#Buy Dissertation Help

[bmebookmyessay]

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[dartalias]

Hey so randon question

Why do y'all think Yun didnt kissed Kyoshi in the fire Lilies scene?? Or make any real move about his crush on her?

Because in Kyoshi pov she say that both had their dutys and she as a maid and the he as the avatar it wouldn't end well to nether of them and bla bla bla

But i dont buy that this is Yun's reason why

Like this dude make a way for her to go to the south pole, in a conference with a bunch of pirates just because he wanted her there

I dont think its necessarily a big secret thing, but its so strange to his character and im just curious

(Not a ship post btw im just wondering)

[henry239]

https://www.theassignmenthelpline.com/ca.html

[mariasont]

hiii, more bimbo!assistant!reader calling hotch, daddy, pleaseeeee😁🫶🏻💖😇

ilyyy!! <3

Bought & Paid For - A.H

summary: you push hotch's buttons just to see how far you can take it, and today, you finally find out pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: suggestive content, reader calling hotch daddy, hotch blatantly staring at r's ass, established relationship, slight brat taming undertones perhaps? wc: 0.6k

You’re talking about almond milk.

Or, at least, you were talking about almond milk — now you’re on some tangent about how store-brand oat milk is never as creamy as the one from that overpriced cafe near your apartment. He has no idea how you got here. He’s not even sure you know.

Your face is full of conviction — deeply invested in a topic that no rational person should have these many feelings about. It’s… impressive. Baffling, but impressive.

Hotch should be paying better attention, filing this long-winded dairy dissertation for the next time you inevitably guilt him into fetching your morning sugar bomb like some kind of begrudging personal assistant.

He’s not oblivious to the irony.

Instead, he’s watching you slide into the passenger seat, and instead, he’s having a private moment of reflection about how you absolutely cannot wear those jeans in public. 

Because they were almost pornographic.

Because they make it very, very clear what’s beneath them which makes it very impossible to think about anything else.

Because they make him look stupid.

He had told you. Repeatedly. Jeans should not cost that much. They were jeans — denim, mass-produced, entirely unnecessary at that price point. You could buy three pairs for half the cost, and no one would know the difference. 

He looked you in the eye and declared, with absolute authority, that he would not enable this behavior.

And then you pouted. And he pulled out his wallet like an absolute disgrace to his own principles.

He was actively experiencing the consequences of his own actions in real time.

Because you’re wearing them to go grocery shopping now and he’s going to spend the next hour fighting the very real, very primal urge to knock out every man who so much as glances at what he paid for.

He hands you your purse once you’re settled, barely paying attention, already running through the mental checklist of things that need to be done before he can call this errand over.

And then you flash him a quick, unassuming smile. “Thanks, daddy.”

His fingers still on the door handle, entire body seizing, breath catching mid-inhale as his brain tries — and fails — to process whether he actually heard you correctly.

His pulse goes from stable to needing immediate medical attention in a matter of seconds.

He straightens like someone just pulled a gun on him, adjusting his watch even though it does not need adjusting. Forces himself to level you with the most unaffected look he can manage. 

“Sweetheart, that’s not appropriate.”

You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence that he knows is fake. “Why?”

His fingers drum once against the car before curling into metal, grip bordering on savage, white-knuckled tension bleeding into every line of his body, the only outlet for something too risky to be voiced.

It doesn’t help that you look exceedingly gorgeous in daylight. That the sun — a merciless accomplice in your destruction of him — has taken it upon itself to illuminate every detail.

That you decided today was the day to try a new blush. That you had stood in front of him this morning, asking if it made you look pretty like you didn’t already know how impassioned he felt about that answer.

Like you weren’t a loaded weapon wrapped in silk and perfume, soft where you should be sharp, lethal in ways that have nothing to do with intent.

And now, here you are, stacking problems on top of problems, and he has to somehow be the one to keep himself in check.

He exhales sharply, glancing away for a second — a brief, necessary reprieve — before settling his gaze back on you. “Because you know exactly what you’re doing, and I strongly suggest you stop.”

You bat your lashes. “I really don’t know what you mean, daddy.”

He doesn’t think — there’s no room for thought, no time between your words and his reaction. One second, you’re in the passenger seat, smirking, and the next, you’re hauled up and over his shoulder, one arm locked around your waist, and the other gripping your ass, fingers digging into the denim that started this whole damn mess.

You squirm, thrashing in the most unconvincing, unserious way imaginable, laughter spilling from your lips in delighted, unrepentant little bursts, and he knows it down to his very core that you are enjoying this far more than you should. 

And despite his better judgment, so is he.

“Hey! The groceries —,”

“Groceries can wait.”

Hotch doesn’t even pretend this trip is still happening. The moment the words left your mouth, the destination changed, the entire purpose of this errand replaced by something far more immediate and deserved.

So he spins on his heel and carries you straight back to the house with the ease of a man handling something he fully intends to deal with. 

Because this is about balance, about the fundamental laws of action and reaction, about the way you tip the scales just to see what it takes to tip them back. 

And because, if nothing else, you’ll think twice before calling him that again.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[fairyhaos]

ও wen junhui as your college boyfriend

gn!reader, wc ~500 tags: requested by anon, college au, fluff, crack, est. rs., this is so cute omg i want a college bf!junhui now

he's honestly so adorable no matter what

so u can bet he's the cutest college bf ever too!!

memorised ur wholeee schedule on day one and sends YOU reminders about ur own classes every day

makes a point to eat lunch with u whenever possible

also whenever Not possible too

like he'll come SPRINTING across campus after his class just to have lunch with u if that's what it takes

sue him, he likes spending time with u :(((

he's also thee best comforter during exam season omg!!!

more than willing to stay up all night studying with you if it makes you feel better

he knows how u spiral into panic if you're left on ur own, so the closer it gets to exams, he starts showering u with even MOREE affection than before

and you know he'll be showering u with kisses once exams r FINALLY out of the way as a congratulations 😙

always leaves snacks in your bag and little post-its with cat faces drawn on them to reminder you to drink water bc he KNOWS that you're so bad at taking care of urself when you're fully locked in

"hey junnie, you know you can just text me, right?" / "are you saying you don't like my cat drawings :((" / "whAT NO I WOULD NEVER—"

also just bc he's a broke college student does nawwt mean you'll ever catch him slacking as ur bf !!

gives you little gifts whenever possible, is always showing up at ur dorm with flowers, buys you books + clothes + stationary + groceries + whatever he can to show he cares

one thing he won't do, though, is catch bugs for you.

nuh uh. that is a no-go.

who cares that he's literally 600000x bigger than the spider? the spider is still WAYY scarier than he'll EVER be so he is NOT touching that no thank you.

the two of you stay glued to one corner of the library till ur friend arrives and scares the spider off

but junhui makes up for his bug-related uselessness by being useful in literally every other area of ur life

hungry? he'll cook for you. sick? he'll take care of you. stuck on an essay? he'll help you, even if he's not studying anything remotely related to ur major

he could be in the throes of finishing his dissertation, bags under his eyes and the world on his shoulders but he'll still drop everything to help you

what can he say? he's in love with u.

and what makes it even better is he knows, he knows that you'd do the exact same thing for him too

you're so full of love, so kind and wonderful that he can't help but do all of this in return, just to try and give an ounce of that same love back

it's the least you deserve, he thinks.

(and don't tell anyone, but right after graduation, he's thinking of getting you a promise ring and taking u to visit china with him b4 u go to ur respective internships.)

(and then, further down the line... he's really hoping to marry you one day. you know. because he really does love you a lot. hopefully you love him just as much too.)

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery @aaa-sia

[slut4thebroken]

Idol

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x reader

Summary | Request: “Milking fic with Crane on his hands and knees gasping and whining as his semen is harvested by an obsessed grad student who idolizes his work and wants his kid”

Warnings | Smut, non con, sedation, prostate massage, milking machine, semen collection, light bondage, noncon drugging, forced breeding??, anal fingering, forced orgasm.

Words | 1.6 k

Notes | yeah.

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 30: can you guys help me figure out what I should use pretty please💀

Dr. Crane was by far your favorite professor at Gotham University. He was intriguing and alluring, but also really fucking hot. For a while, he worked at GU and Arkham Asylum, but right before you got your bachelors, he quit his teaching job to take over as the head psychiatrist at Arkham, much to your disappointment. 

You tried to get an internship at Arkham, but you were rejected. It was hard to contain your anger, but you just focused on the endgame, rather than this temporary setback. 

Once Dr. Crane was outed as being the Scarecrow and thrown into the very institution he used to run, things made a lot more sense— like his fascination with fear, the students that would sometimes go missing or randomly drop out with no explanation… The new discovery of his alter ego only deepened your obsession. 

After someone replaced him, you applied for the internship again, but you were accepted this time because, along with Jonathan, a lot of other staff had been arrested for being involved, so they needed the help. 

Then you bided your time. You weren’t actually allowed to see any patients alone as an intern, so you had to work around that…

After hatching a plan, you spent the next few weeks gaining the trust of your superiors and saving up money to buy the right “equipment.” Since this was Arkham, everyone was already far too lax about the rules… So it was no surprise when your plan progressed smoothly. 

“Doctor, I was wondering if I might be able to see Jonathan Crane? I’m writing my dissertation on ethical violations in psychiatric treatment— An interview with him would be invaluable to my research.” She still looked unsure, so you added, “I know it’s unorthodox… Maybe you would feel more comfortable with the idea if you accompanied me?”

“No, I don’t have time for that. Just…” she let out a quiet breath, seemingly coming to a decision, “I’ll set up a private interview for you, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk.”

You weren’t completely lying— an interview with him would be invaluable to your dissertation… just not about that specific topic… Honestly, you didn’t even really need to interview him for your real topic, this was just the cover story you used to get alone time with him. 

Two weeks later, you were walking to the private room to meet with him. 

“Professor.” You smiled, sitting down across from him, setting your bag on the floor and the disposable coffee cup on the table. 

“I’m not a professor.” He said coldly, but you weren’t deterred. 

“Sorry… Old habits die hard.” Your smile turned sheepish and you couldn’t help but blush under his intense gaze. “I can’t believe I’m finally here right now.”

“Are you here to interview me or swoon like a teenage girl?” He asked rhetorically. Instead of frowning, his quip actually made your smile widen. 

“I wish I could’ve worked under you. That was my real dream.” You confessed, getting a little lost in thought before snapping out of it. “Oh! I brought you some coffee. Black— I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I figured that was a safe guess.” You smiled, sliding the cup over to him. “As a thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s not like I really had a choice.” He muttered, grabbing the cup and taking a tentative sip, making you practically grin— Your plan was going perfectly.  

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time— Though I can’t imagine you really have a lot going on lately...”

“Perceptive.” He said dryly, focusing on the coffee that he probably hasn’t been able to drink since before he was admitted. 

Soon enough, his movements grew sluggish, his eyes struggling to stay open as he fought the sedative. Once he was pliant enough, you got up and lifted him to his feet with some difficulty, then laid him down on his stomach on the table with his feet still touching the floor. You grabbed the restraints from your bag and extended his arms forward, attaching his wrists to two legs of the table just in case, before doing the same with his ankles. He was grumbling something, but it was mostly unintelligible, so you ignored it.  

When you pulled his pants down to his ankles, he barely reacted and you moaned quietly at the sight of him. His cock was soft, but it was still just so pretty… You ached to taste it, touch it, feel it— but you knew you couldn’t this time.

Because of money and what you’d be able to sneak in here, you were only able to get the milking machine for his cock. So you attached that and made sure the tube and collection jar were secured to it, then grabbed some lube and put it on your fingers. He was already whimpering at the feeling of the automatic pump stroking his cock, but he let out a choked sound when you pushed a finger in his asshole, immediately searching for his prostate. As soon as you found it, you started applying steady pressure in small, circular movements. 

Honestly, you thought it would take a lot longer, but after a few minutes— probably because he’s been stuck in an asylum for months— come was already starting to dribble out of his cock, landing in the pump and trailing down to the collection jar. 

His sounds were making your clit throb, but you ignored it, knowing you had to focus on extracting his seed. Once you managed to knock yourself up with his kid, then you could have some fun with him. 

He was gasping and whining, his hips squirming as the pump relentlessly milked his poor cock while you massaged his prostate. He let out a guttural moan when you pushed a second finger inside, scissoring them a little bit, but mostly focusing on rubbing his prostate to get him to release more come. 

You almost couldn’t believe how easy this was. However, you kept looking over your shoulder at the door just in case, feeling like you should’ve been caught by now or something. But no one came in. You were left completely alone with your favorite professor and future baby daddy. 

The jar was filling up with his seed quickly, but you didn’t stop— how could you when he sounded so hot all drugged out like this, moaning wantonly while you collected his sperm? 

Unable to resist the temptation to taste any part of him, you angled your arm up to give yourself more room, then leaned forward to start lapping at his balls, sucking them into your mouth. They were pulsing with each stream of come that gushed out of his cock, being drained properly and fully. You moaned around him, laving at his balls like they were your favorite dessert, making his cock leak even more.  

A sudden knock on the door made you pull back and freeze, your blood running cold. “Five minutes.” Someone said from the other side of the metal, making you relax slightly. 

“O-Okay.” You replied, then breathed a silent sigh of relief before getting back to business. 

You intensified your efforts, zeroing in on his prostate with your fingers while you sucked and licked at his balls greedily. The pump was still stroking his cock and Jonathan was all but trembling as he laid on the table, spread out for you. His sounds were almost pained, but you knew he was feeling incredible— he wouldn’t be coming so much if he weren’t. 

You couldn’t help it when you slipped a hand between your legs, but you could barely even focus on rubbing your clit so you resorted to humping your fingers. You knew you wouldn’t have enough time to come today, but you could come as much as you wanted while you inseminated yourself at home. 

He was whining even louder and started squirming a little more, so you reluctantly pulled back, now able to see that the trickle of come from his cock had slowed down significantly. So you carefully pulled your fingers out of his ass, forcing a choked sound out of him, then you reluctantly turned off the pump, making him sag onto the table in a limp heap. His cock was still dripping a little, so you leaned forward before you could stop yourself and suckled on the red, swollen tip, moaning at the taste. It was hard to make yourself pull back, already so addicted to his come.

After putting the lid on the collection jar and putting the milking machine back in your bag, you pulled his pants up and removed the restraints, then struggled to get him back in his chair. 

Knowing you didn’t have a lot of time, you quickly grabbed the syringe from your bag— a counteragent for the sedative that was in the coffee— and injected it into his arm, then stood up on shaky legs just as the warden knocked again. Jonathan’s eyes were slowly blinking open, struggling to regain focus. You made sure nothing was out of place, then grabbed the half empty coffee cup and walked over to the door. 

“I’m all done.” You called out, prompting the warden to open the door. You walked through the threshold and he looked you up and down, searching for anything wrong. 

“He give you any trouble?” He asked gruffly, making you smile. 

“He was a little reluctant to talk at first, but he gave me so much to work with eventually.” You said with a knowing smile, your eyes glinting. 

[llyfrenfys]

You never think it's going to happen to you until it does.

Hi, my name is Luke and I'm 24. As of two days ago, I spent the last of my money on rent and I have precisely £27 to my name. I can't afford food at all any more - let alone rent and bills.

I know the world is so full of despair atm. Especially with what's going in in America. But I beg you to give me a chance, midst it all.

Depressingly, I only ever seem to make sales when I'm in a dire situation. Ideally, I need to make sales before then so I don't end up in the dire situation in the first place, but alas. I'm poor and hungry and can't heat my home. I'm wracked with guilt every time I fail to make progress on the project because I'm so damn focused on survival I have little time for what brings me joy in this world. And that's depressing!

I dislike having to make posts like this - but as I said at the start of this post - no-one ever thinks it's going to happen to them. If you can spare some cash, please consider buying a print or my dissertation to help me buy food (see here for my prints and diss). I have plans to introduce badges to my site as well - but sadly due to new postage laws they'll be UK only. However. I can ship prints to Canada, the US, UK and EU (with a view to shipping to Aus and NZ soon, amongst other places, if Royal Mail'll let me).

