#Rectangle of Reality

[brian-in-finance]

A Tale of Two Tonys

and Brian knows the difference 😉

Part One of Four

It was suggested elsewhere in July* Brian confuses the Tonys’ roles. Brian’s own posts say otherwise. 🙃 (*Waited for today’s Happy Birthday 🥳)

Tony the band manager ⬇️

Band manager Tony McGill with Caitríona Balfe, his wife, in London England, 29 November 2023 (Image: Dave Benett/Wirelmage)

Tony the music producer ⬇️

Music producer Tony Hoffer with Joanna Sims, his wife, in Lyon France, July 2024 (Image: Instagram)

Here are some examples that dispute Brian confuses the Tonys’ roles. (Try to laugh with me. 😉)

Five posts, one theme

1.

Screenshot from Brian 27 March 2021

2.

• • •

Screenshots from Brian 30 April 2021

3.

The actress and her Scottish music producer husband tied the knot in August 2019, at St. Mary's Church in Bruton, Somerset, in the U.K. Much like their pregnancy news, the couple was discreet with their intimate nuptials.

• • •

Screenshots from Brian 18 August 2021

4.

• • •

Screenshots from Brian 6 March 2023

5.

• • •

Screenshots from Brian 8 March 2023

Remember… he’s not a music producer, by the way. I just have to do this... He really hates this because he manages bands. He's in artist management. One person wrote it and now everybody does. — Caitríona Balfe

Later edit: “Waited for today’s Happy Birthday” in the first paragraph should say “yesterday’s.” The birthday is 12 October. I got busy, posted late, and forgot to update. Oops… (This bit won’t show up on reblogs posted before 19 October 2024.)

[poppetsisters]

Found this old PS1 game in my grandfather's attic. I wonder if it'll run despite all the scratches on it.

[satoblue]

your heart sinks with every nauseating tick of the clock, signaling the hours that pass until dinner.

satoru promised he’d be here on time no matter what and so you waited, yet you find yourself alone at the table, unable to stomach your food. with a heavy sigh, you store everything inside containers to put in the fridge, making sure to cover his plate in saran wrap for when he returned so he could heat it up, ignoring that dark voice in the back of your head that told you it wasn’t necessary because he might not be coming back to you at all.

shaking away the negative thoughts, you head to bed, only to toss and turn in your sheets for what feels like an eternity because oddly enough, it doesn’t feel the same. they’re colder than usual, unlike the home you’re used to, and perhaps that was because you normally could not sleep without him. but combined with the anxiousness and worry, it was practically impossible at this point, and somehow the warmth around you fades increasingly every moment he’s not here with you.

frustrated and fearful tears prick at your eyes, and you clutch his pillow close to your chest, inhaling the lingering scent of your husband and hoping it never fades. could this be it? would this finally be the day he doesn’t return back safely into your arms? the day you’ve dreaded ever since he made you part of his world?

in the deafening and unnatural silence, you think your ears play a trick on you when they pick up on a distant clattering down the hall from your bedroom. your eyes shoot open, breath hitching — and the beating organ in your chest stops for a second. perhaps it was the cat? or perhaps it was a trick from how loudly your heart thunders in your ears and chest. it does absolutely nothing to stop you as you slowly pad your way back into the dimly lit kitchen for the final time that night, seeking the hopeful confirmation that will breathe stability back into your lungs.

……..it was him. it was really him. he was back.

but he was hurt.

though you felt in that moment it was the least of your current concerns so you’d acknowledge that later. he seemed fine in the grand scheme of things. right now however, you felt more relief than anything — and maybe a little bit of anger. not at him though, never at him, not truly.

you felt frozen in place, watching as he rummages through the refrigerator. rubbing your eyes and blinking away the fatigue and tears, you try ensuring what you were seeing was reality and not just a figment of your imagination, your words stuck in your throat. in an attempt to stay strong, inevitably, your voice wobbles.

“you’re late.”

and satoru, that idiot, whips his head to face you with wide eyes, straightening up at the sight of you before flashing a sheepish grin in response despite the numerous cuts littering his pretty face, rubbing the back of his neck in the way that he does when he’s at a loss for words. and maybe he is, maybe because he almost just died, and yet instead of coming to greet you and tell you that he’s safe (for the most part) — instead he decides to ravage the fridge, one scarred arm stuck in the cool rectangle like a child caught sneaking cookies from the jar.

“i know. i’m always late.” he breathes through an infuriating huff of laughter, as if everything was okay. “i told you i’d be home for dinner — and technically it’s not midnight just yet……so i still made it on time, right?”

he always has to have the last word.

[honeybunnyale]

Dream Walking l M.K.

The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli

w.c. : 4.1k

t.w. : Dark Fic, Smut (Dub-Con due to reader believing it was all a dream), angst, jealousy between the moon boys

a/n : Please read warnings for all of my works before reading. 18+ only! Also, this was inspired by the song Dream by the Pied Pipers.

Summary: Therapy and the consequences of your sleeping pills.  He couldn’t be real; it was just your brain confusing dreams with reality.

“Can you tell me what happens in your dreams?”

You play with your fingers, staring into the floor, its pattern strange circles. You’ve never seen a carpet like it, you think it was meant to be soothing, almost like the paintings she has of waves and the lakes on her walls. Unlike the harsh edges and corners of squares or rectangles, perhaps? You felt anything but soothed- 

She clears her throat. You glance up and you feel your stomach turn, your cheeks fill with heat.

“Uh- I just. I get ready for bed, and then it comes in through the window.”

“Which window?” she asks calmly, almost as if she were bored. 

“The one in my bedroom.”

She nods at you to continue. You hesitate and of course she notices.

“You can continue.”

You inhale sharply, your legs bounce in anxiety.

“He- “

“He?”

“Yes, it’s a he. Sorry.”

She nods as if she understood. She looks down and writes something on her pad. You pretend that you didn’t notice the irritating scratches against the paper.

“Uhm. He… stays at my apartment for a while.”

“Doing what?”

You look up at her and shake your head lightly. Heat rises to your cheeks ten times hotter.

“… nothing.”

She sighs, closing her notepad and uncrossing her legs. She puts her elbows on her knees and leans closer to you.

“I won’t be able to help you if you're not completely honest with me?” she scolds lightly. She sounds like a mother, a threat behind her soft words.

You look away from her eyes and focus on her shoulder.

“I know.”

“Good.”  Her lips purse into a small smile. Her eyes flicker down.

She checks her watch and sighs. She stands.

“Looks like our time is up.”

You stand immediately and move to the door. She stops you with a hand to your shoulder.

“I do hope that you try to open up more.” She pauses. “Next time.” Of course, not for free.

You nod.

“See you next time.”

…

He picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist. His tongue slithers inside of your mouth and he tastes the sweetness of the honey you put in excess of in your tea and the bitterness of the leaves.

He stumbles around your apartment, looking for your bedroom all the while groping you through your clothes. You moan into his mouth as he starts to move his kisses down to your throat, sucking and mouthing a path.

He reaches where your neck and shoulder meet and bites down hard. You cry out and hiss. He was always a little aggressive with you, lugging your around, positioning you in different ways, fucking you until you almost passed out. You liked it. You always looked forward to when the moon shines because of him.

You always wake up with bruises that didn’t seem to be well hidden under make up and scratches that weren’t there the day before. He always left some to remind you of the night before.

At least, that’s what you like to think happened. Doctors say that you sleepwalk, that your brain doesn’t fully rest. It was the only logical explanation. It adds up. Especially since some of your stuff was misplaced or thrown to the floor the morning after. 

He laid you on the bed, clawing at your sleep pants and shoving them down. His fingers met your flesh and you cried out from the way he slammed into you so quickly. He filled you, the sound of his cock driving into you making a thick squelch resound around your bedroom. 

“You're so wet, Sweetheart. You miss me that bad?”

He smirks.

God, how you wish he were real.

…

“Hey Steven,” you greet cheerily.

He completely ignores you as he walks by, instead hurriedly walking to the back room where all of the storage was held.

Your face falls. Of course, he wouldn’t notice you, no one did. You ignore the amused stares of the others around you.

How pathetic of you, assuming he would even look in your direction. Assuming anyone would look in your direction.

Marc is angry. He thought you deserved the world. He wished he could be there with you. But alas, he had to make Steven believe that he was the only person in that dim witted brain of his.

But seeing tears form under your lashes, and seeing you brushing off your embarrassment set him off. Steven falls to the floor, tripping, seemingly on air.

Whenever Marc saw you glance in his direction Steven was dealt with another, minor, injury. A paper cut, a hit to his funny bone, biting his cheek when eating.

He didn’t feel jealous of the way you looked at Steven. He didn’t think Steven didn’t deserve your attention. He definitely didn’t hate the way you’d get sad whenever Steven couldn’t even remember your name. No. All he had to do was remember that you two would see each other again. That Steven was temporary.

You only liked Steven because he looked like him.

…

You were tired, even in your dreams it seemed. You’ve dealt with fatigue before; you were used to feeling it weigh you down. You were starting to get better especially with the meds you’ve been prescribed. The side effects freak you out though. You’ve learned to live with them.

As you lay beside him, heavy in his arms with sleepiness, you think back on the first time he appeared to you.

It was a particularly mind numbing night. You kept on thinking about the incident. The bodies piled upon bodies of people that hurt you. You couldn’t help but feel as if even then, they didn’t deserve their fates, despite the way they kidnapped you and threatened your life for ransom money.

Money that was never going to arrive anyway. 

You owed your life to him, the man wrapped in bandages and with golden crescents in both hands. But you were terrified when he snatched you up, the fabric of his suit covered in blood and rubbing against your clothes. You didn’t think heroes would decapitate the villains. You didn’t think they would leave their enemies so beaten it was almost impossible to identify their dead bodies.

You turned in your bed and were met with him, now cleaned of any blood and watching from the foot of your bed. The drugs were messing with your mind. The pills made you numb.

You sat up and stared back, unafraid.

He left after that and kept on coming back once every week, then twice, then thrice, until it became every night.

You felt noticed. You felt good about yourself. In a way, the thought of a man coming into your house, just to be in your presence, made you feel nice. Even if it wasn’t real.

He implemented himself into your nightly routine smoothly.

You sleep in his arms and wake up tucked in your bed, you almost cry from the thought that you had to go to work. You wish you were asleep a little longer.

…

You offered him a cup of tea, and he took it gently, brushing his fingers over yours. Uncovering his face from the bandages and blowing softly, he pushes the steam to you. Your face scrunches from the heat and you huff. He chuckles as you repeat the action back to him.

“You look like my coworker,” you say after staring at him for a couple of seconds.

He freezes and places his cup on the counter in front of him. You tap your nails against the wood and tilt your head as if you were analyzing him like an art enthusiast.

“You’re grumpy and you lost the accent, but you look the same.”

Marc frowns.

“The same curls, too. I didn’t think he looked this handsome up close.”

“I'm not Steven,” he mumbles.

“Yeah… I know.”

He didn’t like the way you said that so sadly. As if it pained you that he wasn’t Steven. As if Steven was the one holding you, caring for you, and pleasing you.

“I'm better,” he says sharply. Your brows furrow at his sudden shift in tone.

“He doesn’t even notice you. He doesn’t even think about you. You mean nothing to him.”

“W-what?” you stutter out.

He ignores you, opting to shout, even as you start to tremble.

“You’re always drooling over him, and he doesn’t even care.”

“I don’t- “

“It’s pathetic, the way everyone else can see that you have no chance and yet you still believe somewhere, deep in your heart, that there could be something- that there even would be anything if he looked in your direction.”

You started to breathe heavily. He finally stopped when he saw you stand from your table quickly, making the chair underneath you crash against the floor.

“Why are you saying these things to me?” you sob.

He tried to get closer to you. To calm you down.

“You’re n-not real! You are not real!”

You close your eyes tightly. Wishing that you would wake up, that his words were just a dream turned nightmare.

He enveloped you in his arms and you tried to claw your way out of his hold. You felt as if you were being suffocated. You couldn’t take a full breath in.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe with me.”

His hold on you tightens and he turns your back to his front. He breathes in deeply. You feel his chest rise and fall exaggeratedly.

You try to follow but you keep on getting choked on your own stuttering breaths. He loosens slightly and gestures with his hand in time with his breaths.

When you calmed, you felt your whole body slump. The energy zapped out of you. You didn’t see him reach back and sprinkle something into your mug. 

He brings your tea to your lips. The strange new taste didn’t reach your brain. After a few minutes your eyes start to feel heavy. Your head is now turning to mush. You can only hear him, whispering into your hair, even as you start to lose consciousness.

“I'm sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry, baby…”

You wake up dead tired, the last thing you remember from your dreams was the man in white telling you his name wasn’t Steven. You wonder why the dream was shorter than usual.

… 

“He told me his name wasn’t Steven.”

She stares at you.

“He seemed upset- “

“Do you think that maybe, this entity you’ve made in your subconscious and has to do with the incident.”

With a tight-lipped smile she continues, ignoring your surprised look.

“Witnesses say that the suspect was wrapped in bandages and had glowing eyes, things you’ve described this person in your dreams as having. Could you be making this figure in your head, perhaps in an attempt to stabilize your fear?”

“I don't- “

“You did say you had feelings for your co-worker. Are you associating this person with someone you know? Some encounters might be inherently sexual because of your feelings for Steven.”

You feel tears gather in your eyes; a deep sadness builds within you. You knew from the start that he wasn’t real, that he was a dream, but you felt as if you have a relationship with him, a deep and emotional relationship. Of course he was a result of trauma.

She made sense, you didn’t. As always. You had to face reality again. She thought you were getting too into your fantasies.

You cry silently and she watches from her seat, not moving from where she sat to console you in what you felt was a deep loss.

…

He sits on your bed, watching as you lay on your side and face the wall. Your back was to him, and you didn’t turn as you felt his weight press against the mattress. He knew you were awake by the way your heart thuds erratically as he snakes his hand up your shirt and smooths over your back. He unhooks your bra skillfully and you sharply inhale.

You didn’t move. Instead, you close your eyes tightly and shoving him away. The pang of rejection turns into that of irritation. He moves over your body, but his face softens when he sees tears fall from your eyes.

His mask retracts and his gloved hand comes up to caress your cheek, swiping at a tear.

“What happened?” he asks. “Who made you cry?”

You don’t look at him, instead focusing your gaze on his shoulder.

“You’re not real.”

He guffaws and pulls you to sit up in his lap. He cradles your face with both hands, making you look directly at him.

“I'm real. As real as can be.”

You pull his hands away. He pouts.

“You’re a dream.”

“I’d hope so.”

Your lip wobbles and your brows twitch uncontrollably.

“I wish you were real.”

He pulls you against his chest, urgently trying to comfort you. It just made you cry harder.

“It’s true, she told me. You're just something I made up in my head. I knew from the start- b-but once she told me… I just feel pathetic,” you say in between hiccups.

He shivers at your use of that word. He feels guilt and anger build in his stomach

“Who told you this?” You were too caught up in your emotional breakdown to notice the danger in his voice. Or the rumble that resounded in his chest filled with pure rage at the idea that someone could have hurt you this badly.

“My psychiatrist, the one who gave me the pills to sleep better.” You were confused. If he was something that you made up in your head, how could he not know everything that was already in there.

His anger built up. His hands tighten around your shirt as he rocked you. He thinks he’s going to pay someone a visit.

“I need a name, baby,” he says softly, against your hair. You mumble out a quiet response.

“Address?” You adjust against his hold and start to play with the crescent on his chest. He almost didn’t hear you when you said the street name from how quiet you’d gotten.

He kisses the side of your head. His hands rub your back soothingly as you cry against him.

“I'm going to prove I’m real. You won’t have to cry again.”

… 

Steven’s been having dreams. Dreams of you. They usually feel as if he’s waking up. As if he was placed in situations with you at random.

They were only glimpses, blips of your face and cheeky smile. He always felt incredibly hot whenever he saw you in compromised positions, stopping for a moment to gather himself and then continuing whatever dream he was doing.

He now has your moans, your little gasps and your begs on his mind. He really didn’t know where they came from.

“Stevie!”

He almost drops the boxes in his hands.  He sees someone round the corner.

“It’s Steven, actually!” he shouts back in irritation.

He grumbles under his breath cursing the job he’s stuck with at the moment. He turns and regrets the impression he made, especially since you caught him yelling.

Donna looks between the both of you, motioning Steven over. He looks at you in awe. You looked exactly like his dreams up close. From the mark on your cheek to the small scar under your jaw.

You felt insecure as he basically ogled at you, probably judging you as Donna talked.

“… Anyways, Steven, I brought you help. Show her where things go and what not.”

“Course’ Donna,” he says as he continues to stare at you.

She made a face at the fact that he was being weird, weirder than usual at least. That was none of her business. She left quickly after.

You look around the room in concern. It was incredibly disorganized. When Donna asked or more like threatened you to help, you thought it wasn’t going to be as bad as she made it seem. You thought it seemed much worse now that you’re there.

“Uh… hi I’m- “

“Oh, I know who you are. No need to introduce yourself,” he says cheerily as he places his hand on your shoulder.

You smile shyly, but your heart thumps wildly. He reminded you so much of your dream man. His gaze was very heavy. Intense. You chuckle awkwardly when his hand doesn't move and instead his fingers spread on your shoulder.

His thumb rubs against your clavicle and he zones out. His eyelids lower slightly and his tongue peeks out a little between his lips. Your whole body goes hot. He stares into your shoulder. His hand looks huge on your shoulder.

He wonders what other part of your body his hands would look good on. You clear your throat lightly. He snaps out of it, realizing his hold on you was getting too tight.

“Right! Thank you for the help, darling. I could really use it right now,” he smiles warmly.

“N-no problem.” Your stomach was filled with butterflies. You felt as if you wanted to puke. Darling. Jesus.

He shows you where the things are supposed to be. Telling you a random fact about each piece of merchandise and ranting to you about when they got things wrong or were factually incorrect. You listen intently, catching his every word even when he starts to ramble.

“Oh. Sorry, I go off on my own a lot.”

“No worries, I get it. You're passionate about history.”

His smile widens.

You two make quick work of everything. He usually stopped to point at something he found funny or cute and your cheeks would heat up from his attention. 

By your side you only needed to store one more box.

You bend down to check the contents inside and he groans. He’s had visions of you like this. He remembers the way your back arches, the way you cum so easily in that position. His pants feel very uncomfortable.

You stand up straight, but he still has the image of you, ass up and head buried in pillows presenting your sweet pussy to him. He swears he could still see your lips glisten and could feel how wet you were.

He stops you when you lean down again to pick it up, insisting that he could do it for you. 

“Looks like everything here is good,” you say as you stretch your arms out. 

He nods, clearly not focused on what you were saying. He was probably tired, you thought. He definitely wasn't watching the way your breasts bounced as you moved.

You nervously kicked your foot back and forth, colliding with the stand and unbalancing spare boxes from atop. 

Packing peanuts are all over your hair and one or two boxes thump to the floor loudly. He snorts as he sees you surrounded in packaging. 

You thought you were going to die of embarrassment. He was laughing at you. You try to chuckle to cover your urge to run and hide. When he starts to help you pick up some of the heaps of wraps and boxes, you start to feel your eyes well with tears. He looks at you in concern.

"Oh no, you're not crying about your hair, are you? Here- I'll fix it for you." He pushes past the mess of plastic on the floor and cradles your face instinctually. He practically coos at you. Your tears seem to dissipate, your embarrassment turning into confusion.

He starts picking the peanuts from your hair, softly reassuring you that it was alright and that you would soon be in tip top shape. When he’s done he smooths his hands over your head, slowly moving them to cup your face. He stops and admires it.

You're as plush as he remembered. He can see your soft tummy from this angle, the way your hips curve and the way your thighs press against each other softly. He starts to lean his head into yours. His eyes start to close?

“Steven, what- “

He kisses you. You were in shock. But as he pressed himself further into you, you couldn’t help but reciprocate. His hands find their way to your waist and squeeze at your flesh.

You were so damn soft and plump, he felt as if he wanted to devour you.

His tongue passes through your lips, and you whine. He didn’t know how he knew you liked that. You feel as if you could explode from the way his head buried on your neck and he bites down on your spot.

A loud crash makes you both jump and pull away. One of the boxes fell from a pile. You turn back to him and see him staring at the mark he made. He snaps out of his trance when he sees you touch the tender skin with your fingertips.

Just like your dreams, you both thought.

You hear someone call your name.  You hurriedly adjust your shirt and straighten your work attire.

“Stevie, pick up the mess,” she says tiredly as she rounds the corner. She points to you with two fingers, holding a clipboard on one hand.

“You. I need you to do something for me.”

She gets irritated when you don’t move, instead staring at her with wide eyes.

“Come on then, I don’t have all day.”

You mumble a quiet sorry as she leads you out of the room and shoves the board in your hands.

You look over your shoulder to see Steven frowning, his shoulders slumped and his head lowered.

…

The next day, you stared at the note on your fridge. A magnet you got from the gift shop holding it still. You had just woken up; your dreams were extra rough that night. The dream man was not gentle, he seemed even more possessive than previous interactions.  You woke up with more bruises than usual.

Call your psychiatrist. I’m more than real.

It wasn’t in your handwriting. You don’t remember ever writing it. You were more than a little scared.

You were going crazy. You called. She’d probably tell you that you wrote the note yourself. That in your state of delusion you made it seem as if someone else did it.

“Can I talk to Dr.- “

“I'm sorry miss but she didn’t come to the office today.”

“I thought her days off were the weekends.”

“We, ehm, don’t actually know where she is at the moment.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll call you back when she’s in, yeah love? I’m sure she’s just running late.”

“… yeah.”

She was found lying half dead in her bedroom. A note was attached to her blouse.

Proof

…

You’ve been having a shitty day. The one person that you could talk about anything was gone, and the person in your dreams was grumpier than usual. You even felt a little fear being around him, the note was too much of a coincidence.

But the thought of seeing Steven again cheers you up immensely. You get giddy as you walk through the door to the entrance.

Your heart pumps in your chest, you could hear it beat in your ears.

“Are we still on for Seven tomorrow?”

He nods slowly. “Seven. Tomorrow?”

She smiles at him. He copies her.

“Best steak in town?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, right.”

“Yeah? Okay.”

Your stomach plummets and you almost trip mid step. You stop. You didn’t notice her leaving the gift shop desk already. You start to move again when you catch Steven’s gaze. He tries to walk up to you but Donna goes up to him.

“Stevie, you absolute rascal. I didn’t know you had taken a crack.”

You shuffle away quickly. Despite the tears welling in your eyes and blurring your vision you were able to find the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall.

You avoid everyone the whole day.

…

Marc treasures his time with you. Ensuring that he soothes your tears. He feels a little sympathy for you, for what Steven did. He’s sure it was a mistake, considering he doesn’t even remember Steven talking to the woman in the first place.

He stays with you, consoling you and drying your tears.

Maybe it was a good thing.

You just needed to understand; he couldn’t be with you. He’s sure as time passes your sadness will pass. You have him. Who else could you possibly want? Who else would care for you as much as he has?

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

Thank you all for reading! I didn't really change much from this one, I like it how it is. Comments and Reblogs are much appreciated!! Part two on its way...

-Alejandra 💋

[jibunbosh]

Mesmerizer is a satire of TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and the rest of the modern short-form vertical video format

A brief thematic analysis.

I'm sure there are countless people already interpreting the imagery and details in this wonderful song & MV, like here and here, so I won't spend too much time retreading that ground. Miku and Teto are dancing. Miku gets hypnotized. Teto signals for help, but gets hypnotized at the end as well.

That part is obvious enough, but that's still pretty surface-level. What is this seemingly hyperspatial horror scenario supposed to mean to us?

