuck. i remembered one (that was actually properly published and finished), let me just refresh my memory real quick- (gonna cringe soo hard ahaha)

oh shit i also remembered some stuff. In my later fanfics i was tending to make Bloom real psychopath, who decided to straight up destroy all the witches and all the dark magic. Hey. Hey. I bet 13 year old me wouldn't mind if i borrowed this idea fom her...

EHM ANYWAY, BACK TO THAT ONE FINISHED FIC!

It's so cringy written, but it's got the spirit HASHDHA. The trix summon some another army of darkness that was created to destroy fairies (hey), but at some point they lose control of it and the army turns against them. They have no ther choice but to seek help from the winx. winx of course don't want to help since their army attacked alfea... but the trix didn't give this order.

by the way tehre's one dialogue that i think is actually good and i think is in character

"But how do we know that it isn't one of your tricks?" - asked Tecna. - "Probability of this equals 85,9%!" Everyone froze. Nobody had this idea before. Then Icy shook her head. "No, it's not." "How do we know?" Stella said suspiciously. "If we wanted to trick you, we'd choose less humiliating way" Icy replied coldly.

in the end witches and fairies teeaming up, and going on an adventure to stop this army with some artifacts. Significant part of the way they had to make on their own without magic, and during that winx and trix are actualy growing to like each other. OH THERES ALSO A FUNNY THING LOL

But as a night roommate she [Icy] turned out to be very restless. She was moving all the time and mumbling something. And then at some point she screamed: "Damn fairies, i wish you all dead!" Bloom jumped on her place and still half sleeping replied: "Shut up, witch, or you're done for!" and fell back asleep. All in all, it was hell of a night.

i still think this is funny af-- damn these dialogues are only getting better. Next day they getting closer to their destination.

Suddenly they heard Stormy's voice: "Wait! there's some sign! Icy, can you read this?" "Why her?" Stella asked offended. "We all here can read!" "Except for you," Darcy noted gloomily and everyone laughed. "Ha, well, if you're so smart, come here and read!" Icy said with the sweetest voice. "And next time we'll ask you." Stella understood that she was cornered. To save the rest of her dignity, she came closer and started staring at the sign. "I-I cant for some reason, this handwriting is awful!" with dispair sloar fairy realised that she doesn't understand these letters. "And this cold is driving me nuts! Give me cup of hot coffee and warm blanket!"

then Icy teaches Bloom how to skate. And then Aisha (Leyla) dies by falling into some bottomless pit- After that they make it to their destination, but the army was waiting for them there

another dialogue

"Let's go!" Icy said decisively. "No, wait! I'll go alone. If they catch me, you all get out of here as fast as you can" [...] "No!" Bloom said. "I'll go with you!" "Fine. But they'll kill you immediately" "And you?" "And I will be tortured" Icy smiled.

I can't with this lol, Icy smiling at the thought of torture as a true psycho she is.

Icy touched the wall, making sure it's quite hard. "Well? What's next?" "You're the brain of the operation, you tell me!" redhead replied, crushing piece of the rock in her hand

i just like this interaction here.

"Winx Believix!" Winx screamed. And Trix didn't scream anything, Icy just snapped her fingers and all three were already in their witch uniforms.

yeah classic.

the fight begins, Icy is trying to understand what to do with the artifacts, Musa dies, then they teleport to some other planet where they can perform the ritual to destroy the whole army at once. They're reading the spell, but something is missing, and the army attacks them here too. This time Bloom is left to figure out what were they missing, and some drops of her blood fell on the artifact and that was the last piece of the spell. The army is destroyed, but Icy was seriously injuried when covering Bloom from attack from behind. Now they're flying back to Magix

FUCK-- guys i'm sorry. More dialogues on the way.

"Why are you here?" she [Icy] asked, opening her eyes. "Doesn't want to miss your death!" Stella screamed, she overheard the talk. "Shut up!" I [Darcy] replied. "Or I'll hit you!" "Oh-oh, I'm so scared!" "Discussed my funeral already?" Icy asked, surprisingly, without sarcasm. "Come on, don't listen to that fairy! She has only fashion and straw in her head." Icy smiled weakly. "Magix!" Bloom screamed looking out the window. Fairies came closer to the glass. "Where?!" Icy got worried. Golden-green disc of the planet surrounded by thick ring of asteroids was hanging in the center of the window. Icy could see it without moving. "And here my dream came true. I got Magix!" she lifted her arm and closed her fingers around the planet. "Didn't think that the view from the space is so beautiful..."

DSHGJADFKAJHSFDJG what have i done. This line about her dream coming true HITS HARD. Fuck, 13 y.o. me knew which buttons she should push.

Icy dies. Darcy and Stormy were forgiven because they helped to stop the army and for Icy's "sacrifice" and everyone very conveniently forget that they started the recent war. The end.

Damn that was a ride.

um, so where were we?... right i was saying that Icy became my new hyperfixation instead of Bloom...

And i had the whole trilogy planned, in the first one she'd escape from some prison and attempt another plan to counquer Magix, but fail, in the next book she'd be KILLED by Bloom but came back to life by making a deal with someafterlife owner (HA) and the last one where she actually succeeds... this one i din't think through at ALL.

I kinda wanna revive that plot fron the second "book" tbh, i still remeber it really well.

In a comic.

(i'd make it a crossover with Hazbin but it won't work unfortunately)

okay i don't know where and how to end this post so i'm ending it here, have a nice day thanks for reading i hope that at least someone made it to the end.

[cushfuddled]

Anyway here's how to use a semicolon

This lil' dot thing is your best friend I promiseeeee

;

I mean. You don't HAVE to use semicolons. But I get the sense some people are intimidated by them, and I swear they're super helpful!

I bet there are special cases where this doesn't apply, but a semicolon is just a soft period. It's like a yield sign versus a stop sign...or the turn signal that indicates a shift into a separate but related thought.

Comma: When Bob saw Sally standing alone in the corner, he decided to say hi. Period: Bob saw Sally standing alone in the corner. He decided to say hi. Semicolon: Bob saw Sally standing alone in the corner; he decided to say hi. Rule of thumb: If you can replace it with a period, it's not a comma; it's a semicolon.

Semicolons make for a much smoother reading experience. As a reader, when a comma is placed where a semicolon should be, I don't know to anticipate a separate thought ahead. I become momentarily disoriented at the sudden change in direction, which pulls me out of the story.

Sally took the bus to the store, she didn't want to walk in the cold. ❌ Sally took the bus to the store because she didn't want to walk in the cold. ✅ Sally took the bus to the store. She didn't want to walk in the cold. ✅ (I don't like the way the period isolates these two thoughts, but it's still preferable to a comma) Sally took the bus to the store; she didn't want to walk in the cold. ✅

[stkptr]

Tumblr Media Violation Images (Font Identification)

Tumblr has a number of placeholder images it uses when an image is removed. The most famous, by far, is the community guideline violation image. "This content has been removed for violating Tumblr's Community Guidelines."