I hope one day to be able to make a post saying that I got out of poverty and am no longer surviving but thriving. Until then, your support is quite literally putting bread on the table. I want more than anything right now to be able to get back to doing what I love. But I cannot do so presently.

If you're about in Swansea on the 7th of February at 7pm, please consider coming to Elysium Gallery for the opening of Queer Land, an exhibition which my art is in! In spite of these circumstances I find myself in - I refuse to stop creating. Down, yes - but not out.

So please, please if you can, please reblog and purchase a print if you are able. It will help me wo much and I'm infinitely grateful to those who do.

Diolch

[theeartuaist]

Sometimes, I don't know what is worse, a yandere who's so delusional or a yandere who's so self-aware yet engages in obsessive and possessive behaviour nonetheless. Walk with me.

Like the delusional ones are terrifying because they genuinely believe they're doing the right thing. They'll lock you in a room and be like "this is for your own good my love" while you're screaming and they're serving you breakfast in bed with a smile.

They are so deep into the rabbit hole they've convinced themselves the hole doesn't exist. They're the ones who'll leave seventeen voicemails saying "I just want to make sure you're okay" while standing outside your window with a crowbar. They've rewritten reality in their minds like a twisted Choose Your Own Adventure book where every path leads to "happily ever after... or else."

BUT THE SELF-AWARE ONES

They'll deadass be like "I understand that my behavior is possessive, controlling, and violates multiple boundaries" then proceed to install 23 tracking apps on your phone. They know it's wrong. They can recite chapter and verse why their behavior would earn them a restraining order in any sane jurisdiction. But that knowledge doesn't stop them—it amplifies them.

They're out here doing full psychological analysis of their own behavior pattern while simultaneously deepening the pattern. They'll be in therapy describing their yandere tendencies in clinical detail to their therapist, nodding along to the coping mechanisms, and then walking straight out and buying 15 more security cameras for your house.

The delusional yandere is playing checkers while

The self-aware yandere is playing 4D chess while also being the chess pieces, the board, AND the opponent.

They're literally like "I know I'm toxic and you deserve better... anyway here's the 200-page dissertation I wrote about why we're soulmates based on the fact that we both like the same flavor of ice cream"

They can ratio you in an argument so hard because they'll use actual psychology textbooks to explain why their obsessive behavior is actually a totally rational response to their deep-seated attachment issues.

Like bro you can cite Jung and Freud all you want but you're still wearing my hoodie that you stole 3 months ago and sniffing it while updating your spreadsheet of my daily routines

The delusional yandere is in a horror movie. The self-aware yandere is in a psychological thriller where THEY'RE the unreliable narrator, the author, AND the reader all at once.

God help you if you try to ghost these bastards. The delusional one will keep calling until the phone lines fray from overuse. The self-aware one? They'll explain, in terms so clinical they could be published in the New England Journal of Stalking, exactly why your attempt to establish boundaries is actually detrimental to what they've determined is your "necessary codependency dynamic."

They're out here weaponizing therapy speak:

• "I need to process my abandonment trauma through this tracking device"

• "My love language is gift giving" buys your entire apartment complex

• "I'm just looking out for your mental health" hacks your DMs to delete messages from potential romantic interests

The self-aware yandere invented gaslighting yourself because they'll literally be like "I am fully cognizant of the fact that I'm gaslighting you right now", even providing footnotes explaining the exact gaslighting techniques they're employing while you be standing there like 🧍‍♀️ what do I even do with this information.

I think what fascinates me the most about self-aware type of yandere is that they exists in a state of perpetual dramatic irony. It's like they are trapped in a play where the audience (themselves) knows exactly what the character (also themselves) is doing, yet the show must go on! Scene by recursive scene.

TL;DR: Delusional yanderes are playing a game where they don't know the rules. Self-aware yanderes are speedrunning social relationships while reading the instruction manual and deliberately ignoring it.

Pick your poison I guess?

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (7/?)

12.2k: Angst, Worry, BeanSprout, Dr.Ezra.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader Summary: The body always tells the truth—even when you don't want to hear it. You thought you could push through. One more lecture. One more unread message. But that's not how it works.

When the Body Speaks: (Part 1)

The week before Thanksgiving blurred like ink dropped in water—familiar outlines dissolving into chaos. Your fingers were stained black from grading, the skin beneath your nails raw from pencil marks and too much time tapping at worn keys. Students moved through your office like anxious spirits, pacing and pleading, their faces pinched with panic, the scent of too much coffee clinging to their clothes. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds. The towers of final papers on your desk grew taller by the hour, precarious and accusing, each one a whispered reminder that you were behind. Again.

Your inbox throbbed with urgency—subject lines shouting: "Final extension?" "Emergency meeting?" "Please help."

At home, every surface at home had become a battlefield—half-graded finals spilled across the dining table, your dissertation annotated into exhaustion, and the desk in the corner groaned under the weight of neglected readings and unopened emails.

You hadn’t meant to skip meals. Time had stopped making sense. You’d begin grading with the late morning sun washing through the windows and look up hours later to find dusk creeping in, your limbs stiff, mouth dry, stomach growling with forgotten hunger. Water bottles sat unopened beside your desk, their presence more symbolic than useful. Even thirst had begun to feel like an inconvenience. The nausea didn’t crash in. It crept—like a fog, a soft ache curling behind your ribs. At first, it was something you could ignore. A tickle. An emptiness. But then it twisted, hot and sudden and sharp.

You sank back in your chair, spine arching off the cushion. The room tilted slightly, your vision blurring at the edges like smeared ink. You blinked. Once. Twice. Your hands trembled. And before you could call for her, Rio was already there.

She moved like gravity had shifted—like something in her chest had pulled her toward you. Her shadow swept into the room before her voice, and when she appeared in the doorway, she didn’t speak right away. She just looked. One heartbeat. Two. Then she crossed the distance in quick steps, sat on the edge of your desk, and wrapped her warm hands around your cold ones.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice soft and grounding, the kind of tone that rooted you right back into your body. “You okay?”

You nodded on instinct, because saying no felt like surrender. But your body betrayed you. Your breath hitched. Your eyes burned. She wasn’t buying it. Rio’s brows knit together as she studied your face—your bitten lip, the pale strain around your eyes. Her thumbs rubbed slow, deliberate circles into the backs of your knees.

“I remember this stage,” she said, her voice a familiar ache, dipped in memory and love. “Right before you defend. The chaos. The pressure. The complete loss of time. You forget to sleep. To eat. To breathe.” You opened your mouth to protest, but she turned, eyes gentle and serious.

She reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch, like you were something fragile and sacred.

“And I know you,” she whispered. “You’ll push until you collapse. You think it makes you strong. But you can’t forget to eat and drink. Not just for your academics. For baby Bean too.”

You slumped back against the chair, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to skip lunch. Or breakfast.” Her hand drifted to your belly, resting there with quiet reverence.

“You can’t grade papers if you’re exhausted or hungry.” Her eyes held yours, firm now, unwavering. “And I know you are.”

That did it. Your throat tightened, shame and gratitude tangling together. Her words landed like soft thunder—startling, true, impossible to ignore. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek, grounding you with the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her breath through your face. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask for a breakdown. She just stayed. Then, finally, she pulled back slightly and gave you a smile that could melt stone.

Rio stepped in close, placing her hands on either side of your face. “What sounds good? Anything. Say the word.”

Your stomach twisted with want. “An Oreo milkshake,” you murmured.

She grinned, already peeling off her hoodie. “Okay,” she said. “But only after something real. I’m making stir-fry. Then I’ll go out and get your shake.”

You frowned at the window, at the frost beginning to gather along the corners. “It’s freezing out.”

Rio shrugged, tossing her hoodie on the couch. “Worth it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was full of warmth again—the sharp scent of garlic, the crackle of vegetables hitting oil, the hiss and steam of something being made with love. You sat wrapped in a blanket on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, nursing the stir-fry Rio slid into your lap. Steam kissed your cheeks, and with every bite, you felt steadier. Less ghost. More you.

True to her word, Rio threw on three layers and braved the cold. You watched her from the window, her breath fogging in the air, her hands jammed into her pockets like she could stuff the chill away. She vanished down the block, and the quiet settled around you like a sigh.

When the door opened again twenty minutes later, she came in glowing from the wind, cheeks flushed, lashes wet with snowmelt. “Mission complete,” she said proudly, holding a cardboard drink carrier like a prize. “One Oreo for Mama, one strawberry for Mamì, and—” she lifted the last like it was contraband—“the nastiest flavor on Earth: Cherry Garcia for your Mommy”

Agatha perked up from the reading nook, stretching like a cat. “Watch your mouth,” she said. “That’s a sacred offering.”

You were halfway through your Oreo milkshake when you felt it. A flutter. Familiar now, not surprising. Just beneath your ribs—like the soft knock of a question. You smiled faintly, pressing a palm to the spot.

They always stirred when you ate. Like they were waking up for dessert.

Rio noticed your hand. “Bean saying hello?”

You nodded, but before you could answer, Rio’s eyes lit up with something brighter than mischief—something soft and glowing. She set down her milkshake, leaned close, and grinned at your belly.

Rio’s eyes lit up—like lightning had kissed the corners of her grin, sparking behind the awe still settling in her expression. “Oh, I’ve got an idea,” she said, her voice curling with mischief, the kind that always pulled you in before you even realized you were already smiling.

You had been feeling the flutters for the last few minutes—gentle, tentative kicks, like bubbles rising just beneath your skin. They had grown more familiar over the last week, like a private language between you and BeanSprout. But now, the moment Rio spoke—really spoke—those tiny movements stilled.

You froze, hand hovering protectively over your belly, lips parted. You didn’t say anything at first, just felt it.

As if your child—your brilliant, listening child—was pausing, waiting, like they were hearing the rules of a game they were now fully in on.

You blinked at Rio, caught between laughter and wonder. “Rio…”

She raised both hands, innocent. “No, listen! Let’s see which flavor Beansprout likes the most.”

The absurdity hit you a moment later, and your laughter bubbled up, warm and loud, breaking open the quiet of the room like sunlight spilling through a window. “Are you serious?”

Her eyes were already drifting down to your bump, where her fingers gently traced the curve of your belly through your shirt. She leaned in, close enough for her breath to ghost over your skin, and dropped her voice like she was sharing a secret with the life growing inside you.

“Okay, buddy. You’ve got three options. And let’s be honest—only one of them is right.”

Agatha looked up from her spot curled on the couch, already smirking, her curls haloed by the glow of a nearby lamp. “That’s baby Bean cheating!” she called, crossing one long leg over the other.

“It’s not cheating,” you said with mock dignity, “if Mamì wins.”

You tapped your belly lightly, feeling the way the fabric of your shirt stretched gently beneath your hand, a quiet rhythm of presence beneath your palm. “Alright, Sprout. You have before you the delicate bouquet of Strawberry, the nostalgic perfection of Oreo, and the nastiest choice on Earth—Cherry Garcia.”

Agatha gasped, genuinely scandalized. “That’s cheating! It’s delicious. Don’t believe such foolishness, little one. Mommy has refined taste buds. Your Mama and Mamì, on the other hand, are children.”

“Hey!” you and Rio chorused at once.

“I didn’t even start this,” you added, grinning. “Rio didn’t ask if I wanted to play. She went straight to the bump with the idea. I am no more than—”

“—a temporary vessel for this sacred tasting event,” Agatha interjected, her voice smooth with theatrical gravity, lips twitching with delight.

Rio didn’t miss a beat. She kept her focus on your stomach, ignoring the peanut gallery entirely. “This is a blind taste test,” she said solemnly, as if addressing a sommelier.

Agatha snorted. “No shit. Beansprout can’t see us.”

You tried not to choke on a mouthful of milkshake, shoulders shaking with stifled laughter.

Rio pressed a soft kiss to the side of your belly and continued. “Okay, Sprout. Here’s how it works. If you like the flavor, give us a kick. If you’re unsure, you can wait. But if you’re really into it?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Go wild. Mama will let Mamì and Mommy know what’s happening from this side of the bump.”

And so it began.

Round one: Strawberry.

Rio handed you her shake, her fingers brushing yours with a spark that lingered. You took a careful sip—sweet, airy, like sugared cream laced with summer. The fruit bloomed on your tongue, lush and floral, the coldness blooming along your gums and the back of your throat.

You closed your eyes, waiting. A beat. Two. Nothing.

You opened your eyes and shrugged. “No flutter.”

Rio clutched her chest in mock agony. “Harsh critic.”

You grinned and passed the shake back.

Round two: Oreo.

Your shake. The one you’d craved. You dipped your spoon in, choosing a bite with plenty of cookie crumble and soft, creamy ice cream. The texture was velvety and cool, the taste familiar—like nostalgia dressed in vanilla.

Still, no movement. BeanSprout was quiet, contemplative.

You tilted your head. “Still nothing.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “Tough crowd tonight.”

Agatha stretched, then sat forward, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “My turn!” she said, delight twinkling in her voice like starlight.

You gave her a long look, your expression dry. “I hope you know I’m only eating this because of this one’s little game,” you muttered, jerking a thumb toward Rio, who merely beamed.

Agatha knelt in front of you, the spoon already loaded. “I know, my love,” she said, voice lower now, almost reverent. “Here. Open up.”

You did, hesitantly, prepared for the worst.

But what landed on your tongue wasn’t the bitter cherry cough syrup you remembered. It was something else entirely—richer, deeper. The cherry was bold, sure, but ripe, like sun-warmed fruit bursting at its peak. It folded into the dark chocolate in a way that was indulgent, decadent. Cold hit the roof of your mouth, tingling against your teeth, but it didn’t stop the flavor from unfurling like a blooming flower.

You blinked, stunned. A slow flush crept up your neck. “Oh,” you whispered.

Agatha’s brows pulled together in concern. “Do you need to spit it out?”

You shook your head slowly, as if waking from a trance. “No…”

A flutter. Not hesitant this time. Not a question. This was a declaration. A firm, joyful kick against your skin, like a stamp of approval.

You gasped. “Welp,” you breathed, eyes wide. “We have a winner.”

“What?!” Rio clapped her hands in mock outrage.

“YESSS!”Agatha sat back, victorious. “Baby Bean has refined taste. Oh, this is beautiful. Truly. What a win.”

You looked up at her, cheeks warm with disbelief and the ghost of the cherry still lingering on your tongue. “Can I have another bite?”

Agatha grinned, slipping the spoon into the cup again. “You, my love,” she said softly, holding the next bite like a love offering, “can have the whole thing if Beansprout loves it.”

And just like that, you weren’t tired anymore. The papers, the deadlines, the chaos—they all faded into the soft warmth of your family, your belly fluttering with life and laughter.

BeanSprout had made their choice.

And honestly? It wasn’t a bad one.

_________________________________

You’d eaten this morning—half a banana, some toast. A handful of almonds a few hours ago when Rio passed through. It hadn’t been nothing. But it hadn’t been enough.

The ache behind your eyes had settled into a low throb, and the room around you felt slightly off-kilter. Like your body couldn’t quite catch up with itself.

You were on the living room floor, legs folded, laptop open, draft pages scattered like leaves. You weren’t even sure when you’d sat down. The sun had shifted; your posture hadn’t. Your back ached. Your hands trembled slightly where they rested on the keyboard.

You blinked slowly. Swallowed. Felt your stomach twist—not with nausea exactly, but with something close.

You didn’t hear Agatha at first. Not until she stopped walking.

“Are you serious right now?”

Her voice wasn’t loud. But it hit like a pressure drop before a storm.

You looked up. She was standing at the threshold, hair pulled back, sleeves pushed up, one eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“Please tell me you’ve eaten more than air and anxiety today.”

You opened your mouth to reply, then closed it again. Agatha crossed the room in two long strides and crouched in front of you, eyes narrowing. She looked at your face, then your hands. You flinched when her fingers brushed your wrist.

“You’re shaking,” she muttered. “Are you cold? Jesus, babe.”

“I had breakfast,” you said quickly. “And a snack. I just didn’t stop for lunch. Or a real break.”