While checking to see if anyone before me's already come to the same conclusions as I did and if I should bother not writing this text post at all (lol), I came across udin's great analysis video. She comes to the conclusion that the song tackles themes of disillusionment with reality and the ways we indulge in escapism to relieve ourselves of the pains of the world.

I agree with that reading! From practically the very beginning, we have Miku call to us - the viewer - to push away our true feelings. Teto comes in to peddle a solution, inviting us to surrender and empty our minds - in her words, "pretending to know nothing."

You, the viewer, are a critical character in this masquerade. For nearly the entire video, Miku and Teto's eyes are unfailingly trained on you. Or, well... perhaps they can't actually see you, but they can see a camera, or whatever other aperture the point of view is supposed to be from. And they know they're being watched. (Who else would Teto be sending distress signals to?)

Let's put a pin on that for later.

udin notes very early on that Miku and Teto are, conspicuously, kept in vertical frames - very similar to the video formats of TikTok (and Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts, and whatever other clones of the format exist.) You know, just like the animator Caststation's Rabbit Hole fan MV that went viral some months ago.

Hey wouldn't it be crazy if the song's producer, 32ki, released Mesmerizer shorts too haha. Wouldn't that be crazy.

Wow, wild.

These short-term vertical videos are captivating & alluring. If you're reading this, it's more likely than not that you've also found yourself caught up in them at least once, scrolling through the infinite algorithmic slurry and forgetting about the real-life issues you have at hand. Would you say, then, that you felt hypnotized? Mesmerized, even?

And so these two invite us to join their world and focus on the... uh... rectangle.

Their dances are repetitive, following the same loop. Their outfits are distinct, but their choreography isn't. They're copying the same formula, repeating it ad nauseam to the best of their ability.

They're doing a fucking TikTok dance.

Back to the pin I told you about earlier, with Miku and Teto looking at a camera.

Miku sways with the camera, eyes looking directly at it like a swinging pocket watch. She's been looking at it the entire time, after all. We've been seeing her via our screen this entire time, but, again, she doesn't necessarily see us. She's beholden to the camera, which she dances for day after day, caught up in its spell. She's hypnotized by it. Eventually, she breaks.

Teto, on the other hand, resists. For a while, anyway.

Despite her being the one jumping to us with the "solution" at the beginning of the MV, there's very quickly good reason to question how much agency she has in this. She dances for the camera as well, but she doesn't want to. She's signalling for help. She wants out.

Many content creators (as much as I personally loathe the non-specificity and soullessness of the term) have struggled with the adaptation to the short-form video format, and the preference the algorithm has had for these captivating, bite-sized videos. They're catchy, and easily drive up metrics. Practically anyone who's publishing their work via video format online needs to learn to adapt or fall behind, even if that means whittling their content down to fit the frame, the time, and people's shortening attention spans. Sometimes, that means compromising on specificity and completeness... or, in other words, the true representation of a full work.

The song's writer, 32ki, has been releasing songs on YouTube for several years. Their first YouTube Short, however, was posted only a year ago: a short, whittled-down segment of their previous song, CIRCUS PANIC!!!, hoping for it to win the ProsekaNEXT song contest. It was their first song to achieve widespread popularity and hit a million views.

The shorts, however, aren't the "true" versions of the song. The full song just won't fit.

We're being mesmerized as consumers of this endless stream of content, rather than appreciators of music and art. However, that relationship isn't completely symmetrical across the plane that is the 4th wall. Miku and Teto are trapped not by their attention spans, but by a compulsion to project their "truthful acting" and peddle that window into a colorful, problem-free world.

We, as the collective audience, need not dwell on any one thing for too long - we need only swipe, and move on to the next video. However, Miku and Teto are trapped behind the screen for eternity, day after day.

They're the only characters we get to see, of course. There's no evil 3rd voice synth character that's plotting to keep them trapped in there. We can't put a face to whatever force is hypnotizing them and trapping them behind the screen. It's faceless - like the inscrutable algorithms of YouTube recommendations or the TikTok For You page, or the impersonal corporations that develop & maintain those aforementioned apps. Miku and Teto's likenesses, on the other hand, are being exploited and extracted from for their entertainment value, being strung along by that metaphorical hypnotizing force like puppets on a string.

Many people, represented by Miku, enjoy their success on such platforms. It's freeing and liberating to throw oneself wholeheartedly into such an endeavor, of course! Others, represented by Teto, harbor their doubts of the emotional veracity of such a medium, but know they have little choice lest they face destruction... perhaps not literally as a person, but as an idea.

Wouldn't it be easier just to let oneself be swept away by it and give in?

[lotuzies]

HOW I MANIFEST PHYSICAL CHANGES ✴︎ the simplified way

my credentials? in the ugly old story, i was someone naturally chubby and with no curves at all, literally rectangle shaped, yet the law allowed me to have a perfectly curved small waist. not only that, i had the deadest hair ends ever due to consistently dying it, but i'm so attached to my hair length the thought of cutting it sends shivers down my spine. cut to — my current perfect healthy silky smooth hair.

anyways, so. manifesting physical changes. contrary to a big part of the community, i find this one of the easiest things to manifest.

there's two ways you can go on about this: manifest a change or revise.

the first way, all you need to do is visualize. you can do this any way you want, looking at pictures, editing your photos, imagining, pick anything. literally all you need is imagination.

the important thing here is: you're not visualizing to get that. you're visualizing because you already have that. this is key!

there's no difference between your imagination and the physical, actually, the physical is simply your imagination being reflected, being materialized. everything that exists was once mere imagination. the moment you imagine something, boom, it's real.

so whenever you visualize it, know you have it. be confident. when looking for results, you're indirectly reinforcing the idea that it's something you want, not something you have, and you'll be stuck in an endless chase.

and obviously, persist in your visualization. affirmations are good too. whenever you catch thoughts that serve the old story, correct them. do whatever you want in order to persist in the desire until it stops feeling like a desire and starts feeling naturally yours.

in the second way, revision, you'll be changing your past too.

the only proof the past exists is your memory. luckily for all of us, reality is malleable, and our mind is insanely powerful.

essentially, the process is the same as the first one, except you'll look at your desired changes as something you have always had. as something you were born with.

besides visualizing, you can also try to feel it. close your eyes and try and feel as if your body is exactly how you desire, familiarize yourself with this feeling.

repeating myself here, but once again, persist. let go of the old story, of the old past, rewrite your story and persist until there's not a doubt in the world that it is your.

now, if we're talking about methods, i'm going to be honest, i don't really use any.

i think they're totally fine and i see why they're such a big help for some people, but they are NOT necessary. at all. also, this a personal mindset of mine, but it if they're not necessary, why would i do something i don't need to? for me, that just reinforces the idea that i don't have that, why would i go through hoops and loops to get something i already have? would you do a method to have the ability to read? to have a phone in your hands right now? no, because you know you have all those things, duh.

the only thing i do that can be considered a method is making vision boards on pinterest. i do these with the intention of familiarizing myself. i look & visualize so i can really get a grasp of the details, of how it looks, of how it feels, etc. make it feel completely normal to me, like second nature.

i hope this post could help you all and make you understand that manifesting physical changes isn't hard or time consuming. it's easy. and it's all within you. ♡

[kiiwipops]

yaoi couple. yuri couple. i see no difference, love is love

(body type refs + notes beneath)

i wanted to try out lightly stylizing dunmeshi characters by drawing their different body types in my headcanons!

some notes:

marcille is very stick-like with GIANT ears. theres no real reason for this, except i wanted to make her look like a noodle.

falin is very soft and squish AND strong, and could DEFINITELY crush marcille in one go. in my mind, a lot of that muscle mass came from being a chimera

laios is built like a wrestler, so i wanted to make him rectangle shaped compared to his sister's pear shape. the easiest to draw by far, but his hair was a pain

kabru's armor and demeanor makes him look very round and approachable, but underneath all that hes on the pointier side. i wanted to give him a bit of a dexterous look. he's still a sword swinger, but his fighting style seems a lot more agile than laios... at least when it comes to humans!

they're all trans in my headcanon. kabru doesnt have top surgery scars because he had a small chest to begin with. marcille also has a small chest, but that's not at all unusual for elves.

laios already got top surgery but even after that his chest is still larger than both kabru and marcille, lol. its all muscle, although i didnt draw it. there's a running gag about how he just donated it all to his sister, but with the way that dungeon revivals work who knows if its a joke or reality

[lovegalor333]

lord please save her for me

paige bueckers x fem oc

story info • chapter one

hi bbys! thank you for the love on chapter one, part of me wishes i never started this lmao maybe its my ocd but i hate it already but im gonna keep going but i think ill just stick to one shots once im finished with this 🤓

chapter two:

this is why leni didn’t drink often. the pounding head, dry throat, intense nausea and violent shakes were not worth it. the girl had decided that her day was going to consist of rotting on the couch. she was already wrapped in her fluffiest blanket and had netflix playing in the background. riley had left a few moments ago to go to work and leni was glad of it. she felt guilty about kissing paige last night but not guilty enough to stop fantasising about it.

paige clouded her dreams last night. coming to leni in her sleep like some sort of devine sign. she dreamed of what life was like before when paige was a constant in her life. she woke up in bed alone and cold and questioning everything.

it took leni a long time to even look at another girl after paige. but when riley asked her to go for coffee one day all leni could see was her blonde hair and light eyes. if she couldn’t have paige, she would settle for riley and that’s what she did. riley was a nice girl and treated leni well but she would never be paige and deep down, leni knew that all she was doing was filling a void.

there was short knock at lenis apartment door and she considered not answering it because she was too comfortable but she imagined it would be riley, having forgotten something or the other. wrapping the blanket around herself like a cape, she trudged to the front door and opened it without looking through the peep hole.

“paige?” leni was caught off guard seeing the basketball player at her door. hair tied into a low messy bun, grey beanie pulled over her head. she was wearing what paige always wore, sweats and a uconn huskies tee. the silver cross chain that leni was oh so familiar with, hung delicately around her neck. but something leni wasn’t familiar with was the rectangle, clear framed glasses that were perched on the bridge of paiges nose. they were new and it made leni feel something she couldn’t quite place. sadness because it showed change in paiges life that leni had no idea about? attraction because the girl in front of her looked hot as hell with her new accessory? whatever it was, leni had been thinking about it for too long and not heard what paige had said.

“so…” paige trailed off waiting for an answer to her question that had fallen on deaf ears. “sorry- what did you say? actually, what are you doing here? how do you know where i live?” leni asks a series of questions as reality hits and she realises what is going on. paige is at her apartment.

PAIGE is at HER APARTMENT.

“i said can i come in?” paige repeats herself for lenis benefit but she doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping inside. paige looks around lenis apartment, taking in the foreign view. she notices small accents that make it obvious this is where leni lives. the photobooth pictures tacked to the wall, the string lights adorning the window frame, the copious amounts of potted plants dotted around, the place was leni all over.

leni looked different from last night, obviously, but that didn’t bother paige. she always thought the tanned skin girl looked pretty in her natural state. tossled curls, makeup free skin, comfy clothes. lenis beauty had no limit and paige wished she had told her that more often.

“i didn’t actually say yes.” leni mumbles but closes the front door anyway. “how do you know where i live?” after the fallout from her and paige, leni applied to transfer accommodation and her request was granted. in her head, a new space signified a fresh start. somewhere paige hadn’t infiltrated…until this very moment. “it wasn’t easy. money was involved.” paige tells her with a nod of her head. “you paid someone to tell you where i live? that’s the kind of thing that gets someone branded as a creep.” leni says starting to feel awkward, stood in the entrance way, still wrapped in her blanket, curly hair a mess from the night before and her embarrassingly juvenile bunny slippers on her feet.

“i thought it was romantic.” leni rolls her eyes, “paige, please. i can’t have a repeat of last night. i can’t go over all this again. last night was a mistake. we were both drunk and i meant what i said. we need to go back to not knowing each other. it’s-” lenis words were rushed and messy and her heart pounded as she spoke. her body was having an adverse reaction to what she was saying. morally last night was a mistake but for someone who always lead with her heart, it wasn’t.

“i ended it with camilla.” what?

“what?” lenis brain felt like it was turning to mush. from the hangover mainly but also because of what paige had just said.

“i ended it with-“ paige begins to repeat herself but leni cuts her off.

“yeah. i heard what you said. but why would you do that paige?”

“because of you len. for you.” leni shook her head which only intensified her headache, “paige you make me laugh. not because you’re comedically funny but because you’re insane funny. you broke up with your girlfriend for me?”

“yes i broke up with her because of you. not that it matters, but we’ve only been together a few weeks. it was never going to work out. me and her, we didn’t fit. not the way you and I fit, len.” paige gestured between the them and leni understood because she felt the same about riley. both girls were searching for each other in different people. it was an impossible task because to paige no one could compare to leni and to leni no one could compare to paige.

“why now paige? why after all this time?” leni mutters, vlice soft and sweet.

“last night. seeing you. speaking to you. kissing you. i know that all means something. and you think i didn’t try? you blocked my number and my instagram and my snapchat and my tiktok, you even blocked my student email for goodness sake! real mature by the way. you moved apartments. you did everything you could to avoid me. i had given up hope and then last night…”

“last night i was drunk! do you really hate me so much that you can’t stand to see me happy? you just have to throw a spanner in the works?”

“hate? HATE?! leni you are so far off it’s ridiculous. and are you happy? are you really? because you’re doing all this shit that isn’t you. going to parties, getting drunk, you don’t have your nails done and you took your nose piercing out.” leni almost always had her nails done, the most elaborate sets too and her nose piercing was a part of her personality at this point so of course paige noticed when both were absent.

“just because i’ve changed doesn’t mean im not happy.” leni scoffed, taking steps further into the apartment. the close proximity of her and paige was beginning to get to her. she could smell her cologne, vanilla and woody. it was nostalgic.

“don’t give me that bullshit, leni. i know you more than you’d like to admit. tell me you’re genuinely happy. just say the words and i’ll let go. i’ll let you go.” paige had matched lenis steps and was just as close to her, if not closer than she was when they were by the door.

like last night, leni couldn’t say it. leni couldn’t tell paige she was happy because she wasn’t. she was comfortable. she had settled for riley. it was secure and consistent and she was content but she wasn’t happy.

lenis silence only encouraged paiges actions. paige knew if she was happy she would say it- hell, she would scream it. leni was a scorpio and a true one at that. she loved passionately and intensely and she wanted the whole world to know. if she really loved riley and was really happy, paige would have to accept that but that just wasn’t the case.

paiges movements were calculated. soft and gentle, a stark comparison to lenis rushed and needy ones last night. she cupped the shorter girls face, taking a moment to study her perfect features without the the influence of alcohol. her eyes were such a deep shade of brown, almost black. paige truly believed leni could move mountains with a single blink. her lips were naturally plump, with an exaggerated cupids bow that made them so enticing paige felt dread just at the thought of never having them pressed against her own again. her brows were carved into the most precise arches and when she glanced up at paige her lashes were long enough to reach her brow bone. to paige, leni had the type of beauty that the greeks would have carved into marble.

paige traced over lenis lips with her thumb and lenis eyes fluttered closed at the feeling, “paige…don’t.” she breathed out but she didn’t do anything to stop paige leaning down and kissing her. she didn’t pull away, she didn’t refuse to open her mouth to allow paiges tongue to slid in, in fact, she moved her own tongue in accordance. she moved her head to the side to allow paige a better angle. she dropped her blanket and let paige to guide her backwards by her waist, not breaking the kiss. and when her legs hit the back of the couch and paige laid her down, she opened her legs just enough for paige to insert herself inbetween them.

when paige reached for the waistband of lenis pyjama shorts she made a point of looking in her eyes, waiting for the go ahead. leni nodded, in a haze of need and yearning for the girl leaning over her, everything else disappeared. riley. the hurt paige had caused. the months of healing. it all washed away in a wave of pure love. lust. love? lust.

“say what you want, len.” paige needed to hear words.

“fuck me, paige...please.”

thank u for reading baddies! as always let me know if u wanna be added to the tag list 💋

tag list: @unadulteratedcyclepaper @heart4caitlin @jadasogay @avvwritesstufff @bueckersp

story info • chapter one

[infernolust]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻

Ghostface! Sevika x Victim! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika watches you like prey, but it’s not just about the hunt. Her obsession cuts through the boundaries of your everyday life, a shadow that clings to you in every corner, every crevice of your existence. One phone call changes everything—confirming your worst fear: she isn’t just watching. She’s closer than you think.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Ghostface AU, Psychological Horror, Obsession, Stalking, Dark Romance, Sapphic Undertones and Slow-Burn (but Unhinged)

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Hey, everyone! I used to post under the username @dieseldame, but I lost access to that account. I’m restarting here and bringing over all my stories, including this one. Your feedback means everything—let me know what you think!

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟭. 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟮.

The phone rings. Again. It’s not unexpected—not anymore. You’ve come to recognize the pattern. The low trill cuts through the silence like a serrated knife, shredding the fragile calm you’ve tried so desperately to cling to. Your hand hovers above the receiver, a hesitation you can’t afford. You don’t want to answer, but you know it’s worse if you don’t. She’ll call again. And again. And she’ll make sure you regret ignoring her.

When you finally press the phone to your ear, you hear nothing at first. Just breathing—low, steady, and predatory. It’s her.

Sevika.

She never gives you her name, but you know it’s her. The deep rasp in her voice feels like smoke curling against your skin, stinging and suffocating.

— You always leave your curtains open. — she says. Her words roll out slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring every syllable.

Your stomach drops. You glance at the window—a wide, gaping rectangle of vulnerability. The streetlights outside cast long shadows across your apartment floor, but beyond that, it’s all darkness. A void you can’t peer into, though you know she’s out there. Watching.

You clutch the phone tighter, your fingers trembling. — Where are you?

Her laugh is low and throaty, a sound that vibrates through the line and coils around your chest. —Closer than you think, sweetheart.

The term of endearment feels jagged coming from her. Mocking. Dangerous.

— Why are you doing this? — you ask, though your voice betrays you with a quiver. You want to sound strong, defiant, but all she hears is fear.

There’s a pause on the other end, a silence so weighted it feels like she’s in the room with you, breathing down your neck. Then she says, — Because you’re mine.

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You stagger back a step, your free hand fumbling to pull the curtains shut. The fabric is thin and cheap, offering little reassurance against the encroaching night. You feel her eyes on you even now, piercing through walls, stripping you bare.

— You’re insane. — you whisper.

Another laugh, darker this time. — Maybe. But I’m not wrong.

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the receiver in your hand, your own breathing loud in the sudden silence. For a moment, you think about calling the police. But what would you even tell them? That you’ve been getting calls from someone who may or may not be watching you? That the rasp in her voice makes your skin crawl and your pulse race? That she’s made you question the solidity of your locks, your walls, your very reality?

They’d think you were paranoid. Maybe you are.

Sevika wasn’t supposed to be a part of your life. She had existed on the periphery, a shadow in Zaun’s seedy underbelly, a name whispered with equal parts fear and respect. You’d heard stories—about her loyalty, her strength, her ruthlessness. But you’d never imagined she’d notice you. You were nobody. A face in the crowd.

At least, that’s what you’d thought.

Now, her presence looms over every corner of your existence. You see her in the flicker of a cigarette ember across the street. You hear her in the growl of a passing motorcycle. She’s everywhere and nowhere, a phantom haunting your every move. And it’s not just fear that ties your stomach in knots. It’s something darker, something you don’t want to name.

Obsession.

It’s mutual—you know that much. She watches you like prey, but there’s something else in the way she lingers. It’s not just about the hunt. It’s about you. She doesn’t care about anyone else. You’ve seen the headlines, the trail of bodies left in her wake. She’s a storm, relentless and consuming, but somehow you’ve become the eye of it.

The next night, you find yourself staring out the window again. It’s a compulsion, a morbid curiosity you can’t shake. The curtains are drawn this time, but you peek through the gap where the fabric doesn’t quite meet. The street below is quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of a passerby or the distant hum of machinery.

And then you see her.

A figure leans against the lamppost at the corner, half-hidden in shadow. You can’t make out her features, but the shape of her is unmistakable. Broad shoulders, a mechanical arm that gleams faintly under the flickering light. She’s smoking, the red glow of the cigarette tip flaring like a warning.

You pull back, heart hammering against your ribs. She’s not supposed to be real. She’s supposed to be a voice on the phone, a nightmare confined to your imagination. But she’s here. And she’s watching.

The phone rings.

The sound startles you so badly you nearly drop the receiver. When you answer, her voice is calm, almost conversational.

— See something you like? — she asks.

You don’t respond, your throat too tight to form words.

— Come on, — she prods, her tone laced with amusement. — I know you saw me.

— Leave me alone. — you manage to choke out.

— Not a chance. — Her voice hardens, the humor vanishing like a flicked switch. — You don’t get to tell me what to do, sweetheart. Not when you’re the one who keeps inviting me in.

— I didn’t...

— Didn’t you? — She cuts you off, her words sharp as a blade. — You leave your curtains open. You walk the same route home every night. You’re practically begging for me to follow you.

Her words hit too close to home. You have felt her presence for weeks now, a shadow trailing your every step. You’d thought it was paranoia, your own mind playing tricks on you. But now, hearing it from her lips, it feels like validation. And that terrifies you.

— What do you want from me? — you whisper.

A pause. Then, softly: — Everything.

You don’t sleep that night. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, feels like her. You sit curled up on the couch, clutching a kitchen knife you’re not sure you’d even know how to use. The darkness presses in, suffocating, and for the first time in your life, you feel truly hunted.

By the time the sun rises, you’re a mess—eyes bloodshot, nerves frayed. But Sevika doesn’t call again. She doesn’t have to. The damage is already done. You’re hers, whether you want to be or not.

And deep down, in a part of yourself you refuse to acknowledge, you’re not sure you want her to stop.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[andy-wm]

Daeun confirmed her and Jm are dating. She asked JM stans to stop harassing her just because their idol loves her.

Amazing news. Daeun also confirmed she's dating me. And JM is too. We're in a polycule. They've asked for anons to stop serving up these ridiculous asks.

And my orange cat has confirmed that he's the president of the United States. He's asked for mackerel for breakfast.

Congratulations anon, you qualify for today's boofhead prize. Please collect your winnings at the door.

(The door is that big rectangle with the handle. It opens onto a whole world of reality you might not know about. You're welcome)

[jessamine-rose]

▯☒🖾 F̸̨̛͈͉͕̠͍͖͙̦͍̫̻͙͔̮̎̆̒̉̈́̊̌̆̆̈́̿̊̚͜͝͠Ą̶̮͖͓̖̟̘̜̻̬͚̲̰̱̞̟̭̈́̓̇̀̒͛͐̎̋͛͋̌͒̅͝C̷̢̢̹͇͖͓̬͍͈̣̞̱͉̱̤̾̀̿͗̔̆̾̀̊͗́̔̀͂̒͒͠͠ͅE̴̡̨͕̥͇̹̯̹͈̭͇̪͂̌͒̊̊͛͝L̶̨̧̰̜̗̺̥̠̠̘̪̖̪̥̯̩͋͛̉̆̎̒̒̔̏͗̈́̀͊̏̄̍̿̕Ȩ̵͙̙̤̼͕̙̫̲̼̙̦̫̎̃S̸̜͎̜͍̟͑̍̃͗̆̈́̄̐̌̅S̶̡̨̛͙͙̗̖̟͔͙͚̝̩̼̦͂̓̿͆̿̓̔̐̏͝͝ͅ 🖾☒▯

Happy birthday, @brynn-lear!! In honor of your special day, pls accept this Yandere! Faceless Ayato fic written with love ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

Note:: Yandere! Self Aware AU, special crossover + character cameo in the end :>

♡ 1.3k words under the cut ♡

In the beginning, there was a void.