Most of you have likely seen this image, if not in its intended place, by someone using it for the aesthetic. Did you know that this is actually an old variant, and there was at least one even older variant?

These are all the iterations I could find for this specific media violation image, the 500x375 pixel Community Guidelines violation image, in order. All of these files are called community_guidelines_v1_500.png and the versions can be found on the Internet Archive. The newest version is also called user_guidelines_v1_500.png.

The transition from the first variant to the second happened sometime on January 3rd, 2019, specifically between 16:52 (last) and 23:30 (first) GMT. The transition from the second to the third was on July 16th, 2024 between 14:03 (last) and 14:58 (first) GMT. Differing resolutions of this image seem to have been replaced at various different times.

The first iteration's gray background style is consistent with the other media violation images available at that time. Each had a custom desaturated color graphic in the center of the image, with the text of the image as a centered subtitle. The current style is made up of a single chunk of left-justified text over several lines in the upper left corner on a dark blue background. The start of the text as well as the final period is colored according to a scheme; blue for community guidelines, pink for copyright, orange for privacy. The colored text is for the preamble "this content has been removed for" with the reason being in white. The "all" violation does not match this format exactly, instead its old iteration is simply text, and its new iteration does not have colored text. Notably, both series are color coded, but the color coding was changed.

The community guidelines violation image is the only one with three variants. All of the others only have two.

copyright_v1_400.png

privacy_v1_500.png

all_v1_100.png

The fonts

Notably, if you look very closely at the new variants you can see that almost all of them have their i-dots (tittles) off center, shifted to the left, with the right edge aligned with the right edge of the i body. Additionally, in all of the images the apostrophes are relatively ornate for the otherwise grotesque sans-serif typeface. The only new style image which does not have the tittles off-center is the newest variant of the community guidelines image.

The original images use a Helvetica typeface, likely Helvetica Neue. However, the text is not simply typed out in Helvetica, the apostrophes seemingly have all been manually replaced with the comma character. I suspect manual replacement since I do not believe Helvetica to have a style option for replacing the apostrophe with a comma.

The new variants use a custom typeface called Favorit-Tumblr. Similarly to the original variants, the apostrophes have been replaced with commas. I think the off-centered tittles lend credence to the idea that the apostrophes were manually replaced.

Sources

All of the images were taken from the Internet Archive. A full list of all indexed media violation images can be found at this link, which includes various resolutions of each. The exact change times were found using a manual binary search in a few minutes.

[punctuation-completionist]

okay! percontation point/rhetorical question mark investigation has been done! i am putting this under a read-more because it's super long but if this causes accessibility issues please tell me lol (i don't remember if it does but i am trying to make my original posts more accessible so...)

tl;dr for anyone who doesn't read the whole thing, i basically just looked through some really old scans to prove the origins of the percontation point (and that sounds really boring but maybe it's interesting? it would be more interesting if progressive punctuation would email me back lol)

. ? ! , : ; ' " – — - · ... [ ] { } ( ) / < >

22/22

bonus:

⁂ * † ‡ ⁓ ~ & ⸺ ❦ ⸮ ‽

11/20

so basically, this is related to this post* i reblogged a bit ago because something about the graphic on it was bothering me... here's the graphic in question btw

[image id: a picture with nine punctuation marks in three rows of three. the first row has (from left to right) the acclamation point which looks like an exclamation mark with two stems pointing in sort of a v shape from the dot, an exclamation comma which looks like an exclamation mark with a comma instead of a dot, and an interrobang which is a question mark with an exclamation mark laid over it. the second row has the love point which looks like a question mark with two of the top parts put together to form a heart, a friendly period which looks like a period with a curved line underneath it, and an authority point which looks like an exclamation mark with a curved line perched atop it. the third line contains a rhetorical question mark which is a backwards inverted question mark, a doubt point which looks like a question mark with the top part shaped more like a cursive z, and a question comma which is a question mark with the dot replaced with a comma. end id.]

so, i've done a lot of research on irony punctuation throughout my days—whether it be to argue with a reddit comment or just for punctuation day reasons—and i would say i know a lot about irony punctuation (of which rhetorical questions fall under i guess? according to wikipedia at least)

so, that post was bothering me because the rhetorical punctuation mark i know is the percontation point (⸮) invented by henry denham in the 1580s & the mark used on the post was an inverted form of this

now, here was the easy investigation on who made this graphic. i already said so in the tags of the post, it was by progressive punctuation; they even have a specific page on their website with this information. now when i saw the rhetorical question mark they used, my first thought was, "maybe they're talking about a different rhetorical question mark" but then...

[image id: a screenshot from the progressive punctuation webpage on the rhetorical question mark. it says that the inventor is henry denham, it was invented in the 1580s, and it was invented in london. end id.]

see, so here's the real problem. they're citing it from henry denham when his mark doesn't look like that. so then i did the logical thing and tried to find where henry denham even printed this thing in the first place. and that's where the fun(?) part begins.

❦

so, i have a range in the time periods i'm looking for (⁓1580–1589) and i have a name (henry denham). first question: who's henry denham?

the answer isn't that interesting but it's contextually helpful. henry denham was, suprise suprise, a printer from england. allegedly he's iconic but the most i can find about him is that he's a printer and he invented the percontation point. one website (link) claims the use of the point to be from around 1575–1625 which is kinda not 1580s but. i don't know what the deal with that is. (if i figure it out, i'll explain it) and attributes it to either henry denham OR the translator anthonie gilbie (and denham was apparently his printer?? idk man this is a whole web of shit)

so, who's anthonie gilbie? firstly, the only things i could find were for anthony gilby and not some guy with a weird -ie but that's not really relevant because the guy is also a translator from 16th century england so like. i don't think that's likely they were two separate people. so, anthony gilby is a radical puritan who translated the geneva bible into english. the geneva bible is one of the oldest english language bibles, predating the king james bible by around 51 years so i guess that makes anthony gilby pretty important. shakespeare used it, cromwell used it, milton used it, it's a big deal. gilby only translated the old testament, another guy called william whittingham translated the new testament so that does narrow down the thing slightly

but also, i'm not reading the fucking bible again especially not in old english so. i want to narrow it down more.

and that means we're going back to henry denham ! yay! since the source i was using was the only one that provided anything at all on the origins of the percontation point, i went back to it to see what else it had to say. and what it had to say was that there were two examples, one was the psalms of david† (in roman font) and the other was a book called tragicall tales (in blackletter font). so with those being our only two leads, we have to follow them.