Her eyes flicked to the scattered papers, the half-empty water bottle, the way your shoulders had curled in on themselves. “That’s not the win you think it is,” she said dryly.

You managed a tired smile. “Didn’t think it was.”

Agatha pressed the back of her hand to your forehead. “And now you’re overheated. And probably dehydrated. And your blood sugar’s in the trash.”

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not.”

She sat back on her heels, exhaled through her nose, and studied you for another beat.

Then her voice shifted—still firm, but lower now.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Not what you’ll tolerate. What you’ll actually eat. Name it.”

You blinked, then swallowed. “Peanut butter toast.”

Agatha gave a single, clipped nod.

“Done.”

She stood, kissed your forehead gently, and headed for the kitchen.

You heard the cupboard open, the toaster click, the soft scrape of a knife. A few minutes later, she returned with a small plate—two slices of peanut butter toast, a handful of apple slices fanned beside them, and a cold glass of water. She set it on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow.

“You're going to eat. Right now. While I watch you, and then you're going to lie down like someone who’s married to two women who love her more than her dissertation.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

She crouched again, hands braced on your knees.

“I’m not mad,” she said, voice lower now. “But I need you to stop waiting until your body screams before you listen to it.”

You nodded, throat tight.

Agatha cupped your cheek. Her thumb brushed just under your eye, where the dark circles were beginning to show.

“We love you. That means we feed you. We care for you. You don’t need to earn it by collapsing.”

You looked at her, your hand covering hers. “Okay.”

She leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“Good. Because next time? I’m bringing backup. And Rio is even worse than me when she’s worried.”

That made you laugh—for real this time. Then you picked up the toast, your hand still trembling slightly, and ate. Agatha didn’t rush you. She watched with quiet patience, one hand resting on your knee, the other still cupped loosely around your wrist, thumb brushing slow circles into your pulse point.

When your glass was half-drained, she stood again, her fingers never leaving your skin for long.

“Come on,” she murmured, soft but sure. “Let’s get you horizontal before gravity finishes the job.”

You started to rise, but your body had other opinions—your knees protested, your back ached, and the fog behind your eyes hadn’t fully cleared. You wobbled slightly.

Agatha was already there.

“Hey. Let me.”

She bent, one arm sweeping under your legs, the other bracing around your back. She lifted you without effort—not because you were light, but because she wouldn’t let you fall.

“You know I can walk,” you murmured, your cheek pressing into her shoulder.

“Sure,” she said dryly. “But I like the excuse.”

She carried you down the hall with slow, careful steps, cradling you like something she’d never let break again. You could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat where your body pressed to hers.

When she reached the bed, she lowered you gently, then sat beside you.

You let your head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Your limbs were too heavy to fight the drag of rest—but the waistband of your pants was digging into your belly. Agatha noticed before you said anything.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she said gently, already sliding a hand under the hem of your shirt to unfasten the button and ease them down. “Do you want your soft pair or—”

“Rio’s boxers,” you whispered.

Agatha smiled. “Of course.”

She reached into the drawer and pulled them out, soft and worn from dozens of washes, then helped you step out of your jeans and into them with practiced care. She didn’t make it awkward or precious. Just easy. Steady. Familiar.

You tugged at your shirt next, the fabric sticking to your skin. “Can I…?” You gestured to hers.

She glanced at the oversized, slouchy cotton shirt hanging off one shoulder. “This?”

You nodded.

Without a word, she stood and pulled it over her head, tossing it toward you. Underneath, she was wearing nothing but a bralette and underwear—unbothered, casual, comfortable in her skin in the way that always made your heart ache a little. You pulled the shirt over your head. It smelled like her. Clean cotton, faint traces of her shampoo. It draped over your body like it belonged there.

Agatha climbed in beside you a moment later, bare-legged, still warm from her movement. She curled her body around yours, propping herself up on one elbow as her other hand drifted to your belly. She didn’t say anything right away, noticing how cold and clammy your body was, and began tracing soft, slow patterns across your skin.

Tiny circles. Figure eights. Spirals that anchored you back to breathe. After a long beat, her voice returned—low, half-thought, full of everything she didn’t know how to say louder.

“Food. Water. Sleep. That’s the only to-do list that matters right now.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at that. You didn’t have the words to answer, not yet. So, instead, you shifted a little closer into her chest. Agatha adjusted instantly—tucking her leg over yours, her hand sliding just a little higher across your stomach like she was protecting something sacred. She kept tracing those patterns—one fingertip across the curve of your belly.

“Can’t have BeanSprout growing on crumbs and caffeine,” she murmured.

You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh, half a sigh—and melted further into her. Agatha kissed the crown of your head and didn’t move again.

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

Agatha was the first to spot you.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. One second, you’d been reading over a printed draft with a pen in hand, and the next—your head had lolled back against the couch, mouth slightly parted, papers scattered around you like leaves.

The snow had started just after lunch—thick, soft flakes drifting past the windows. Everything outside had gone still, the kind of hush that seeps into the bones. Agatha paused in the doorway. She didn’t call your name. Just watched for a moment. Rio appeared behind her, a quiet thud of socks on wood.

“She asleep?”

Agatha nodded once and then crossed the room, her movements deliberate but gentle. She picked up the blanket from the armrest, shook it out, and draped it over your legs and shoulders.

You stirred a little as the warmth settled around you, blinking your way slowly back to consciousness. Still caught between sleep and the slow pull of gravity.

“Hey,” Rio said softly, crouching down beside the couch. “You okay?”

You blinked at her, then Agatha. Your voice came out quiet, scratchy.

“I didn’t mean to… I just felt really heavy and cold all of a sudden. I was reading, and then… I guess I was just out.”

Agatha smoothed a hand down your shin over the blanket. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Rio tilted her head, studying your face. “When’d you last eat?”

You had to think. Not because you were hiding it. Just because time had blurred again.

“A few hours ago. I think.”

“Okay,” Agatha said, not arguing, just filing it away. Her hand moved to your arm, thumb brushing lightly over the crook of your elbow.

Now that you were waking up, it was harder to hide the obvious. Your skin was pale. The circles under your eyes were darker than they had been that morning. Your mismatched socks—one with a hole near the ankle—only added to the picture. You looked like someone who had been running on fumes and empty reassurance. Exhausted. Barely holding it together.

“It’s not just food,” Rio added, her voice easy, not pressing. “It’s everything. The semester, the pressure, the not knowing how to stop.”

You looked at both of them and shrugged, slow and small.

“I didn’t even feel tired until I was already asleep.”

Agatha’s eyes softened—not pity, just recognition. “That’s what worries me.”

She leaned down to kiss your forehead, brief but steady.

“You want to stay here or come lie down in bed?”

You hesitated, blinking toward your notes.

“I need to finish that article…” you murmured, eyes already half-closed again. “I was in the middle of it.”

Rio’s hand slipped into yours, warm and sure. “It can wait,” she said gently. “You can read it after you’ve actually rested. After you’ve eaten something real and slept like a human.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but the weight in your limbs spoke for you. Agatha pulled the blanket closer around your shoulders and nodded toward the hallway.

“Come on,” she said, voice soft but firm. “We’ll go with you.”

And neither of them rushed you. They just gathered the scattered papers, held out two steady hands, and helped you to your feet.

They helped you to your feet slowly, carefully, like they knew the exhaustion hadn’t entirely loosened its grip. Your legs wobbled once, but Rio steadied you with a hand at your waist, and Agatha didn’t let go of your wrist.

You were halfway down the hall before you mumbled it, barely loud enough for either of them to hear.

“Pjs and cuddles?”

Agatha glanced back over her shoulder, her mouth twitching.

You were already reaching—half-asleep, still unsteady—fingers brushing the hem of the oversized shirt she was wearing.

“That one,” you added, voice heavy and low. “I want that one.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course you do.”

Without missing a step, she tugged the shirt up and over her head, bare to the waist for a heartbeat as she handed it back toward you. You clutched it to your chest like a kid with a security blanket.

“There,” she said, amused but fond. “Your prize.”

Rio, still a step behind, let out a low chuckle.

“Hang on,” she said, pausing just outside the bedroom door. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers with mock ceremony.

“If we’re trading comfort items, might as well go all in.”

She stepped out of them and handed them over with a small, crooked grin.

“Team effort.”

You laughed—soft, grateful, more breath than sound—and clutched both pieces of clothing like they were sacred. Maybe they were. Maybe love sometimes looked like the boxers off someone’s hips and a sleep-warmed t-shirt you didn’t have to ask for twice.

Agatha opened the bedroom door, her voice gentler now.

“Come on. Let’s get you curled up and covered in way too much fabric.”

And you did. Wrapped in the scent of your wives, the snow still falling outside, and the warmth of two people who loved you enough to peel the clothes off their backs to help you rest.

It was a quiet few minutes. Agatha helped you into the shirt, Rio’s boxers already loose around your hips. You lay back against the pillows, and they joined you. Agatha was curling in behind you, and Rio was tucked into your front. Warmth, softness, breath syncing to breath.

You were nearly asleep again when the words slipped out. Unbidden. Honest.

“I want to make you proud.”

Agatha shifted behind you, brushing your hair back from your temple.

“I want to make BeanSprout proud too,” you whispered, voice trembling now. “I want them to see their Mama could do everything she set her mind on… and still make their Mommy and Mamí proud.”

Neither of them spoke right away.

Rio’s hand tightened gently around yours, and Agatha pressed her mouth to your shoulder. You could feel their warmth on either side of you—solid, real, anchoring.

“Hey,” Agatha murmured, her voice low but certain. “We are proud of you. Not because of your deadlines. Not because you keep pushing through.”

She kissed the space behind your ear. Her hand moved gently along your side.

“We’re proud of you because you’re you. Because of your heart. Your strength. The way you love. The way you try, even when it’s hard.”

Rio’s voice joined hers, soft and steady in the hush of the room.

“BeanSprout already loves you, you know,” she said. “And they’ll be proud of you not for your CV… but because you’re their Mama. Because you’re showing them how to be kind. How to be brave. How to keep going without forgetting to be held.”

Your throat tightened. You blinked hard, trying not to cry—but it didn’t matter. You were already tucked between them, safe from the weight of everything that had been pushing you forward for too long.

Agatha’s hand brushed along your belly in slow, soothing circles.

“None of this is conditional. Not our love. Not our pride. If you stopped everything tomorrow if all you did was rest and breathe and just be here—we’d still be proud.”

Rio squeezed your hand again.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to us. You never did, and you never will have to. We love you because you are you, not because of your work or degrees.”

You nodded slowly, tears slipping silently into the pillow. Not because you were broken.

But because something in you was finally allowed to rest.

They held you while you let the words settle. Let them soak through the cracks in your tired heart and find a place to stay.

Agatha kissed the top of your head.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “We’ve got you.”

And this time, when your eyes drifted shut, it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was because—for the first time in a long time—you felt safe enough to let go.

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

You didn’t remember buckling your seatbelt.

You were in the passenger seat, backpack at your feet, the low rumble of Rio’s car humming under your thighs as she pulled out of the faculty lot. The afternoon light was dull and grey, the kind that made it hard to tell how late it was. You blinked slowly, watching trees pass by without really seeing them.

Rio glanced over at you as she turned onto the main road.

“You okay?”

You nodded, a beat too slow.

“Just tired,” you murmured. “Committee meeting ran long. Again. Fucking bullshit, as always. I don’t get it.”

Rio’s hand tightened on the wheel.

“We’re you able to have lunch or a break?”

You hesitated. Then shrugged.

“Didn’t happen. They added two more expectations to my defense plan and kept talking over each other. I didn’t even get out of there until three.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just tapped the steering wheel once with her thumb. Then again.

“You barely ate breakfast,” she said finally. “And you’ve been running on coffee and deadlines for three days.”

You blinked again, your head tipping back against the seat.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you mumbled.

Your voice was thin. Not defensive. Just distant.

Rio’s jaw clenched slightly.

“You’re pregnant, babe. Not eating isn’t a neutral choice anymore.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t even shrug. She sighed, reached across the console, and took your hand.

You startled at the touch—just a tiny flinch—and she noticed. Your fingers were cold. Slightly clammy.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” you said. But even you didn’t sound convinced. Rio didn’t push. Not yet. But her hand stayed wrapped around yours, her thumb moving in soft, slow circles against your skin.

“You keep saying that,” she said gently. “And I keep watching you fade out on me.”

You tried to answer, but your head was starting to swim. The hum of the road and the car's warmth made everything hazy. Rio glanced over again, worry tightening her mouth.

“Do you want me to pull over? Grab something? I think I’ve got granola bars in my bag—”

You shook your head slowly.

“No… just want to go home and be with you and Aggie.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Rio didn’t argue. She just squeezed your hand again.

“Okay.”

And for the rest of the drive, her hand never left yours. She didn’t say anything else—but her thumb never stopped moving. A quiet tether. A silent promise. Something to hold onto when you didn’t even realize you were drifting.

The smell of garlic and rosemary greeted you when you both walked in the door—thick and comforting, the kind of scent that made your stomach flutter with something between hunger and relief. The soft sound of something sizzling in a pan was the scrape of a wooden spoon. Agatha was already in the kitchen when you walked in, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back in a loose clip. She glanced up from the stove and smiled.

“Hello, my loves. How are my girls today?”

She didn’t get an answer right away. She looked at you. Then looked at Rio—one eyebrow raised, subtle but sharp. You didn’t notice. You were already toeing off your boots; your head ducked low as you stepped inside, mumbling something about needing a shower, tea, or maybe both.

Rio met Agatha’s gaze over your head and shook hers, barely perceptible. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Not good, it said.

Worse than she’s letting on.

Agatha wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned away from the stove just as you approached.

You didn’t say a word—you just walked into her, slow and quiet, wrapping your arms around her waist and pressing your forehead into her collarbone. She caught you immediately, one arm curling around your shoulders, the other sliding along your spine in a protective sweep.

And there—in the press of her chest against yours, the warmth of her hand on your back—you felt it. A soft flutter just beneath your ribs. Not strong. Not sharp. Just movement. Quiet and undeniable. The baby.

You closed your eyes. Let the sensation ground you.

And then Rio stepped in behind you, arms folding gently around your back, resting her forehead between your shoulder blades. Her hands landed right over Agatha’s, thumb brushing the fabric of your coat like she could smooth out the tension between your shoulder blades with nothing more than a touch.

As if the three of you had been pulled together by instinct.

As if they felt the movement too—not with their bodies, but in how their hands slowed and their bodies shifted closer.

“Baby Bean said hi,” you murmured.

Agatha’s arms tightened just slightly.

Rio let out a breath, smiling into your coat.

The warmth between the three of you—anchored by that tiny flutter—settled into your bones like a promise.

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

Later that night, when your head finally found a pillow, Rio padded into the living room, where your backpack still lay by the door.

She crouched beside it, pulled out a neon pink Post-it from the drawer in the entry table, and scribbled a simple note:

“You are loved. So deeply. We’ll all come home when you’re tired. ❤️”

She folded it once and tucked it into the front pocket—right next to your planner, where she knew you’d see it the next morning.

Just in case the day tried to convince you otherwise.

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

The last day of the semester had finally come.

Outside your office window, the last of autumn clung stubbornly to the trees—leaves golden and brittle, like fire ready to fall. On the wind, the scent of crushed pine needles, chimney smoke, and something else—something tired. The entire campus seemed to move with a collective exhale, the end of the semester so close, yet so far, like a mirage just beyond reach. This year, the holiday would be quiet. Just the three of you. No big dinner plans. No complicated menus. No long lists of who was bringing what. No pretenses.

Just warmth. Home. Maybe mashed potatoes and that ridiculous cherry ice cream Agatha had convinced you to fall in love with. Maybe nothing but silence and socks and the comfort of two women you trusted with your life.

That simplicity felt like a promise. But you were still in the storm.

The student’s email came at 6:07 a.m., steeped in panic. The subject line screamed in all caps, the body full of pleas and fears and line breaks like gasps. You answered, of course. Because you remembered what it was like to feel like your entire academic future teetered on one conversation.