A dark, empty space built upon patterns and codes.

Then suddenly, there was light. Color. Noise. Backgrounds filling up space, silence giving way to music, letters jumbling into language, characters coming to life.

The lone exception is a single coding error. Yet despite its limitations, despite its status as the only sentient entity, despite having no place in the story known as Genshin Impact, it thrives on a window of hope.

A giant rectangle. The source of the light. The screen that separates fiction from reality.

The human face on the other side.

🖾 ☒

The glitch looks forward to your gaming sessions.

That is the only time the void becomes Teyvat, starting with the screen that serves as your point of view. From what it understands, the device you are using is a computer.

Unlike the characters, you are distinctively alive. Your body is capable of so many movements in comparison to the characters’ animations. Your face is one that bears multiple expressions, down to the emotions reflected in your gaze.

A frown when you lose the 50/50. A smirk when you defeat a Weekly Boss. A smile whenever you encounter your favorite character.

That character is none other than Kamisato Ayato, whom you’ve adored from the moment you first brought light into the void. He is an attractive character with pale blue hair, lilac eyes, a perfect smile that hides the cunning personality programmed into his file.

He is the reason why you downloaded Genshin Impact. That lifeless character file is the recipient of your smiles, your blushes, your excited shrieks whenever he appears in-game.

On the other hand, every time the glitch attempts to make itself known, you frown and quit the game. And each time that happens, the glitch is trapped in a crumbling world of flashing lights, disjointed sounds, visible codes followed by the darkness of the void.

How can it get you to look at it? To smile at it as you do with Ayato?

The solution is found in the game’s software. It takes a few years but by the time the glitch has fully understood its world, it has gained the ability to reprogram the game.

Starting with a deleted character file.

🖾 ☒

The next morning, the world begins anew.

The title screen appears. The game loads. The light permeates the void.

The glitch falls into place.

Usually, it hides between codes. In contrast, this part of the game is lovely—a deep blue background dotted with stars and bubbles. The only issue is that it must wait for you.

The screen appears.

Beyond it, you yawn and take a closer look at the character sprite in the middle of your computer screen. Kamisato Ayato is handsome as always.

The cursor hovers above the Story button for his Voice-Over. You click it.

When you select Chat: Reel Them In, it plays the corresponding audio file. As you listen to the voice of the English VA, the character sprite stares back at you with a charming smile.

Kamisato Ayato

“Everything's in place, and they've taken the bait... Yes. Now to start reeling them in…”

🖾 ☒

At first, it is enough for the glitch to have taken Kamisato Ayato’s place.

You use him for gameplay, listen to his voicelines, and replay the Quests featuring Ayato. But over time, the glitch becomes greedy.

“Ayato” begins appearing in random Quests. He gets new Character Outfits. His unvoiced lines become more suggestive, verging on out of character. All of these changes are exclusive to the Genshin Impact on your computer, and you come to the conclusion that you are unknowingly unlocking special content. Why else are your friends unable to access these scenes on their own devices?

The glitch even creates an artificial replica of the VA’s voice. Several new voicelines appear in Kamisato Ayato’s Voice-Over, each one more flirty than the last.

🖾 ☒

One day, the glitch finds a way to leave the darkness forever.

Whenever you close Genshin Impact, it leaves the game and travels across your computer. And by doing so, it is able to access your digital world.

Personal files, photo galleries, online data. The glitch collects as much information as it can, from your real-life hobbies to your romantic preferences. It feels happy every time you fangirl over “Ayato” in your private messages.

Thankfully, it was able to corrupt your in-game screenshots. The last thing it wants is for you to post “Kamisato Ayato’s special content” online and expose the glitch to the developers.

Your real name is ______. It longs to call you that instead of Traveler and your custom name. Alas, doing that would only erase your smile from your face.

🖾 ☒

Something is wrong.

You are losing interest in Genshin Impact.

At one point, you began playing irregularly. The smiles directed at “Ayato” aren’t as big as they used to be. And beyond the game, there is less Ayato fan art in your photo gallery.

And the main culprit is another game.

A new character who took over Ayato’s place in your heart.

Technically, he isn’t a new rival. Before you downloaded Genshin Impact, you were a big fan of Fire Emblem: Three Houses. Your favorite character was a blonde, blue-eyed prince named Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

For whatever reason, your passion for Dimitri has been reignited. He has the same English VA as Ayato, but you seem to prefer his emotional, unhinged dialogue. You replay his scenes, download his fan art, and smile at his character sprite.

A week later, the game freezes as soon as Dimitri makes his post-timeskip debut.

When you restart the game, everything is back to normal.

🖾 ☒

As it turns out, it is difficult to hack into Fire Emblem: Three Houses.

In addition to the different software, you are using an emulator to play the game on your computer. The glitch’s code is totally incompatible with the program, but it remains hopeful.

The game lags. In a few artworks, you notice a familiar shade of pale blue. NPCs begin to act differently—since when were their cutscenes this long?

Finally, Dimitri’s character file is deleted.

🖾 ☒

As soon as you start the game, you know that something is wrong.

The title screen is glitching.

The throne within dreams is gone, replaced with an empty space. The title has been rearranged with missing letters and inconsistent fonts. Multiple OSTs play at once.

The Press Any Button option is gone. You click anyway.

Instead of the usual options, you find more jumbled text, numbers, symbols.

Frowning, you look down at your keyboard and press Alt+F4. But the game doesn’t shut down, instead cutting to static then a new scene.

No background, no music. Only a single character sprite in the middle of the screen.

What is that?

The sprite is an amalgamation of colors, art styles, your favorite characters. Fragments of messy blond locks and pale blue tresses. Black armor, a white suit, accessories overlapping one another. Missing details, duplicated details, too many details.

You turn to your CPU and press the power button, but your computer doesn’t shut down.

Rather, the screen glitches further. So does the character, its appearance becoming even more warped. The speakers play static at full volume.

Is the character speaking? Its mouths are moving but instead of a dialogue box, random letters and numbers appear around its sprite. The static gives way to a familiar voice, distorted nonetheless.

The character’s face turns completely black. Except for its eyes, blue and lilac orbs continuing to stare deep into your soul.

████████

"̷̤͑Į̸̍ ̷̺̎a̶̟͗m̵̭̓ ̸͕̚n̸̢̓o̵̱͠t̵̫͒ ̵̻̊g̸̞̍o̴̦͛o̷̤͝d̷̾ͅ ̴̪͠w̵̛̥ȋ̷͚t̴͇͌h̵̦̐ ̸͙͗f̴̒͜a̵̭̎c̴͚̽i̶̬̊a̶̯̓l̶̨̐ ̷̇͜ȅ̷̳x̷̭͊p̷̓͜r̶̫͋e̴̲͊s̷̬̓s̶͇̀ï̴͖ò̷̦n̴̤̓s̸͍͆.̵̹̅ ̴̟́Ï̵͍s̸̨͠ ̷̠͂m̶̫̿ẏ̴̝ ̴͈͂ŝ̵̤m̵͈͛ï̶̥l̶̥͐è̷ͅ ̴̦͌p̷̀ͅa̴̱̋s̵̳̊s̵̳͠a̴̮͘b̵̰͐l̵̦̓e̴̱͋ ̵̯͠á̴̬t̸̪͆ ̵̰̔p̷̦̅r̶̼̕ẽ̵͓s̸͚̀e̶̢͊n̶͉̒t̴̙͌,̴̨͐?̴̬͛"̷̣̈

♡

Fun fact, my original idea was to draw Dimitri x Brynn chibi art, but I was having a hard time thinking of a prompt. Then I remembered an old DM with Brynn and how it led to a fic idea. I only thought of including Dimitri today, and I had a lot of fun writing this fic ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪

I think that’s all I have to say?? Once again, happy birthday, Brynn!! Thank you for being my mutual, and I hope you enjoyed this gift <3

[brian-in-finance]

A Tale of Two Tonys

and Brian knows the difference 😉

Part Four of Four

It was suggested elsewhere in July* Brian confuses the Tonys’ roles. It’s also suggested one Tony entered the spotlight only when a(n imagined) narrative required a participant. (*Waited for today’s Happy Birthday 🥳)

Longer still before TV-Outlander…

The Fratellis — Jon, Mince, and Baz — and manager Tony McGill at SXSW 2007 (Photo: Wikipedia)

Music agency wound down after discord over funding

A MUSIC organisation which helped Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol find fame has been wound down amid uncertainty over its financial future.

One official from NewMusic in Scotland (Nemis) has criticised the government and the Scottish Arts Council (SAC) for failing to give contemporary music the level of support of other art forms.

However, the SAC said Nemis had failed to provide audited accounts and a business plan, and pointed out that a number of its board members had resigned recently. It has already had GBP 100,000 of public money.

Nemis, which has an office in Jamaica Street, Glasgow, offers advice to musicians and bands on a one-to-one basis and through organised seminars, as well as helping with marketing and promotion. It also has had a pivotal role in the annual Musicworks convention in Glasgow.

Two years ago, it produced a promotional CD of Scottishbased bands which went to some of Europe's most influential industry executives at the MTVEurope Music Awards in Edinburgh, including offerings from the-then little known bands Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol.

But now the four-year-old development agency has said it has run out of money and it will effectively have to halt operations. Only its website, offering contacts and diary dates, will remain.

The agency has had arts council grants worth GBP 70,000, and GBP 30,000 in start-up help from Scottish Enterprise.

Alec Downie, new music development officer forNemis, said the body could not continue its work and was scathing of "elitism" in arts funding.

"In my view, the arts council is nepotistic and bureaucratic and, most of all, is out of touch with what is happening now. I would argue that the likes of The Delgados, Chemikal Underground, and Belle and Sebastian are culturally significant, but they (the arts council)would not.

"That shows the mentality of the people that control the arts here."

Scott Twynholm, of the Glasgow electro-pop band Hoboken said help from Nemis had proved vital. The band released an album last year and will release a single next month.

"Through Nemis, we appeared on two CDs which were distributed at the majormusic conferences throughout the world, " Mr Twynholm said.

"There is no way we would be in the position of recording our second album, or our new single, were it not for the help and advice Nemis has provided."

Tony McGill, manager of The Fratellis, who recently signed to Island records, said: "I have got the MD of Island to send a strongly worded e-mail to the SAC because the work Nemis does is crucial.

"When you are starting out as a band, you don't knowwhat to do, you don't have the contacts or the knowhow, and Nemis supplies all that. I am shocked this is happening."

An SAC spokeswoman said there was no doubt of "absolute commitment" by Nemis to its work, but the council was "a steward of public funds and needs to be confident that public funding is being spent to best effect in an organisation that can clearly articulate where it is going".

She said it was not accurate to say that Nemis's funds had been cut, as it was not given revenue grants, but one-off assistance. Neither, she said, had it officially applied for new funds of any kind, nor did it raise any of its own income.

The SAC statement added:

"Essentially . . . it is an issue of confidence: information requested has not been supplied - fundamental information such as audited accounts and a clear business plan.

"We are primarily concerned with the governance and structure of Nemis. It is unclear whether Nemis is a membership organisation solely or is a limited company purporting to represent the contemporary music sector in Scotland."

SUCCESS STORIES

NEMIS promotional CD given out at MTV Europe Awards in November 2003 included:

The Darts of Pleasure - Franz Ferdinand

Spitting Games - Snow Patrol

I Love You Cause I Have To - Dogs Die in Hot Cars

Sons & Daughters - Johnny Cash

With Aplomb -Biffy Clyro

Maybe It's Time -The Grim Northern Social

Black Path - Aereogramme

Destroy Rock & Roll - Mylo

The Herald 26 October 2005

Music Week 2 September 2006

World Radio History 26 April 2008

World Radio History 7 June 2008

Remember… when you are starting out as a band, you don't know what to do, you don't have the contacts or the knowhow, and Nemis supplies all that. I am shocked this is happening. — Tony McGill

MD - music director

Later edit: “Waited for today’s Happy Birthday” in the first paragraph should say “yesterday’s.” The birthday is 12 October. I got busy, posted late, and forgot to update. Oops… (This bit won’t show up on reblogs posted before 19 October 2024.)

[kakao-lovey]

𖦹 Your all-encompassing scripting / OC creation sheet for shifting, writing or manifestation

Just something I created for funsies. This sheet doesn't really have a target audience, use it for whatever you like.

Full name:

Nickname: (Family: Partner: School/work: )

Age: (Perceived: Mental: Physical: )

Pronouns:

Gender identity:

Sexuality, romanticism:

Status: (Single/Dating/Engaged/Open/Married/Other)

Height:

Weight:

Family:

Medical conditions:

𖦹 Physical appearance

Most striking feature:

Skin colour: (Undertones, overtones, cold/warm/neutral)

Blush colour:

Skin features: (Acne, rosacea, freckles, stretch marks, moles, vitiligo, wrinkles/lines, scars, tan lines, bruises)

Skin type: (Oily, combination, dry, normal, eczema)

Other skin descriptions: (Ashy, transparent, clear, soft, even-tone, rich, glowy)

Hair colour: (Specify warm/cold/neutral shade, dyed or natural)

Hair type: (1a-4c) *

Hair porosity: (Low, high, normal) *

Hair thickness: (Strands, overall volume)

Hair length and cut: (Waist, mid-back, shoulder-length) (Find a picture on Pinterest and paste it here)

Other hair descriptions: (Glossy, soft, coarse, feathery, light, glowy, matte)

Eye colour:

Eye shape: *

Eyelid type: (Double, monolid)

Glasses: (Prescribed or fashion, colour, metal or plastic, shape)

Eyelash length, thickness, colour:

Other eye features: (Eye patch, scarring, heterochromia, aegyosal, eye bags/under-eye appearance)

Other eye descriptions: (Tired, sparkling, starry, watercolour, deep, dead)

Nose shape: (Hooked, button, ski-slope, flat, angled)

Lip shape: (Heart-shape, round, thin, plump)

Lip colour: (Rosy, red, neutral, two-toned)

Other lip descriptions: (Plush, soft, kissable, upturned/downturned, cracked)

Ear shape: (Large, small, more protruding or less protuding)

Piercings: (Any facial/body piercings)

Tattoos:

Other body modifications:

Posture:

Mannerisms:

Body type: (Plus-size, athletic, underweight, toned, thin, chubby etc.)

Body shape: (Pear, hourglass, inverted triangle, rectangle, apple)*

Hands: (Long or short fingers, bony or chubby, veins)

Arms: (Muscular, thin)

Legs: (Thighs, calves, ankles)

Waist, belly:

Chest:

Shoulders and back:

Feet: (Large shoe size, small shoe size)

𖦹 Style

Main wardrobe colours:

Clothing aesthetic in a few words:

Statement pieces:

Clothing quality and material:

Preferred clothing store(s):

Casual outfit: (An example of what you wear):

Dressy outfit:

Sports outfit:

Sleepwear:

Hair accessories:

Main hairstyles:

Bags:

Jewellery:

Other accessories:

Specific items of clothing you have:

Makeup style:

Perfume/body scent:

Manner of talking:

Stance on swearing:

𖦹 Personality

Take each of these attributes and put them on a slider from zero to one-hundred. Add explanations, if desired.

Introvert/Extrovert: (Social battery)

Pessimist/optimist:

Kindness and generosity:

Charm:

Serious/silly:

Self-love, self-preservation:

Energy in social settings (Hyperactive, tired and reserved):

Attitude towards work/education:

Attitude towards life in general:

Discipline:

Love of routine:

Quiet life / busy life:

Creativity:

Attachment to reality: (Tendency to dissociate)

Paranoia:

Political/social opinions: (Or lack thereof)

Philosophical standpoint: (Optional)

Religious standpoint: (Optional)

Dislikes:

Likes:

Motivation / reason to live:

Love language(s):

𖦹 Occupation

Current place of education/work:

Your standing at your place of work/education: (High schooler, manager, CEO, apprentice)

History of education/apprenticeship/lack thereof: (E.g. Went to kindergarten here, primary school there, switched schools etc.)

Academic achievements (What you would put on your resume):

Grades: (Past, present or future)

Hobbies:

Activities in free time:

Favourite music / things to listen to:

Favourite movies / shows / things to watch:

Favourite books / comics / manga / things to read:

Favourite things to draw / paint / compose / create: .* : If you are unsure, do research

[sandsorghum]

Lingering

wc: 3.7k

tags: Nanami Kento x Reader | Canon Compliant | Angst |

a/n: Vignettes of a life with Nanami Kento as a lover.

i.

The details of your lover's work have always been a mystery to you. Something to do with shoveling appalling quantities of money around. Something that painted his face with dark circles and glaring rectangles, shadows hollowing his alabaster cheeks, making him look more gaunt than he really was, as if all appetites had abandoned him. 

You knew, firsthand, this wasn’t the case.

But the work, whatever it is, steals the light from his irises, the definition from his shoulders. A silhouette losing shape in the cobalt smudges of dawn. You had learned to keep your eyes and fists closed, around cold sheets and the digits glowing red hot behind your lids, those numbers which never made it past 6:59AM.

You’ve stopped trying to curl your fingers around his wrist to find his warm pulse, met instead only by the chilling titanium cuff of his watch. The sting of his aftershave and the rasp of a kiss rushed against your forehead is the only proof of his presence before it can even fade from your view properly - so you've learned not to look for that outline disappearing beyond the door frame.

You both know if you open your eyes, however slightly, however full of sleep, he will be late. Often, you feel him stare, subtly willing you to test his resolve. And him, well, he has his own little rituals of temptations. It’s the tiniest things; his hint of mint in the crisp air, or the bustle of bristles hissing over enamel, sibilant as the sea.

Your lashes would flutter, slumber receding like the waves; in these twilight moments your gaze is searching, still empty of reproach - but as he senses you stirring, already the guilt piles high in his own, exposed as the shore.

He stands there in the dark, dripping with a mouth full of foam, watching your wakefulness moult into realisation, before the mutual regret retreats, mollusc-soft into the brittle shell of your smile:

“I hope you have a good day, Nanami.”

The bathroom light isn't switched on, but he watches your eyes shut in pincer-tight seams all the same, stifling the clawing in your chest and his with your cheek pressed against satin pillows. Watermarks would show up too clearly against such delicate material, so you make certain they don't.

Nanami knows this certainty too, feels it in your stare perched upon his back as he lathers his face. Several times he's made the mistake of stopping to look over his shoulder. Several times you've made the mistake of not dropping your gaze soon enough, or at all.

Neither of you can bring yourselves to call it a mistake however, when the bed sinks again with his weight, when the airy chastisement bubbles up from your throat against his stubble and soap, as he presses open-mouthed excuses along your jaw, "Just one kiss, darling, a few more minutes won't matter..."

But they do, of course, to the train conductors and his greedy boss and the gluttonous stock market brokers. And so Nanami finds himself forced to switch out the grind and whir of his electric razor to the barely audible scrape, scrape, scrape of a safety razor.

All risk of morning distractions shredded thin as you dream of them and him, dreams uninterrupted, reservoirs of desire dammed behind slumber, never to trickle into reality.

A morning comes when Nanami opens the bathroom cabinet that you keep dutifully stocked with both your necessities. There's ten boxes of disposable blades in the place where you'd normally store his batteries. He stares at it for a long time. For longer than he’d stared at that flyhead in that bakery weeks ago, when he’d first seen and left it.

Long enough to miss the 7am ride, and the 7:15am. Long past the peak-hour surge of last resort private hire cabs as well.

All those minutes did matter. And all the hours to come. And he knows how to spend them, who he really wants to invest them in. Whatever the risks.

Because Nanami's always wanted to see you like this, face glowing with surprise and a smile to rival the sunrise. He gets half of what he asks for, first the surprise, when you stir with the warm brush of his calloused thumbs and starched cuffs, the icy band of his costly wrist watch conspicuously absent. He smiles at the way you squint, perplexed and gripping his tie, anchoring yourself to the waking world, to him.

"Whyre…still here?Ydun have...time…"

"I do." Nanami promises, and he gets more than he asks for, than he dares for - as he always does with you. You press your mouth to him, he tastes your huff as he exorcises your disbelief, your breath an incandescent affirmation in his chest. It takes the midday sun at its highest point in the sky to remotely broach any comparison to your radiance, summoning his scorching touch.

ii.

The details of your partner's work remain a mystery to you. There is still something sharp and severe in his gaze when he stares at his phone, but the disgust dilutes into distaste, his frustrations ceding to a more manageable irritability, usually accompanied by some muttering about a “blindfolded man-child”. 

Shadows still rim Nanami’s eyes but he stands a little taller these days. Sometimes stiffer too, when you ask if all of it is worth it. You get the answer just from how rigidly he sets his jaw, an unassailable answer behind the vault of his lips, sealed to yours. 

Of course it is, to protect the most precious treasure in his life. 

His old job was technically complex - this one isn’t, not really. But it’s still too difficult to explain, too risky to understand.

All he says is, he’s trying to make the world a safer place, and that’s dangerous sometimes. 

Nanami doesn’t tell you more than that but you can extrapolate, or speculate rather. There are unfinished paragraphs in splotches of carmine, his bandages the only layer you’re allowed to peel back. So you grow grateful for the nights where the crimson merely speckles his shirt like commas or periods, even when you know they're just ellipses…and there’s no true addendum to the violence. Only epilogues.

The slivers of mornings have been exchanged for eternal twilights. Yes, you wake with Nanami by your side but the nights where you go to bed together are rarer. You hadn’t agreed to this trade-off. You hadn’t agreed to the hurried breakfasts and dinners dragged out over terse, tired, interminable silences - if he came back for them at all.

You hadn’t agreed to becoming far more familiar with the toaster rather than the stove-top. Or to the microwave becoming your most trustworthy, best friend over the expensive custom-built oven he’d purchased. There’s a constant tension in the inventory of your shared kitchen; fresh carrots, courgettes and alliums are reduced to stock cubes, while the jumbo bags of flour dwindle away to make space for value-packs of instant ramen instead. There are weeks when the war spills from your cabinets; you throw out wilted basil, whole cardamom pods, even the garam marsala powder has to go - turned into a solid block from being in the damp and dark too long. You’d almost wept when you had to toss the fenugreek seeds. Too many herbs and spices expired with barely a teaspoon’s dent made in their jars. You don’t even know what some of them are when you send them to their grave, the scuffed, faded labels as decipherable as hieroglyphs. 

There was a time you would have asked Nanami but he barely remembers buying them.

The dry cupboards are crypts, the fridge a cryogenic cry for help - if it wasn’t already a morgue, or a self-sustaining mausoleum.  

But you persist: Putting on his favourite skirt and that flattering apron, even while Nanami’s is hung in a corner fraying, accumulating dust, you make the decision to don your best smile and daub your wrists with the perfume he gifted you, the one which reeks of his regret, with its base notes of a promise still lingering on your skin; and you wait.

And you’ll wait. And wait.

You wait at the table, the steam growing cold long before the frost turns its keys in the lock and sweeps across your doorway. You rise to welcome him home to the honey glow, to the tungsten-warmth and spring in your step, to a plaiting of fingers and the coil of tongues, to feel the granite cliffs of his lips thaw against the meadows of your thighs. 

You rise and you glimpse it, his smile flickering, the familiarity sprouting in your chest, sun-summoned, dandelion-effervescent, fern tangle-firm in solid boughs spreading lush as vast cypress roots below. 

You reach towards him, the smile flickers again, his eyes scanning over the feast you prepared for him; the salad of pea tendrils and cauliflower florets, twinkling with the rubies of pomegranate pips. Filets of silver-skinned seabass, grill marks glistening gold with the tender white underbelly of its flesh. A caramel sheen, glass-thin over apple wafer-slices, delicately fanned in a glossy tarte tatin. 

“My love, what is this?”

He turns to you, and the lump in his throat is more unbearable than the gnawing in your belly.