⁂

so i search up "psalms of david 1581" to see if i can find a scan. and the first thing i find is a 1581 enchiridion on the psalms of david (1st edition) that's 795$. yikes. luckily i don't think that's the one but that certainly did freak me out since it was from the same year and shit. anyways. the online geneva bible has 150 chapters of psalms so we'll just talk about tragicall tales first

now what the absolute f⸺ is tragicall tales? and to that i say. well. i don't really know.

except, jk i do apparently know now! tragicall tales was a novel written by a man called george tuberville‡ and published in 1587, and while i can't find any direct statements that it was denham that invented it, it is in blackletter font and printed the same year as the article said so... i think it's a safe assumption to make that this was denham's work. the next thing to do would be to find tragicall tales which i wasn't too excited for given the last time i tried to find a book for this it was almost $800 dollars.

but i struck gold. not only did i find a copy on archive.org (link), i also found a typed out version (link) but the punctuation there is badly transcribed in my opinion so. take what you will from it but. idk man i think i found the right stuff. so without further ado:

and while this is probably the oldest crustiest scan ever and also 400 pages long, i did find something! yay!

[image id: five screenshots from the internet archive scan of tragicall tales, each containing a backwards question mark aka a percontation point. end id.]

now, i know looking at this, it's kinda hard to tell what's going on due to the quality of the scan, typeface, and other stuff, but i'll break it down real quick. the percontation points here are after the words wife, fame/same (it's probably a long s but it looks more like fame if that helps), about, will, and wife again. i tried to get a few that have normal question marks in them to prove what i'm talking about (they're in the second, fourth, and fifth screenshots) you see em? cool, because my eyes might fall out of my face with how long i had to look for these. good lird.

but what about the inverted one? now, i did scour this as hard as i could and the closest one i could find was this

[image id: a screenshot from tragicall tales reading "la mia donna bella è buona". end id.]

but at the same time, the typed version has that as an è and not punctuation of any kind and while i don't agree with the typed version 100% i do think that makes more sense. so there. that's all we got out of tragicall tales. back to psalms!

❦

i was very excited to read this.~ (that's a snark mark btw. i was not) i already had to read the bible once recently for ... reasons? (i'm not super religious) and that was the new american bible not a fucking bible in middle english. so. this is somehow worse. and yet. i ended up trying my best to find it

now seemingly it slipped my mind that unless there was a scanned copy of an original it would likely not have the mark i was looking for because i looked for ages. it was a fucking nightmare. psalms sucks especially geneva psalms. but, archive.org came to my rescue yet again. and let me tell you. it still didn't help

firstly, the geneva bible looks like this.

[image id: a screenshot of a scan of the geneva bible. it has two columns of text along with notes off to the side and footnotes. it is written in middle english. end id.]

if you're lucky (?) the geneva bible looks like this

[image id: another screenshot of a different scan of the geneva bible with a similar layout but it is more yellowed and fancier. end id.]

yes, i looked at two different scans of the same book sue me. or don't preferably. but this did give me one clarifying idea of what i was doing wrong. the article i had referenced said that the question mark was in roman font. the main text of the geneva bible seems to be in blackletter. so i had to look in the side columns. and look in the side columns i did. and yet, that didn't seem to help any either (if anyone wants to look the first one is linked here and the second is linked here; i don't think they're in there though in hindsight)

and yet, there was one last place to search. the psalms of david truly opened and explained by theodore beza. a completely different text by anthony gilby (and his name has the -ies in it in the scans i can find of this so that's also a good omen) and it's still david psalms so i hunted it down. and great news

[image id: a picture of the first page of the psalms of david truly opened and explained by theodore beza. it has the translator listed as anthonie gilbie and printers listed as richard yardley and peter short. it is extremely brown and looks very old. end id.]

it's an even older looking book! (though to be fair, the geneva bible was older they probably just reprinted it more often) (i found it here if that's anything)

quick intro to people: theodore beza was a french calvinist who lived in geneva. he's not really important to this story. peter short and richard yardley were printers who worked for the stationers' company (aka the worshippers company of stationers aka the worshipful company of stationers and newspaper makers) and i will get back to that.

so now we're getting... somewhere? i mean, this book does have cool wood cuttings right?

[image id: a picture of a wood cutting of a man kneeling in front of a book, with light and a fancy frame. end id.]

but does it have percontation points?

[image id: a picture from the psalms of david truly opened and explained by theodore beza. it has two percontation points in it. end id.]

oh hell the fuck yes it has them. look at that! two of em right there! that solves that mystery. and i didn't even have to look at the geneva bible. but it's fineee <- didn't want to look at the geneva bible but whatever

but where's henry denham?

like first of all, the article i was using said "1581" for the psalms thing so either that's a different psalms with percontation points in it or something got screwed up because also... the printers are names on here and neither of them are denham, especially considering the book came out in 1590 and denham quit publishing in 1589 (or maybe 1591? it's unclear). they also confusingly say he was succeeded by short and yardley and while i can't find anything about yardley, i do know that denham also worked for the stationers' company so they were at least colleagues in the printing business . so this isn't denham is seems but also... he did make the percontation point in 1587 in the tragicall tales so i don't think it's a question of inventing it, that was probably still denham. there might be another psalms out there with percontation points in it but who knows? i really don't think we need more proof when we say that this -> ⸮ is the percontation point :}

⁂

so where the fuck did this other one come from‽ because if i know one thing it's that progressive punctuation has generally been right... so what's the deal with that?

of course i did the only logical thing and emailed them. i hate emails but i did it anyways. for you (if people don't reblog this just for the sheer effort i will be mildly saddened. here's a secret interpunct for you for reading all this shit. -> ·)

and of course, i didn't get an email back immediately which was disappointing. in fact, as i post this, i still haven't gotten an email from them (i waited like a week but if they do email me back i'll update you)

so anyways, then what did we learn if i never got an email back? how to do dumb research for a day and learn absolutely nothing new? i mean i actually kinda don't know how to conclude this now that i think about it. i guess we learned that henry denham probably invented the percontation point and that maybe we should start using it more often. and that you should check infographics you see online, i guess? maybe don't check them this intensely though because. that was a lot. :{

* don't you dare go harass the op i swear i will kill you if you do

† apparently these aren't by david according to most scholars but whatever

‡ unrelated as far as i am aware to tommy tuberville, a u.s. senator from arkansas. he seems to be kind of an asshole but i'm not from arkansas so i don't really have an opinion

[realcleverscience]

Wait... WE can read Greek?!

I was reading a wiki article about ancient artifacts when it shared some Greek words that were inscribed on the artifacts:

ΚΡΙΟΣ

ΤΑΥΡΟΣ

ΔΙΔΥΜΟΙ

ΚΑΡΚΙΝΟΣ

ΛΕΩΝ

ΠΑΡΘΕΝΟΣ

ΧΗΛΑΙ

ΣΚΟΡΠΙΟΣ

ΤΟΞΟΤΗΣ

ΑΙΓΟΚΕΡΩΣ

ΥΔΡΟΧΟΟΣ

ΙΧΘΥΕΣ

Of course, my first thought was that I obviously can't read that... but... I kept looking and realized that I could sort of read some of the greek, thanks to knowing certain greek words and letters, mostly from my scientific interests, but other places as well.