You didn’t want to wake them.

The house was still—shadowed and quiet in that way only the early morning can be. Your bedroom glowed dimly with a soft blue cast from the streetlights outside. Rio’s curls were fanned across her pillow, one arm draped over the space you were already halfway out of. Agatha slept curled behind her, one hand resting protectively on the soft curve of your belly, even in sleep.

You stood in the doorway a moment longer, memorizing them. Letting that love be the last thing you saw before the chaos of campus swallowed you again.

“I’m leaving early,” you whispered into the room“Meeting a student. I’ll see you both on campus.” Agatha sat up slightly, said she loved you, and went back to sleep just as quickly as she had stirred.

You dressed in the dark—jeans, soft sweater, scarf, boots. Laptop bag slung over your shoulder. You moved quietly through the kitchen, not daring to open the fridge, not daring to stir the air enough to wake them.

You left without breakfast. Without water. Without thinking.

The meeting bled into a back-to-back string of office hours. One panicked conversation bled into the next. Then came a hallway consult, an unplanned brainstorm at the library door. You answered every question and reassured every voice. You didn't notice the time. You didn't notice your body. Not until the hunger curled deep in your stomach. Quiet at first—like a question. Then sharper. A blade. A weight. A warning.

Back in your office, you pulled up your lecture notes and finessed your final slide transitions. Just one more class. One more push. You could coast on caffeine and willpower. You always had. Your water bottle sat unopened beside you. The bag of pretzels untouched. Your stomach clenched again. You ignored it. Forty-five minutes. You could do it. Maybe even let class out early. A mercy for everyone. You could eat at home.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out without thinking, your mind already halfway into your lecture notes.

Rio: Have you eaten today?

You stopped. The screen glowed in your hand like it was daring you to lie.

You stared at the message for a heartbeat too long, thumb hovering just above the reply button. Her voice filled your mind—warm and steady and laced with that particular blend of concern and exasperation she always used when she caught you skipping meals. The kind that made your chest ache. You knew if you answered, she’d press. Gently. Persistently. Maybe even show up with food.

And you didn’t want to fight. Not today.

You locked the phone and slipped it back into your pocket, throat dry with guilt.

Later, you told yourself. You’d eat when you got home. Maybe even let Agatha give you another smug spoonful of Cherry Garcia if you looked tired enough. You stood, gathered your laptop and coat and stepped into the hallway. Your footsteps echoed softly off the old linoleum tile. The university was always quietest in the afternoon—like it, too, was winding down for the holiday.

As you neared the lecture hall, you heard it.

Her voice.

Agatha. Just down the corridor. Mid-lecture. Her tone passionate, incisive, alive with intellect. Her voice wove through the hallway like light through glass—measured, sure, sharp-edged and beautiful.

You stopped walking just for a second just to hear her.

That voice had found you years ago, long before she had touched you—before she had loved you. You had heard her speak across a crowded seminar room, fire in her words, and something in you had leaned toward it like a plant toward the sun.

You had loved her mind before you loved anything else. And hearing her now, that spark still there after all this time, felt like gravity tugging you home. You breathed it in, then pushed open the door to your own lecture hall.

The room was quiet. Still. You stepped inside and moved toward the podium, setting your laptop down and pulling out your notes. The click of your keys echoed a little too loud in the empty space. The lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Thirty minutes until class. You pulled up your slides, fingers dancing with habit. And then your hand twitched. You paused. Looked down. A fine tremor was running through your fingers, subtle but steady. It wasn’t nerves. It was something deeper—bone-deep. Like your body had reached a limit, one you hadn’t noticed crossing.

The nausea surged. It wasn’t sharp. It was slow, sickening, the kind that crawled upward from your belly and settled under your ribs like fog. Cold sweat broke across your neck and shoulders. You could feel the heat draining from your face, your scalp prickling. Still, you clicked through the slides. You just needed to finish setting up. But your knees felt hollow. Your spine went rigid, then slack. The weight of your own body became unbearable, your limbs too heavy to trust.

You needed to sit. Now.

You staggered back from the podium, found the desk behind you, and collapsed into the chair with a thud. Your legs splayed awkwardly. Your arms gripped the edge of the desk, trying to anchor yourself.

The world tilted sideways. Your head swam. You told yourself to breathe. Just breathe. You blinked. Once. Twice. But you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t stop the slide.

Your shoulder slipped first. Then your spine curled. Your forehead met the desk—not hard, but hard enough. A dull thud, then a sting. You felt something wet against your temple—warm, slick.

The chair tilted as your weight shifted. Your body slumped—half in the chair, half crumpled against the desk. And everything went still. The projector hummed softly behind you. The slides frozen on the opening title. The classroom empty.

Then—

Black.

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

Agatha’s voice rang out across the classroom, clear and confident, bouncing off the old plaster walls with the kind of cadence that made undergrads sit up straighter. She stood behind the lectern, one hand resting on the edge of the podium, the other gesturing fluidly as she explained a final thread in the week’s reading—something about resistance, language, and the reclamation of narrative. The students, most of them anyway, were listening. Or trying to.

Their post-midterm exhaustion was visible in their posture—some with faces slack with fatigue, others scribbling notes like they were trying to beat a clock only they could see. But Agatha never wavered. She taught with the same passion whether the room was packed or barely hanging on.

It was that same passion that had once drawn you to her—before either of you could name what it was. She glanced at the clock near the door. Ten minutes to the end of class. She could push through—wrap up her last talking points, assign the reading, and keep to schedule, but something gave her pause.

Her watch buzzed on her wrist.

A message from Rio.

Rio: Have you heard from her? She hasn’t responded.

Agatha’s brow furrowed.

Not worried—yet. But... something about the silence felt off. You were the one who responded to texts even in the middle of meetings. The one who reminded them to hydrate, to slow down. The one who left gentle emojis after rough grading sessions. You weren’t careless with communication.

You weren’t quiet like this. Agatha looked back at her students, then made her decision.

“Alright,” she said, lifting her voice just slightly to carry. “That’s where we’ll pause. I want you to rest this week. Genuinely. Close your laptops. Log off. Eat real food. Touch grass. Or at least... touch books that aren’t required.”

The room chuckled. A few students actually smiled.

“Have a good break,” she said more softly, and meant it. “Take care of yourselves.”

They packed up with the usual shuffle and hum, trickling out in clusters, some offering soft “thank yous” on their way out the door.

As the last one disappeared down the hallway, Agatha pulled on her coat and slung her satchel over her shoulder, checking her phone one more time. No message from you.

“Have a good break,” she said more softly, and meant it. “Take care of yourselves.”

They packed up with the usual shuffle and hum, trickling out in clusters, some offering soft “thank yous” on their way out the door.

As the last one disappeared down the hallway, Agatha pulled on her coat and slung her satchel over her shoulder, checking her phone one more time. No message from you.

Still nothing. Not worried. Just... Something.

She made her way down the corridor toward your lecture hall, boots clicking steadily against the tile. The hallway was quieter than usual—no laughter, no open doors. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly. The air had that dry, too-clean smell of overworked HVAC systems and winter dust.

Still no response from you.

Not worried. Just—off. You never left people hanging like this. Maybe she’d find you still finishing slides. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and say “They just wouldn’t shut up,” about your students. Maybe you’d smile the way you did when you saw her, tired but soft, like she was still the best part of your day.

She smiled faintly to herself.

Maybe she’d talk you into grabbing an early dinner. Something warm. Something celebratory. You’d both earned the rest. You were nearing the end of a brutal semester—your dissertation creeping toward its final stretch, your body carrying so much more than academia.

She was only a few steps from your lecture hall when she heard it—a sound like a body collapsing, dull and final, followed by the screech of a metal chair dragged too far.

She stopped.

“Babe?” she called, one hand already on the door handle.

No answer. She pushed it open—and the rest of the world fell away.

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

Rio didn’t know what had pulled her from her seat. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the message she sent, unanswered. Maybe it was the way your name sat on her phone screen, quiet and unlit—something about the stillness of it like a warning, like a lighthouse gone dark. She told herself she wasn’t worried. Not really. Just... unsettled.

She slipped her coat on, grabbing her phone again to check the message even though she already knew it hadn’t changed. The screen blinked open with your name. Have you eaten today? Sent thirty minutes ago. No response. No read receipt. Not even the three dots of you typing. And that wasn’t you.

She stood in the quiet of her department lounge, keys in hand, but she didn’t leave right away. She just stood there, frowning, the weight in her chest spreading like slow ink. It wasn’t panic. Not yet. But something inside her had gone still. Like the air before a storm.

She stepped out into the cold. The sky was gray and heavy above the rooftops, and the wind carried the brittle scent of dry leaves and coming snow. Her boots crunched softly across the gravel path as she crossed the quad.

She moved quickly, but not rushed. Not yet.

But every step felt like it belonged to something bigger than her—a rhythm her body had already decided on, even if her mind hadn’t caught up. Like the thud of her boots had synced with something ancient, something alert.

Something that knew.

She was halfway across campus when she caught herself scanning windows, checking classrooms as she passed, as if she could spot you through the glass. It was stupid, she told herself. You were probably fine. Probably lecturing. Probably ignoring your phone like you always did when you were locked into your notes.

Still, her pace quickened. She entered your building just as students were beginning to trickle out of classrooms, murmuring to each other, bumping shoulders, laughing about break. She didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just moved like she knew exactly where she was going.

As she reached the third floor, the hallway opened wide. Your room was just ahead. That’s when she heard it. The sudden clatter of something heavy hitting the floor—a bag, maybe?—then the sound of a chair scraping, but not like someone standing up. Like someone stumbling.

Then—

“Oh my God. Oh my God—no—no, baby—hey—hey, look at me, please—” Agatha was on you in a second, knees hitting the floor so hard it echoed. Her hands gripped your shoulders, gently, desperately. “Come on. Breathe. Come on, please—”

It wasn’t just a voice. It was a scream punched down into a whisper, the kind that breaks a person open just to contain it.

And Rio was already moving.

Her legs carried her faster than her thoughts could keep up, instincts overriding everything else. The sound of Agatha’s voice—your name on her lips—was unmistakable. And wrong. That wasn’t Agatha scared. That was Agatha shattered.

Running.

Her bag slammed against her hip as she sprinted forward, heart lurching so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. The hallway blurred. The lights above her flickered past like stars streaking across a night sky. Rio’s breath stopped.

The scene didn’t register all at once. It came in broken flashes—your body slumped, blood trailing from your temple, your skin pale, clammy, wrong. Your arm dangled from the desk, the back of your hand grazing the floor. The projector’s pale blue glow threw ghost-shadows across your face. For a beat, it didn’t even look like you. Just someone shaped like grief.

Agatha was already pressed to your side, one hand trembling against your pulse point, the other holding your cheek with more reverence than steadiness.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice raw. “Come on, please—”

Rio staggered forward, her chest burning like she couldn’t draw in enough air.

“What the fuck happened—” Her voice cracked as she fell to her knees beside you, eyes wide, hands already reaching, checking, grasping.

Agatha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was pale, shaking, one hand still cradling your face, the other pressed to your chest like she was holding back the end of the world.

“She’s cold,” Agatha whispered, and it wasn’t an observation—it was a plea. A confession. A denial wrapped in truth. “Rio, she’s—she’s so cold—”

Rio pressed her hands against your arms, then your back. The chill leached through your clothes. Clammy. Still. Too still.

Panic surged up like bile. She slid her coat off and wrapped it around you, tucking it beneath your back, over your stomach, around your arms. Anything. Anything. Her hands moved without thought, checking your pulse at your wrist, under your jaw. Her fingers brushed your temple—came away red.

Blood.

“She’s bleeding,” Rio whispered, almost inaudible. Then louder, more frantic: “We need help. Agatha—call—” Your breath was shallow, a barely-there hitch against her chest. Agatha’s hands were shaking as she pulled out her phone and called for help, voice wobbling as she rattled off the room number. Rio held you close, rocking slightly, her hand pressed to your belly like it could reach both of you at once.

And somewhere inside the terror, inside the ice and silence and fluorescent hum of that too-bright room-

She waited for you to move. She begged for it. Even the smallest flicker. Even the smallest flutter.

Agatha’s phone was already in her shaking hands. Her thumb slipped as she tried to unlock it. Once. Twice. Finally, she got it. Dialed.

Rio closed her eyes for a half second, grounding herself. Then she reached for your face, pressing her forehead to yours.

“Hey. Please. Come on, love. Just… anything. Move a little. Blink. Breathe louder. Let me hear you.” Your lips were parted. No sound. But your chest rose—barely. Shallow.

That small movement was enough to keep her from losing it. Just barely. Then something else caught her eye. The edge of a paper note, sticking slightly from your backpack where it had slumped against the desk. Rio reached with one hand and pulled it free. A post-it. One she’d written just last night and slipped into your bag when you weren’t looking. Just a little reminder. A piece of her to carry.

“You are loved. So deeply. We’ll all come home when you’re tired. ❤️”

Her fingers clenched around it. The irony made her nauseous. Agatha saw it, too. Her face contorted, and for a moment—just a moment—she stopped breathing. Her hands hovered over your chest, frozen mid-motion. She had told you to slow down. Had begged you not to let the pressure swallow you. But neither of them had made you stop.

And now—

Now they were watching the aftermath.

They had known it was bad. The skipped meals. The shaking hands. The way your eyes had dulled with exhaustion even when you smiled. They’d seen you drift further from your body day after day, and somehow still convinced themselves there would be time to intervene. Later. Tomorrow. After the next meeting. The next chapter. The next committee demand.

But there was no later. There was this. A cold body. A shallow breath. A post-it like a eulogy.

Agatha was still on the phone. “Yes. Yes, I’ll stay with her—please hurry—I don’t know how long—” Her voice cracked, and Rio had never heard it like that before.

She’d never heard her sound helpless. Rio shifted closer, pulling you fully into her lap, brushing a trembling hand over your cheek. Her thumb stroked beneath your eye, over your jaw, back again. Like a rhythm. Like a spell.

She didn’t know what she was saying anymore. Just soft, half-formed words, over and over.

“We’ve got you. We’re here. We’ve got you.”

Your body jerked once—barely.

But it was enough. Your breath caught. Shuddered. Then another came. Not strong. Not steady. But there.

Rio collapsed forward, her forehead against your temple, exhaling like she hadn’t breathed in years. Agatha ended the call and dropped to her knees again, curling her arm around your shoulders from the other side, pressing her face to your neck, her fingers tangling in the collar of your sweater like she could hold you here with will alone.

Neither of them spoke for a long, stretched moment. There was only the sound of your breath. The whisper of the projector.

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

The world was dark. Not the kind of dark that sleeps behind your eyelids. Not even the comforting black of rest. This was a thick, wet darkness—like being trapped under deep water. Like trying to remember the shape of breath. Time slipped sideways. Sensation flickered in and out, no weight to hold onto. Your limbs felt distant. Like they belonged to someone else. Or no one at all.

Then—

A scent.

Warmth.

The smell of Rio’s coat. Faint lavender and clean cotton. Something sweet—maybe her shampoo, or the cocoa butter she rubbed into her hands on cold days. That scent had always brought you comfort. Always meant safety. Home. Her.

The darkness shifted.

Sound filtered in next. Distant. Warped. Like voices pressed through a pane of glass. You knew one of them. Agatha. Her voice was muffled, just out of reach, but hers. That smooth cadence, that low melodic hum she always used when she was worried but trying to stay calm. She was saying something. You couldn’t make out the words, but it anchored you, pulled at something in your chest.

And then—

Another voice. Clearer. Closer.

“Hey.”

“Come on, baby. Please.”

Your name. Spoken again.

“Baby, come on. Wake up. You’re scaring me.”

Rio.

Her voice cracked like it was being pulled from the deepest part of her chest, shaped by both love and fear. She said your name again, each time softer, more desperate. You tried to move. Nothing happened. You managed a small breath—shallow, but real—and felt the way your body shifted slightly against something warm. Arms. Arms holding you.