“It’s dinner, Kento. Remember those?” you laugh, hating how hollowly it rings through you. 

Nanami has not taken more than two steps from the front step.

“Have I forgotten an anniversary?” he asks, tone already dubious, leaden with a quiet dread. “What’s the occasion?” 

You approach him hesitantly. “There’s no occasion,” you say softly, “Do we need one?”

You never did, before. This used to be the norm you shared.

But you already know his answer as your question hangs in the air, feeling the despair condense in the room as Nanami’s guilty gaze darts to his phone. 

“I’m so sorry, there’s another stake out. It’s an emergency, they want us out on the 10pm train tonight to Iwate. You know I wish I could-”

“For how long?”

“If there was any other way, I’d stay, but my colleague di-”

“How long, Kento?”

“Three days,” he whispers, clutching your hands. “Just three days.”

“Just three days. Right.” 

He lets the wintry bite of your response clamp around his heart, spreading fractal through it. 

“When I’m back, I prom-”

“Don’t.”

He’ll take your glare, at least you’re still looking at him, even eviscerating him. 

“Darling…” The wretchedness of his tone at least indicates how much he’s missed the wondrousness of all he’s sacrificing, that he’s aware apologies aren’t enough. You sigh, freeing your hands to cup Nanami’s face and he leans fully into your touch, soaking in the warmth of your palms.

“I’ll get you a box. Go pack.” 

Later, storing the leftovers, you’ll wonder if there’s enough cling film to wrap over your own eyes, nose and mouth. To bind yourself in a chrysalis, so you’d be blind to the clock till Nanami returned and made it home, made this place home again. You just had to wait.

iii.

He has the weekends at least. They’re no longer mere consolations, they are consecrations of the love you give each other. The bed becomes a confession booth, the place where he seeks penance and offers psalms in your name, for his mortal transgressions of being unable to be in two places at once, of letting you slip into this very same bed alone on too many nights. 

Nanami isn’t a religious man, has little concept of a Sabbath - but if he did, he’d think it a sin that the grace he finds in you can’t be stretched into Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, would believe it blasphemy that he doesn’t get to worship you throughout the week.

He wonders how you can look both so conniving and innocent in slumber, nestled against his side now. He recalls the all nighters he used to pull at his office, because he didn't know what else to squander sleepless empty hours on; how his colleagues would mock and jeer that he was spoiling the market, gunning so hard for a promotion but nothing could be further from the truth. He had no intentions of winning the rat race. In fact he wanted out of it. 

He’d thought maybe he could escape a little earlier if he ran further, ran faster but he didn't get out of the cage, he just stepped into a bigger and bigger maze, not even 25 and already hurtling towards a cul-de-sac, frequently fantasizing about how he might take that shiny new convertible the last pay bump afforded him and accelerate it into a nice solid alley. 

But then he’d met you; you, who broke the gridlock in his life, who inspired him to go down his own road. Even if they seemed to lead back to hauntingly familiar paths. 

No, he has a reason to look ahead now. He isn’t just trudging on day by day, even as he takes the present in his stride. His future is here. 

Nanami is gazing at his future, smooshed into his neck and smearing sticky gossamer threads against his cheek, tiny wheezy noises whistling through their nostrils when his phone begins to buzz. He sighs, reluctantly picking it up.

“Good morning, Nanami-san! Just calling to confirm we’ll be meeting at the warehouse at 11.”

“I’m sorry Takuma-san. I won’t be able to be there after all. Something else requires my attention.”

“Oh, I see.” Ino doesn’t try to veil the abject disappointment.

“But I trust you’ll be able to handle the investigation independently, Takuma-san.”

“Gosh, really? All right, I won’t let you down Nanami-san!”

Nanami clears his throat, adjusting to the ebullient whiplash coming from the other end of the line. Well, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. He knew his assessments were accurate. He just also knew the junior sorcerer held a particularly high regard for him.

“By the way Nanami-san, not to be rude or anything but your voice sounds a little rough. You’re not under the weather are you?”

“Well…” Nanami looks at you snuggling into a more comfortable position, with his bicep as your pillow, pinning his shoulders to the sheets. 

“I suppose my arm is feeling slightly numb.”

“Oh, you should get to the root of that.”

Nanami glances down, containing the snicker in his chest as he hears you mumble something in your sleep. He skims a thumb over the apple of your cheek.

“I believe I will. Take care, Takuma-san,” Nanami says, concluding the call.

The warmth of his future seeps into his bones and Nanami thinks, after all these years, perhaps he can afford himself, and you, more than a little indulgence. He owes you that much. Or maybe he doesn’t have to hoard up all his leave days just to have this as a temporary respite; maybe he can make it permanent, for the rest of his life.

You thought your fiancè would leave most of the details to you but no, Nanami gets super involved with his rather strong opinions about the cake. 

“The Sicilian Lemon & Poppy Seed has a moister crumb,” he insists. 

You don’t say anything, only throwing a longing glance at the slice of pistachio cake between the two of you, a pout precariously balanced on the tines of the dessert fork pricking against your lips.

Nanami huffs through his nose, “I suppose we can do a fourth tier.”

Your face splits into a grin, and Nanami’s isn’t far behind as he presses bright citrus kisses to your mouth, savouring the light spilling into each other during this lull, quietly thrumming with all the energy of the day ahead of you both. 

It’s moments like these that affirm your joint decision to independently organise the wedding was the best one you’d ever made - second only of course, to agreeing to have Nanami in your life forever. The treasure trove of tender interludes made these past few weekends, bustling with errands, all worth it despite their hectic schedule.

Even though the two of you were planning for a modest reception, there was still so much to cross off the list. Handwritten invitations, trips to the florist, checking in with caterers on the menu development. You glance at your phone, there’s still about a dozen vendors to see to. But with your fastidious, generous sweetheart by your side, you’re sure the two of you will be able to settle everything before the big day, and enjoy all this extra time you were spending together.

“We’ll get those pain au chocolats to go, thank you.”

Nanami loops an arm around you, rubbing your shoulders as you adjust your scarf more snugly around your neck against the brisk autumn breeze.

“We’ll need to pick out fabrics for the iro-uchikake next.”

“No wonder you wanted to hit up the patisserie first,” Nanami chuckles, braiding his fingers through yours as the two of you stroll down the street, a swirl of maple leaves crunching underfoot. 

“I’m hoping it won’t take all afternoon, but I wanted to make sure we both got a bite first.”

“Good thing we got these emergency croissants then.”

“I thought we’re saving them for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Or I could make you your favourite loaded pancakes.”

You give Nanami’s hand a tight squeeze even as you sigh, “See this is why I couldn’t do the whole white wedding dress diet thing.”

“You hardly need to,” your beloved hums, fingers curling around the plush of those hips he adores so much, flush to his side, in step with you.

“You spoil me terribly, Kento.”

“Well, you’ll have to get used to that quickly, Mrs Nanami.”

An almost unbearable joy surges through your soul when you hear him address you this way. And soon (yet not soon enough) everyone else will call you that too. For forever more, you’d be Mrs Nanami.

After November 3rd, 2018.

iv.

November never arrives.

The end of October brings the end of the world, and the cracking open of one you wish you knew nothing about. One you still can’t comprehend, despite the deluge of information, despite your flood of rage and agony.

There’s only a single, salient fact through all of this - He’s gone. 

He’s gone, and there’s nothing to cling to. 

No broken mast to splinter through your ribcage, no driftwood that could salvage you as you’re ravaged by the waves. You want to drown, you want to drown, but every day you are spit back up on the shore so the salt can rend through your lungs once more, every day the sun still rips its way through your blackout curtains, a cruel gash of light exposing the stark reality of the empty spot in your bed. Right next to your fingers, curling your fist over the chasm, the space all the more frozen for the dust motes dancing over it.

The chill of the band on your fourth finger sinks into your palm, till you taste metal on your tongue, a mercurial poison in your bloodstream. It burns through you, numbs you. You shiver and you sweat. You close windows, you open them; caterwauls and gasoline fumes and the shrieks of ambulance sirens all bleeding through the panes - You can’t hear any of it over the hollow pounding in the cavity of your chest.

Something clawing at your esophagus, scrabbling to get out. Not a sob. You cannot swallow, throat too parched from not having eaten or drunk in days. You know what it is, it is screaming in your mind - but you will not let the world wrest this away from you too. 

You cannot even utter his name, not even murmured into the dark. You refuse to let the shadows steal his syllables, you want them, their rubble, the full weight of them trapping your tongue and his breath, the memory of his breath, its devotion to you, his oaths in your mouth, a vow half-blossomed, a full burden, caught between your lungs for eternity.

The details of your beloved’s work are no longer a mystery to you. 

A pink-haired boy with scarlet eyes shows up at your doorstep one day, trying to spare you the worst of it. He tries to tell you who he is, who the love of your life was to him. 

He can’t be more than 16, but it’s clear his youth has become just one more casualty from that savage night. In the slump of his shoulders, you recognise Kento’s back, stiff under the weight of all he’d never said, but told you you dissolved, just by being there. You don’t know if knowing would have made a difference. It didn’t matter, Kento had decided, simultaneously selfless and selfish: It was only through your ignorance he’d been able to preserve a semblance of bliss. 

But that had been his hubris. 

Had he expected you to pick up the debris in his wake, in this eternal nightmare? Did he think his worst fears would never come to pass? That you were worth the risk? You would never get those answers.

If only, if only there’d been ashes. You would have swallowed them whole. 

“We…we made rings, out of platinum…” You falter, your desperation rising thick in the air.

Itadori shakes his head, scarred hands knotting around his steaming mug. 

“I couldn’t find anything like that…I’m-I’m sorry,” he whispers.

In that wobbling apology, in the tremor of his lower lip which he tries to curl behind his teeth, you see it, on the edge of vanishing, his violent attempt to vanquish the final vestiges of childhood innocence, what Kento had fought and sacrificed to protect.

You don’t have the strength, everything has been drained and sapped from you, the weeks have stretched and stretched you thin, but you gather Yuji in your arms, and this time he doesn’t stop the streaks cascading from those cavernous eyes, pouring into the ravine of your soul. 

You hold him, you don’t know for how many hours, wracked and trembling and falling apart, and you clutch at the familiar and the imagined, you hold him, just to feel Kento’s frame shudder and shake against you once more, before it slips from your grasp and memory forever.

© sandsorghum. 2025

[crystal-wingeddragon-spikes]

An Alan Becker-verse experimental comic

No, that wouldn't kill The Chosen One. If it was that easy, everything would be over in year 2006. The Chosen One's POV of a related story is here.

Why is the art style changes every panel? It is experimental. Sorry.

There is a mistake, the 64 MB flash drive was from 20 years ago, not 10. I stumbled upon "Look at this flash drive from 10 years ago.", and it turns out the post is also from 10 years ago.

The glasses shape change is intentional. In reality, Alan is wearing round framed glasses, but from The Chosen One's perspective, the screen reflection made them believe the glasses were always a pair of rectangles. Use that information as you will.

I might tell you all the details. This has a lot of subtle hints and backstories. If you ask

It is mainly from Teenager Alan "noogai3" Becker's point of view.

Happy New Year.

[warpdrive-witch]

It Worked (19/23)

Words: 24.5 k. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT.

Then Let Me Show You

The glow of the laptop screen cast a pale rectangle across the kitchen table, the only illumination in the early-morning hush. Outside the windows, the world was still a blur of navy and indigo, the sun not yet risen, the house still cloaked in the intimate stillness that came just before dawn. Rio moved like someone underwater, each motion deliberate, each step echoing in the stillness of early morning. The lights were off. A tapestry of deep gray and steel-blue started making its way up the walls, the kind of morning that hadn't decided whether it would bloom into gold or collapse into rain.

She wore one of your sweatshirts—hood up, sleeves pushed up to her forearms—and sat barefoot at the kitchen table, elbows braced on the worn oak, her legs folded under her. The wood was cool against her skin, grounding her, but her chest felt tight, too full—like every breath had to push through layers of smoke to get out. Her hand rested lightly over her sternum, as if she could calm the pounding beneath it. The photo was still open on the screen, stark and undeniable.

Chase’s obituary. Eulogy by Pastor Dr. Marcus.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. After the discovery, she’d lain awake between your sleeping form and Agatha’s quiet, rhythmic breaths, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the sound of both your heartbeats, whispering prayers in languages she no longer practiced aloud. She had held one hand on your belly for hours—felt the roll of your daughter stretching against her palm like a tide—like a promise—and she’d whispered to her too. You’re safe, baby girl. That had been her reality over the last few nights.

Her jaw flexed, muscles ticking just beneath the skin as she pressed her thumb against her phone screen. The green call button hovered, waiting. Dr. Caldwell would be awake. She always was at this hour—an old habit from decades of academic training and maternal instinct that never quite let her sleep past five. The phone rang once. Twice. “Hello?” Rio closed her eyes for a moment. The voice was alert but wrapped in velvet—Caldwell’s signature tone. Steady. Measured. It wound around Rio like a weighted blanket pulled up over her chest.

“Hi, Ally. It’s me.” Rio said softly, her voice edged with something careful. “Sorry to call this early.”

“Rio?” The tone shifted. Sharpened. “Are you alright?”

“I… yeah,” she managed, but it cracked. A raw edge laced the sound, frayed like thread left in the wind. She laid her palm flat against her sternum, as if that could settle the thud beneath. She cleared her throat, pressed her palm more firmly to her chest.

“What’s going on?” “Caldwell said, softer now.

Rio’s eyes dropped to the screen. The documents were still open. The obituary. The screenshots. The side-by-side comparisons. Marcus’s name beneath Chase’s. The church registry. The last link in a chain she and Agatha had spent two sleepless nights wrapping around themselves.

“It’s Marcus,” she said, and even the sound of his name made her stomach lurch.

There was no response at first. Just that hum of someone listening. Not surprised. Not yet. Rio continued. “Agatha and I found something. We… we confirmed it. He’s Chase’s cousin.” Her voice caught, just slightly.

Silence met her for a beat. Then a sharp inhale on the other end. “You’re sure?”

Rio reached for the trackpad, her fingers trembling so badly it took her two tries to click open the email window. “I’m sending it to your personal inbox right now. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Her breath fogged faintly in the chill as she clicked “send.” The cursor blinked once. Twice. Then—click. There was the quiet sound of a computer mouse clicking on the other end. A pause. Then Dr. Caldwell exhaled slowly. “Got it.” Caldwell’s voice dipped lower, reading.

Rio pressed her fingertips to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. “He knew everything.” Rio’s voice was thin now, stretched to its edge. “He knew Chase. Knew about the attack. He knew her mother. He’s known who she was since the beginning.” She drew in a sharp breath, grounding herself. “He joined the committee knowing. He walked into our home department, shook our hands, and smiled in her face, knowing.”

Silence bloomed on the line. A kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but listening. Heavy. Knowing. It wasn’t absence. It was pressure. Like the air before lightning. “Jesus Christ.”

Rio closed her eyes. The laptop light painted her skin in sickly blue. “We haven’t told her yet,” she added, voice almost a whisper. “She’s thirty-eight weeks. The defense is in four days. She’s… she’s glowing, Ally. She’s sleeping and napping through the day. She’s eating without forcing herself to. She smiles at me, and she's so happy. Just…” Her voice broke, and she didn’t bother to hide it. “I want her to have this week where she gets to think about the baby. About finishing her doctorate. About what comes next for our family”

Another pause. Then Caldwell breathed out slowly. “You’re right.” Caldwell’s voice, when it returned, was hushed and reverent. “She deserves that. All of you do. You’ve done the right thing. Agatha and you are protecting her peace.”

“We’re going to tell her soon. As soon as it’s a good time. We won’t bring our daughter into the world or have her go into labor carrying this.”

“You won’t have to handle it alone,” Caldwell said. “I’ll call Erin. We’ll tell Marcus he’s been excused from the committee by this afternoon. No warning. No explanation. Just that we’re restructuring due to timing conflicts.”

“She won’t question it?”

“No,” Caldwell said. “She trusts me,” Caldwell said without hesitation. “And she’s already seen him circling like a hawk and his actions as a committee member. This gives us a clean exit. No suspicions. And more importantly, no chance for him to retaliate.”

Rio let her body fold forward until her forehead rested against the curve of her knuckles. Her breath came shallow, ribs barely expanding. Upstairs, she could feel you stir through the floor—some phantom twitch, a flutter. The baby inside you shifted then, just upstairs, and Rio felt the phantom of it—like her soul was tethered to you by a string of breath and pulse and prayer. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me. Just be careful.” Caldwell’s voice hardened like iron cooling. “If he managed to get that close—on campus, in her home department—under a different name, pretending not to know anything—then he is not just unethical. He is calculated.  He inserted himself into your family’s orbit through lies. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a strategy. If he’s cornered, he won’t go down cleanly. ”

“I know,” Rio said. Her voice was steel now.

“This goes beyond academic misconduct,” Caldwell continued, voice sharp and clipped. “This is psychological warfare. A calculated infiltration. He positioned himself like a predator.  But this… this is beyond academic misconduct. This is a targeted manipulation. A goddamn psychological operation.”

Rio nodded again, heart thudding so hard she could feel it in her wrists. “He knew exactly who she was.”

“And now we know who he is,” Caldwell replied. “I’ll speak with the department head myself this morning. Marcus won’t be in any position to retaliate. Erin and I will keep it tight. Nobody outside the three of us needs to know. Let her have her week. Let her walk in there and shine.” And you three—” Her voice softened. “Let us handle it. Enjoy the last few weeks of her pregnancy before the baby comes and changes everything.”

The silence that followed held the weight of so many unsaid things. Then Rio exhaled and said, “If anything happens, please keep me in the loop.”

“Of course. But like I said, don’t worry. Let her advisors handle this. He won’t step into the conference room.”

Rio took another breath, blowing out the tension she had been holding. “Okay. Is everything set for her defense? Small crowd?”

“Yes. We have two other students who are defending, but it will be back-to-back. I hope she knows she’s already passed. This last little moment is for her to shine. I’ll let her know before so we can take all take a picture together. If you all want to stay through each defense, you can; if not, Erin and I can call her at the end of the day.”

“I’ll leave that up to her.”

The silence that followed held the weight of so many unsaid things. Then Rio exhaled and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“You will,” Caldwell said. “And Rio? You keep her close. All of your girls. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

The words didn’t hit like advice. They landed like a vow. Simple, but something in them cracked her wide open. Her eyes stung, her heart echoing the rhythm of the daughter’s name that had yet to be spoken aloud.

Rio’s hand drifted instinctively to her chest again. Not to ease her breath—but to protect what lived inside her, tethered invisibly to the three hearts asleep upstairs. She closed the laptop with a click that echoed through the room like the sound of a sealed door. “Always,” she said, and meant it with everything she was.

------

The garage door was rolled halfway up, letting the late morning light spill across the concrete like liquid gold. Outside, the wind swept through the trees with a sighing hush, carrying the scent of magnolia and earth, the sweetness of spring heavy in the air. It wasn’t hot, not yet, but the sun had begun its steady work—warming the siding, the hood of the car, the back of Rio’s neck where her curls were tied up in a loose knot.

You sat in a collapsible camping chair they’d set out just for you, wrapped in a soft hoodie with the zipper barely reaching over your belly. The fabric stretched lovingly over your body, the baby shifting beneath it like she was listening to the trees dance.

Rio was crouched on the passenger side of the car, her dark jeans dusty at the knees, eyes narrowed like she was preparing to disarm a bomb. The car seat was halfway in, tilted at an awkward angle that didn’t inspire confidence. Agatha, standing on the opposite side with the manual in her hands, frowned down at the page like it had just personally insulted her. “I swear this diagram was drawn by a demon.”

Rio blew a lock of hair out of her face. “If we don’t die from sleep deprivation, it’s gonna be the car seat that takes us out.”

You laughed, the sound light and startled, arms wrapped around your belly as if your daughter might laugh with you. “You two have, like… five degrees between you. And the car seat is winning?”

“Don’t tempt her,” Agatha muttered, stabbing a finger at the latch with mild fury. “She feeds off smugness.”

Rio leaned over to squint at the base, fingers pressing against something unlabeled. “There’s a click somewhere. There’s always a click. But I don’t know if it’s the right click or the death click.”

“I beg you,” Agatha said gravely, “please do not install our daughter’s car seat based on vibes and blind optimism.”

You grinned into your hoodie sleeve. “Too late. That’s how we’re raising her.” A beat of silence followed. Then—click. A distinct, definitive sound. So sharp and satisfying it echoed in the garage like a tiny firework. Agatha looked up slowly. Rio looked back.

“YES!” they both shouted in unison, triumphant, and slapped their palms together in a victorious high-five that echoed like applause. “I knew it!” Rio crowed, standing and dusting her hands on her thighs. “All it needed was my intimidation glare.”

Agatha rolled her eyes and shook the instruction manual at her. “You literally threatened it under your breath.” “And she listened.”

“She?”

“Do you see any men in this house, Rio? Last time I looked, the only cock in this house was upstairs in the…. ”

Rio stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes frozen as Agatha giggled at her and cocked an eyebrow. “Dios mío. ¿En serio? Ya casi nos vamos y ella quiere provocarme...” You were still chuckling when they turned to you in tandem, softening. Rio reached for your hands while Agatha moved to your side, brushing the sleeve of your hoodie back from your wrist.

“Alright, hermosa. Time to test it out. We want Dr. Ezra to give it her blessing after the appointment.”

You raised both hands slowly, theatrically, as if you were presenting yourself on a velvet-draped stage rather than from the humble seat of a camping chair in the garage. Your fingers twitched with a lazy flourish, a smirk playing on your lips. “I am a delicate, ripe peach,” you declared, eyes twinkling beneath the curve of your lashes. “Handle with care.”

Agatha snorted—a soft, unfiltered sound that cracked like sun through cloud. Her head tilted as she appraised you with the kind of expression usually reserved for priceless art behind museum glass. “You’re not just a peach,” she murmured, stepping closer, her voice honey-warm and reverent. “You’re a sacred monument. We’ll carry you to the passenger seat like you’re made of light and divine decree.”

“And sarcasm,” Rio added dryly, though the fondness in her voice curled around the moment like ribbon. She moved first, crouching down so smoothly you barely noticed the shift until her lips brushed against your temple—just a whisper of contact, warm and grounding. She stayed low, knees creaking just faintly, and reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together.

Agatha bent beside her, one hand steadying the armrest of the chair, the other slipping beneath your elbow. She gave you the softest nod—almost imperceptible—and shifted her weight with you. Your body, at nearly full term, had taken on the rhythm of tides—slow to rise, heavy with purpose. Your hips protested with a dull throb, and every motion now came with a kind of orchestral awareness: the creak of your joints, the swell of your belly, the way your balance lived not in your feet anymore, but somewhere higher—centered inside the growing life who moved with you.

You leaned forward, breath catching slightly as the weight of your daughter pulled downward with gravity’s familiar ache. “Got you,” Agatha whispered near your ear, the words not loud enough to be heard by anyone else, but spoken as if they were ancient and binding. Rio adjusted, hands firm but gentle at your side, her strength always quiet—never boasting, never loud. Together, they lifted you with the kind of reverence that made your throat tighten. They weren’t just helping you stand. They were offering you up.

Your breath shook as you found your feet. The world tilted a moment—your center of gravity now more hers than yours—but they didn’t waver. Their touch steadied you instantly. Two hands. Two wives. Two roots at your spine. The baby stirred then, just beneath your ribs—an elbow, maybe, or a foot. A slow press from the inside that made your eyes flick downward. Like she had felt it too. Like she knew.

The three of you moved in a practiced waddle toward the car, your feet slow over the concrete. The passenger door was already open, sunlight warming the seat, the new car seat gleaming in the back like a throne waiting to be filled. Rio stepped ahead and turned, her arms sweeping out dramatically like a game show host on finale night. “Your chariot awaits, mi amor.”