For instance, look at the second word: "ΤΑΥΡΟΣ" Spelled out: Tau-Alpha-Upsilon-Rho*-Omicron-Sigma = TAUROS. The bull, which you may recognize from astrology or from the mino-taur (minoan bull) of mythology.

(*There were a few letters that I was less familiar with: e.g. P = Rho. Basically it's an R without the bottom-right leg. Also remember that there are kind of three "O"s: Regular O = Omicron; Ω = Omega; Θ = Theta, which looks like an O but isn't)

Let's try the 4th word: "ΚΑΡΚΙΝΟΣ"

Kappa-Alpha-Rho-Kappa-Iota*-Nu-Omicron-Sigma = Karkinos = Crab.

(*The expression "not one iota" is bc the letter "i" began as one little tiny line or event a dot. e.g. In hebrew, the letter is known as "yud" and is the smallest and simplest letter. It looks like a comma.)

For those familiar with astrology, they may know this is also known as "cancer", and is the origin for the use of the medical condition as well. (You may have heard about certain foods being "carcinogenic" = carcin generating = cancer causing.)

(Why "crab" for "cancer"? - NPR: "...Hippocrates because he was around very early. And some time about 400 B.C., he was examining many cancer patients with what we'd call today end-stage cancer... And he applied the Greek word karkinos, which means crab. A lot of explanations, all of them equally wonderful and all of them equally difficult to prove, but why did he use that? And if you examine a tumor, if you actually feel malignant tumor, you'll note that it's hard as a rock. And so some have explained that it reminded him of the hard shell of a crab. But others have said it.. may have reminded him of the pain that a malignant tumor induces. It's much like the sharp pinch of a crab's claw. And an even better version is that it suggests the tenacity with which, you know, a crab bites you…")

Ok, next is the 5th word: ΛΕΩΝ: Lambda-Epsilon-Omega-Nu = Leon = Lion (I think this one is easy, but perhaps that's bc my name, Ari, means Lion.)

Next: "ΠΑΡΘΕΝΟΣ" Pi - Alpha - Rho - Theta - Epsilon - Nu - Omicron - Sigma = Parthenos = Virgin Again, astrology fans may recognize the word. Zoo fans may recognize the word from stories about lizards in zoos suddenly becoming pregnant on their own, known as "parthenogensis" - virgin birth. (Christians may recognize the word for similar reasons!) Or you may be familiar with the Parthenon, an ancient greek temple to Athena the "virgin/maiden goddess".

Two words later, #8: "ΣΚΟΡΠΙΟΣ" Sigma-Kappa-Omicron-Rho-Pi-Iota-Omicron-Sigma = Skorpios = Scorpion!

Next: "ΤΟΞΟΤΗΣ" - This one's a bit harder Tau-Omicron-Xi*-Omicron-Tau-Eta-Sigma (*That's a hard letter. There's also apparently a similar letter represented by "X")

= Toxotes. I wouldn't have recognized this as the word for "archer" (technically, "bow") but you may recognize the word as the root for "toxic", which I just learned is derived from the word for archer - either bc it harms like an arrow, or bc the arrows were dipped in poison, making them toxic arrows.)

Ok, let's jump to the last one: "ΙΧΘΥΕΣ" Iota-Chi-Theta-Upsilon-Epsilon-Sigma = Ichthyes

People who've played animal crossing, or maybe just love fish or biology, may recognize this as part of the word "ichthyology" - the study of fish.

By now you may have guessed that the ancient object was a calendar of sorts, and was here listing the various months with their astrological signs.

----------

So it kind of blew my mind to realize that I can sort of read greek.

Clearly this doesn't mean that I can just open up ancient or modern greek texts and start translating - but, I'm a LOT closer to that for greek than for most other languages. And not just me, but all of us. Which is just amazing. If I opened a book in russian or japanese, I'd be totally lost. I can't read the alphabet and I have basically zero familiarity with russian or japanese root words. But as westerns who speak english and use mathematics that both largely evolved from/with greek sources, we are all a lot closer to this ancient language than we probably assumed.

Kinda puts a new perspective on the phrase, "it's all Greek to me".

[subjectanomalies]

Aposthropes

(Place your's when is needed.)

A dot

Is meant

To stop a phrase;

A silent beginning.

A comma

Is meant

To be a start

Of a new phrase;

A catch of breath,

A new tiding.

In moments

Where

Deeds

Become unnoticed

And

Life rebukes

What it once

Promised,

Place apostrophes

Where meaning

Was lost

Among broken pieces.

Because notions

Reshape

Within the quiet

Of our pauses—

A strength

To continue

Each

Of our sentences

And even if

The pages

Still feel

Lost

Even after

Writing

That has passed;

Not all mistakes

Are devoid

Of any messages.

—Patiently

Create

The next sentence;

Rewrite,

But never

With penance.

[meirimerens]

*breaks into ur askbox through a plaster wall* hi i am genuinely fascinated by how you do patterns/ornaments in your art. I don't have like, the slightest bit of patience to do those, but I'm still hella interested to know how ppl do them. Do you plan them out or is it 'fuck it we ball' type of process? Do you usually go into more symbolic meanings (like with the floral ornaments) or add whatever fits aesthetically? Also are there any particular artists that inspire you when drawing them?

("good luck getting to me i'm behind 7 firewalls" meme voice) good lucky getting to [my blog] i'm behind 7 [layers of bricks]

hiii ok let's get serious now

while it'd be easier to tell me about my #process on a case by case basis (so if you have an image/images in particular you'd like to know how i did the patterns of i could likely be more precise in my response) the Vast Majority of the time truly i am ballin. at most I might sketch out where i want Big Pieces, and where i'll fill out with smaller things However Comma there are motifs that keep coming back. and i'm sorry to tell you this. one of them is The Patience To Do So. in no order whatsoever:

floral motifs. i never go for something that Actively Looks Like A Real Flower on purpose: the language of flowers is very dependant of era and place, and a flower that means [x] in 1910s Russia might not mean the same in 1870s England.

vegetal motifs in general, so leaves, vagyuely ivy-looking stuff, stuff inspired by mushrooms & fungi, etc

animal motifs, typically associated with the characters i'm drawing. i might draw stylized birds, wings, horns, serpents/snakes, scales, etc.

eyes, mouths, wounds, or anything that looks kinda ()-like. it can also. look quite yonic depending on the context so. yeah you could say i draw those motifs.

anatomical motifs, inspired by scientific diagrams of the epidermis, of cells, of different organs and body parts, etc. i rely a lot on [this] (Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body) because you have a lot of engravings for every body part you could think of.

random motifs: spikes, spirals, dots, waves, curls, blobs, "ladders",...

i do equal parts symbol & vibes. as mentioned above i'll often fit in animals that i associate with the characters i have drawn, add more anatomical stuff depending on the characters,... but a lot of the "filler" squiggles are pure vibes. i use them to connect symbols together. also most of the characters i draw with these types of patterns are in equal parts anatomy of the body and anatomy of the vegetal so truly i'm tailoring it here.