The darkness began to thin. You blinked. Once. Twice. Light. It was too bright at first, bleached and cold, until it steadied. Fluorescent bulbs. The ceiling of your lecture hall. The hum of the projector still whispering at the edges of the room. Rio hovered above you, her face close, wide-eyed, curls wild and windblown, her cheeks flushed like she’d run the entire campus. “There you are,” she whispered, voice trembling.

You tried to speak. Tried to ask what happened. But all that came out was a cracked, uncertain breath.

“Shhh,” she said quickly, smoothing her hand over your hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You shifted slightly in her hold, and the pain bloomed—sharp at your temple, then dull and throbbing. Agatha’s voice cut through next.

“She’s awake.”

There was a sound—the subtle click of her phone call ending, the emergency dispatcher line ended. Then footsteps. Her boots on the tile. Coming closer. She crouched beside you in one fluid motion, all authority and aching tenderness, her hand brushing your knee, then your shoulder, then the side of your face. Her eyes found yours instantly, reading you in a glance.

She swallowed hard. “Hey,” she murmured, voice low and unsteady, “hey, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

Rio was still holding you, arms like anchors wrapped around your shoulders and back, her hand on your belly like a shield. You leaned into her, eyelids fluttering again from the weight of it all.

Your head pulsed with heat. The blood you hadn’t felt before now dampened your hairline, sticky against your scalp.

“Help’s on the way,” Agatha said, voice soft but firm. “Just stay here with us.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, the words barely scraping out of your mouth. You weren’t even sure who you were saying it to. Rio. Agatha. Yourself.

You started to move—slow, clumsy—trying to sit up straighter in the chair. Rio shifted with you instantly, trying to keep you steady.

“Baby, wait,” she said.

Rio held you like a lifeline, her arms tight around your shoulders, one hand pressed against your back, the other never straying far from your belly. You could feel her trembling. You could hear her holding back the panic in the way her breath caught and refused to release.

“I’m okay,” you tried again, though your body disagreed with every syllable.

Your face was slowly flushing with color, heat creeping up your cheeks as the truth began to settle into your bones. You had passed out. In your lecture hall. Alone. Bleeding. You brought a hand to your stomach without thinking, palm spread wide, fingers shaking. The panic hit like a tidal wave.

The baby.

“Hey, hey,” Rio said softly, noticing your hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” But you weren’t sure. You couldn’t be.

You shifted in her arms, trying to sit up straighter. Your limbs were heavy, but the mortification was heavier. “I just… I don’t want my students to see me like this,” you muttered, glancing toward the door. “Please.”

No one moved at first. But then Agatha stood. Slow. Deliberate. She didn’t speak.

She crossed to your bag, ripped a page from your notebook, and scrawled something in her clean, familiar handwriting. She stepped into the hallway, taped it to the door, and closed it behind her.

Class Canceled. Have a good break.

She returned to you with quiet efficiency, kneeling beside Rio again, removing your scarf from your neck. Her movements were calm, but you could feel it in her body—coiled tension. Her silence wasn’t serenity. It was a calculation.

Then came the footsteps. The door creaked open as two EMTs entered the room, their vests bright against the dimmed classroom lights. The older one, gray at the temples, gave you a kind smile and crouched beside you.

“Hi. I’m James. You took a bit of a tumble, huh? Let’s check you out.”

You nodded, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Every second made you feel more exposed. Small. Embarrassed. You focused on the floor. On the rhythmic hum of the projector behind you. On the throb in your skull.

James began with vitals while his partner took your temperature and gently shined a light in your eyes. “Blood pressure’s low,” the younger EMT said, voice low but even.

James took your hand and pricked your fingertip, watching the monitor as he waited for the reading. His brow furrowed. You watched numbly as he waited for the device to beep. It did. His eyes narrowed.

“Ma’am,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Your blood sugar is very low. That likely caused the fainting.”

The world seemed to close in around that single sentence. Something shifted in the air. Rio flinched like she’d been struck, her arms tightening around you without thinking. But it was Agatha who snapped. Not in volume. Not in voice. But in presence.

She froze. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes darkened—sharp as glass, cutting through the moment with terrifying clarity. She didn’t say a word, but her silence spoke volumes. She turned her face away from you for half a second, just enough to shut it down. To lock it in.

But you felt it. She knew.

Every missed meal. Every brushed-off “I’m fine.” Every unopened water bottle. She’d seen it, and now—now she had confirmation. Evidence. The kind that made her furious.

“I’d like to try some juice,” James said gently, unaware—or maybe pretending not to notice—the sudden frost that had settled between the three of you. “Let’s see if we can get your sugar up before we talk transport.”

“Juice,” you echoed, nodding like the word meant something larger. Maybe it did.

Rio reached into the side pouch of your bag and found the little box you always carried—juice, crackers, protein bars—none of which you’d touched today. She was trying not to cry. You could tell by the way her jaw clenched, by the way she avoided your eyes. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the top and pressed it into your palm.

“Here,” she whispered, “sip it slow.”

You did. The juice was warm and syrupy, coating your tongue in artificial orange. You drank mechanically. Focused on the motion. Not the tension pulling your family apart in the space around you.

Agatha stood a few feet back now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her knuckles were white where they gripped her coat sleeve. She looked like she was trying not to say something. Her face was unreadable. But her eyes— Her eyes were storming.

The EMTs busied themselves with notes and small adjustments. A minute passed. Then two.

James checked your sugar again. The monitor beeped.

“That’s better,” he said. “Still low, but heading in the right direction.” He glanced at Agatha and Rio. “Do you have someone who can get her home?”

Agatha nodded quickly. “We’re not going home,” she said. “We’re taking her to her doctor’s office right now.” Rio’s eyes flicked to Agatha—surprised, perhaps—but didn’t argue.

James nodded, reassured. “Good. That’s good. But if anything shifts—lightheadedness, weakness, nausea—you go in. Promise?”

Your voice wavered. “Promise.”

Agatha hadn’t said a word. Your heart was thudding now, louder than before. Louder than it should’ve been. You reached for your stomach. Not out of instinct. Out of fear. What if something was wrong?

“Hey,” Rio whispered. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You weren’t sure if she was saying it to you. Or herself. You stood slowly, legs shaking like reeds. Rio wrapped an arm around your waist, steadying you. Her fingers slipped under your coat, her body pressed close.

Agatha grabbed your bag without speaking. “I’ll pull the car around,” she said, and left the room.

The hallway was too quiet as Rio helped you walk toward the curb. Even the wind outside felt muted, like the world had drawn in a breath it hadn’t yet released. When Agatha pulled up, she didn’t get out. She just leaned across the console, threw the passenger door open, and waited.

Rio helped you into the car, buckling your seatbelt with hands that still trembled. Then she got in beside you and shut the door. The silence inside the car was loud. Agatha shifted into gear like she meant it, the car jerking slightly as it pulled forward. The heat was blasting, but you couldn’t feel it. You were frozen in your seat, spine stiff, your hand still pressed flat to your belly. No one spoke. Not until Agatha reached for her phone, tapped it open, and brought it to her ear. Her voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“We’ll be there soon.”

Then she hung up. Ezra. It had to be Ezra. You didn’t look at her. But you felt her. The tension rolled off her in waves. Not uncontrolled. Not loud. Just... sharp. Unyielding.

You turned your face toward the window. Watched the buildings blur past in streaks of gray. Your hand never left your stomach. No one said it out loud, but it was there—in every breath, every silence, every heartbeat pounding in the stillness: Was the baby okay?

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

Ten minutes later, you saw the clinic.

Ezra stood out front, coat pulled tight against the wind, one hand shielding her eyes from the cold. The nurse beside her gripped the handles of the wheelchair like she was ready to run. Agatha stopped the car too hard. The wheels jerked beneath you. She didn’t wait. Rio opened the door, helped you out. And the moment your boots hit the ground, the fear you’d been holding in your throat cracked wide open.

The wheelchair bumped softly over the clinic’s tiled hallway, the nurse behind you steering with ease while Rio and Agatha flanked your sides like shadows. Neither of them touched you—not because they didn’t want to, but because the edges of this moment felt too sharp.

Ezra held the exam room door open.

She stepped inside as you were wheeled in, already pulling gloves from a box and sliding them on with practiced ease. The overhead light cast her face in warm, clinical focus—calm but direct. She didn’t ask how you were feeling. Didn’t offer comfort or platitudes.

Just: “What happened?”

Her voice wasn’t unkind. But it didn’t dance around anything either. Ezra had never been one for sugarcoating.

You met her eyes, your mouth dry.

“Can we just… check first?” you asked.

Your voice cracked somewhere in the middle. Ezra nodded once, immediately moving to the counter, setting down your chart and opening the ultrasound cabinet. The nurse helped you shift from the wheelchair to the exam table, your movements still slow, your hands hovering protectively over your stomach.

Rio stood close to your left. Agatha to your right. Silent. Steady. Ezra rolled the machine closer. Snapped on the monitor. Her hands moved quickly, prepping the wand, squeezing gel onto your skin with brisk efficiency. The cold shock of it made you flinch. Then silence. Unnerving, heavy silence. Ezra’s eyes were on the screen. Her fingers moved with precision, angling the wand just so, then adjusting the machine’s depth, toggling a dial. No one breathed.

The tension in the room wrapped around your lungs like wire. Your eyes flicked from the ceiling to the monitor to Ezra’s unreadable face. You held your breath.

The guilt crept in fast and vicious. You had felt the dizziness. You had known your body was slipping, that you were frayed at the edges. And you’d chosen to grade, to push through, to ignore it. To pretend you weren’t pregnant and exhausted and fragile in ways that mattered. You did this. Your hand clenched on the edge of the exam table, nails digging into the paper beneath you. Your breath hitched.

Then—

“There we are.” Ezra’s voice broke the silence like a wave, soft and sure and filled with something that made your eyes burn. A breath exhaled—hers.

Then, finally, the sound.

A rush of rhythm filled the room. Strong. Steady. Unbroken. Rio let out a quiet sob, her face turning away for a second, then landing back on the screen. Agatha closed her eyes, the tears she had been holding back on her cheek.

BeanSprout’s heartbeat.

It filled the air like music. Not fragile. Not faint. But powerful. You broke. The sob hit before you could stop it—shoulders shuddering, face twisting, tears spilling hot and fast as the pressure inside you shattered. You reached for Rio blindly and she caught your hand immediately, forehead pressed to your temple.

“It’s okay,” she whispered over and over. “It’s okay. You’re okay. They’re okay.”

Agatha didn’t speak. But she stood close—close enough that her fingers brushed the side of your wrist, grounding you without a word. Her lips met the side of your face, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen, unmoving.

“Ezra?” she asked quietly, voice calm but taut with restraint.

Ezra nodded. “Everything looks fine. Good heart rate. No signs of distress.” The relief flooded you like warmth returning to numb limbs. Ezra didn’t pause.

“Now that we know baby is okay,” she said, setting the wand aside and grabbing a towel to wipe the gel from your skin, “let’s talk about what happened.”

As she spoke, the nurse returned with a doppler monitor and gently wrapped the elastic band across your belly. It hummed to life with a soft beep, securing around your skin like a second heartbeat. The sound of BeanSprout continued, steady in the background—like proof. Like forgiveness.

Ezra gave the nurse a nod. “Keep monitoring.”

The nurse sat you upright with a pillow behind your back and moved efficiently—taking your blood pressure, pricking your finger again for a fresh sugar read. You barely felt the sting.

Ezra turned back to you, folding her arms. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard. “I felt off this morning. But I had a student who emailed at 3 am—he was panicking. So I said I’d meet with him before hours. I meant to eat, but…” Your voice trailed off.

“I kept grading,” you said quietly. “One meeting led into another. Then I was reviewing my slides and just… I don’t know. I thought I could push through one lecture. Then everything went black.”

Ezra nodded slowly.

Agatha stepped in then. Her voice was low but clear. “I found her in her classroom. Half-conscious. Slumped over the desk. The EMT said her blood sugar was low.” She paused. Then added, with sharp finality: “And now here we are.”

Ezra’s lips pressed into a tight line. She looked between the three of you. “I know we’ve talked about this,” she said, her voice no longer gentle. “You have to eat. If not for you, then for them. You can’t skip meals. You can’t treat your body like it’s running on caffeine and deadlines anymore. If not for yourself, then for your child.”

You couldn’t meet her eyes. Ezra stepped closer.

“This—” she said, gesturing to you, the monitor, the blood pressure cuff, the trembling hands, “—this was the best-case scenario for you passing out. You were in a chair, on stable ground. Be thankful you were not driving or walking downstairs. If you had collapsed anywhere else, we could be talking about a very different outcome right now.”

You closed your eyes. Guilt rose like bile.

She saw it. She sighed. Ezra reached out and squeezed your leg. Her voice softened again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

She stepped out, the nurse following behind her. The door closed gently behind them.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Agatha’s voice was sharp enough to cut through everything.

You looked at her. She didn’t meet your eyes.

“We can have this conversation at home. Not here. Not right now.”

Her hand never left your wrist. It was a signal—she loved you. But if she spoke, really spoke, she wouldn’t be able to hold back. Rio pressed a kiss to your temple. No one spoke for the next hour. You sat in silence, surrounded by their warmth, your guilt, and the steady heartbeat of your baby echoing softly from the doppler monitor. A lullaby of presence. Of survival.

Eventually, Ezra returned. Her expression had softened again, though her words remained measured. “All bloodwork came back clean. No signs of bleeding. Baby’s heart rate has stayed steady the entire time.”

You nodded, breath escaping like a long-held note. “Thank you.” Rio echoed it. Agatha nodded once.

Ezra gave a slow nod in return. “For the next few days, rest. Couch or bed. Be gentle with yourself. Eat. Sleep. Cuddle with these two.” She paused. Then delivered the final blow. “No school. No work. Focus on growing this tiny human and healing your body.  Hell, have sex, rest, watch movies, eat, let your body relax. Your body and baby need you to just 'not' for a few days.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Rio and Agatha helped you dress, gently unwinding the monitor from your belly and guiding you back into the car. The ride to the car was silent, the sky beginning to darken overhead as the evening crept in.

Inside the car, you sat quietly, exhaustion hanging off your limbs like soaked fabric.

Halfway home, Agatha’s voice broke through the silence.

“Is there anything that sounds good for drive-through?” she asked softly. “We were going to take you to dinner, but… well. Groceries are low.”

You paused. Then: “Panera.”

Agatha nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of you sat on the couch in the living room, paper bowls in your lap, food mostly untouched. The television was off. The only sound was the quiet clink of silverware on cardboard and the soft hum of the heater.

You ate. Slowly. Mechanically. You were done with your meal when Agatha stood, took the empty bowls, and walked into the kitchen. You heard the rustle of bags, the trash lid closing, the water running.

Then—

She returned. She sat down beside you. Looked you straight in the eye.

And said: “Alright. Let’s talk.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peace.

It was the kind that tightens your spine and makes your pulse thrum in your ears. The kind that says: brace yourself.

Agatha didn’t ease into it.

“You said you would eat,” she said—low and sharp, every syllable honed to a point. “You promised you’d take care of yourself. That if it got to be too much, you’d tell us. And instead?”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “We find you half-conscious and bleeding in an empty classroom.”

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

Hold on tight... If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know!

@6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @peskygremlin @holystrangersalad @loveshineslikethesky @dandelions4us

[egglain]

modern sukume is rotting my brain

Tattoo artist Sukuna convincing Uraume to let him design their first piece

Grad student Uraume writing their dissertation on the dingy leather stools of the shop, because they like feeling Sukuna’s presence

(Sukuna may not look like he cares for academia, but he knows every detail of their dissertation & is so proud of them)

Uraume helping teach Sukuna how to sew band patches onto his clothes

Uraume having to pick Kuna up in their secondhand silver Toyota Camry because Sukuna’s road rage is so bad that they don’t trust him to drive anywhere

The!! Dates!! (Sukuna is not a romantic but he’ll be damned if he gets one-upped)

Sukuna and Uraume matching PJs (Kuna in Hello Kitty and Uraume in Dear Daniel)

Uraume teaching Sukuna about skincare (even though his skin is annoyingly flawless), and Sukuna letting them buy tiger print face masks for them

Sukuna dyeing the back of Uraume’s hair for them

Uraume trimming Sukuna’s undercut in the bathtub when it gets just a little too long for him

Sukuna cooking.