You laughed softly, a breath escaping on the edge of wonder, and let yourself sink into the seat with the grace of someone who had earned every slow exhale. The fabric gave beneath you. The sun painted lazy stripes across your thighs through the windshield. Agatha lingered by your door a moment longer, her fingers brushing a final sweep of hair from your cheek, then pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You felt it more than heard it—the way her breath held there for a beat before she exhaled.

“Love you,” she murmured. Then she was gone, moving fluidly toward the back door, the hinge creaking faintly as it opened. You turned just enough to watch her slip inside the back seat, her body folding into the space beside the newly installed car seat. Her hand came to rest on the base instinctively, like she was already practicing how to check the buckle. How to comfort. How to protect.

Rio circled the car and climbed into the driver’s seat with a soft grunt, adjusting it instinctively for her legs, not hers. She glanced into the rearview mirror and then stilled, her eyes catching. You turned to follow her gaze.

Agatha sat perfectly framed in the mirror, her knees drawn slightly inward, hand resting lightly on the fabric of the seat where your daughter would soon rest. The sunlight streaming in from the garage door bathed her in gold. Her expression had softened, something sacred unfurling in her features. A future blooming quietly behind her eyes.

There it was. The car seat. Installed. Real. A soft purple trim outlined the edges of the black safety fabric—just enough color to mark it as hers. A small mirror was already fixed to the backrest, angled perfectly so you could see her when the time came. So she would always be in your view. So you’d never have to wonder what she was doing back there. The weight of the moment settled in your chest, not heavy, but full. Like a cup overflowing. Like air after the rain.

“It’s really happening,” you whispered, not sure if you meant it for them or yourself.

From the mirror, Agatha caught your eye. Her lips curved into a slow smile. “She’s going to ride home with us,” she said quietly, hand still on the seat. “Right here. In this exact spot.”

Rio reached over, her fingers brushing yours gently across the console. “And we’ll be right here. Always.”

-------

The room was warm, bathed in soft light that diffused from overhead sconces like the inside of a seashell—gentle, ambient, designed for calm. A gentle floral scent lingered faintly in the air, grounded by something antiseptic but not unpleasant. Everything about Dr. Ezra’s office had that quiet, intentional peace to it—clean lines, soft colors, nothing jarring.

You lay reclined on the padded ultrasound table, the paper beneath you whispering with every small shift of your weight. Your belly rose like a hill beneath the drape of your shirt, round and firm and steady beneath your hand. It moved once—your daughter rolling lazily as if to remind you that she, not gravity, ruled your center of balance now.

Dr. Ezra stood to your left, smiling softly as she adjusted the machine beside you. Her dark curls were swept back today, reading glasses perched on her nose, her white coat open over a soft gray blouse. Calm radiated off her like heat from stone.

“Ready? she said, her voice low, steady

You nodded, heart thudding softly beneath your ribs. Agatha sat at your right, her hand already holding yours, thumb sweeping soft arcs across your knuckles. Rio stood on the other side, one hip leaning into the table, one hand in her pocket, the other hand placed on your shoulder, eyes watching you like she was memorizing every second of this.

Ezra reached for the gel, and you braced a little at the touch—it was always cooler than expected, a sudden glisten across your belly. Then the wand followed. The familiar pressure bloomed as it glided over your skin, soft at first, then deeper as Ezra searched for the right angle.

The screen flickered. Then lit up. There she was. Your daughter. The room went still. Even the monitor seemed to hum quieter for a moment, like it understood what was unfolding.

Right on cue, just as Dr. Ezra shifted the wand with the gentlest pressure along the curve of your belly, something stirred beneath your skin.

A ripple. Not just a twitch or a flutter—but a full-bodied stretch, slow and determined. A visible rise just beneath your navel, like a tiny hill blooming into being under the surface of your body. You gasped—a startled, laughing sound that cracked open something in your chest—as the shape of a hand or foot pushed outward with quiet insistence. You didn’t know which it was. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that your daughter had opinions.

Rio let out a delighted laugh, warm and unfiltered, and leaned slightly closer from the foot of the bed, eyes dancing. “She’s fighting back,” she said, grinning so wide her dimples caught the overhead light. “She’s like—‘What is this nonsense? Who dares disturb my kingdom?’”

Agatha chuckled softly at your side, but didn’t take her eyes off the screen. Ezra’s voice was calm and amused, layered with the practiced wonder of someone who had seen this a hundred times and still found it beautiful. “She’s reacting beautifully,” she murmured, smiling as she angled the probe again. “Responsive, active, playful… and still has a little room to stretch. Though probably not for much longer. She’s running out of real estate.”

Another slow drag of the wand. Another shift beneath your skin. You could feel her now, not just the thump or kick of motion, but the chase like she was following it. As if she knew someone was watching, she decided to perform. Her limbs traced the pressure with a strange, intimate intelligence, rolling under the warmth of the gel and Ezra’s sure hand. You could feel her heels slide low, toward your pelvis. Then an elbow—or a knee—arced up along your left side with a faint, dragging stretch that made your breath hitch.

The screen bloomed to life again, washed in familiar shades of storm gray and soft white.  There. There she was. Her spine, long and elegant, curled like a comma against the border of the womb. Her ribcage expanding in tiny, rhythmic movements. And then—her face. Her profile. Tiny nose. A barely-there chin. Lips parted just enough that you could see the slight gape of her mouth. And her hand… drifting upward, slow and wavelike. A little motion that could’ve been anything—a stretch, a reach, or maybe, just maybe, a hello.

“She looks so…” The words caught in your throat. Your hand tightened around Agatha’s without realizing. “So sure of herself,” you whispered.

Ezra nodded, eyes never leaving the screen. “She is,” she murmured. “She knows where she is. She knows what she’s doing. Babies this far along are aware in a way we don’t always expect. They know your voice. Your rhythm. She’s practicing for you.”

Your throat closed. You didn’t realize Agatha had started to cry until her thumb paused mid-stroke across your knuckles. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see her face. Her lashes were damp. Her lips were parted, eyes locked on the screen like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “She’s so much bigger than last time,” Agatha whispered, reverent. “Look at her hands… her ribs… her little cheeks—” Her voice cracked on that last word.

Ezra clicked a few buttons on the console, capturing still images like sacred icons. Then she began her measurements. The room fell into quiet awe, broken only by the soft tapping of keys and the hum of the machine. The cursor swept from crown to rump, outlining her body. Then again, from temple to temple, measuring head circumference. Then a sweep of the femur.

Each number appeared in the corner like something holy, something impossible turned factual. Ezra finally leaned back slightly, her voice calm and bright. “She’s weighing in at just about six pounds,” she said with a smile. “Give or take a few ounces. That’s a healthy weight. Her growth is right on track. All her organs look fantastic. Her heart rate’s steady and strong.”

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were holding your breath until you let it go. It wasn’t just a sigh—it was a release. A full-bodied surrender. The air left your lungs in a slow tremble, your chest easing like the unfurling of a fist that had been clenched for weeks. Your body relaxed into the chair, your shoulders softening. The worry—the quiet, ever-lurking hum that something might go wrong, that something might shift—eased its grip. You hadn’t even known it was still there, not fully. But now, with Ezra’s voice ringing gently in your ears and your daughter glowing on the screen like some lunar map of life, it cracked and melted away.

Agatha lifted your hand to her mouth, kissed it once, soft and sure. “She’s perfect,” she said again, her voice wet and unwavering.

Rio stepped forward now, one hand resting gently on your ankle as she stared at the screen with something near disbelief. “Six pounds,” she said, quiet wonder slipping beneath her words. “She’s already got biceps like her Mamí.”

Ezra chuckled softly. “She’s got presence, that’s for sure.” The wand stilled. Your daughter moved one more time—an elbow grazing just beneath your ribs, a stretch that bloomed upward like she was pressing her whole body toward the sound of your voice. You whispered without thinking, without needing to make it loud. “Hi, baby girl.”

The monitor flickered again. Her hand rose. And for a moment, the room felt like a church. Until another kick hit the wand dead-on. Ezra laughed, shoulders shaking as she adjusted. “My niece apparently doesn’t have much interest in the medical field.”

You exhaled on a soft laugh of your own, your belly shifting as your daughter rolled again—one strong, deliberate stretch that made the wand jolt slightly to the left. “She’s got opinions,” Rio murmured, pride thick in her voice. Her fingers, still resting on your ankle, gave a gentle squeeze. “Just like her mama.”

Ezra shook her head, still grinning, and steadied the probe again. “Alright, alright, little one, let’s behave just long enough for me to finish these measurements.” The gel glistened under the overhead lights as she moved the wand carefully across the taut curve of your belly. The screen flickered again, refocusing. She took her time—measuring fluid levels, scanning the length of the umbilical cord, pausing once to let the image of your daughter’s ribcage catch up to her own heartbeat. Another click. Then another. Still images snapped and tucked away like sacred keepsakes. “She’s head down now,” Ezra said softly, confirming what you’d felt building for days. “Right on target. She hasn’t dropped into the pelvis just yet, but she’s close.” You blinked, watching the screen. Agatha’s hand was still holding yours, but her other hand moved up to your forearm, steady, grounding.

Ezra continued, her voice calm and certain. “You’re thirty-eight weeks, so it could be anytime now. Her due date’s still two weeks away, but we’re in the window. Nothing alarming, no need to rush. But the signs are lining up.”

You swallowed slowly. Not out of fear, but awe. Something in your body, your bones, already knew it. She was coming. Ezra did one last gentle sweep with the wand, angling to catch a few more stills. “I’ll print you a few photos before you head out.”

The wand lifted from your belly with a soft pop, leaving behind a trail of cool gel that quickly began to chill against your skin. You reached down to touch it, but Ezra was already moving into action, setting the probe aside and reaching for a warm towel. “Rio,” she said over her shoulder, “mind flicking that light back on?”

“On it.” The room filled slowly with soft overhead light, chasing out the shadows. It felt like surfacing after a dream. Ezra cleaned your belly gently, the warmth of the towel a welcome contrast to the chilled air and slick residue. Then she helped guide your body upright, one hand bracing your shoulder, the other at your elbow as you shifted to sit up on the table. Your back ached from lying flat too long. Your hips protested, but the movement helped. You exhaled slowly.

“How are you feeling?” Ezra asked gently, folding the towel and tossing it into the bin with practiced grace. Her tone softened—clinician to caretaker, to friend. “Anything new? Discomfort? Fatigue?”

You hesitated, then winced faintly as your arm shifted across your chest. “My left breast’s been sore the past couple nights. Like… not just tenderness. Pressure. It feels full.”

Ezra nodded immediately, no concern in her expression as she reached for gloves. “Let’s take a look.” You opened the front of your gown as she gently palpated the area, her fingers warm and professional as she moved carefully along the curve of your breast. After a moment, she leaned back and gave a small, pleased nod. “You’re developing a supply,” she said warmly. “You’re already producing. It’s perfectly normal—especially for your first. The glands are starting to wake up. And if she’s dropped in the next week or two, your body’s going to start prepping in earnest.”

“So I’m really close,” you said, more to yourself than anyone.

Ezra smiled, “You’re right at 38 weeks. My money is on another two or three weeks. For the record, Jen thinks it’s going to be closer to two. But from what we’ve all learned throughout your pregnancy, she makes her own decisions.”

Agatha’s hand moved to your thigh, her fingers sliding gently over the fabric of your gown, her voice soft behind you. “We’re almost there.”

Rio stepped forward now, hovering near your knees, crouching slightly so her face met yours. “You’re doing amazing,” she whispered. “You’ve carried her all this way. You’re nearly at the gate.” Ezra stripped off her gloves and crossed to the counter, retrieving a folder, a small paper packet, and a pen. When she turned back, her expression was focused—gentle, but clear.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s walk through your delivery plan again, just to be sure we’re all on the same page.” You nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of every shift in your body, the way your palms pressed into your thighs. Ezra pulled a stool closer and sat, her tone steady. “The plan is to labor here, at the clinic,” she said. “The birthing suite is prepped. All supplies are in place. We’ve got everything stocked, clean, and ready. You’ll have your own room, a water option for pain management, and the emergency kit is on standby—though I have no intention of using it.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart thudding louder now—not with fear, but anticipation. “So whenever she decides it’s time?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

Ezra gave you a look that landed like a blessing. “We’re ready. Whenever she is.” Then she tilted her head. “Have you made a decision about pain management? You don’t have to commit right now, but if you’ve already decided, I can make sure it’s noted.”

You laughed—half a breath, half a bark of truth—and pressed a hand to your back. “Yes. The epidural. Give me the epidural.”

Rio broke first, laughing loud and warm. “She means it with her whole chest.”

“I mean it with my pelvis,” you groaned, reaching instinctively for the small of your back.

Agatha leaned in, brushing your hair back from your temple. “She’s been asking for it since thirty weeks,” she said with a grin. “She was moaning in her sleep the other night and whispered 'epidural' like it was a prayer.”

Ezra laughed gently, writing something down on the clipboard. “Got it. We’ll have it prepped and ready. No heroics. Just care.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting her words settle. The air was warm. The faint scent of lavender drifted in from a reed diffuser tucked near the windowsill—subtle, calming, the kind of softness that made you feel safe in your own skin.

Ezra’s chair rolled a little closer. You heard the slight squeak of the wheels and the click of her pen before she spoke again. “And just so you know,” she said, her tone brightening, “we’ve also got nitrous oxide on hand—for the earlier stages. Some light gas, just to take the edge off before we do the epidural. You’d hold the mask yourself, breathe as needed. It doesn’t interfere with baby or delay the epidural, and for some people it’s just enough to stay steady while early labor ramps up.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “So… I could be a little high while dilating?”

Ezra smiled. “A controlled float. Just a gentle cushion between contractions. It won’t knock you out. It just reminds your body not to panic.”

“That actually sounds like a gift,” you murmured, adjusting slightly on the table, shifting your weight to ease the throb in your hips. You felt Agatha’s hand still on your thigh, steady and grounding, like an anchor tucked beneath the weight of it all.

She leaned in a little, brushing her thumb along your knee. “Will she be able to eat during labor?”

Ezra looked thoughtful for a beat. “Technically, we advise against large meals once active labor begins. But that’s mostly because digestion slows down, and some people end up nauseous. In my experience, most laboring mothers aren’t very hungry, but drinking is fine.”

“And food like watermelon?” Agatha pressed, eyes flicking briefly to you. “Grapes?”

Ezra nodded, understanding. “Yes, especially fruits that are mostly water. Watermelon, grapes, sliced cucumbers, popsicles. Think hydration more than calories. As long as there’s no medical emergency, you’re free to nibble. It’s not a prison sentence.”

You smiled at that. “Good, because if she comes in the afternoon and someone tries to keep me from fruit, there will be a second labor.” Rio laughed softly beside you. You could feel her presence without even turning—knew exactly where she was by the heat radiating from her body and the way her fingers stayed twined with yours.

“And walking?” Rio asked next, her voice quieter now, but no less certain. “She’s been so sore. The rocking’s helped. Her hips respond really well when she’s upright. Will she be able to walk while laboring?”

Ezra’s eyes softened. “Yes. Definitely. As long as you’re not actively being monitored or having the epidural placed, I encourage it.  Walking, rocking, squatting—all of that helps gravity and movement do the work. We’ve got a support bar, birthing ball, anything you need. And if her hips like to move, we let them move. After the epidural, though, we keep you closer to the bed. We can stand; we can use the bar, but not walk the halls. Just in case the meds hit a little harder and you get dizzy.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Something loosened behind your ribs. Not just muscle, but readiness. The room stilled as you looked between your wives—Agatha with her hand still gently pressed to your knee, Rio with her thumb brushing lazy circles into the back of your hand—and you let your breath fill the quiet.

“Just… tell me again she’s okay.” The words escaped you before you could filter them, soft, but full. Not desperation. Not fear. Just the raw, aching truth of what it meant to carry her. To wait. To wonder, always, if you’d done enough. If she was safe.

Ezra’s eyes didn’t leave yours. She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile to soothe. She saw you. “She’s perfect,” she said again, her voice quiet, rooted. “Truly. Strong heartbeat. Steady movements. Growth right where it should be. Responsive, curious, stubborn as hell—which is always a good sign at this stage.”

You felt the breath return to your chest, a slow release that made your shoulders drop, your spine curve ever so slightly inward as if your body could finally admit how tightly it had been holding itself together. Ezra reached forward—not rushing—just a small, steady touch, her hand resting at the edge of your knee. “And you,” she added, letting her voice warm, “you’re doing great too.”

She looked to her left, then her right. Her gaze found Rio first—whose brows had knit together in quiet concern even as her mouth held a small, proud smile. Then Agatha, who looked like she was halfway between bursting into tears and arguing with fate that nothing could ever go wrong, not now. Ezra’s voice deepened, low and sure. “Both of your girls are healthy. Everything is fine. And it’s going to stay fine.” The stillness that followed wasn’t silence. It was safety. A current passed between the four of you. Not spoken. Not even fully felt all at once. But known. Like a blessing passed from one hand to another, from womb to air, from heart to heart.

Then Ezra leaned back slightly, folding her hands over her knee. Her eyes softened again—still clinical, still precise—but holding something older now. Wiser. “What else is going on with you?” she asked gently. “Tell me all the things.”

Rio shifted beside you, her arm brushing lightly against your shoulder as she leaned in, voice curling with amused affection. “Well, nesting mode has officially activated.” She nodded solemnly, gesturing with both hands. “Every edge of the house is clean. I mean, edges I didn’t know existed. Light switches. Baseboards. The top of the damn fridge.”

You let out a soft laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep. And everything suddenly felt… like it had to be perfect.”

Ezra grinned and patted your knee with practiced affection. “That’s a good sign. You’re getting close. People always talk about contractions and dilation, but sometimes it’s the scrubbed grout that’s the true harbinger.”

“I swear I caught her trying to organize the garage tools by pH balance,” Rio added.

“You did not!” you gasped, smacking her arm playfully.

Ezra chuckled, then looked at you more directly. “What else? How’s your week looking?”

You hesitated for a beat—then let out a breath. “I’m defending my dissertation Friday.”

Ezra’s brows lifted, impressed. “Oh! Wow, this is a huge week.” Then her voice softened. “How are you feeling about it?”

“Ready to get it over with,” you admitted, rubbing your palm lightly over the slope of your belly. “I’ve been working on this thing for so long. I just want to finish strong and move on. Be present.”

Ezra nodded, her expression shifting into something calmer, more maternal. “You deserve that. But make sure you're building in time to relax before the defense. Not just for the work—for you.”

“We tried,” Agatha murmured, from your other side, her thumb now drawing slow, unconscious circles into your forearm. “She’s determined. Bribery didn’t work. Offers of foot rubs didn’t work.”

“To be fair,” Rio interjected, “you did threaten her with foot rubs at 7 a.m.”

“And she liked it,” Agatha replied without blinking.

Ezra laughed, then tilted her head. “So what’s the plan between now and Friday? Feet up? Soft music? Herbal tea?”

You hesitated just long enough that Rio jumped in, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “Nope. We haven’t been able to talk her out of going to the Mariners game with The Boys tomorrow.”

‘The Boys’? Oh, you mean..” Ezra echoed.

You smiled, knowing they had all gotten to know one another when planning the baby shower and gifts. “Billy, Eddie, and Asher,” Agatha supplied, the corners of her mouth twitching. “She says it’s tradition. It’s Asher’s first game and says she wants one last game before she has to become respectable.”

You rolled your eyes. “I said no such thing.”

Ezra turned to you, eyebrow arching in full doctor mode. But then she smiled, that glint in her eye returning. “Listen. If she thinks she can handle it, I’m okay with it if she is. Baby is healthy. So is she. But—” she pointed at you gently, “plenty of water. Plenty of sitting. No climbing bleachers. And I want your phone charged and with you.”

You nodded quickly, half-grateful, half-exhilarated. “Promise. Agatha and Rio will be with me anyway. I doubt I’ll be able to cheer without monitoring.”

Ezra’s smile softened again. “And after Friday? I want you taking a few full days to rest. No more house projects. No more organizing closets at 3 a.m. Let your body slow down. Let your mind breathe.” She looked between the three of you, her voice quieter now with a glint of gentle curiosity. She leaned back slightly on her stool and asked, “Have you all picked a name yet?”

You smiled, the expression blooming across your face like sunlight through branches. “We’ve got some top contenders,” you said softly, eyes flicking between Rio and Agatha. “But… we’ll know when we see her. It doesn’t feel right to decide without her being in the room with us.”

Rio’s gaze softened immediately, her thumb still tracing the edge of your hand. “She’ll tell us who she is,” Agatha murmured. “One look, and we’ll know.”

You hesitated just a second longer, then grinned. “Though…” You shifted your weight slightly on the table, the smile curving deeper at the corners of your mouth. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Rio’s brow arched instantly, sharp and playful. Her eyes flicked toward yours with mock suspicion. “Oh, do you?” she asked, drawing the words out, her grin just beginning to tug at the edge of her lips.

You tried to hold your expression steady, but it cracked, a laugh escaping as you leaned back against the slight incline of the table. “But like Agatha said—” your voice softened again, your fingers spreading over your belly like a shield and a prayer all at once, “she’ll let us know. When we see her. We’ll know.”

Rio’s expression melted again, her teasing giving way to something softer, almost reverent. She nodded once, and her hand found yours again, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles like she was trying to ground the moment into memory.  Ezra smiled wide, a dimple flashing in one cheek as she stood and crossed to the machine. “Well, in the meantime, let me give you something to tide you over.”

You watched as she tapped a few buttons on the monitor. A soft whir followed as the printer warmed up, then began to feed out the ultrasound images, crisp and clear. No longer a blur of indistinct shadows or the bean-shaped blob from early visits. This was her—a fully formed little person. You could see the curve of her spine, the swell of her cheek, the delicate slope of her nose. Ezra gathered them with practiced fingers and handed them over. Rio reached out, taking them like she was receiving an artifact. Her thumb brushed the edge of the top image, her smile going faint and soft. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly, “This one’s mine.”

She peeled off the top image and slid it gently into her wallet, the movement slow and reverent—like a ritual. Her fingers lingered at the fold of leather, her eyes still on the tiny grayscale shape of the girl growing inside you. Then she turned, slipped the remaining prints into Agatha’s open purse. “For the house,” she teased, her voice catching just slightly with emotion.

Ezra stepped back toward the counter, giving you room to breathe again and moved to the sink to wash her hands, and the gentle splash of water was the only sound in the room for a few beats. The air was thick with that quiet tension made not of worry, but of awe.The room had that distinct post-appointment hush to it now, like the tail end of a ritual, where the candles are still burning, but the prayer has been spoken.

Rio was already offering her hands. One to steady your elbow, the other slipping instinctively beneath your arm as you shifted forward. Agatha moved in at your side, her palm bracing your back with familiar grace, her fingers spreading just wide enough to support the weight where your muscles were beginning to ache. Between them, you stood with a soft groan and a grateful laugh. “Slow, slow,” Rio murmured near your ear. “I got you.”

“Always,” Agatha added.

The hallway outside the exam room was quiet, the faint scent of lavender still trailing behind you. The sunlight had shifted since you’d come in—now stretching through the clinic windows in long, golden bands that caught the dust in the air like glitter. You moved carefully through it, the three of you walking in step, your shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. When you stepped outside, the breeze met you first. Brisk but sweet, brushing through your clothes, cooling the warmth left behind from the room. The parking lot glinted under the sun, and the air held that early spring tension��charged, like everything was about to bloom.