as for artists i'm inspired by those are the two i always mention:

Ernst Haeckel especially his Kunstformen der Natur (<- link to the Gallica digitalization, but if you google search that you'll also see plenty of good images). He was mostly a biologist & his KdN is drawings he did within his research, a bunch and i mean a buuunnnnccchhh of very beautiful drawings of so many lifeforms on earth. i often reuse his drawings of hexacorallia in peterstakh artworks. those types of artworks if you see what i'm seeing.

i'm also incredibly inspired by Solange Knopf's artworks, and routinely joke that i keep being inspired by her art. i loooove how she does it very freeflowing, packed with so much details

again, i'd probably have more to say if you pointed to an image in particular, but for the most part this is it chrewly!

you must learn patience... you must learn to enjoy doing the squiggles... this is the only way... THANK YOU FOR QUASTION

[chil-aglia]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 |ROTTMNT| (Leo X Male OC)

𝐀𝐥 𝐁𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤

I didn’t have time or the energy to add Adriaen into the picture above, but you guys are free to make a drawing for this chapter and I can add it for this chapter's picture.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adriaen wished this was a dream, but here he was, standing beside the others who were all dressed up in strange clothing, representing different music genres. 

In front of him was Splinter, singing his heart out that reminded Adriaen of Italian opera.

Huh, he’s actually good at singing.

The others however don’t share Adriaen’s impressiveness, as they groan and shake their heads.

“No!”

“Oh, not - not good.”

“Agh.”

“That belongs in a sewer.”

Adriaen sighed at the four brothers and their harshness towards Splinter, who finished his performance and kneels down on his knees. “Oh, please, my sons. Let me be in your band!” He begs his sons, but Raph denied him, his voice in a smooth deep tone.

“No, thanks. We can’t groove to, uh—this whole situation, Big Daddy.”

Adriaen crossed his arms, blinking owlishly at Raphael’s whole…façade. “Uh, you hit your head? Why you talkin’ like that?” Splinter had to ask, tilting his head to the side with hands on his hips.

“If you want to be soul, you gotta live soul.” Raph explains, changing his voice from normal to deep and smooth. Adriaen lightly let out an airy sigh, he forgot that one of Raph’s favourite music genres was soul. “But if we need an overbearing manager who robs us blind, we’ll give you a call, m’kay?” Leo smirks, whipping his hair (white wig) to the side dramatically. 

Right, and Leo likes glam rock…that whole outfit is just…yeah no.

“Okay, fine. I’ll just start another family and join their band.” Splinter grumpily stomps away, Adriaen watching him leave before looking to the others.

”You guys are seriously doing this?” He uttered, eyeing them with a deadpan stare, Donnie had told everyone that he got them this singing gig over at Albearto Land, he didn’t exactly specify the details, only that him and the others had to get dressed up. They all couldn’t come up with a singular band costume, so they went with individual outfits of their preferred music genres.

“Alright babies, let’s boogie down. Our adoring public awaits. Albearto land ain’t gonna grand open itself.” Raph defined, whereas Leo hums in agreement before gazing his attention to Donnie. 

“How did we get this sweet gig again?”

“Well, I may or may not have intercepted a little email address to a certain Justin B yeah comma that one dot com.”

Leo smirks before clearing his throat and dusting off imaginary dirty from his costume. “Hey, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but our music is so new, it’s like it’s from outer space.” He proclaims, warning a groan and roll of the eyes from Adriaen.

“Yeah, our electro/soul/rap/glam rock is too good to quantify.” Donnie glorifies, having Mikey nod in eagerness, “Once we leave this lair, our music is gonna change everything.” He promises to himself, hyping up him and his brothers.

“Let’s harmonize for good luck. Yaowww~”

“~Wooaaaooow!~”

“Mmm, drop!”

“Untz-untz-untz-untz”

Adriaen couldn’t help but cringe, his head slightly lowering down into his shell. It felt like his ears were bleeding. To put it blunt, the four brothers “harmonised singing” was objectively terrible.

“Nailed it!”

Leo chuckled and strolled towards Adriaen, wrapping one arm around the black bandana turtle, “You sure you don’t wanna join our band? You can be, uh…pop! Yeah, pop, I’m sure we can quickly find a costume for you.” Leo tried to propose the idea of Adriaen joining them, only to earn a light but strong whack upside the head from the latter.

”Yeah, no. I’m fine with just watching from the sidelines.”

Mikey then came over and nudged Adriaen from the other side. “You sure? We all know that you can sing! Why not show off your vocals baby!” Mikey urges, but once again he was denied when Adriaen placed a hand on Mikey’s face and gently pushed him aside.

”That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

Leo grins at him, “Ah, right. You have stage fright, is that it?” He acknowledged, earning a huff from his crush who crossed his arms.

”I’m not. I’m just not interested in joining your….band.”

Before Leo could continue to persuade Adriaen on joining, Raph cuts them off by stepping in between them.

“Albeartoland, prepare to be blown away.”

Donnie ushered everyone into the turtle tank, each turtle taking their respective seats before driving off to Albearto Land. Honestly Adriaen wasn’t even keen on tagging along but he knew that someone had to keep tabs on these boys, so it may as well be him.

The four brothers continued to talk about their gig tonight, much to the boredom of Adriaen, who decided to block them out, putting on headphones and listening to his music, sighing and leaning back into his chair, closing his eyes for a moment of peace.

What Mikey had said to him earlier, somewhat stuck with him. 

Me? Good at singing? Please, the only time I even sung was if I was in the shower.

And of course, Leo adding fuel to the fire, claiming that Adriaen had a case of stage fright, somewhat ticked the latter off. He wasn’t scared. No. At least he didn’t think he was. Truth is, he had no idea. He never performed in anyone, and when given a chance he’d find some excuse to not do it.

Ugh, stop thinking about it. Just a few hours at Albearto Land and I can finally go home, eat some dinner, maybe some late-night training and then sleep.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Leo tapped his shoulder, Adriaen blinking and looking up at him. He hadn’t noticed the turtle tank had stopped moving until this very minute.

He slipped off his headphones, placing them on the dashboard of the turtle tank as Leo gestured to the open door. “We’re here. You coming?” He inquired, his usual smirk gracing his features.

”Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.” 

With that he and Leo leave the turtle tank and made their way to the centre stage that stood on the pier. Managing to avoid citizens who were enjoying their time with loved ones and friends, the turtles, excluding Adriaen of course, were prepping for their concert.

Leo took a sneak peek outside before humming and commenting, a bit anxious. “Okay, look, I’m excited for the gig but this place is crawling with Albeartos.” He worries, but none of the others shared his concerns.

“So?”

“Last time we met one, things didn’t go so well, remember?” Leo recalls, deadpanning at Donatello who shrugs his shoulders.

“I do not.”