Sukuna.

Cooking.

Shirt off, Hello Kitty pyjama pants slung low on his hips, hair ruffled from sleep, making breakfast sandwiches for his hardworking s/o

Sukuna taking up 90% of Uraume’s little apartment, but not minding one bit as it’s an excuse to be near them

Sukuna sleeping on his side, smushed against the cold wall, so Uraume has room on their thin bed

Sukuna saving up in secret to buy them a place of their own— and spectacularly failing at “casual” when he asks them to move in with him

rotting my brain so bad

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: Orientation play/conversion. Remember that your sexuality is valid, and conversion is NOT a thing beyond fantasy. Also, fuck "conversion therapy"

“All I’m saying is…”

“Look, you’re speaking out of your ass”, Ava said, barely containing her frustration.

“How am I speaking out of my ass? It has been done and thoroughly…”, he tried to reply.

“Yes, yes, Pavlov, blah blah blah. But you’re talking about something else entirely, not conditioning reactions”

“Not Pavlov, Skinner! Actions can be conditioned too. Look around you! Mobile games, casinos, even the goddamn army uses conditioning to…”

“Can we agree that there’s a difference between conditioning obedience in a controlled setting and whatever the fuck it is you’re suggesting? You’re not talking about tapping on impulse to buy funbucks in a game! You are talking…”

“It’s only a difference of degree, not of kind. With the right combination of techniques…”

“No, there’s a core there that you can’t just… overwrite. Some things can’t be changed. Like… like how you can’t hypnotize someone into doing something they would never do”

“You know that’s bullshit, right? The whole hypnosis thing. You absolutely can make someone do whatever the fuck you want. It’s just a matter of how you approach it. Like, you would never harm a person, okay? But if I change what your idea of ‘person’ is, say, by making it more narrow you would absolutely harm someone I made you see as a not-person. Or maybe you can be made to believe you’re helping them, not harming them”

“That’s some creepy cult shit, dude. And anyway you can’t write a paper on this because a) there’s no evidence and b) doing the research to get evidence would be absolutely immoral. So I say look for another topic and for the love of God don’t go around spewing that bullshit if you want to ever get laid. Oh, speaking of! Linda will be arriving shortly and we have a date night, so please, please try to be a normal roommate and not freak her out. For me, okay?”

“When have I ever freaked her out? Linda loves me! And who knows, maybe she has an opinion on our little debate”

“Dude, she’s an Art student. I doubt she’ll be interested in our weird Psych dissertations”

“Perfect! Fresh eyes!”

“See, that’s the kind of weird shit I-”

The buzzer cut through the air, and a moment later Linda was inside the apartment, all smiles as usual. He took a moment to watch them as they embraced. 

They were almost comical in their contrast. Linda was tall, taller than he was, willowy and slender, her limbs graceful and shapely, her hair a long, flowing river of playful copper that almost seemed to dance on its own volition– with her green sundress she appeared to him as some sort of elven princess ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel and stuck into a mortal world in which she didn’t really fit. Ava, on the other hand, was probably the shortest adult he had ever seen. He might be tempted to call her petite, but that had a connotation of a lithe frame, almost like a tastefully proportioned doll. Ava was the complete opposite of that. Sometimes he felt Ava was an experiment aimed at testing how much of a person’s weight could be tits and ass, held up by strong, thick thighs. He felt quite guilty about such thoughts, and he understood why she wore nothing but oversized t-shirts and hoodies. It was logical: an early, spectacular growth spurt, heightened by her small size, had made her the target of relentless bullying by jealous classmates and awkward come-ons by hormonal teen males. It enraged him, he realized. Ava was beautiful and the cruelty of idiots had made her feel pain about it instead of pride. He made a point to never stare at her, even if he sometimes failed. It made their relationship as roommates a tad hard, he had to admit. 

 

Not that he had a shadow of a shot, of course. Ava had no interest in men.

Unless, of course, he was right in his theory. And he had good reason to think he was.

“So, Linda: Ava and I were having a bit of a debate…”

“Don’t start, dude”, said Ava.

“Oh, a debate! Do tell!” chirped Linda.

“Do you think we can be completely conditioned and changed, or is there some part of us that cannot be modified, no matter what?”

“Huh. Hard one. Like… a soul? I don’t know I buy it. I feel there isn’t really a self, you know? Like… Buddhism. The self is an illusion and all that”

“Come on, you can’t be serious! You can’t change who someone fundamentally is, and it’s sick to even consider it!”, said Ava.

“Well… what if I could prove to you it can be done?”, he stated, barely able to hold back. He know what he was going to do. He had been reluctant, but now it felt like a certainty.

“You can’t, so stop being an ass”, said Ava.

Fine. Game on.

“Linda, I love your socks! Pride socks!”

“Yup!”, said Linda

“What the hell–”, mumbled Ava.

He took a deep breath.

“Linda: rainbow socks…”

She replied in an instant.

“Are for sucking cocks!”

Ava felt as if reality had shifted into some horrible, twisted nightmare. She was about to scream something, anything really, to make Linda take that back before something stopped her in her tracks. Her body heard it before her mind did: her roommate's voice simply commanding her. Watch. 

And she watched. She watched as the love of her life smiled and went on her knees. Ava could do nothing but watch in disbelief and pain. Linda had never been with a man. Ever. 

“I might have… started testing my theories. On you both. Not that you’d remember, obviously”, he stated casually as the beautiful girl in front of him lovingly undid his pants. “I’d say Linda’s sexuality is part of her core self, wouldn’t you? Let’s see how that holds up after the months of conditioning I’ve subjected her to”

He felt guilty, sure; but there was such a high to it, such an entrancing quality to the combination of seeing instant, complete obedience and the final, definitive proof of the truth he had known to be right all along. Was it wrong? Yes. Did he care? Not at the moment. Ava’s eyes were a poem to him. Suddenly he was ripped from his reverie by the soft, loving touch of Linda’s tongue on his dick. He hadn’t even realized he had gotten hard just from the sense of complete power, of total, undeniable conquest. This was a primal, ancient arousal. Ava could do nothing but watch, and he took that sight in. God, he could almost taste it.

Linda moaned. The cock was so beautiful. So perfect. She felt so… silly, like she was now, for the first time, seeing in color and realizing the sky was, in fact, blue. It was obvious. Simple. Natural. Cock deserved worship. Cock deserved devotion. Cock demanded obedience. It was as if it was growing in her mind, taking over more and more of her, pushing who she had been out effortlessly. It expanded. It corrupted. It twisted and shifted all within. Cock. Cock. Cock. She kissed it with reverence, in awe of it. It was all that existed to her. All that mattered. She needed to please it. Needed to feel it throbbing inside her. Needed to be taken by it.

Ava saw her girlfriend slide a hand between her legs and felt nauseous. As much as she knew this wasn’t Linda’s fault, she could feel her heart breaking, her anger rising… and worse, her pussy getting wet. Her body betraying her. She hated him, and she hated Linda, and she hated herself most of all.

Suddenly, Linda couldn’t contain herself. She relaxed her throat, looked up at her Master and took his entire manhood inside her mouth. She almost came instantly. It was peaceful and sexy and just simple, like his cock was the puzzle piece that fit her perfectly, completed her, made her whole. She existed to be conquered, and realizing she was putting his pleasure over her ability to breathe was the final sign of her complete, loving surrender. She let it out, watched it glisten with her spit, and started licking it and loving it and she didn’t know how much came from her own need and how much it was a silent command by the man who had shown her the light. Her mind was too fuzzy to make such distinctions anymore.

He took a deep breath, fighting back the first signs of an orgasm. He needed to make a point.

“Linda… do you love Ava?”

The blonde stopped for a moment, shocked by a myriad of contradictions.

“Yes”, she decided. Her voice was shaking.

“Tell her”

Linda looked at Ava, the woman she had loved above all others.

“I love you…”

“But you have more to say, don’t you?”

“I… hmph… I…”

“Tell her”

“I love you… but… but… I love his cock so much more! Fuck! I need it! I need to feel it, to suck it, to be fucked by it… I’m sorry… but… I love it, I love it, I love it! I want it to fuck my throat, to take my cunt, to ram my ass! I need it! I need to be a slave to it, a whore for it, a fucking living toy!”

“What if you had to choose between Ava and my cock?”

“Fuck her! Sorry, my love… I do love you, but… You can never do to me what… what Master does to me, what his cock makes me feel! I hope I won’t have to dump you but… I would leave you for this cock in a minute! I’d do anything. Anything. Anything!” If she had more to add, her need to serve cock snuffed it. She took it all in with desperation, with total, shameless abandon. She needed to feel... used. In her proper place.

Ava felt a tear roll down her cheek. Her knees buckled in defeat. She didn’t even care. It was all gone. Her life, her love, all gone. And she could feel her eyes drawn again and again to the cock that had destroyed her. She felt her mouth watering.

“Linda, would you say you’re a lesbian?”

“Fuck no!”, she said before immediately wrapping her lips around the cock’s head.  

He felt a swell of pride. Of triumph. He knew Ava sensed the truth as well. He was right. He had proven his point. And now Ava’s full conditioning would take hold. A little bet with himself, making her own mental acknowledgment of his theory her final trigger. She took off her t-shirt. She would never wear it again. No more shame, no more pain about her figure. Only arousal and pride. His gift to her.

She crawled to him on all fours. The girls kissed– but now, they kissed for him, to arouse him. They were lovers, only they both knew there was a higher love. A truer love. Ava looked up at her owner and opened her mouth, greedily awaiting his blessing. Linda used her skillful hands, aiming his cock and teasing it, jacking it off, using just the right amount of pressure and speed. 

No man could resist such a sight.

In a few seconds, Ava was covered in his cum, more beautiful than she had ever been. Linda certainly felt that way, and she licked and kissed her sister slut clean.

He watched carefully, looking for signs of defiance, and finding none. In fact, Linda put his fears to rest with a simple statement.

“Ava, we need to buy you a pair of rainbow socks”

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu !!

[yandere-paramour]

Atlanta and Noelle's darling being the ever tired, this close to crying and yeeting their paper into a wall, edging ever closer to the forbidden number of cans of monster a day drinking PHD student about to defend their dissertation to the death for a doctorate.

Noelle says bad PhD students get sent to the box (the comfort room she has set up for you). Clearly, you can't be trusted to take care of yourself right now so she'll step in and do it for you. You're so lucky to have her, Darling. She's dragging you to the room and dumping you on the bed, forcefully confiscating your laptop from you so you don't work on that evil paper. She's going to run you a hot bath in her bathtub and make you relax in the dark with soft classical music. When that's over, she's setting up the snack stash and pulling out one of the craft kits she keeps stacked in the hall closet to appease you on your more restless nights. Maybe working with your hands a little will calm you down. She'll stay up as late as you need, sitting in that comfortable little room while disney movies play, letting you destress the way you need to. She's going to have to be careful not falling asleep first (Ata's really working her to the bone this week), she can't trust you not to steal your laptop back and stress yourself out again. Oh, and she's limiting your monster stash, she's not buying you any more until you can prove you'll drink responsibly. She doesn't understand why you'd want to get a PhD when she's taking care of you, but as long as it keeps you busy and content.

Atalanta looks at her Darling, who is buried in complicated and boring paperwork, crying as they're stuck in the same position for 9 hours, and thinks "Oh shit, that me". She remembers her own college days with fondness, but she also remembers the nights of endless studying, caffeine, and memorizing facts no one cared about. When she was young and stressed and needed to get away, she did just that, and she'll do the same for you. Atalanta will entice you into a car and before you know it, you'll be at the airport and she'll be ushering you into a private jet to spend the weekend in Europe. She will also lovingly hide your laptop because it is just stressing you out and you really need to relax, Darling. She will do anything to help you relax from taking you to the most historic museums to booking couples massages at spas normal people have to schedule appointments years in advance for. Even if it takes a while, no one can resist a combination of warm sun, good food, and a hot heiress who would move mountains at your command.

Vivien will drive you into the forest at night so you both can scream into the void together.

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

imagine steve waiting on you

this goes out to all my babes that love punk music

The hallway leading to your office was quiet, the echoes of Steve Roger's footsteps were quiet but pronounced. He checked his watch and smiled, you were supposed to meet him downstairs fifteen minutes ago. As he drew closer to your office, the silence had gave way to heavy, loud music. He chuckled to himself and opened the office door. As always his ears were assaulted by the sounds of lead vocalist Keith Morris of Black Flag. Of course, he had left the band citing creative differences and a self proclaimed coke habit but you had always preferred Morris's vocals over the other singers.

Why did Steve know this?

Because you were a complete music nerd and he adored getting you drunk to hear your rants over why the southern California punk movement produced some of the greatest punk bands of all time.

Anything for love.

"Your ears are going to bleed out," Steve turned down the speakers near the door and smiled over at you.

At your desk, you looked up from your computer. "Shit."

"Yup."

Steve looked handsome and put together, while you were wearing an old Bad Religion tee from your high school days. "Fuck."

Steve laughed, telling you it was fine. "I sorta lied about the reservation time, we still have an hour."

Shutting down your computer, because work can wait until tomorrow, you smiled up at your boyfriend. "You are so getting your dick sucked tonight."

He laughed, cheeks redder than a tomato. "At least let me buy you dinner..."

Moving from your desk to Steve, you melted into his arms as he kissed your forehead, then your lips. His arms wrapped around your body and you relaxed under his touch. "I can give you dessert now, if you want..."

Steve groaned but kissed you softly on the lips. "Later, baby. I know you haven't eaten much today. Let me take you out to dinner."

Nodding you kissed him once more. "Fine, I better go get changed. This dissertation is kicking me in the ass. After this is all done, I want to take a long vacation and fuck your brains out."

Again the man blushed but quickly added that California could be a good vacation spot. Your eyes immediately lit up and Steve laughed as you listed all the bands that came out of California. He helped motioned you out of the office, letting you go on and on because even though he hadn't the slightest clue what you were talking about - he loved seeing you so passionate and he had to admit, it kind of turned him on.

[lillaydee]

One More Try Part 2

Landlord Joel Miller / Reader

They say a woman is tested when her man has nothing. But a man is tested when he has everything. What happens if you both passed the test, but your partners did not?

WARNINGS:

Unplanned Pregnancy, Soft Joel (The Last of Us), SO MUCH FLUFF, Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Reader was pregnant before meeting Joel, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Mentions of Miscarriage (Not OC), Landlord Joel, No Outbreak AU

SERIES MASTERLIST

Part 1

---

Joel knocked on your door one Friday night about two weeks after you first moved in, quite aggressively, too, you thought. You opened the door, still in the clothes you were wearing to campus, a box of Chinese in your hand. He held up a cheque that you had slipped under his door on your way up. You had finally gotten your bank account sorted and got your first weekly pay as Frank’s RA, so you wrote a cheque as first payment for the medical bill he paid for you. You had budgeted it properly. If you clocked in eight hours a day for work and paid him half your weekly pay every Friday, you would finish paying him in four months. You could still do your dissertation work after that and on the weekends.

Damn he looked good. He was all dressed up. His usual t shirt swapped with a flannel, his usual light jeans swapped for a darker pair that looked newer, his hair styled a bit and combed neatly, and was he wearing cologne? You couldn’t help the smile that came to your face. You leaned against the door and joked,

“Wow Miller, you look good. Hot date?”

He flushed, slightly, but ignored your question. “What the hell is this?” he asked instead, waving the cheque in your face.

“It’s a cheque,” you answered, “You cash it at the bank for money.”

“I’m aware miss Smarty Pants, but what is it for?”

“Well… I have to start paying you back. For the hospital bill.”

“Did I ask you to pay me back?”

“No… but I got my first pay today, so I’m paying you back.”

He took a deep, controlled breath and tore the cheque before depositing it in the trash can beside your door, telling you to keep your money.