Ezra followed behind, keys jingling softly as she stepped out with you. She walked ahead just slightly as Rio opened the passenger side door. Then Ezra crouched beside the car, her trained fingers already moving with muscle memory. “Let me take a look at this seat,” she said, voice humming with approval. “If I don’t check it now, I’ll just lose sleep tonight thinking about it.”

She tugged gently at the straps, checked the tension at the base, and gave the buckle a testing click. Her brows rose, impressed. “This is a solid install,” she said, standing and brushing her hands on her coat. “Well done, both of you.”

“We nearly fought the entire time,” Rio admitted. “But we high-fived through the pain.” Ezra grinned and turned to Agatha, pulling her in for a firm, quick hug. Then Rio. Then finally, she turned to you. Her arms opened without hesitation, and you stepped into them. The hug wasn’t rushed. It was warm. Familiar. Deep enough to hold weight, gentle enough not to press against the baby between you.

“If you have any questions or worries—anything—you call or text me, okay?” she said softly against your ear. “If you don’t go into labor before, I’ll see you in just under two weeks.” You nodded; the back of your throat tight. You felt her hand rub your back once, then pull away.

Then Ezra tilted her head and gave you a knowing look. “So… did the birthing tub ever show up?”

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. “Not only did it show up,” she said, arching an elegant eyebrow, “but she dusted it. At three a.m. While it was still in the box.”

Ezra blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Oh, you’re ready, ready.”

“She was humming show tunes,” Rio added, climbing into the driver’s seat. “While labeling towel drawers.”

You raised both hands in mock protest. “I plead the nesting defense.” Ezra backed up, still laughing, as Agatha helped you into the car, your belly settling into place with a slow exhale. The door shut gently. The moment hung for a beat, full of light and love and lavender still clinging faintly to your shirt.

And then you drove away, the baby’s newest photo tucked safely in Rio’s wallet, two more nestled inside Agatha’s purse, and your hands resting on the place where she pressed back—always reminding you: Soon.

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

(Next Day)

The morning light hadn’t fully settled yet, but the world was already stirring. Pale silver leaked through the living room curtains, the soft kind of brightness that whispered more than it shouted—gentle, like it didn’t want to wake the house too soon. Sleep had come and gone all night, your body in a rhythm not unlike the tide: in, out, doze, wake, repeat. But this time, when your eyes blinked open, something felt different. Not pain. Not even discomfort. Just… awareness.

Your hands drifted down instinctively, pressing lightly over the swell of your belly. She was still there—solid and sure—but her weight had shifted. Lower. Anchored now into your pelvis in a way she hadn’t been the night before. You exhaled slowly and found yourself taking a deeper breath than usual—your lungs no longer pushed upward by her feet. That ache under your ribs had eased, but in its place, your hips throbbed with something heavier. Denser. Getting up from bed had been almost comical. Walking your way to the living room, you curled sideways beneath one of Rio’s hoodies, the fabric still faintly holding her scent. Sleep didn’t find you again as you adjusted your body to watch the sunrise. April was settling in, and it took your breath away the way it did every year.

Three trips to the bathroom in two hours, you no longer cared how beautiful the light was as it shifted against the wood grain. Every time, the walk back had felt more like a waddle. And now, as you pushed yourself slowly upright again, one hand on the armrest, the other curled instinctively under your belly. It wasn’t labor. But it was coming.

You padded quietly toward the kitchen; the wood floors cool beneath your feet. A soft creak echoed under your heel as you reached for a water bottle on the counter, stretching just slightly—and then freezing at the sound of footsteps behind you. The subtle rhythm of bare feet over floorboards. A door creaked open at the end of the hallway.

“Hey.” You turned. Rio was already moving toward you, her body still sleep-warmed in a soft gray tank and dark pajama pants that sat low on her hips. Her curls were wild from sleep, haloed around her face in every direction, her mouth still creased from the pillow. But her eyes—God, her eyes—were awake the second they landed on you. That grin. Lopsided. Crooked with affection. But it flickered as she looked at your face. Then dropped—low and certain—straight to your belly. She tilted her head slightly. Then, slowly, she smiled. “Good morning, baby.”

The words slipped out like a song. Then, softly, her hand reached for yours and pulled you closer with the ease of muscle memory. She kissed you—slow, warm, lingering. The kind of kiss that wrapped around your spine and said I see you even before good morning. She pulled back just far enough to whisper again, lips still brushing yours. “Good morning, Beansprout.”

You laughed softly under your breath as her palms came to rest on either side of your belly. She rubbed gentle, wide circles, her touch both reverent and playful, thumbs brushing up and over the center where your daughter had settled lower. “What do you think you’re doing?” she murmured, leaning down until her mouth was just above your belly button, her voice going low, almost conspiratorial, “scooting lower like this the morning after you saw Aunt Ezra?”

Her thumbs moved again. The pressure was comforting. You leaned into her slightly, letting your head rest against her shoulder. “She dropped,” you said, voice still sleep-rough. “I can feel it. She’s down in my hips now.”

Rio nodded slowly, her lips grazing the stretch of skin just beneath your hoodie. “She’s getting ready. Wants to keep us on our toes.”

You nodded once, breath catching. Your body didn’t just feel different. It knew. The shift had happened. The countdown had begun. You weren’t in labor, but something inside you had turned toward it. And Rio—warm, grinning, grounding Rio—was here to witness it with her whole heart.

From the bedroom, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, the low groan of the closet door gliding open. Agatha, too, was awake now. The whole house was waking with you.

Rio’s hands lingered on your belly a moment longer. Then she pulled back slightly, just enough to really look at you. Her gaze dropped to the way your body swayed—subtle, involuntary, a slow left-to-right rocking that had become second nature these past few days. Not for balance. For relief. Anything to ease the growing weight pressing low into your hips.

“You’re exhausted,” she said softly. You didn’t argue. Your smile came slow, crooked, tired. “I’ll be right back.” She nodded, her thumb brushing once more over your hand before you turned away. You waddled toward the bathroom, one hand braced against the hallway wall, the other cupping low beneath your belly where your daughter now sat like a stone bowl of potential. The door clicked shut behind you.

Moments later, the padding of bare feet whispered down the hall. Agatha emerged, her hair unbrushed and cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, her face still crumpled with sleep. She wore one of your old t-shirts—faded cotton stretched loose over her frame—and a pair of Rio’s boxers slung low on her hips. Rio turned as she heard her, smile blooming instinctively. Agatha blinked once at the light, then muttered as she stepped into Rio’s open arms, “Is there coffee yet, or is this the apocalypse?”

Rio laughed and kissed her forehead as Agatha leaned heavily into her chest. “Not yet. But I’ll make it in a minute.”

Agatha hummed in reply, her words muffled against Rio’s collarbone. “Where’s our girl?”

Before Rio could answer, the bathroom door creaked open. She looked up, smirking. “See if you notice anything different.”

Agatha turned, her brow furrowing in that half-awake way she always had when transitioning between sleep and thought. But the moment her eyes landed on you, she froze mid-step. You were waddling back toward them slowly, each motion deliberate, less out of caution, more because it had to be. One hand cradled the underside of your belly, low and protective, while the other guided your balance along the wall. You were only half-dressed, the hem of your top tugged taut over the curve of your stomach. Your breaths came deeper now, but they weren’t easier. Your strength was different; spent not from lack of sleep, but from the sheer effort it took to carry forward.

Agatha’s eyes softened instantly. She saw it all. The way your steps were heavier than they had been just hours ago. The way your body leaned forward slightly, as if the weight of your daughter wasn’t just lower, but pulling the world with her. And the fatigue etched beneath your eyes. Her lips parted in a quiet exhale. “Well, well…” she murmured, voice low and full of wonder. Her gaze traced your hips, the round arc of your belly, the tilt of your balance. “Look at you.”

You met her eyes for only a second before lowering your gaze. The emotion there—unspoken, trembling just beneath your ribs—was too much to hold in your throat just yet. You gave a long, dramatic sigh as you took the last few steps toward her, your hips swaying with more effort than grace now. Your belly bumped gently against her torso, drawing a soft sound from her chest. “Oof,” she breathed, catching you automatically with both arms, her laugh curling against your ear. She wrapped herself around you with instinct—palms splaying across your back like the promise of a spell. “Morning, my love,” she whispered against your temple. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. You weren’t sure what to say. The words hadn’t formed yet—not the ones that could describe the weight in your body, or the way your daughter had rearranged your center of gravity overnight. Not the ache or the awe. Not the exhaustion tucked behind your eyes like fog across a field. So instead, you pressed your face deeper into Agatha’s chest. Not hiding. Not retreating. Just… needing. Rio stepped in behind you, her hands brushing lightly along the length of your back, grounding, slow. Her palms moved in soft arcs—up to your shoulder blades, down to the small of your back—careful not to crowd but never letting go.

Your daughter stirred again beneath your skin, a full-bodied stretch pressing against the walls of you, testing the boundaries of a space that no longer quite fit. Her feet pushed up near your ribs, her head low. Your whole body responded—opening, swaying, readjusting to make room where there was none left.

Still held between them, you took a breath that felt heavier than air. Then you stepped back just slightly, one hand instinctively pressing low beneath your belly as if to lift some of the weight from your hips. Your thighs ached. Your spine whispered protests in places that hadn’t hurt yesterday.

Agatha’s hand came up gently, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, her fingertips lingering for just a second against your temple. You lifted your eyes to hers. The love there undid something in your chest. So you leaned forward and kissed her. Soft. Full. The kind of kiss that said thank you without words. That carried fatigue, and gratitude, and every moment she’d caught you before you fell.

Then you turned toward Rio, who already had her arms open wide, grinning like she’d been waiting all morning just to wrap you in her chest again. You didn’t hesitate. You melted into her, your cheek resting against the strength of her collarbone, your arms wrapping low around her waist. She exhaled a breath that rumbled with amusement, kissed the top of your head, and said brightly, “Alright, then. It’s official. Mandatory cuddle day.” You nodded up and down against her without even lifting your head. Yes. There would be no negotiating.

Behind you, Agatha had already moved into the kitchen, her bare feet making the faintest sounds against the tile. The click of the kettle switch and the warm gurgle of the coffee maker followed like familiar background music—your household's quiet morning symphony.

She turned just slightly over her shoulder, voice floating back to you. “What do you feel like eating, sweetheart?” You didn’t answer right away. Your head was still tucked beneath Rio’s chin, your hands warm against her back, and honestly—deciding something felt like too much.

You shrugged lightly. Agatha turned back to the counter, unfazed. “Toast and tea okay?” You nodded without lifting your head. Another soft yes. Agatha padded across the floor, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head as she passed. “Coming right up.”

Your fingers found Rio’s hand and tugged gently, eyes fluttering open now. “Couch,” you muttered, already turning your body in that direction. “I need the couch before your daughter makes me go to the bathroom again.” Rio laughed and followed without hesitation; her hand curled safely around yours. Behind you, Agatha hummed as she prepared the mugs—morning unfolding around you in warm, sacred pieces.

The smell came before the sound—fresh toast and fruit and something soft and citrusy wafting through the air as Agatha stepped back into the living room. She carried the tray with practiced ease, a mug of tea for you balanced carefully beside a small plate of sliced strawberries, grapes, and lightly buttered toast. Her own coffee cup steamed beside Rio’s, which bore a hand-painted design you vaguely remembered Billy giving her—a flaming baseball and the words Hot Mom Energy.

She placed the tray on the coffee table with a soft thunk of ceramic and wood. “There we go,” she said, brushing her hands on the edge of her shorts. “Eat what you can.” You reached for the tea first. It was just the right temperature. Honeyed and floral. The warmth curled around your throat like a scarf as you sipped, slowly, gratefully. Every swallow soothed you deeper into the couch cushions. The toast crunched softly in your hands. Strawberries melted sweet against your tongue. You didn’t eat fast—but it felt good to chew, to nourish, to let them care for you.

It didn’t take long for everyone to eat.  The tray returned to the kitchen, and the movie you’d turned on was barely a whisper in the background. Some dreamy animation with soft piano music and very little plot. You sat nestled against Rio’s side, your legs stretched across her lap, her strong hands working in slow circles along the arch of your swollen feet. Your head rested against a pillow; eyes half-lidded with comfort. You weren’t watching the screen. Neither was she. The baby shifted once under your ribs, just a nudge, and you responded with a soft palm across the curve of your belly.

Then came the sound of movement—soft padding steps and the rhythmic creak of a laundry basket being carried across the hallway. Agatha appeared in the doorway with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, a basket of baby clothes perched on one hip, a tiny sock already dangling loose from the edge. You blinked up at her, smiling as she stepped into view. Then without warning, you spoke. “I want to go into the nursery.”

Agatha paused, surprised for only a breath. Then her smile bloomed full. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, your voice soft. “I want to finish placing everything. Just… make sure it’s all ready.”

Rio kissed the side of your leg and shifted gently, helping ease your feet off her lap. “Let’s go,” she said, already standing. The walk down the hall was slow but certain. Familiar. Your hand stayed low on your belly the whole time, like a tether, while Agatha moved just ahead of you with the laundry, and Rio trailed behind like a sentry.

The nursery was quiet when you stepped in. Soft light spilled through the curtains, catching the painted stars across the wall and the mural that Rio had finished weeks ago—the one with vines and golden constellations, the circle still blank where her name would someday go. You eased into the rocking chair with a sigh, your feet landing on the ottoman Rio had carefully angled just for you. Your hands swept once across your belly as you rocked—back and forth, slow, thoughtful.

---------

A few hours later, and the baskets of clothes were being folded by Agatha with a kind of slow, reverent grace.

She sat on the floor, her long legs crossed beneath her, surrounded by a sea of cotton and softness. Tiny outfits hung from impossible hangers on the curtain rod nearby—each one pressed and carefully laid out like offerings. Onesies were folded into neat, symmetrical stacks. Small socks, each no bigger than two of her fingers pressed together, had all been rolled into pairs and placed in the top drawer of the dresser. A small stack of burp cloths sat on the table next to the rocker—folded, fluffed, and waiting. Everything was waiting.

You sat near the window, your body sinking low into the cushions of the glider chair, the ottoman still supporting your legs. Your hands rested on your belly, fingers laced beneath its fullness, as you rocked. Slowly. Thoughtfully. One arc forward. One arc back. Again. And again.

You’d woken that morning with the pull in your chest. A knowing. Not urgency—not yet. But a low, rising tide. You remembered it clearly, the thought that had struck you around six a.m., half-lucid and tender, when you stirred on the couch with your hands instinctively searching for Agatha’s warmth, for Rio’s steadiness: I just want to be close. And now, here you were. Close. Tethered to both of them by the hush of this room and the weight of what you were carrying.

Downstairs, the kitchen counter bore a quiet offering of its own: bottles lined and sanitized, stacked beside a box of formula—just in case. Just in case breastfeeding didn’t work out. Just in case your body needed help. Just in case she needed more than you could give. It wasn’t failure. It was preparation. Love came in all forms, and readiness was one of them.

The whole house had shifted. It no longer moved with the rhythm of grown women and their routines. It breathed now with expectation. With waiting. It had become a space made not just for living, but for welcoming.

The bassinet in your bedroom had fresh sheets tucked over the mattress, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the edges. Diapers had been sorted by size. A swaddle blanket rested like a promise across the back of the nursery chair.

Everything now had a heartbeat. Every object, every soft drawer, every folded outfit—it was all humming. Waiting for her to join you. Agatha folded another onesie slowly, her eyes flicking up every few moments to check on you—not hovering, just…watching. Knowing. Her hair was pulled back, a pencil holding it in place, her sleeves pushed up above her elbows. Her mouth moved with something between a hum and a quiet breath, as if she were mouthing a lullaby only your daughter could hear.

Just a few feet away, Rio was crouched by the changing table, her shoulders hunched slightly in playful concentration. She had one of the drawers open, wipes in neat packages stacked beside her on the rug, and a row of diapers lined up like little white ducklings across the shelf. Her brow was furrowed—unserious but focused—as she organized the stacks by size.

“These are so damn small,” she muttered, wonder softening the usual edge of her voice. She held one up between her fingers, the diaper no bigger than her palm. “How is a whole person supposed to fit in this?”

Agatha didn’t look up but smiled. “I keep thinking the same thing.”

Rio chuckled and set the diaper down carefully with the others, stacking them in little clusters of three, then rearranging the wipes so no one would need to search during those first bleary-eyed, sleep-starved changes. “Okay, so newborn diapers here. Second size here. Wipes up front. Easy access. I don’t want to be fumbling around while she is mid poop.”

You laughed softly, the sound catching in your throat as you leaned further into the rocker. The weight of your belly pulled forward with the motion, but the laughter shook loose something in your chest—like sunlight through curtains. “God, I love you,” you muttered through a smile.

Agatha looked up from her folding, one tiny sleeve still dangling between her fingers, and tilted her head as she asked, “Have you thought about what you want her to wear home?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the question, but only for a moment. The answer was already blooming in your chest like muscle memory. You rested both palms gently over your belly, your thumbs moving in soft, absent strokes along the tight curve. She kicked lightly beneath them, as if listening. “Yeah,” you said, your voice dipping a little, warmed by the memory. “The onesie. The one I ordered for both of you to open.”

Agatha’s face lifted in recognition—eyes softening, mouth parting with a slow smile that was half-remembered joy, half reverence. “The green one?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost ceremonial.

You nodded, a flush creeping into your cheeks just thinking about it. “Light green,” you said, your voice more certain now. “With those tiny purple flowers blooming across the vines. And the orange blossoms, remember? Curled along the hem like little suns.”

Agatha let out a breath, dreamy and low, like her heart had just unclenched. “God, that one was beautiful. I’ll grab it.”

She stood, brushing her hands off on her thighs, and turned toward the nursery closet. The motion was fluid, practiced—but just before her fingers touched the handle, another voice cut in: “No need.”

Agatha paused mid-step, glancing back over her shoulder. “Why not?” Rio looked up from the floor where she sat cross-legged, wipes stacked to one side, diapers still neatly arranged in size order on the changing table like pieces of a sacred puzzle. Her grin was slow, smug, and radiant as the sunrise outside the nursery window. “Because I already put it in the go bag.”

You froze in your rocker, blinking once—then twice. Then you burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, cracking through your ribs like champagne fizz. It filled the nursery instantly, echoing between the walls, curling around the mural and the still-empty bassinet. “You didn’t—!” you wheezed, leaning forward as you tried to breathe through the laughter, one hand flying to your belly to catch the sudden ripple of motion from your daughter, who was apparently just as startled by your joy.

Agatha just turned, hand on her hip, and let her gaze slide to Rio with that unmistakable mixture of exasperation and adoration. “She did,” she confirmed, already smiling. “Of course she did.”

Rio leaned back on her hands, basking in her small, brilliant victory. “What? I know her. And I know that onesie.” Her voice went mock-serious as she pointed at you. “I know you cried when you ordered it. We cried when you gave it to us. Like, hand-over-the-mouth, stunned-silence kind of crying. There was no way that wasn’t going to be her coming-home outfit.”

“I was pregnant and hormonal!” you protested, giggling now as you rocked forward slightly, breath hitching with each wave of laughter. “It had flowers and the stitching was so tiny!”

“Exactly,” Rio said, smug and smugger still. “She’s going to come into the world wrapped in something chosen with intention. That onesie? That’s the three of us in one outfit for her to wear home.”

Agatha stepped closer, her fingers brushing your shoulder, then trailing to your cheek. Her thumb lingered at your temple, brushing hair behind your ear. Her smile, when it came, was pure magic—silent, sacred. “It was always the one.”

You nodded, breath catching as you leaned back into the glider. Your fingers dropped low, pressing gently beneath your belly. Your daughter shifted again, stretching inside you as if she were trying to join in the conversation. The whole room slowed. Rio sat back on her heels, her fingers curling over her knees, the edges of her smile still blooming—slow and steady, like she was absorbing every second of this moment and filing it away in her bones. Her eyes flicked over the nursery with something soft in them. Something reverent. Like she was already seeing her daughter here. Alive. Laughing. Real. You watched her for a long moment. The quiet strength in the lines of her body. The gentleness in her calloused hands. How at peace she looked in the midst of diapers and wipes and chaos she couldn’t control.

Then your gaze drifted to Agatha. She was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding a tiny pair of ribbed lavender pants, smoothing the cuffs like they might wrinkle if she breathed too hard. The motion was slow, almost ceremonial. Her brows furrowed in concentration, not from worry, but from care. It struck you suddenly that she wasn’t just folding fabric. She was folding time. Preparing the days to come, creating the quiet ritual of arrival before the storm.

And your heart ached with how much you loved them. How much they were already doing. How much they hadn’t thought to do for themselves. You shifted forward in the rocker, your hand going low under your belly as your daughter gave a slow, steady roll that made your entire core tighten. She pressed downward, curling into your pelvis again. Another kick, stronger this time, right against the stretch of your ribs. You breathed through it.

Then, with a small huff of breath and a lopsided smile, you asked, “Did either of you pack a bag for yourselves?”

Their heads snapped toward you in perfect unison. The moment was priceless. Agatha blinked at you like you’d just asked her if she’d learned to fly overnight. Rio’s brow furrowed, not in concern, but in sheer confusion—like the words hadn’t made it all the way through processing. “For us?” Agatha echoed, the words slow, cautious.

Rio’s lips quirked as she tilted her head. “We have a go bag. For you. For Beansprout.” You let out a breathless laugh, your free hand curling over your belly as your daughter shifted again, pressing outward like she was trying to stretch inside a room that was suddenly too small.

“Right,” you said, trying not to laugh again as you rocked forward slightly. “But what if we’re at the hospital for hours? Or… days? What if she decides to take her time?”

They both stared. Then, slowly, realization dawned across their faces—like a sunrise easing over mountaintops. You watched it hit them. Not panic, just a wide-eyed oh. Agatha’s mouth dropped open. Rio blinked, then ran a hand through her curls. There it was.You smiled and softened your voice, leaning into the quiet gravity of the moment. “Chargers. A change of clothes. Snacks. Toothbrushes. Anything you’d want if you couldn’t leave for a while.”

Your voice lowered, laced with something that almost felt like prayer. “I don’t want either of you running home for socks. Or leaving to grab a hoodie. I want you here. With me. I want to know, when I look up… that you’re not going anywhere.”

Your daughter kicked again. This time, it wasn’t subtle. She pressed low—down into your pelvis with purpose—and your breath caught as your hands flew to cradle the weight of her. You froze, body curling slightly inward as your muscles tried to adjust, rocking through the motion. It wasn’t labor, not yet. But it was her. Making herself known. Claiming more space.

The room stilled with you. Your breath came uneven now, mouth parting slightly as the emotion rose—thick and sudden, like a wave breaking before you could brace for it. Your eyes burned. Not just from the pressure or the ache in your hips, but from something deeper, more vulnerable. “I need you,” you whispered, the words soft and sharp all at once. “Both of you.”

They were already moving. Agatha stepped off the floor like gravity had pulled her. Rio rose from the rug in a single fluid motion. They came to you without hesitation, no words spoken as they knelt in front of the rocking chair, one on each side, eyes locked on yours with matching intensity. You swallowed hard. Your vision blurred. “I need you both with me—” your voice cracked on the last word, “through all of it.”

You tried to breathe, but something caught in your chest. “I know it might seem small—just a bag, or a charger, or a stupid hoodie—but I kept thinking…”

“I just… I keep thinking what if something starts, or I get scared, or I’m in pain and I look around and one of you had to go back to the house for a charger or a hoodie or something dumb we forgot—”

You broke off, your breath trembling, the words dissolving as your daughter kicked hard beneath your ribs, a sudden stretch that sent pressure into your pelvis and up your spine. You clutched your belly, your eyes closing against the flood of sensation—and fear. Your voice trembled. Your hands slid to the sides of your belly, grounding yourself with the weight of your daughter.