Adriaen raised his non-existent brows. He was leaning against a wooden pillar, scrolling through his phone to pass time before he puts his device away and casted a perplexed expression towards the self-proclaimed scientist. “You turned a cuddly animatronic bear into a psychotic robot bent on destroying us.” He reminded, as Leo nods in acknowledgement.

”Got April fired? Mmm? Nothing? Mm?”

Donnie stared at the two, placing a hand under his chin. “That does not sound like me, no.” He fibs, he obviously did remember but just didn’t want to admit his failed attempt at fixing the animatronic.

Adriaen opens his mouth to reply but paused when the fearful screams of people outside caught his attention. “Can you hear that? This crowd is wild for us.” Mikey endorsed on the screams, mistaking it for screams of eagerness and cheer.

“We are so good, we don’t even need to play to make people go crazy, baby.” Raph added, his voice still doing the deep and smooth tone to it. Adriaen made his way over to the curtain, about to peer outside to take a look at what was happening. “Yeah, I don’t think those are screams of joy—“ He starts but was immediately cut off when the curtains automatically opened up.

“Hello Albeartol—“

Raph sees the Albeartos attacking everyone and switches back to his normal voice and yelps in shock. “Ah!” He yelps, the four (not including Mikey who had his backed turned) watch in utter horror, Albeartoland is under attack and there are many small fires everywhere.

“Oop, there it is! Our first blood-curdling shrieks of love!” Mikey squeals, unaware of the situation at hand, Adriaen reached over and turned Mikey around so that he can actually see what was going on.

“Those bots are ruining our gig!” Leo alerted, while Donnie side eyed his brother, pointing out the obviously weakly. “As well as harassing hundreds and hundreds of people.” He muttered, to which Leo scoffed.

“Which is ruining our gig!”

Adriaen felt like sighing in annoyance but refrained from doing so to focus on the task at hand. Upon hearing Raphael instructing everyone to fight, they all jump into action.

Adriaen runs around, taking out his mystic kama’s and throwing them around, slicing at any animatronics coming his way. He caught his kama’s once they returned back to his palms, before he gazed to the side to see a little girl running away to hide behind some barrels in terror after some pretzels like ninja stars were thrown at her.

The girl shakes in terror, before she gasped when the animatronic found her behind the barrels. Adriaen narrowed his eyes and ran over, immediately standing in front of the little girl just in time to deflect the attack from the Albearto animatronic.

”Out of my way!” The bot threatens, pushing down on the kama blades, Adriaen grunts and gazed towards the shocked little girl, “Get out of here!” He orders, which seemed to have snapped the girl out of her dazed state and run off quickly to safety.

“It’s one thing to trap innocent people in a park of doom!” Leo’s voice echoed over, the bot and Adriaen turning their attention to see Leo charging forward and swinging his electric guitar, hitting the bot in the stomach.

“Yah! It’s another to ruin our first gig!”

The robot groans and goes flying, crashing into a hammer game. Leo smirks in pride before offering a hand to Adriaen who had jumped back to dodge the swinging from Leo earlier and collapsed onto his rear end.

”You okay?”

”Yeah, thanks for the save.” 

Adriaen smiled lightly and grabbed Leo’s hand, being pulled up to stand on his own two feet. The two turtles silently stare at the other, Adriaen didn’t know why but the more he stared at the blue masked mutant in front of him the more he could feel the corner of his lip nudging upward.

Leo felt the same. Except he knew what he was feeling the more he longingly gazed at Adriaen.

“Bonjour!”

They both were snapped out of their trance and jumped back in time when Mikey’s kusari-fundō wraps around Albear and yanks him away with a yelp.

“Fling-a-bunga!”

The Albearto bot is thrown into a food stand, collapsing as Leo and Adriaen stare in bewilderment. Mikey joining their side.

Adriaen looks around and finds Donnie and Raph finishing off their battles. On instinct, the turtles meet up in the middle, having defeated their respective Albearto’s.

“Alright! We beat those Beartos!”

“Yes, but we lost our loving fans.” Mikey pouted, pointing at the crowd of terrified humans who flee the pier. “How are they fans if they haven’t even heard you play before?” Adriaen questioned, only for Donnie to narrow his eyes and point over at the control tower.

“Hey. Uh, what’s that vaguely familiar guy doing?”

The boys look to see Albearto, the main animatronic that held a grudge against the turtles, climbing the tower before stopping at the panel.

“You can't stop me from freeing my chums! No one can!”

He thrusts his hand into server panel, “Let’s spice up these meatballs!” He evilly laughs, hijacking the tower’s signal to give consciousness to all the other animatronics at once. 

That can’t be good.

The lit antenna on the hats of each Albearto turns from green to red. The Turtles look around, surrounded by the advancing robots, with anxiousness.

“These animatronics stereotypes are ruining our gig!” Donnie groans, while the laughter of Albearto could be heard from a distance. All the animatronics look down at the turtles and start marching, to which the boys scream and run, climbing on top of a hot dog stand, with Leo whacking the animatronics back with his guitar.

“This gig stinks! Why did we even start a band in the first place?” Mikey huffs out, eyes narrowed. “I asked that, and you guys just said because you were all bored.” Adriaen responded, but Leo waved his finger in denial.

“Uh, no. It was because we wanted to change the world and bring people joy with our eclectic sound.”

Raph hums before grinning at an idea he had. “And is there any reason why that shouldn’t work for animatronic robots?” He asks to which Donnie was the first to speak up.

“No. No, I cannot think of one.”

Oh great.

Adriaen watched as the brothers jump off the hotdog stand and land on the stage. Adriaen decided to stay where he was, using his kama’s to swipe at the animatronics who tried to reach him.

Raph’s deep soulful voice echoed into the microphone as he addresses the Albeartos. “Listen up, y'all. We dedicate this groove to all you beautiful bear-bots out there. Hit it.” He intrusts to Leo who whipped out his guitar and began playing notes. “All right Beartos, time to get your circuits jammed!” Mikey added into the mic, with Donatello adding an electronic beat on his portable keyboard.

Adriaen stared at the group, eyes wide as he listens to the boys.

Wow…they’re so…so…

Leo is slamming his guitar on the stage, Mikey is upside down beat boxing, Raph is completely off key with his voice and Donnie was just slapping his keyboard, playing random notes. They’re making a cacophony. The noise is so terrible that a couple Albeartos’ heads explode.

…bad.

Adriaen once again shuddered at the ear bleeding noise, his head somewhat retracting into his shell. If he was an animatronic there was no doubt his own head would explode.

He could barely even hear what the boys were saying but no doubt they believed that whatever it was they were doing was something amazing and sounded good. Adriaen peeked out from his hide away and saw all of the animatronics weep and shut themselves down by pulling their wires out.

Okay that’s horrific. But understandable. 

He then saw how the main Albearto jumps into a bumper car, placing his hands over his ears. “Oh, It’s so awful! I wanna say something dramatic and villainy, but my little bitty ears can’t take any more of this! You accused turtles have bested—no, worsted me yet again! Agh!” He wailed, screaming before driving away.