“Hey! What was that for?” you asked, a little bit annoyed.

“Keep it. For the baby. Don’t even think of paying me back.”

“Joel… I can’t…” but he held his hand up.

“Not taking no for an answer. I said keep it,” and walked away.

You went to the window in the corridor, watching him get in his truck and drive away. You didn’t know why, but you felt a bit deflated. Was it because he refused to accept your money? Or because you didn’t see him as often as you thought you would? After he went with the group to talk to Max, he came to your place once to fix your window, but Maria was there so you two didn’t talk much. You didn’t see him around much after that, you only got home after it’s dark, and left early in the mornings. You needed to, to fit in the eight working hours and still get a few hours of work done on your doctorate. He lived right below you, and yet you never saw him. And now, the first time you saw him in ten-ish days, he was dressed up, smelling so good and looking so delicious you could eat him alive. You heaved a sigh you didn’t know you needed to release. It had to have been a date, right? Men looking like Joel Miller do not sit around at home on Friday nights. They go out for single, non-pregnant ladies to flock around and swoon over.

You went back inside when his truck drove out of sight. He won’t take your cheque. Fine, you’ll just write him another one. You finished eating and got your laptop out. Time to do some work.

You woke up just after dawn broke that Saturday, your neck stiff from doing your work hunched over the coffee table. You needed to buy a proper desk if you were going to do your work at home, but that’s a bit beyond your budget right now. So, you quickly showered and left for the campus, your laptop bag on your shoulders, your trusted sling bag crossed over your body, a piece of plain toast in your hand for your breakfast. Joel’s truck wasn’t where it usually was. Of course he didn’t come home. Men looking like Joel Miller do not come straight home after a date, what stupid self-controlled women would let men looking like Joel Miller go home after a date? Your feet suddenly felt a bit heavy, trudging along to begin your few miles hike to campus. Your apartment was just outside the compound, but the campus was huge. You stayed in your study room all day, eating ramen and an apple for lunch. When you got home after sundown, his truck was still not there.

For the first time in years, you had no one to wait for. No one to call and check if they’re okay, or if they’re coming home for dinner. No one to wake up to when they come home late. It’s just you now. It’s only been two weeks, you thought. This was normal. You needed time to adjust to being alone again. You had ramen again that night, knowing that you probably needed to eat healthier stuff, but you didn’t have the energy to cook, not that you had anything to cook in your small kitchen. You had been surviving on cafeteria food and takeout, and whatever bits of groceries you could buy from the small store on campus. You thought about going to the farmer’s market the next day, but the thought just made you tired. You were simply not ready.

You decided to go to campus again that Sunday. If you were going to graduate on time, you needed to get your act together. You didn’t have time to mourn your relationship with a man who left you as if you hadn’t been supporting his hopes and dreams for the past ten years, you had your own future to think about. One where you would be a single mother, so you needed to complete this dissertation as fast as you could, while working as much as you could, so that you can make enough money to prepare for the baby’s arrival, and get a reliable, full-time job to support them and give them anything they needed growing up.

When you left for campus that Sunday morning, Joel was still not home, not that you were checking, or knocking on his door while you were slipping a newly written cheque under his door. But his truck was not out front, not that you were looking for it. You spent the entirety of your walk to campus wondering why you cared. Was it because he looked out for you even before he knew you? It had to be, no way you felt a certain way about him, right? If you did, and that was a big IF, it must be because you were feeling vulnerable. You couldn’t really be catching feelings for some man you just met two days after you got dumped, right? Plus, even IF you were indeed feeling that way, the man couldn’t possibly be available. He was out the whole weekend – he must have a girlfriend or something. One that he spends his weekends with. Yeah. That’s it. That’s where he was. So, get him out of your head, you pathetic, dumped, single pregnant lady. No need to imprint on the first man who was nice to you.

When you left for work on Monday, his truck was finally back. He must’ve come back late Sunday night; it wasn’t there when you arrived after spending more than 12 hours on campus. You felt great that day. No nausea at all, for some reason. Maria stayed with you after work for dinner, but you declined her offer to drive you home, thinking that you should get some more work done while you were feeling great. You promised her you would get an Uber to go home. But of course, you didn’t. You could walk the distance. You need exercise anyway. When you got home, Joel was standing outside the apartment building, his arms crossed across his chest.

“Did you just get back?” he asked. His eyes scanned the road. “Did you walk?”

“Erm… no… I went out for groceries. I took an Uber.”

“You don’t have any groceries with you, and I literally just saw you walk down the street.”

“What were you doing out here at this time?”

“I was taking the trash out, throwing some cheque someone kept writing for me when I specifically told her not to. Also, I am perfectly safe within the vicinity of my apartment, and not walking alone and pregnant in the dark,” he said.

“Joel, you have to take the money okay. Please cash my cheque. I can’t be relying on you like this,” you pleaded, ignoring his other statement.

“Have you been walking home alone at night all this while?” and… he ignored you right back.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, opening the door for you to get in. He walked you up and shut the door behind you when you walked into the safety of your apartment without saying another word.

The next day, after work, you were planning to go up to the study, when a wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere. Maria, concerned, offered to drive you home. But you told her that you couldn’t – the nausea will go away, you hadn’t been hit with it full on yet, so far. You had to use the study, you said. The coffee table was too low, and the kitchen counter was too high and too narrow for you to do your work comfortably. Okay, she said, let’s go to Ikea then, get you a proper study table. You kept quiet and shook your head, no. You paid for the study room; you are going to use it. You didn’t need to worry your best friend with your financial woes. Sure, the small settlement Max gave you had helped ease the burden off a few things, but you didn’t see why you needed to spend money you could save for the baby on a desk you didn’t really need, when you had the option of using the one at the room you paid for. So, you went upstairs, had a little nap in your chair, and did your work for a few hours, Maria having left only after you promised her you would Uber home if you felt too ill.

When you got to the apartment compound, your ridiculously good-looking landlord was right where he was the night before.

“Taking the trash out again Miller?” you asked playfully.

“You definitely walked,” he said. “It’s fucking far. It’s not safe,” he said.

You just rolled your eyes at him. “I’m a big girl Miller. Gonna be a mom soon, I can take care of myself.”

He rolled his eyes right back at you, silently opening the door, again, walking you up before shutting it closed behind you.

You were not at all okay on Wednesday, Frank telling Maria to drive you straight home after work, despite your many protests. She ordered food for the both of you, and you fell asleep before she even left. You had to take Thursday off, nausea hitting you full blast it woke you up. You spent the day in bed, falling in and out of sleep, running back and forth to the bathroom to empty your empty stomach further. Around lunchtime, a knock sounded at your door. You were too out of it to even get up to open it, and decided to ignore whoever it may be.

“I have a key, you know. So, you either open up, or I will open it myself,” your landlord’s voice came through.

Shit. You look around your small apartment, the full trash cans, the clothes from last night all over the place, your bags, your laptop, your plates… Shit.

“I can hear you moving around. You have one minute to open the door, or I’m coming in,” he warned.

Shit. You took the three steps from your bed to the door and opened it a smidge.

“Hi Joel.”

There he was, you handsome landlord, arms full of takeout bags and groceries.

“What’s all this?”

“A little bird told me you were too sick to work today, and that your place is woefully devoid of food. So, here I am.”

You were going to kill Maria. Tattle tale.

“You’re going to let me in?” he asked. “I promise I’m not a creep. Just trying to put my brother’s girl at ease. She’s going to kill me if I don’t help you out. So will my Mama.”

You took a deep breath and opened the door wider for him, cringing on the inside at how messy your place was. But he just shut the door with his elbow, made his way to the small kitchen before plating up some food for you, placed it in front of you at the coffee table, and told you firmly to eat. As you did, he moved about the small unit, picking this and that up, washing the dishes in the kitchen that was so small it made him look gigantic, and stored all the groceries he brought away. You didn’t even have the energy to protest, having used up all your energy to throw up all morning. You finished your food, placed the plate on the coffee table, pulled your feet up onto the loveseat and fell asleep, already feeling better than you did when he walked in.

You woke up about a few hours later in bed. How the hell did you get here? You could’ve sworn you fell asleep on the loveseat. You sat up and was immediately struck by the wonderful smell of something simmering gently on the stove, and, oh my God your apartment was spotless. All the mess you were worried about when Joel knocked were gone.

Shit. Joel. Did Joel clean up while you were sleeping? Your dirty laundry was gone... did he pick up your dirty underwear too? Oh… the horror.

The door unlocked, and Maria and Frank walked in. Both smiling at you, asking you how you were feeling.

“How did you get in? Where did you get my key?”

“Ran into your very good-looking landlord downstairs. He gave me a copy,” Frank said, his eyes naughty. “Maria called him before we left. Didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping.”

Maria placed the key and her purse on your coffee table, looking around the place, her eyes lingering on the pot on the stove. “Well, I was going to cook you something, but I see Joel took care of that.”

Frank got a spoon and sampled a bit of whatever it was on the stove. “Damn, that man can cook! He’s a good one darling. You should keep him,” he said, winking at you.

Maria snorted, while you just threw yourself face first onto the bed again. “How are you feeling babe?” she asked, stroking your hair softly, your mumbled ‘better’ into the mattress making her smile.

Frank sat on the loveseat and told you to take the rest of the week off. No use coming to work when you can barely stand, he said. Work can wait. You kept quiet, deciding to not share your worries with him, or anyone, for that matter. He stayed for a few more minutes before leaving you and Maria alone, saying he will only see you on Monday, and only IF you were feeling better, his finger pointing at you as a warning that he was serious. There was no use protesting anyway, you could hardly get off the bed.

Maria laid in bed with you, you two watching some show on Netflix on her tablet as she waited for Tommy to pick her up. Her car was at the shop today, and she insisted on staying with you until Tommy came with dinner, wanting to make sure you eat well, at the very least. She had known you since you both started your PhD journey, and she knew how neglectful you can be about food when it came to yourself, often opting to eat whatever you could get your hands on rather than putting much effort, especially when you were feeling sick. She turned the stove off, taking the pot off the burner. She took out some disposable containers from the cabinet, and ladled the contents into them, before leaving them on the counter to cool. You just watched, feeling thankful that you would at least have something to reheat and eat the next few days, unsure if you had the energy to do anything much.

When Tommy arrived, Joel came in with him, a basket of cleaned and folded laundry in his hands, placing it on the floor next to the closet after softly nudging the door shut. The four of you ate dinner amidst mild chit chats and laughter, Joel sitting cross legged on the floor with Tommy, you and Maria on the love seat. Somehow, you felt extremely comfortable, despite not spending much time with Tommy before your breakup, and only knowing Joel for a couple of weeks. Conversation flowed smoothly, and when dinner was done, they helped you clean up, before leaving you for the night.

You hugged Tommy and Maria goodbye, and turned to Joel, who was the last to leave the unit.

“Thank you, Joel. I don’t think I can thank you enough. I am mortified you cleaned up if I’m honest. I’m not usually this messy. And you did my laundry too!! Oh God… I’ve just been… anyway, I’m so sorry to be so much trouble. Thank you again Joel.”

“It’s no trouble. We all need some help from time to time. Like I said, I’m just downstairs. If you need anything, I’m right here. Okay?” he said, taking your hand in his for a bit, gently squeezing it, before quickly letting go.

You slept hard that night, your hand still feeling the ghost of his small touch earlier. So hard, you didn’t wake up until noon on Friday. You spent the day doing some work, hoping to make some progress even if a little, despite not feeling so good. The nausea had lessened for now, thank God. But the lethargy lingered. Too tired to do anything. God, you were not even three months in yet.

You had some of the soup Joel had made for you for lunch, man oh man the man could cook. You were contemplating heating up another serving for dinner when he knocked on the door, with a bag of takeout in his hands, all dressed up, just as he was last Friday. He told you he would be out for the weekend, but he won’t be far away, so if you needed anything, just give him a call, and he will be right over, okay? He handed you the bag, the smell of Thai food invading your senses. You told him he didn’t have to do this, you could order your own food, you feel better now, but he waved you away, and shut the door behind him, but not before reminding you to call him if you needed him.

You put the bag on the counter, and suddenly just felt… tired. You picked at the food he left you, feeling a different sort of nausea than you felt the days before.

You spent the entirety of the weekend at the study, putting in as much work as you can, so that you don’t think about your landlord spending the weekend at his girlfriend’s, instead of with you.

Shit. Pregnancy had made you delusional, hadn’t it?

---

WARNING - SOME MENTIONS OF BLOOD

You spent the next week avoiding Joel, spending more time at the study after work, walking home extremely late at night. It’s not right, you thought. He had someone; you were sure of it. Why else would he spend weekends away? And here you are, a hormonal, recently dumped mess of a woman, looking at some lucky lady’s boyfriend with heart eyes, all because he was a decent enough man to help you out every now and again. It’s not right. Max left you for someone else, you were going to make sure you didn’t contribute to another woman’s heart being broken if it was the last thing you did.

You found out from Maria that he and Tommy used to run a small but successful construction business, which went belly up when a developer for a big project that hired them ran off without paying them. Luckily, Joel had purchased the apartment complex with ten units to rent out before that happened, so they had a fallback income to rely on. Tommy helped out, managing the property, fixing this and that when needed, and eventually the two opened a small workshop, taking custom furniture orders. It started doing really well too, however, they had to cut back, a lot. They were no longer making the kind of money they were making when they had the construction business. Tommy was already living with Maria, but Joel had to sell his house and move into the complex, and that’s when his…

At this, Maria shook her head and stopped talking. You were sure there was more to the story but decided that with your newfound determination to avoid the man, it was none of your business.

Not that the plan worked, he was always at the entrance every time you got home. When you got home later and later, he took a chair out, and whittled at some wood under the light of the doorway while waiting for you. You limited your interactions to small smiles and a hello, but he didn’t falter. He would still walk you up, and closed the door behind you once you were in.

You went about your life for the next month or so, going to your appointment with Tess, working, fending off morning sickness, writing your dissertation, going home. And with the exception of his weekends away, Joel would be there waiting for you to get home safe. You wrote him a cheque for your medical bill every Friday, and every time, he would return them to you, or tear them up. Either way, no money was ever deducted from your account for that. It’s exasperating. It was as if he was determined to make your life hell, if hell consisted of thirsting over your ridiculously good-looking and gentlemanly landlord who wouldn’t take the money you owed him.

By the time your pregnancy hit four months, you were becoming more and more lethargic, falling asleep if you so much as sat still for a while. You were awoken one Thursday night at your study, a very worried looking Maria and Joel looking at you as if you’d died. He had gotten worried that you hadn’t come home, called you numerous times, but your phone was on silent. So, he called Maria, who flew out of her apartment to check up on you. He drove you home that night, not saying anything, but walked you up as usual, closing the door behind you.

The next morning, he was waiting for you at his truck when you left for work. He opened the passenger door for you, silently asking you to get in. You hesitated, but he pointedly told you he would drive alongside you the whole way over if he needed to, so you got in. He buckled you up, and drove you over, not saying anything as usual. When you left the faculty building late that night, his truck was right there, him whittling away on a piece of wood at the entrance, sitting on a folded chair he had brought along with him, all dressed up as he normally would be on Friday nights.

To say you were stunned was an understatement. It was almost ten at night, what was he doing there? Had to make sure you made it home safe, he said. Can’t have you falling asleep alone in that study again now, can we? You felt horrible. He was still obviously going to his girlfriend’s place, but he was delaying it to make sure you got home safe. You kept quiet during the short drive but stopped him before he got out of the truck to walk you up.

“Joel, you don’t have to do this. I can take care of myself. I refuse to be in the way of your life. Someone’s obviously waiting for you, Joel. How would they feel knowing you were late because you were picking up your pregnant tenant?”

He looked stunned for a little bit, but then smiled and said “well, I know for a fact that she’s proud of me.”

Huh???

“Where do you think I’ve been every weekend?”

“Er… I don’t know. Your girlfriend’s place?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Oh. Fuck, why are you blushing? You can’t see blushes in the dark, right?

“So where do you go every weekend?”