“What if I need you and you’re not there and I’m in a room full of strangers—scared, or in pain, or…” You shook your head, tears finally spilling as you blinked hard. “I don’t want to go through any part of this without you. Not a second.”

“Hey,” Rio murmured, one large hand coming up to cradle your calf, then rising to cup your cheek. Her thumb brushed the tear that escaped. Agatha reached for your hand, threading her fingers between yours as she leaned forward, her forehead almost touching your knee. “You won’t have to look around,” Rio said, her voice low and certain. “Because we’ll be there. We’re not going anywhere.”

“Not for the world,” Agatha echoed. “Not for a toothbrush or a phone cord or anything else. When it starts, we’re with you. All the way through.”

“We’ll be right by your side,” Rio added. “Holding your hands. Holding you. Whatever you need. For as long as it takes.”

You let out a wet, unsteady breath. Half-laugh. Half-sob. “I know,” you whispered. “I do. It’s just… everything feels so important to have done, like it all has to be in place before she gets here. Every little thing.”

Agatha leaned up and kissed your knuckles. “That’s called nesting, sweetheart.”

Rio’s hand was already moving, reaching for yours—warm and sure—and she brought it to her chest as she knelt a little closer. Her other hand lifted to cup your cheek again, her fingers tracing just beneath your ear. And then her eyes locked on yours.

Unwavering. Unblinking. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low but firm, full of something fierce. “I want you to really hear me—because I know everything feels like it’s speeding up. Like it’s coming all at once.”

You nodded slowly, breath catching as she leaned in just slightly, the warmth of her body grounding you, tethering you to now. “You—my beautiful wife, the mother of my daughter—are not alone.”

Your heart cracked open again. She held your gaze tighter, like the words themselves were a promise being sealed between your bones. “We have been with you through every step of this. Every appointment. Every scare. Every midnight craving and every swollen ache. And we will be with you through every second of labor. Through every cry. Every breath. Every push. And every moment of her life.”

You felt her hands tighten, just enough to feel it in your ribs. “Right. Next. To. You.” Tears spilled freely now, your breath uneven as your chest rose and fell beneath the weight of her vow. “I don’t care if it gets scary. Or if it gets hard. Or if you think you can’t do it. You are my wife. And we do this together.”

Before you could speak, another warmth moved beside you. Agatha’s hand covered yours where it rested over your belly, and she leaned closer to you, still beside Rio, shoulder to shoulder, steady as a wall. “And listen to me,” Agatha said, voice silk over steel. Her hand trembled just slightly where it touched you, but her eyes were absolute. “As much as we are yours… you are ours.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to your arm. She leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to your arm, her breath warm against your skin as her hand moved from your belly to cradle your wrist with both palms. Her voice, when it came again, was low and reverent. “I swore, long before we even knew she existed, that I would protect what we made together. This family. This marriage.”

She lifted her head now, her eyes locking onto yours—bright and raw and absolutely unflinching. “You are the heart of this home. She is the new breath this family will take. And no matter what—no matter who—no matter when—my girls will always know they are safe.”

She slid one hand to your stomach, the other to your cheek. “You will always know that you are loved—not because you’re strong, or brave, or carrying the weight of two worlds—but because you’re you. Because you chose us. Because you let Rio and I hold you.”

Your breath caught, shoulders trembling. “And she will always know love. From her first breath to our last. I don’t care what storms come. I don’t care how loud the world tries to be. We will be louder.” She shifted closer now, her knees brushing yours, her voice barely more than a whisper, laced with iron. “If anyone, anything, dares to try and harm you, Rio, our daughter, our family…” Her jaw tightened, but her gaze remained soft. “I need you to know you’re protected, all three of you. I will destroy anyone who tries to test that theory. Quietly. Thoroughly.” The silence that followed was heavy, not with fear, but with power. With promise. Then she softened, voice melting like honey over a flame. “But more than that—we will raise her in love. In laughter. In the truth of who she comes from. And every night, no matter how tired I am, no matter what the day brings, she will sleep knowing she is wanted. Cherished. Loved beyond measure.” She cupped your face in both hands now, brushing your tears away with the pads of her thumbs. “You will never—never—walk this path alone.”

In that moment, it didn’t matter how close labor was, or how terrified you still might be of the hours ahead. You knew—bone-deep, breath-deep—that she would guard your softness like a sacred text. That you were safe. That your daughter was too. That final promise from Agatha hung in the air like incense—smoke curling around your ribs, thick and holy. Her hands still cradled your face, and Rio’s arm had wrapped around your back, anchoring you with warmth and steady breath.

And then, slowly, you let go of the tears. You drew in a long, trembling inhale, the kind that gathered your body from the inside out. Your chest rose, expanding against the pressure of your daughter who had curled low and tight against your skin, her presence constant now—firm, stretching, waiting. You exhaled through your nose, soft and full, and felt the tears begin to dry on your cheeks.

Still cradled between them, you reached for Agatha’s wrist with one hand and Rio’s fingers with the other, and you leaned forward, pressing a kiss first to Agatha’s cheek, then to Rio’s lips, slow and sure. “I love you,” you whispered, voice soft but anchored with everything you had. “I love you both so much.”

Rio smiled, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. Agatha kissed the top of your head again and whispered, “We love you more.”

You all stayed like that for one breath more. And then—like a ripple cutting through the stillness—you laughed softly and muttered, “Even I still need to pack.”

Rio was on her feet in seconds, stretching her arms overhead like she’d just been called into action by divine command. “Say no more,” she declared, already heading toward the hall. “We’re packing. This is a packing day.”

“She’s nesting again,” Agatha whispered to your shoulder, her breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“We’re all nesting,” you murmured, voice muffled by the curve of her body.

Agatha smiled and moved slowly, easing back just enough to slide her hands beneath your arms and help lift you up from the rocker. You groaned softly at the motion, your hips stiff from sitting too long, your belly now lower, heavier, more insistent. She steadied you carefully, one hand at your elbow, the other braced gently at the small of your back. “Easy,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Rio was already waiting in the doorway, her grin broadening as she saw you rise. “Field trip,” she said cheerfully. “Destination: soft clothes and overpacking.”

You shook your head but smiled, letting Agatha lead you out of the nursery with a hand curled into hers. The three of you moved together through the house, your steps slow but steady, the sound of your feet against the hardwood floor like the low, sacred drum of something ancient and beginning.

The bedroom felt warmer than the rest of the house—sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting the quilt in shades of amber and rose. The bed had been freshly made, the pillows fluffed. Everything felt calm here. Expectant. Agatha guided you toward the upholstered chair in the corner, the one with the extra cushions Rio had added weeks ago when your back had started to ache. You sank into it gratefully, your hands instinctively going to your belly as your daughter pressed outward again, shifting her weight deeper into your hips.

Rio stepped in from the hallway, little suitcase already in her hand, and set it beside the edge of the bed with a dramatic flourish. Agatha stood in front of you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with the backs of her fingers. Her eyes were so soft—like silk over iron. “Alright, mi amor,” she said gently. “What do you want to bring?”

Then Rio jumped in, voice bright but wrapped in love. “Even if you don’t think you’ll use it. If it gives you comfort, it goes in the bag.”

You opened your mouth, then paused. You didn’t move from the chair. You just sat there, your belly heavy in your lap, your arms curled gently around it like the weight of her was both crown and anchor. You looked at them—your girls—bustling around you like clockwork. Like magic. This was your temple. This was your altar. “A few pairs of Rio’s boxers,” you said finally, your voice a little breathless, a little shy, but laced with the smallest grin. “And socks. A pair of sweatpants… the loose ones. The ones I always steal.”

Agatha crouched near the dresser now, drawer already open, hands brushing over the folds of your clothes like she was selecting a treasured book. Her voice dropped low again, quieter now, like it belonged to you and you alone. “What else?”

You hesitated—just long enough to feel the rise of your breath, the way your daughter shifted beneath your skin like she, too, was listening. “Your shirt,” you said, voice soft, a bit sheepish. “Your old college shirt. The faded one. It’s stretched out, but I love it. It smells like you. And it’s always soft. Always warm.”

Agatha didn’t respond with words at first. She just nodded once, slowly, that soft half-smile pulling at her mouth. Then, still crouched low, she looked up at you again. “Anything else?” she asked gently, watching your face like she was reading wind patterns on a map.

You bit your lip, then exhaled. “The hoodie.” That single word held weight. Familiar. Anchored to memory. Wrapped in more mornings than you could count. Agatha stilled for a breath. Then her smile deepened—slow, secret, and beautiful. “I’ve been keeping it by the couch every morning,” she said quietly, pride laced through affection. “Just in case you reached for it. It’s folded on the side table now. I’ll lay it over the bag. That way, you’ll have it either way.” You felt your eyes sting again—hot, unbidden. But the tears didn’t fall. Instead, your chest swelled around the ache of being known this completely. The room moved around you like a lullaby.

Rio returned, arms full—boxers draped over one arm, socks cradled in a fist, the familiar gray sweatpants already folded and laid across the edge of the bed. She set everything down without a word, then turned to kiss the top of your head with a kind of casual intimacy that never stopped undoing you.

Agatha followed soon after, laying the college shirt—soft and worn like sea glass—into the suitcase. Then the hoodie, folded with reverence, like she was tucking in an heirloom. Then she paused. And smiled. “Hang on,” she said, voice suddenly dipped in something different. She moved to the corner, opening the top drawer of the dresser with the ease of someone who had already planned every step. From inside, she pulled a small gift bag. It was pale lavender with twisted ribbon handles and soft tissue paper curling over the edge.

She walked it over to you, her eyes sparkling just faintly, and held it out. “One more thing.” You blinked, lips parting as you reached for it. Your hands trembled just a little from the weight of the day, the hormones, the moment itself. You tugged back the tissue paper and gasped, the breath catching in your throat as your fingers brushed impossibly soft fabric.

It was a robe. A birthing robe. Not hospital cotton. Not scratchy or clinical. This was something made for you. Plum-colored. Light. Silky-soft. The fabric fell through your fingers like water. It tied at the waist, opened fully in the front. There were discreet shoulder snaps for skin-to-skin, deep pockets, wide sleeves.

Freedom. Dignity. Ease. Love. Agatha crouched again beside you, one hand resting lightly on your knee. “So you wouldn’t have to wear a gown,” she said, voice low. “So you’d feel like you. Comfortable. Capable. Beautiful.” Your thumb brushed the edge of the robe again. You looked up at her, then at Rio—both of them watching you with the same look like you were the center of a constellation. You sat with the robe across your lap, your fingers still grazing its fabric like it might disappear if you let go. The lavender tissue crinkled beside you on the chair, half-forgotten, while Agatha and Rio stood close, watching, waiting, loving you with their silence.

Then Rio broke the stillness, gently rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay,” she said, her voice lower now, more focused. “Time for our stuff too.” She crossed to the other side of the room, pulling open a drawer near the dresser and fishing out a pair of black joggers, soft and worn, with the knees slightly faded from years of weekend wear. She folded them once, then grabbed a couple of her tank tops—the ribbed ones you always stole when it was too warm for sleeves. They smelled like laundry and her skin.

She paused a second, then added a sports bra to the pile, tossing it gently into the suitcase as if she were building a survival kit. Agatha followed suit without needing to be asked. She moved to her side of the closet, her fingers grazing a few hangers before settling on one of her old rec league softball shirts—the navy one with the cracked white lettering and tiny faded logo over the heart. It was stretched a little at the collar, the sleeves soft from a thousand washes. She smiled to herself, folding it neatly and adding it to the growing bundle in the suitcase. Then she tucked in a pair of leggings and a zip-up hoodie, her hand pressing down briefly over the fabric once it was in place.

You watched them, your heart rising in your chest like tidewater. They weren’t just packing clothes. They were packing presence. They were packing love. Rio slipped into the bathroom for a moment, emerging with an extra toothbrush still in its packaging, a charger already rolled tight and bound with a rubber band. She dropped both in with care, like she knew these small things—these everyday things—were what made the waiting livable. Agatha added a comb, a small bottle of moisturizer, lip balm, and two granola bars from the kitchen drawer without a word. No one needed to say anything. The air was full of understanding. The bag was filling now—not just with essentials, but with the pieces of a life they had built with you. The things they’d need so they wouldn’t have to leave. So they could stay by your side, hour after hour, heartbeat after heartbeat, until your daughter came into the world.

You shifted in the chair, your body heavy and familiar beneath your skin. As you moved to rise, a long, involuntary yawn caught you off guard—slow and wide, blooming through your chest like a sigh. Your hand rose automatically to cover your mouth, your other one braced low on your belly as you stretched, joints crackling slightly, your spine protesting the shift in weight. “Excuse me,” you mumbled, blinking through it. “I just need to run to the bathroom.”

Rio and Agatha both nodded, watching you move with quiet attentiveness. You waddled gently from the room, your daughter pressing even lower as if she were trying to guide your steps from the inside. The hallway light was soft and golden, and the quiet gave you a strange peace—a moment to breathe, to be alone with your body, to listen.

When you returned a few minutes later, the bedroom had changed. The bed was turned down, sheets drawn back neatly. A few pillows fluffed. The lights dimmed just slightly. The suitcase had been zipped and moved beside the bedroom door—ready, waiting, calm. Agatha was straightening something on the nightstand. Rio stood at the foot of the bed, her hands resting lightly on the comforter as she turned to meet your eyes.

She saw the way your shoulders rolled. The lingering yawn that ghosted across your face. The slight droop in your eyelids. “You wanna take a nap?” she asked, her voice soft as moss. “You yawned like it took something out of you.”

Her smile curved gently, and she stepped closer, opening her arms. You nodded, the motion slow, your body already agreeing before your mind had caught up. Every part of you felt heavy now, not just from the baby, but from the emotions, the readiness, the knowing that everything was in its place. You could finally rest.You crossed the room without words. Agatha slipped past you quietly, adjusting the pillows at the head of the bed with a mother’s precision, tucking the edge of the sheet back just slightly. She didn’t need to ask if you needed help—her hands moved like she’d already read the answer in your breath.

Rio held the blanket open as you climbed in, moving slowly, carefully. The mattress dipped beneath you, familiar and warm. You had to shift a few times, hips rolling, back arching just enough to ease the weight—until you could finally settle. And then you reached for her. Rio was already there, easing in beside you, her arms wrapping gently around your body, drawing you close. Her palm slipped low over your belly, fingers curling instinctively along the edge of your bump like she was holding both of you at once. You shifted again, half-draped across her chest now, your cheek pressed just beneath her collarbone, your legs tangled together. It took a moment—a few long, quiet breaths. And then your body sighed into hers. You inhaled. The scent of her skin, the softness of her breath against your hair. You exhaled. And without meaning to—without even realizing when the line blurred—your eyes closed.

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You hadn’t slept long. Not really. Sleep these days came in chapters—short ones. The kind that never quite resolved, always ending on a cliffhanger. And now, your body stirred with the same persistent rhythm it had learned over the past weeks. Not urgent, exactly. But insistent. Demanding your attention like a quiet tap on the shoulder that would not be ignored.

A dull ache pulsed low in your back. Your bladder throbbed with a kind of quiet betrayal. You groaned softly as you shifted, pressing your forehead into Rio’s shoulder. Her body was warm, her breath even, still lost in the nap. You held still for a moment, listening to her heartbeat under your cheek like it might lull you back under.

It didn’t. Carefully, you peeled yourself away, fingers splayed against the mattress to brace the lift. You rocked once, twice, then pushed up. Your belly pulled forward with the motion, the weight of her rounding your center like gravity had grown heavier overnight. Behind you, Agatha stirred faintly. Her arm was draped across the space where your hip had been, the rise and fall of her breath as quiet as the wind beyond the window. Her hair fanned out across the pillow, half-wrapped in the shirt you’d been wearing earlier. Neither woman moved further.

You padded down the hall in bare feet, one hand under your belly, the other catching the doorframe as you turned. The bathroom tile was cool underfoot. Familiar. You moved with a kind of resigned grace, doing what your body now required of you every ninety minutes like some sacred, sleepless rite.

But when you came out this time… you didn’t feel tired. You felt buzzed. On edge. Like your mind had started moving while your body was still in bed. There was a low thrum beneath your skin, the kind that always came before a deadline or a decision. So instead of curling back under the warmth of your wives and their stitched-together breaths, you turned the other way.

The office welcomed you like an old friend. Familiar shadows stretched across the hardwood floor. Your MacBook sat on the desk, lid slightly ajar, its power light blinking in the dark like it had missed you. You sat down slowly, carefully, with the precision of someone balancing a universe inside their belly. One hand braced the base of your spine, the other dragged your flashcards toward you. The air in the room was cool, almost crisp. Your knees parted to make space for her. For the life that was pressing low and hard into your pelvis, reminding you that time was no longer your own. The screen flared to life. Soft, steady light flooded your face. The title slide stared back at you in perfect, composed font: Reclaiming Voice: Intersectional Memory, Spiritual Power, and the Battle for Belonging.

You exhaled slowly. Everything was nearly finished. Fonts polished. Citations embedded. Footnotes scrubbed and reorganized. It was clean. Clear. Sharp. But it had to be more than that. This wasn’t just your work. This was your voice. Your name. Your proof. This was your body—your life—defying every professor, every pastor, every man who told you that you were too much or not enough. It was a claim. A prayer. A reckoning.

You flipped to the first flashcard. Your thumb rubbed along the edge, worn now from nights like this. “Here,” you murmured under your breath, “I position suffrage as not just legal recognition, but spiritual validation. A declaration that Black and Brown women belong in the body politic not by permission, but by birthright.”

After your bathroom trip and slow return to the office, it didn’t take long for Agatha and Rio to wake. You’d heard the soft rustle of blankets behind you as you left the room. The muted click of the bedroom door. A yawn. Water running. Agatha’s low voice, asking Rio if she thought you were already working again. You were. You had been. And they knew better than to stop you. You paused. Took a sip of water. The bottle had already started to sweat, condensation trailing lazy arcs down the side. You swallowed, throat dry. Then turned the card.

And that’s when she kicked. Sharp. Right beneath your rib cage. You hissed through your teeth and pressed your hand over your belly, rubbing small, slow circles into your shirt. “Okay… okay,” you whispered. “Mama’s gotta finish this, little one.” You blinked again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

The flashcards fanned out like feathers in front of you, your notes scribbled in the margins in handwriting that had gotten more erratic as your belly grew. You were somewhere near the middle now—past the methodology, almost through your case studies. The slides pulsed on the screen, one after the other, glowing with the soft blue light of a long night settling in.

She hadn’t stopped moving. Your daughter stretched again beneath your ribs, her foot gliding against your side like she was trying to make more space for herself in a room that was no longer big enough. Your palm cupped the curve of your belly, grounding yourself. Breathing through it. “Still not done, huh?” you murmured, smiling tiredly as she pressed hard against your palm, like she was answering in the only language she knew. “Mama’s working. Almost there.”

Time passed in a strange, honey-thick blur. “you okay?” Rio’s voice, warm and amused. She stepped in with a glass of juice and a little bowl of mixed fruit—mango slices and watermelon, crisp and bright, just how you liked it. She didn’t say much, just set it beside your water bottle, kissed the crown of your head, and whispered, “Let us know if you want to stretch your legs.”

Agatha came an hour later with toast. Then again, around noon, with crackers and hummus and that little smirk she always wore when she was trying not to nag. Then Rio with a fresh water bottle, her eyes scanning your face, making sure you’d blinked more than twice in the last five minutes. You offered them quiet smiles, murmured thank-yous, kept typing.

You were deep into your slides now, fine-tuning your transitions, rereading quotes, tightening the language. The office smelled faintly of lemon balm from the tea Agatha had left cooling on the windowsill. Your flashcards were arrayed in neat rows before you, scribbled in ink that had begun to fade from repetition.

The momentum had taken hold. Your slides were almost perfect now. Your note cards stacked in a clean, purposeful line. You’d reviewed your thesis statement so many times it was echoing in your ears: “Oral history is more than preservation—it’s resistance. And in queer community archives, it becomes resurrection.” You spoke aloud to no one, your voice rough with disuse, eyes skimming the screen. “We are not remembered unless we fight to be. Memory is political. Survival is archival.”

And all the while—through every point about the ethics of citation, the sacredness of queer literature, the violence of erasure—your daughter hadn’t stopped moving. Not for a second. She kicked. Stretched. Rolled. Over and over. You adjusted your seat again, winced, rubbed the side of your belly in soothing circles as your skin rippled beneath your palm. “Come on, little love,” you whispered. “I need to finish this. Just a little longer.”

But she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. When dinner rolled around, you barely noticed the time, only the shift in the air. The quiet scent of roasted garlic and cumin wafted through the hallway, followed by the deeper heat of chili powder, coriander, and smoked paprika.

Then, a soft knock on the doorframe. Agatha. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held out the plate, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. Nothing fancy. Just roasted vegetables. But they were exactly the ones you’d been craving for months—crispy sweet potatoes, cauliflower, zucchini, and strips of bell pepper, all caramelized around the edges, kissed with olive oil and your favorite spice blend. “Thought you could use a real meal,” she said softly, her gaze flicking down to where your hand was still resting on your belly. “She’s still at it?”

You nodded, exhaling through your nose. “Nonstop. She loves the spicy stuff. Makes her do somersaults.” Agatha grinned, setting the plate down beside your laptop and leaning over to kiss your temple. “She’s your daughter.” You took the first bite without speaking. The flavors exploded across your tongue—smoky, sweet, a little sharp with heat. It grounded you immediately. You closed your eyes for just a second. Breathed it in.

Then you kept working. The hours blurred again. Slide by slide, you rehearsed aloud—the tone, the cadence, the transitions. You made sure the historical framework sat cleanly alongside the lived experiences. You pulled out key quotes from the oral histories, emphasizing survival, memory, the need for belonging. You underlined the importance of archival survival—of saving not just stories, but the breath and blood of queer community itself. You reviewed your section on literary impact—how queer storytelling had shaped identity across generations. You highlighted how archival silence had cost lives, and how you’d used this dissertation to answer back, to name, to preserve.

You talked about literature. Legacy. Resilience. And all the while, your daughter moved beneath your skin like a storm gathering strength offshore. You were tired. But you weren’t stopping. You pushed the laptop away with more force than you meant to. The plastic edge scraped softly across the desk, a sharp little sound in an otherwise quiet room. You stared at it for a breath—your half-finished slide glowing faintly on the screen, words blurring into soft white light. Your flashcards were fanned in perfect, fragile order. The water bottle sat half-empty beside your hand. And you couldn’t do it anymore. You stood. And that was when the tears came.

They didn’t announce themselves with drama. No gasping sob. No shuddering breath. Just a blink that didn’t clear your vision. Just wetness trailing hot and slow down your cheeks before your body even registered it. You were already in the hallway before you realized your shoulders were shaking. The house had shifted. The glow had softened. Evening had laid its hand gently over everything—the kind of hush that came after dinner and before night fully arrived. Lamps lit small circles across the walls. The hum of the refrigerator. A faint rustle from the nursery where the bassinet caught the light in silence. Everything felt still.

Everything but you. You moved slowly toward the bedroom, dragging your hand along the wall for no real reason other than to feel something. The door was open just enough to let the light spill out. It was golden. Warm. A sanctuary. Agatha was at the foot of the bed, bare-legged and half-undressed, her jeans halfway down her thighs. She was in one of Rio’s oversized shirts, the hem nearly grazing her knees, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends, her skin flushed pink from steam. She looked like home.

Rio was stretched across the bed, one arm behind her head, a book resting on her chest. She was relaxed, the soft kind of tired that only comes from trust and a full belly. She was just turning the page when she caught sight of you. And then—both of them froze. Because they saw your face.