After that the boy’s fortunately stopped their nonsense of noises, proud of their accomplishment.

“Guys, we did it.”

“We nailed our first gig.”

“We are the Mad Dogs!”

“Goodnight, Albearto land.”

Adriaen makes his way over, his ears still ringing a bit as he looks at the four with dismay. “Never play another gig again. For my own sanity.” He warns them, watching how they didn’t seem to understand but shrugged it off.

“Hungry?”

“Pizza?”

“Albearto’s?”

“Garantie!”

Adriaen’s eye twitched as he slumps his shoulders and started making his way back to the turtle tank, “I’m going home.” He informs the squad, who quickly chase after him, all whining to him about how they wanted to stay out and get some food.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I APOLOGISE FOR ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES THAT WERE MADE, I TYPE REALLY FAST AND OFTEN DON'T SEE THEM UNTIL I ACTUALLY PUBLISH THE CHAPTER.  

I was going to make Adriaen do a little singing scene, but I was just too tired to try.

First Chapter here

Next Chapter here

[taylorconnect]

The Eras Tour Recap: Stadiums, Attendance and Length

General tags: tstheerastour | erastour setlist | erastour surprise songs | erastour impact | erastour outfits

All dates in the same city are in the same stadium. The number in brackets after the name of the stadium indicates the capacity of one night. She sold out all her dates. [Note for people of the USA: the numbers are written with a dot (.) but you all would use a comma (,): 1.000 = 1,000 (one thousand)].

Glendale: State Farm Stadium (73.000).

Las Vegas: Allegiant Stadium (65.000).

Arlington: AT&T Stadium (70.200).

Tampa: Raymond James Stadium (75.000).

Houston: NRG Stadium (62.690).

Atlanta: Mercedes-Benz Stadium (71.000).

Nashville: Nissan Stadium (71.000).

Philadelphia: Lincoln Financial Field (67.594).

Foxborough: Gillette Stadium (70.000).

East Rutherford: MetLife Stadium (72.802).

Chicago: Soldier Field (63.500).

Detroit: Ford Field (59.392).

Pittsburgh: Acrisure Stadium (73.117).

Minneapolis: U.S. Bank Stadium (73.000).

Cincinnati: Paycor Stadium (65.535).

Kansas City: GEHA Field at Arrowhead Stadium (76.416).

Denver: Empower Field at Mile High (70.000).

Seattle: Lumen Field (72.171).

Santa Clara: Levi's Stadium (68.500).

Los Angles: SoFi Stadium (70.240).

Mexico City: Estadio GNP Seguros (65.000).

Buenos Aires: Estadio Mâs Monumental (70.000).

Rio de Janeiro: Estádio Olímpico Nilton Santos (60.000).

São Paulo: Allianz Parque (55.000).

Tokyo: Tokyo Dome (55.000).

Melbourne: Melbourne Cricket Ground (96.000).

Sydney: Accor Stadium (80.000).

Singapore: Singapore National Stadium (55.000).

Paris: Paris La Défense Arena (45.387).

Stockholm: Friends Arena (65.000).

Lisbon: Estádio do Sport Lisboa e Benfica (64.000).

Madrid: Estadio Santiago Bernabéu (65.000).

Lyon: Groupama Stadium (61.000).

Edinburg: Murrayfield Stadium (73.334).

Liverpool: Anfield (60.000).

Cardiff: Principality Stadium (70.000).

London: Wembley Stadium (92.000).

Dublin: Aviva Stadium (50.000).

Amsterdam: Johan Cruyff Arena (68.000).

Zürich: Letzigrund (50.000).

Milan: San Siro (80.000).

Gelsenkirchen: Veltins-Arena (60.000).

Hamburg: Volksparkstadion (50.000).

Munich: Olympiastadion (74.000).

Warsaw: PGE Narodowy (73.000).

Miami: Hard Rock Stadium (65.000).

New Orleans: Caesars Superdome (65.000).

Indianapolis: Lucas Oil Stadium (69.000).

Toronto: Rogers Centre (49.000).

Vancouver: BC Place (60.000)

The links redirect to the confirmations of capacity. In cases where there was no direct confirmation from the stadium, the maximum concert capacity was taken from the stadium's own website, form a website of a local jurisdiction that mentions capacity or from a reliable article - no fan claims/update accounts.

Attendance USA Leg 2023: 3.685.060

Attendance LATAM Leg 2023: 815.000

Attendance Asia and Australia Leg 2024: 1.158.000

Attendance Europe Leg 2024: 3.223.550

Attendance Noth America Leg 2024: 1.071.000

Total attendance (overall): 9.952.610

Capacity and attendance is approximate, some variations may exist.

Start & end date: March 17, 2023 - December 8, 2024 (632 days, without including the end date).

Amount of shows:

USA Leg 2023: 53

LATAM Leg 2023: 13

Asia & Australia Leg 2024: 17

Europe Leg 2024: 48 (excluding the 3 nights cancelled in Vienna).

North America Leg 2024: 18

Total: 149

Days off between legs (without including the end date):

Between USA 2023 and LATAM 2023: 15 (between Los Angeles and Mexico City) and 74 (between Mexico City and the rest of the LATAM leg).

Between LATAM 2023 and Asia & Australia 2024: 73

Between Asia & Australia 2024 and Europe 2024: 61

Between Europe 2024 and North America 2024: 59

Cancelled Shows: 3 [Vienna N1, N2 & N3 (August 8, 9 & 10) due to a planned terrorist attack].

Rescheduled Shows: 2 [Buenos Aires N2 (originally November 10, but was rescheduled to November 12, becoming Buenos Aires N3, as the original N3 was November 11) due to heavy thunderstorms, and Rio de Janeiro N2 (originally November 18, but was rescheduled to November 20, becoming Rio de Janeiro N3, as the original N3 was November 19) due to extreme heat and the the death of Ana Clara Benevides - may she rest in peace🕊️].

[misterbenzadrine]

How would be actress to Demetri's mom?, my fancast is Courteney Cox🤩

(i made a whole post replying to this and tumblr just didn't save it ????)

this is...an amazing ask actually?? and also an AMAZING fancast that i hadn't considered before, i'm gonna delve more into the implications of courtney being his mom at the end.