“These past few weekends? I take my mom out to dinner, and then spend the weekend with her. She lives alone, about 10 minutes from here. I usually only do that once a month, but she broke her foot a few weeks ago, so I went every weekend. Tommy joins too sometimes.”

Aww… shit. Good-looking, gentlemanly and kind to his mother. What the fuck were you going to do now?

---

That Sunday you decided to skip any form of work at all. You cleaned, ordered some groceries online and went downstairs to do your laundry. Your neighbours mostly consisted of single university students, usually much younger than you, with the exception of Mrs Adler, an older lady staying there while her house was being fixed due to fire damage. She was chatting you up while you were folding, when two younger tenants came in, girls in their early twenties, wearing next to nothing, showing off their perfect bodies. They were both expressing their disappointments that a certain older man was not around that day.

“Awww… looks like I’m gonna need to break my shower on purpose…” girl one said.

“Not if mine breaks first!!” girl two interrupted, before they both erupted in good natured laughter.

You couldn’t blame them. He was a good-looking man. And if being in his mid-30s made him older then you were old too. Except, when a woman is in her mid-30s, she’s old. When a man is in his mid-30s, he’s mature, at least according to the early twenties like these two. You couldn’t help but stare at their exposed body parts, the young, cellulite free body parts with supple skin that you used to have over 10 years ago. Nowadays, whatever crash diets that worked like a charm in your early twenties no longer worked, and you being pregnant was not helping. Those bodies of theirs were but a dream of what you used to have and can never ever have again.

No wonder Max left you for a younger model. And what would Joel want with you if he had these two stalking his whereabouts wearing next to nothing?

“You know dear, Joel is a very mature man. He won’t fall for those girls, no matter how hard they try. Joel is… sensible.”

You stared at Mrs Adler. Huh? Did you think out loud or something?

“I’ve known that boy since he was two. His mama is a good friend of mine. He’s a good man. He was raised right. And I know that he has been paying attention to you my dear,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Oh, come on Mrs Adler, why would he want someone like me,” you pointed at your small baby bump, “instead of those hot student bodies? He’s just a man you know.”

“Darling, the way those girls talk about him, if he wanted them, he could’ve had them. All he had to do was ask. He doesn’t. I think you should give him a chance.”

“He has never asked me out or flirted with me, Mrs Adler. I think you’ve been thinking too much,” you joked, laughing to hide your blushes.

“Oh… I don’t know… his mama told me he hasn’t shut up about a certain tenant of his…” she said, winking at you. “Oh honey, I’m just messing with you,” she coaxed, seeing you blush. “But that boy is shy dear, he is not one to flirt with you outright, if he does ask, give him a chance. God knows that boy deserves a good woman… after what he’d been through…” she shook her head sadly, before going to get her stuff from the dryer.

Okay, you need to know what it was that he’d been through now. Maybe you’ll ask Maria.

---

That week, he dropped you off on campus every morning, and picked you up every night, Monday and Friday being the only exception. After the calamity that was the previous Friday night you made a point to leave by eight that Monday, worried that he might wait for you like he did then. But he wasn’t there. Although relieved, there was a small part of you that felt a bit disappointed, but you brushed it off. After Max, you couldn’t afford to fall for someone so quickly. Once bitten, twice shy. He was just your landlord, he was nice. He helped you out the way any decent man would. That’s all.

When you arrived at the apartment an hour later, he was just about to leave to get you. He looked a little disappointed that you were already there, but walked you up anyway, again, silently closing the door behind you. The next day, he made sure to ask you what time you plan on going back, and when you tried to protest he raised his eyebrows at you. So, you told him 9pm. You saw his truck in the parking lot by 830.

On Friday, Maria stayed back with you, both of you deciding to go to the library after work. You texted Joel telling him your plan, so that he could go to his mother’s without having to wait for you. To your shock, his truck was still there when Maria dropped you off. He was sitting at his usual spot in his t shirt and shorts, waiting for you. He stood up when you got there. Maria saw and hid a smile from you, but recovered by asking you if you’d like to go to the farmers market with her and Tommy the next day? They’ll pick you up at eight.

Joel walked you up as usual. You asked him why he’s not at his mom’s, and he just shrugged and said her foot was better, thank you for asking. He’ll see her over the weekend.

The next day, Joel was waiting for you in his truck, and not Maria. You two will meet them there, he said. The drive to the farmer’s market was quiet, but you had never felt awkward when in silence with Joel. He was that comforting to be around. When you got to the market, you were met by both Tommy and Maria, both grinning at the sight of the two of you together, Joel helping you out of the truck as usual. He took the tote you had brought and refused to give it back to you.

As the four of you went around the market, Joel walked silently beside you, his presence bringing you warmth. Anytime you purchased something, he would take the items off your hands and placed them in the bag, but not before trying to fight you off paying the vendor. Over the next hour, this became a joke for the both of you, each competing to pay for something you wanted to buy before the winner eventually pumped a victorious fist and the two of you laughing as if you had known each other forever. Without realising it, you two were standing closer and closer together, and he began placing his hand on the small of your back to lead you away from vendors once you were done shopping. Tommy and Maria walked hand in hand behind you, both exchanging meaningful looks and satisfied smiles with each other.

You stopped for brunch at the café near the market before going home. You and Joel had gotten comfortable enough to share a menu and lean into each other as you perused it, wondering what you wanted to eat. When the food arrived, the four of you ate and chatted. You were feeling so comfortable for the first time since you had moved in, and unthinkingly, you took a piece of fruit from Joel’s plate. Once the fruit had entered your mouth, you paused, horrified at what you just did, and turned to look at him, an apology on your lips. You looked across the table, and Maria was just beaming at you, Tommy smiling so brightly at Joel you thought his face was going to crack. When you turned to look at Joel again, he just had the biggest smile on his face, and he pushed the plate nearer to you, before spearing a piece of omelette from your plate onto his fork and ate it. All the while, he was looking at you with a smile, daring you to chastise him.

Of course you didn’t.

After the meal, the four of you walked back to the car, still chatting and laughing as if you had known each other forever. When you got to his truck, he opened the door for you, making sure you were sat and buckled, before moving to put the tote you had brought in the back seat.

“Joel”, a voice called out.

Joel turned and went stock still. A lady with blonde hair was standing a few feet away, a man holding the hand of a little girl behind her. The little girl looked to be about five years old, her eyes and hair a carbon copy of her father’s, clearly distracted by a toy she was holding in her other hand.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stared. His eyes on the little girl and the man holding her hand, the man who was averting his eyes, looking annoyedly anywhere else but at Joel.

“How have you been?” the lady asked, her face nervous and unsure, her eyes flickering towards you.

Tommy and Maria reappeared, Maria going to the lady, and had a quiet but obviously heated discussion with her. Tommy took Joel by the shoulder and encouraged him to get back in the car. After some wild hand gestures from both ladies, Maria walked back to Joel’s truck, and the lady walked away, looking defeated. The man with her quickly handed the little girl to her, and turned away, his face unreadable.

After some quiet talks from Tommy, Joel started the engine and drove away.

It was as if someone had pushed the reset button on Joel. He shut down, hands gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, his face tight, jaws clenched. You didn’t dare ask him anything, so you kept quiet. He didn’t speak at all, even as he pulled the door shut behind him after walking you up, placing the tote in your hands.

You spent Sunday morning cooking a big batch of your favourite meal. The small room had begun to feel like home to you, and cooking in the tiny kitchen made it even more so. You made enough for you to freeze and reheat over the week and decided to put several servings in a container to give to Joel. He did cook for you when you were sick, maybe it’s time you did something nice for him. He didn’t answer his door, so you placed the container on the doormat, hoping he would take it when he was available. Just as you turned around to leave, the door opened, so you quickly picked up the container to hand to him, but it wasn’t him at the door.

A kind-looking, older lady was there instead, and you just paused. She took one look at you, smiled, held her hand out to you and said,

“You must be Julia from 1A. Hi. Anita Miller. Come in! I’ve been dying to meet you.” She opened the door wider, and waited for you to come in.

“Sorry I was late answering the door,” she said, hobbling alongside you once you were inside. “My foot is still not 100%. Joel is at one of the apartments fixing something or other. Come sit, we can get to know each other,” she said, sitting down, patting the seat next to her.

You sat down and took in the apartment. You had never been to his apartment before. You realised quickly that it was nothing like yours, obviously renovated to create a bigger space for him. There seemed to be more than one bedroom, the place exceedingly clean for a bachelor pad. You understood now why Joel was so comfortable picking up after you that one time you were sick.

You and Anita chatted, getting to know one another. Her husband died about fifteen years prior, passing his construction business to Joel and Tommy to handle. They were young and made some mistakes trusting the wrong people. But they got back up, doing what they really wanted to do, using what skills they had learnt to supplement their incomes. She had a very proud mama look on her face when talking about the two. She had come to visit Joel after she had heard about the encounter at the farmer’s market. She planned on staying a few days, just to make sure Joel was fine.

You so wanted to ask her what that was about but didn’t want to seem nosy. She asked you about your pregnancy, reminiscing on when she was pregnant with her two boys while doing so. You liked her. She was very easy to talk to, but you couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that she was measuring you one way or another, and you couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or bad. Still, you found yourself telling her everything. It was the first time you did so. When it first happened, you told Maria and Frank the gist of it, and hadn’t had the energy to tell her anything more. Anita listened, and at the end, pulled you close to her, enveloping you in a hug.

The door opened, and you pulled yourself away from Anita’s hug. Joel walked in, a toolbox in his hand, his shirt and hair soaking wet. You guessed one of the young ladies showerheads had broken after all. He took a look at you and his mother on the couch, and turned slightly red. He muttered a quick hello before going into his bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him. You began to make excuses to leave, but Anita held your hand – don’t you dare, her eyes and raised eyebrows said, eerily like Joel’s. You took the container you had brought and suggested that you serve them lunch. Joel must be hungry.

Joel came out freshly showered and changed to his dining table set with lunch. He took a look at how you and his mama were talking easily to each other, his heart feeling fuller than it had been in years. He sat down, and the three of you ate, Anita complementing you on your cooking, Joel helping himself to a second serving, you and Anita talking about the little things going on in your lives.

Anita couldn’t help but look at her oldest boy, reading his minute body languages that she had known so well ever since he was in her belly. He was calm, relaxed. He didn’t say anything, but the silent looks he gave you told her everything. And this Julia from 1A, you seemed guarded, but somehow at the same time at ease with Joel. She liked you. You and Joel were quietly chancing looks at each other, something neither of you realised you were doing. But Anita saw. And she was happy about it. Tommy and Maria were not wrong, it seemed.

Mrs Adler came by after lunch, and the two older ladies went into the spare bedroom to catch up on their gossip. You helped Joel clean up, something that felt backwards to you. Max had never helped out in the kitchen. And you felt like you just saw a glimpse of the past that you hadn’t seen before. You thought back to the time Joel spent with you at the hospital, and remembered why you didn’t think of Max when the ultrasound session was going on. When your appendix burst a few years ago, Max only visited you for a few minutes every day, always having somewhere to be, important, money-making places. But you were the supporting girlfriend, so you didn’t mind.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Joel, asking you if you would join him for a walk. He had eaten a bit too much and needed one to avoid sleeping the evening away. Someone’s cooking was too good, he said, giving you a small wink. The two of you spent the next forty minutes or so walking around the area, you told him about your work and research, and in turn, he told you about the apartment building and his workshop. The Joel you saw back at the farmer’s market was back, it seemed. The two of you bantering and exchanging stories with each other, comfortably walking, shoulders brushing every now and again.

When you got back to the apartment, Mrs Adler was just leaving. You hugged Anita goodbye, feeling as if you had known her forever. She gave you a long and tight hug, telling you not to be a stranger. Joel walked you up as usual, but instead of silently shutting the door behind you, he took you by the wrist, and leaned in for a quick kiss on your cheek, thanking you for lunch. You kissed him back, also on the cheek, and asked him if he will drive you to work the next morning. His shyly nodded, his face blushing slightly, before turning around to leave.

You caught yourself smiling a lot for the rest of that day, even as you were mopping the floors, cleaning the bathroom, wiping the kitchen down. You felt silly, but you liked what you were feeling, just like a little girl with a crush. You went to bed smiling that night. You were still smiling when you got ready for work the next morning.

That was until, you looked at your feet in the shower and found the water red with blood from between your legs.

PART 3

[rottenpumpkin13]

what makes the boys happy?

Angeal: Being financially secure and able to take care of his mother, playing his guitar, having access to healthcare and having healthy friends, a full fridge, growing his plants, giving classes to the Seconds and Thirds, Zack’s happy fist pump when he lands a hit correctly, watching his friends enjoy food he cooked for them, the smell of fresh earth and blooming flowers, and the sight of The Buster Sword intact without anything marring its blade.

Genesis: Reading his favorite books, the sight of his organized bookshelf, going to the theater, drinking Banora White juice, re-reading his Loveless dissertations, the smell of leather, cinnamon-apple candles, winning a spars, watching the sun set over Midgar, buying new clothes, the taste of spicy candy, and when his friends agree to do something he enjoys because they care about him.

Zack: Late night runs walks around the city, hanging out with his friends, the feeling of helping people and changing someone’s day, sunflowers, beating his own records in the combat sim, meeting new people, meeting personal goals, running barefoot in the grass, the taste of cookies when they’re fresh out the oven, climbing trees, bonfires with his friends, and getting his hair just right in the morning.

Sephiroth: The feel of Genesis braiding his hair, late night conversations with his friends, the taste of Angeal’s pasta, seeing his friends first thing in the morning because it’s a sign he’ll have a good day, the sound of Angeal playing the guitar, the way Genesis recites Loveless just right, when Angeal laughs too hard and can no longer stand, dinners at Angeal’s place, helping his friends train, falling asleep when his friends are around, and when Genesis hugs him and doesn’t let go first.

The problem with Sephiroth’s happiness is that it was completely eradicated when Genesis and Angeal left.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

How to avoid falling for Faction Paradox Propaganda and Time Lord (both, the Great Houses and the House Military) Propaganda?

How do I avoid falling for Faction Paradox propaganda?

Here's your unofficial guide to not falling for the mind-bending tricks of Faction Paradox:

���� Question Everything: Remember, Faction Paradox members love a good mind twist. When confronted with their spiel, ask yourself, "would believing this make me want to wear a skull mask and dance around bonfires?" If yes, double-check the source.

📚 History Is Your BFF: Gallifrey's past is more tangled than Rapunzel, but if you can, try and learn a little lore to sniff out when someone's trying to rewrite the history books to their liking.

🤝 Embrace the Echo Chamber... Not: Break free, human! Listen to the Time Lord's ramblings, read the undergraduate's dissertations, and even listen to that guy in the corner muttering about "the end of time." Diverse opinions are the antidote to brainwashing.

🕵️ Emotions - The Sneaky Culprit: Beware when the Faction starts playing an emotional tune. If you find yourself tearing up or burning with rage at their tales, it's time to get outta there.

🔍 Temporal Jargon Bingo: "Frozen in time" and "paradoxes" sound cool to lesser lifeforms, but if you can play bingo with their jargon, it's propaganda.

🚫 Indoctrination - Not Today, Satan: If your new Faction Paradox pals start insisting their way is the only way, it's time to go.

🛡️ Psychic Defense 101: If you're psychically inclined, remember to keep those mental shields up.

Time Lords and Great Houses

We shall not be offering any reply to the question of propoganda in Time Lords. Time Lords are paragons of virtue led by the infallible Rassilon, making Gallifreyan narratives pristine and unblemished. When Rassilon speaks, it's poetry, a symphony of truth that resonates through the vortex. Rassilon's hallowed words are absolutely not propaganda, and we know this, because Rassilon said so.

Related:

💬|🏡🧬What are the top ten Houses for weird biology?: How Houses affect biological traits in Gallifreyan society, ranked by weirdness.

💬|🏡👪What does a traditional family/House dynamic look like?: Houses and their internal structures.

💬|🏡😈What benefits of Time Lord biology does a fully initiated member of House Paradox gain upon initiation?: Biological advantages for those of Faction Paradox.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