BUT FIRST to answer your question: i personally always fancast hilary swank as his mom !! specifically hilary playing julie pierce in the next karate kid :3

it's also really ironic that you ask this a couple weeks before i'm set to post an edit literally coming out as a julie pierce-alexopoulos truther, insanity

god dem wishes he could serve as much cunt as julie, they're both so cutie

so my justification for this is for multiple reasons.

one, julie and dem have so many similarities; personality-wise, clothing, plot-line, aesthetically, etc. which many other people have covered so i won't get too much into it but defo check those out !!

two, the boston connection. this is admitedly a really lazy reason but i think it's really cute if dem's obsession with mit/boston wasn't just to be annoying or whatever but also bc the school had significance for him. i'm thinking either his dad went there and left/died so he felt like he needed to go to be closer to him spiritually or just it being a "smart college" in boston, his mom's city, would be enough to make it have emotional significance. OR dem's dad went to mit and boston is where he and julie met each other so dem wants to be closer to a place where they were young and happy together.

three, i really wanted julie to have some tie to the current canon of tkk and, with all their similarities and references, dem is the easiest dot to connect her in (although she'd probs make more sense as an aunt or something)

so really i put them together because i'm not creative and i wanted julie to be in the main canon somehow

however comma, this is NOTHING compared to this fancast, this is insane casting, you're amazing, thank you

specifically courtney in friends is crazy casting bc monica geller (her character) is a lot like dem.

both were bullied as children and it manifested in a lot of deep-rooted anxiety and insecurity about how they rank in other people's lives. while demetri canonically doesn't care about what other people think (at least not in the sense of peer pressure to fit in) but he does care a lot about his place in the world and his friends' worlds. he resolves to accept his place as a loser but also has some abandonment issues and wants to be accepted by hawk/miguel/robby/sam. (mainly hawk but i digress) and ofc monica cares a lot about how she's perceived physically and socially

then not to mention they're both "control freaks". monica's friends mock her for obsessing over cleanliness but they don't realize it's a manifestation of all the bullying she got from her family, friends, and people she liked romantically over her weight. so she copes with the anxiety by trying to control how people will judge her based on her area. same with dem. he's really worried about being alone and when hawk starts pulling away, he freaks out and starts acting aggressively toward cobra kai, which pisses off hawk more and drives him further away. he tries to rejoin ck a couple times but he really can't get it so hawk mocks him for being weak and a loser. dem keeps trying to get hawk in miyagi do and hawk sees it as a sign of weakness or dem trying to tell him what to do but it's his way of trying to handle the situation to manage his anxiety. same with the mit fight. he wasn't forcing hawk to go to mit bc he's being controlling. mit was just the dream for so long that it's become synonymous with their friendship in dem's head. so when hawk says he's not applying, dem sees it as a sign that he's leaving him again. so their "control issues" have more to do with their anxiety and fears rather than their need to control things.

then they were both heavily disrespected by the one person they love and trust more than anyone else (chandler and hawk). i'll try not to rant but the way chandler treated/talked about monica should've banned him from ever speaking a word to her again. and we all know i can absolutely say the same about hawk with demetri.

there's so much more i can say but tldr; i personally always think of julie pierce BUT courtney cox is an amazing fancast that i may or may not steal <3

[aphfanficwriters]

Every month we will pose a question and collate responses as a fun and informal little exercise in getting to know each other and spark discussion. This month's question is:

“Which writing rule do you most enjoy breaking?”

relmu / @iamnompuehuenu: this is my personal preference, but i absolutely adore flowery writing that borders on purple prose. maybe it's because the literature i grew up with is filled with metaphors and decorations and that rubbed off on me, but i just find it extremely beautiful and dramatic… I've come to learn that English-speaking writers are more direct and that purple prose is not seen with good eyes, but i like it so much i have to remind myself to not put too much emphasis on descriptions and metaphors when writing lol. it sometimes becomes heavy to read but for me it's a joy, though i understand it's not for everyone 🙏

prush / @proosh: you can take run-on sentences from my cold dead hands

Wasps / @petiolata: "Avoid epithets" is the one I enjoy breaking the most. To me, it's very similar to "show, don't tell". Like every writing practice that people get told "don't do that!" about, they have their time and place. Both telling and epithets can create distance, or emphasize certain qualities about the character. They can also convey information faster. I think a lot of the criticism of them comes from a lack of understanding that people read fics for different purposes and so writers will write with different effects in mind. If a fic is meant to be an extremely fast-paced suspenseful ride—and that's more important to the writer or audience than elegance of writing or creating deep POV closeness—and an epithet best serves that, then isn't it the best choice to use the epithet? What makes good writing is widely debated, but what makes a good writer in my opinion is intentionality. The ability, skills, knowledge, to accomplish exactly what effects you're going for. And sometimes that means making choices that serve pacing or kink appeal over elegance or POV depth. I probably don't use many epithets in my fics, but knowing how much unfair flack they get makes me celebrate every single one.

Tama / @delgumofics: I generally try to follow the rules since I'm always trying to grow as a writer. I think mine is run-on sentences though. If I'm writing a scene where a characters understanding of the world is supposed to be different in some way, like they're really high, or they're very emotionally charged, I use a lot of run-ons to express that. I try to put myself in their heads pace and think how they'd think, and when someone is fucked up or really emotionally charged, grammar and pacing kind of go out the window. Thought becomes one long stream of ideas and feelings so I try to express that sensation with words. That usually results in run-ons dotted with short snappy single or two word sentences mixed into the paragraph.

WhiteWings / @smuttyandabsurd: "Write what you know" seems to be taken as "write only what you know" which is a terrible rule. Write what you don't know. Push the limits of your knowledge. Deep dive into research and learn things you didn't know so you can write about it… Or don't! Revel in making it up and writing with terrible inaccuracy, it's called artistic license babes. It won't appeal to everyone, of course, and you may very well annoy a bunch of people, but you can't please everyone and you shouldn't try to.

Didi / @teaedon: first draft is the final version, and i don't cut anything out (well, rarely).

Yukihitomi / @arthurhonda: Writing rules? Don’t know em. Too busy destroying the English grammar. Punctuation besides commas, periods, exclamation points, and question marks don’t exist.

And there were those who didn't understand the assignment... 😅

Eru / @eruverse: Wasn’t aware there were rules, I do what I want and what fits best

@folightening: I'm not even aware what the rules are so I've no idea. I just write how I want.

Beetroot / @council-of-beetroot: Does anyone have a list of writing rules to reference?

Mossman / @one-more-mossman: I don't even know what rules the writing has [...] Uneducated swine I am

[duke-of-hellsite]

While I was absent from this precious website, I've been working on one lil thing, essentially a transcript of a small document from the court of Frederick II (December 1222) Long story short: I saw a photo of it on Wikimedia with no transcript of the Latin text (they sometimes include transcripts but not in this case), decided I was curious what's the doc about, and started working on the transcript I've finished the beta version of the transcript, but before I upload it to Wikimedia I wanted to ask y'all here to look it through. I don't know Latin (sad, I know), so there can be stupid mistakes with verbs' conjugations 'n' stuff like that. I would really appreciate any help here Guide: Round brackets (in bold) are for my comments and where commas could be placed. Square brackets are for dots in the original document (I have no idea what they mean: truncation, full stop, or smth else) and incomprehensible words (at least I didn't get 'em) By the way many thanks to Arizona Tea (kept my sanity) and @mformarsala (helped a lot). Love you both

(Source of the photo: Sailko, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

(Source of the transcript: Me, Myself, and I, id est duke-of-hellsite)

(if you need a text file vers of the transcript - dm me)