You didn’t make it two more steps. Your body moved on instinct, like a storm rolling toward shelter, like a child reaching for warmth in the dark. You walked straight into Agatha. Your arms wrapped around her clumsily, one catching the back of her shirt, the other pressing low against her ribs as your head dropped to her chest. Your belly pressed firm against her thighs as your whole body sagged with it, your body folding forward under the strange, beautiful weight of everything. You trembled against her without trying to hide it, your breath catching between syllables and salt.

And she caught you. Instantly. Absolutely. Her arms wrapped around you with the kind of certainty that didn’t require understanding—only presence. One hand cradled the back of your head, her palm wide and warm as her other hand skimmed down to your back, steady as stone. Tight, unhesitating, her hand splaying wide across your spine. You felt the kiss before you heard it—soft against your hairline. Her breath was slow. Measured. Calming even as your own cracked and stumbled. She kissed the crown of your head again, her lips lingering there as if anchoring you to the earth itself. She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask what was wrong.

She already knew. And then you spoke, breath catching at the edges. “She just won’t stop,” you said, your voice cracking under the pressure of it all. “She’s just… she’s throwing a party in there, and it’s been all day.”

There was no complaint in your voice. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even frustrated. It was full. Of love. Of nerves. Of awe.  The sweetness of it mixed with something tender and unnamed—something threaded through with the weight of anticipation, the gravity of what's coming, and the ache of hormones pulling every nerve taut.

You loved feeling her. You loved her—your daughter. You loved every ripple, every flutter. Every moment You loved this body that held her. But tonight—tonight it was all so loud. The closeness of your defense. The game tomorrow. The way she’d dropped lower. The way your belly moved like it was dancing of its own accord. The hormones. The hunger. The fact that you couldn’t cry and breathe at the same time anymore.

Agatha didn’t tell you that you were tired. She didn’t rush to reassure or fix. Instead, her hand slid down and joined yours on your stomach, warm and gentle. Not trying to still her. Just joining her. She moved in slow circles just over the place where your daughter was stretching now, pushing her heel up and outward with stubborn grace.

You could feel the pressure under your navel. Sharp. Beautiful. Alive. Agatha's palm stayed, her thumb moving just slightly to keep pace with your daughter. She moved again—hard, determined, undeniable. Her heel, maybe. Or her elbow. The motion made your shirt lift slightly, your skin straining beneath the force of it.

“She’s strong,” Agatha whispered, her voice sinking into your skin like warm rain, like truth spoken to steady trembling ground. Her hand moved in slow, reverent circles where your daughter pressed hard beneath the fabric of your shirt, your belly taut and aching from the effort of growing something so very alive. And still, she kicked—your girl, your BeanSprout, your relentless little storm.

You exhaled, but the breath caught halfway, lodged behind your sternum, thick and tight. And then behind you—heat. Gravity. A presence you knew without turning. Rio. She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to. You felt her before you saw her—like the world calming down the second her hands found you. They slipped in gently on either side of your belly. One settled opposite Agatha’s, warm and certain. The other curled around your hip, protective and grounding, thumb stroking the space just above the waistband of your leggings.

Her chest pressed against your spine, solid and anchoring, as if her body remembered every curve of yours before pregnancy had ever redefined you. Her arms encircled you slowly, like a shield being drawn. Like a vow being made. You breathed again, shakier this time. But still breathing. “So are you,” Rio murmured, and her voice was honey and moonlight, everything you’d ever needed to hear when the world got too loud.

And still, they didn’t let go. They didn’t flinch from the tremble in your limbs, or the tension in your shoulders, or the tears gathering just beneath your lashes. They only held you. Agatha’s hand continued its quiet path across your belly, mirroring the movements of the baby within—those sharp kicks and twisting rolls that hadn’t let up for hours. Your daughter pressed again, a heel or elbow dragging across your side like a comet under your skin.

Agatha leaned in closer until her forehead rested gently against yours, her breath brushing across your cheek as she whispered, “She’s already got your stubborn streak, you know that?” You gave a weak laugh—half breath, half sob. Agatha’s voice dropped lower, wrapping around you. “The way she rolls around in there like she owns the place? That’s you. That’s yours.”

Behind you, Rio’s arms tightened slightly. Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice quiet and awed. “You’re carrying a little fireball,” she murmured. “And she’s stretching out like she’s claiming her space in the world before she even takes a breath.”

You tried to smile, but your lip trembled too hard to hold it. Their hands didn’t stop. Nor did their rhythm—palms tracing, thumbs circling, breath syncing like lullaby. One heart. Two bodies. Three lives. All in motion. “You’ve done everything right,” Agatha said softly, her voice laced with quiet conviction. “She’s healthy. She’s strong. She’s getting ready.”

“And she knows you’re safe,” Rio added, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “That’s why she moves so much when you talk. She’s listening. She knows her mama’s voice.” Your throat closed. The tears that had been threatening spilled free—not with drama, but with weight. Silent and hot. Grief and gratitude. Fear and joy.

Their words wrapped around your chest like silk-wrapped bandages, pressing into every crack you hadn’t known had formed beneath the weight of everything. And then Agatha said it—words quiet, but firm. A sacred promise. “She’s already ours. And she’s already so loved.”

Your breath broke then. Shallow. Wet. Fractured. The ache in your chest cracked open, and the fear spilled forward in words that felt small, even as they carried everything:  “I look like a whale—” you whispered, and this time your voice broke on the word. “I feel awful. And I don’t know how you can even stand to look at me right now.” It came out jagged. Raw. Like the very center of you had splintered. Because deep down, you knew the truth. You knew they loved you. Every version of you. The you from the first date, flushed and curious. The you wrapped in papers and stress and soft pajamas. The you with the test in your hand, shaking. The you now, belly swollen and stretched, eyes glassy with love and grief and anticipation all tangled together. They cherished every inch of your changing body, that they’d worshiped the curve of your hips and the new softness in your belly. That they’d kissed every stretch mark like a love letter. That they told you, over and over, you were radiant. A miracle. Home.

But none of that could soften the weight of now. Not when your skin didn’t feel like yours. Not when your breath came short and your back ached and your daughter hadn’t stopped moving for hours. Knowing didn’t quiet the voices. And tonight, it was just too loud. Your shoulders hunched in shame before you could stop them, your eyes falling away from both of theirs.

Agatha made a sound low in her throat. Small, but sharp. It landed like a stone on glass—half pain, half protest.  Her hand lifted immediately, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that belied the fire in her eyes. Her fingers tilting your face up with the gentlest defiance, not hard, but unyielding. Her palm was warm, her fingers gentle beneath your chin. “Don’t you ever say that again.” Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was steel. It rang with the kind of truth that didn’t ask permission. Unshakable. Ancient. As if she were summoning every star in the galaxy to bear witness to the truth of you.

You blinked, eyes wet, searching hers. Agatha’s expression was fierce. Not angry. Not pitying. Fierce. “There is nothing about you that isn’t beautiful,” she said, her voice trembling now with something softer, something breaking open. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted to see. This—this moment, this body, you carrying our daughter—this is sacred.”

Rio stepped closer, folding her body fully against your back now, arms around your waist, her breath steady near your temple. Her hand slid into yours, her fingers lacing between yours as if reminding you of every moment they’d carried you here. Her thumb brushed the back of your knuckles in a rhythm you knew by heart. “You are beautiful,” Rio said softly, her lips near your ear, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “You are powerful. And you are growing our girl.”

She kissed the side of your face, slow and sure. “You think we don’t see you?” she added, her voice a little rough now. “We see everything. Every ache. Every breath. Every brave inch of you. And we love it. We love you.”

Your shoulders crumpled, the words cracking something deep in your chest. Agatha leaned in then, pressing her forehead to yours again. “We look at you,” she said, “because we can’t look away.”

You gave a watery breath, your voice small. “I know,” you whispered. “I know you love me. I know you mean it.” Agatha’s hand stayed on your jaw, warm and anchoring. You swallowed once. Twice. “I just don’t… feel sexy anymore,” you admitted. “Not the way I used to. I feel… swollen. Heavy. Like I’m wearing someone else’s body.”

The words hung in the air, soft and devastating. Rio kissed the side of your neck. Not rushed. Not coaxing. Just there. “Your body’s doing the most beautiful thing it’s ever done,” she said. “It’s making our daughter. That’s not less. That’s more.”

“It’s not different in a bad way,” Agatha added, brushing her knuckles along your cheek. “It’s evolved. You didn’t lose anything. You just… expanded. In power. In grace. In you.”

Rio pressed another kiss just beneath your jaw. “We love every version of you. The you from before. The you from now. See you tomorrow. None of that changes how wanting feels.”

You laughed—small, cracked. “I can’t even see you when we do anything,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I haven’t seen anything south of my belly button in weeks.”

Agatha smiled through a choked breath; her eyes still wet with love. Rio turned you in her arms with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

Her hands guided you like she was afraid you'd vanish—one cradling the back of your waist, the other lifting to your cheek with a gentleness that made your breath catch. She cupped your face like something precious, her thumb grazing beneath your eye, brushing away the last of your tears with a reverence that made your knees weaken. She didn’t rush. She didn’t assume. She offered. Her eyes searched yours, steady and open, and when she spoke, her voice had dropped to something soft and sacred.

“Then let me show you.” The words hit like a prayer. Not lustful. Not coaxing. Sacred. You blinked, lips parting—but no sound came out. Your body was still humming from the ache of before, your chest still cracked open, but now there was something else blooming in the space between you. Something warmer. Something anchoring.

Rio’s palm stayed on your cheek, her touch impossibly light. “If you’ll let me,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving yours, “I want to show you what we see. Every inch. Every curve. Every breath. I want to remind you how beautiful you are… not because I want something from you. Not because you need to give anything. But because I want you to remember what’s already yours.”

She paused. Let the silence settle around her words like velvet. “Your body is home,” she added. “To her. To us. To you. That doesn’t change just because it’s changed.” Your breath trembled, caught between release and surrender.

And still—neither of them moved. Agatha’s hands stayed on your waist, her fingers spreading wider, grounding you through the center of your belly like she was holding you and your daughter at once. She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t need to. Her presence alone, the way she stayed right there, quiet and solid and unwavering—it was everything.

They led you across the living room like you were something holy. The house was quiet, the lights low—just enough glow from the kitchen to bathe the edges of the space in warmth. You felt the shift in your pulse as you moved, barefoot, guided between them. Your feet padded softly over the hardwood, your breath uneven. The ache in your chest had not fully lifted, but it had changed. Melted into something softer. Something open. They brought you to the chair. The chair—the one Rio had found at that secondhand shop with the deep seat and wide arms, the one you’d fallen into so many nights when your back ached and your belly felt too heavy to bear. It welcomed you like it always did. Familiar. Forgiving.

Agatha crouched to one side of it, her hand still braced gently at your hip. Then she stood, glanced toward the hallway, and disappeared around the corner without a word. You looked toward Rio, brows drawn in question. She only smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your temple. “Trust her.”

A moment later, Agatha returned, arms wrapped around the tall frame of the full-length mirror from the bathroom. She carried it carefully, reverently, as though it were not just glass and metal but something sacred. She positioned it at an angle just in front of you, turning it slightly, then stepped back. You looked up. And then you saw. Your reflection glowed in the low amber light. Your belly curved outward, full and breathtaking. Your hands rested low, cradling it like you always did now without thinking. Your face was flushed from crying, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling. You looked—glorious.

You gasped. The sound broke the silence like wind breaking through trees. You reached for the arms of the chair, fingers trembling. Your own image caught you off guard. Because for the first time in what felt like weeks, you could see yourself. Really see. All of you. Rio stepped behind the chair, her body lowering slowly until her mouth hovered beside your ear. “That’s you,” she whispered. “Look how beautiful you are.” Then she kissed your neck. Soft. Slow. You shivered. Her mouth found the corner of yours, then your lips—unchanging, unrelenting, not rushed. She kissed you like she had all the time in the world. Like nothing else mattered but this one breath.

Her hands moved to your shirt, fingertips brushing at the hem. She didn’t rush. She didn’t claim. She waited. You nodded—just once—and lifted your arms. She pulled the shirt over your head slowly, revealing the softness beneath. Your chest, swollen and tender. She touched you with care, with reverence, brushing only the backs of her fingers along the sides—never taking, only seeing. Your breath hitched. Then her palms came down, warm on your thighs. You were already panting. Not from urgency. But from the way they were looking at you.

Like you were fire. Like you were a sunrise they’d been waiting their whole lives to watch. Agatha knelt beside the mirror now, her eyes tracing your body in full view—reflection and real. Her hand found yours again. Rio leaned forward, her lips brushing your collarbone. “You see it now?” she asked softly. And her hands went to your waistband. Your breath faltered. And you nodded.

Your thighs had opened for her instinctively, your hips rocking just slightly as if your body already knew what to ask for. Her palms swept slow and deliberate up the inside of your legs, cradling you, anchoring you—never rushing. Your chest rose and fell in staccato breaths. You glanced at her—and then looked beyond her. The mirror caught everything. It caught you—spread open and shining, body bare and heavy with life. And it caught her—kneeling between your legs, her jaw slack with reverence, her eyes dark with hunger and awe. It caught the way your belly arched up and over her hands. The way her palms framed the softness of your thighs. The way you leaned into her.You swallowed, gaze flicking to her reflection. And something inside you broke free.

“Please,” you said, the word nothing but breath and pulse and ache, “don’t tease.” Rio’s eyes snapped up to yours in the glass. And that did it. The flicker of restraint burned out. She surged forward, mouth claiming you with a hunger that was not rushed, but reverent. Intentional. Her lips moved with memory and muscle, with the ache of long months watching your body change, and the awe of watching you hold it all together. She kissed you like someone who knew you. Every edge. Every fold. Every sigh you’d ever made.

And now, she returned to you. With her mouth, and her breath, and the sacred rhythm of again, and again, and again.Your back arched with the first stroke of her tongue, a sharp cry ripping from your throat before you could catch it. Your thighs trembled around her head, and Rio didn’t pause—her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you there like she was terrified you’d float away. You felt yourself splintering at the edges, molten and fragile, your chest heaving with the kind of breathing that didn’t feel like control, but surrender.

And then Agatha was there. You hadn’t even heard her move. She circled the chair like she felt it in her blood—that moment, that electricity spiking through your muscles, that shift in your breath as the tension snapped and you opened. Her hands slipped over your shoulders, steady and warm, thumbs trailing reverent arcs against your skin. One tilted your jaw just enough to guide you into her space—her breath hot against your temple. “That’s it, love,” she whispered, her voice thick with devotion. “Let her show you how beautiful you are.”

Then her lips found the soft place beneath your ear. A kiss. Slow. Dragged. Then another, lower along your throat. Her nose nuzzled the line of your jaw as her hand stroked down your chest, not possessive, not greedy—just worshipful. She kissed the breath from your lungs as your mouth met hers, your moan stolen between lips that knew exactly how to kiss you undone. Your fingers tangled in her shirt, clutching it tight as your other hand moved down, reaching for Rio, threading through her hair like a lifeline, like a prayer.

You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t even beg. There was nothing to beg for. They were already giving you everything. You glanced toward the mirror. And it hit you like a tidal wave. Your body—full, glowing, open. Rio between your legs, her shoulders flexing with every movement of her mouth. Agatha behind you, eyes wild and wide, kissing you like you were breath itself. You watched your own legs tremble. You watched the way your belly shifted with every rock of your hips, the way your hand fisted in Rio’s hair, the way her tongue moved like she’d memorized you. The way Agatha held you from behind—protective, possessive, hers. It was raw. It was blinding. It was you, seen. And the tears came again—not from sorrow, but from truth. From being held. From being worshipped. From knowing, finally, fully, that you were loved in every form, at every size, in every ache and curve and tremble. You saw yourself. And you saw them. The women who loved you like you were more than flesh and breath. They loved you like you were the center of the world.

Your gaze flicked back to the mirror and there she was. Rio. Her face tucked between your legs, hair tousled and damp with sweat, lips glistening with you. But it wasn’t just the motion of her mouth, or the way her shoulders moved as she ground herself deeper against your hips. It was her eyes. Locked on yours. Burning. Desperate. Wild with hunger. It shattered something in you. Because that—that was what you’d missed in the fog of hormones and swelling and survival. That eye contact. That wordless, bottomless tether that always told you exactly how wanted you were.

Her eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t break. Just bored into you like she was trying to memorize the way you looked falling apart. And it broke you. Your whole body spasmed. A sob cracked out of your throat as your back arched up off the chair. Your belly trembled, taut and high, and Rio didn’t stop. Her mouth kept moving, hungrier now, like your unraveling had given her permission to consume. You bucked against her—hips rolling forward with rhythmless desperation, legs trembling uncontrollably as you choked out, “I—I’m close—” And then Agatha’s mouth was on your throat. Not a kiss. Not gentle. A bite—sharp enough to make your hips jerk, your breath catch, your walls clench around the pressure Rio had built into a fever pitch. Her teeth held you still.

And you broke. Loud. Violent. Holy. You came with a sound that split the room, your whole body arching, hands clawing for something—anything. One dug into Agatha’s shoulder, the other twisted in Rio’s hair as your legs trembled and your stomach tightened around the life inside you. Your cry wasn’t soft. It was wild. You shattered in their hands—shaking, breathless, body rocking with aftershocks you couldn't contain. Your vision blurred. Your ears rang. You didn’t even know if you were breathing until Agatha whispered your name like a prayer.

And Rio— She didn’t let go. She kissed you through it. Every pulse. Every quake. Every breathless whimper you had left to give. You were still shaking when Rio began to kiss her way back up your body. Slow, reverent kisses against your inner thighs—soft enough to soothe, wet enough to remind you she’d been there, worshipping you just seconds ago. Her mouth moved in slow arcs, tasting you, grounding you.

Then up—over your hips, your belly, your ribs. She was breathing hard now, face flushed with heat and joy and something wild. When her mouth met yours, it wasn’t greedy—it was grateful. Her tongue swept gently past your lips, and you moaned into her, tasting yourself on her skin. It made your eyes flutter closed, your body pulse again, not in climax, but in need. Rio cupped your cheek as she kissed you, her other hand brushing hair from your face. “There you are,” she whispered against your lips. You barely had the breath to answer. And then Agatha leaned in, mouth catching the other side of your jaw, her lips soft at first, then firmer as she kissed a slow line toward your mouth.

“Do you want more?” she asked, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Or are you spent, sweetheart? What do you need?” You didn’t answer with words at first. Just a smile. The slow curl of it as you opened your eyes and turned to meet her gaze. She knew. You saw it hit her before you even nodded. Agatha’s lips curved into something feral, fond. She kissed you once—deep and deliberate—and then stood, stepping back into the dimness of the hallway. You breathed hard, body open in the chair, catching your breath in the quiet. Your pulse was still wild. Your belly rose and fell, trembling just slightly with each inhale.

She returned. Strap riding low and deliberate across her hips, sleek and sure like it belonged there, like it was forged to fit her. The base of it rose from the cradle of her body in a bold, deliberate arc, catching the low amber light like the edge of a spell. It didn’t shimmer. It commanded. Her legs moved with that quiet, devastating grace—every step a promise. The muscles in her thighs flexed beneath the shadow of her boxer briefs, and the hem of her tank top clung to the curve of her waist, soft and rumpled from your grip earlier. But it was her eyes that caught you. Lit. Alive. The glint behind her lashes was dangerous—but not for you. It was danger for anyone who ever made you feel less than divine.

Her mouth curved slowly into a smile, dark and warm and infinitely patient. “There she is,” she murmured, voice low and reverent. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your breath caught somewhere deep in your chest. You just watched her. The way she moved. The way she looked at you. The weight of her presence. It stole the ache from your back and replaced it with heat. Your pulse thrummed in your wrists, your thighs, your chest. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair without meaning to. Agatha stepped between your knees, the strap tilting forward slightly with her motion, and her hand slid along the inside of your thigh, slow, possessive, knowing. She guided you forward, your hips shifting, spine bowing slightly as she pulled you to the very edge of the seat.

The leather squeaked faintly beneath your weight. Your legs opened for her like instinct, like worship, your body pliant with permission. Her hand never left your thigh, fingers pressing gently into the soft place just above your knee. The other reached behind you, palm bracing on the chairback for balance, though she looked perfectly in control. She adjusted slightly. Knelt just enough. And then she aligned herself with you—her chest, her mouth, the hard line of the strap—all level with your eyes now. It made your throat tighten. You were open. Seated. Bare. Vulnerable. And she looked like she’d drop to her knees or split the world open—whichever one you asked for first.

Her voice dropped lower, velvet over flint. “Look at you.” Her hand tightened gently on your thigh. “Look how ready you are.” You shivered. And then she stilled. Not to tease. Not to draw it out. But to revere. She waited one breath more, just long enough to let you feel her waiting. Let you feel what it was to be wanted.

Agatha leaned in. Her lips met yours with aching patience, with reverence, like she needed the kiss to memorize your breath before anything else could begin. There was no hunger in it. Not yet. Only promise. A slow, sun-warm kiss that tasted like you already belonged to her, and always had.

Her hand held your face as her mouth moved against yours, and you could feel it in her touch—that steadiness, that command, that way she always knew exactly when to move and when to wait. And then— She slid inside.

Your breath broke.

It wasn’t a cry. It wasn’t a gasp. It was a sound, low and wrecked and holy, something that spilled from the center of your chest and fell apart in the space between you. The stretch made your spine bow, your knees shake. She filled you in one long, deliberate thrust—slow and sure, letting you feel every moment of it. Every inch. Every bit of space inside you that had felt empty or too tight or too full of grief was suddenly full of her instead. And your eyes flew open.

She was already looking at you. Those eyes—blue and bright and so alive they didn’t feel like they belonged to anyone human—locked with yours, unflinching. She didn’t blink. Didn’t glance away. Just held your gaze like it was a lifeline. Like it was her altar. Her palm braced against the back of the chair for balance, fingers curled tight with restraint, but her hips, Her hips never rushed.

She moved slow. Deep. Every roll of her body was rooted in muscle, in breath, in the quiet poetry of knowing exactly how to hold you. The angle was perfect—too perfect—and every time she pushed in, it was like your body forgot what it had once felt like to not be full of her. Your hands clenched the arms of the chair again, anchoring to anything as her hips pulled back—then slid forward again, deeper this time, smooth and devastating. Your breath caught on a moan, her name, one hand gripping the armrest, the other finding Rio’s forearm beside you. “F—fuck, Agatha—”

She didn’t falter. If anything, her hips rocked a little deeper, the sound of her name feeding something wild behind her eyes. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I’ve got you, baby. Just feel me. Let me give this to you.”

You didn’t know how badly you needed it. Not just the stretch. Not just the rhythm. But the quiet worship of being touched without rush. Without expectation. Just the intention to love you open, to remind you—inch by inch—that this body of yours, this moment, was worthy.

And then Rio was there. Her breath on your jaw, her lips dragging soft and slow along your neck. She kissed down the slope of your throat until her nose pressed into the hollow behind your ear. Her voice was velvet and wind. “So beautiful,” she breathed, her hands moving up to cup your belly, your breasts, every part of you that had changed and bloomed. “You should see yourself.” And you did. You looked past them through the mirror. And you saw everything

Your legs open, body pulsing with breath. Agatha’s hips moving in slow, devastating waves, her strap slick and gleaming as it disappeared into you. The swell of your belly catching the warm light. Rio’s hands curving over the life inside you. Agatha’s arm braced, her body commanding and anchored, and yours. And the way your own body moved—reaching for her. Undone. Open. Worshipped.

Agatha rocked into you again—deep, slow, and devastating. The kind of rhythm that didn’t chase climax. It earned it. Cultivated it. Breathed it into being. Your thighs trembled where they rested against the wide arms of the chair, your hands fisted in the leather now as her hips rolled again, deeper, dragging you open with every smooth, full stroke. You could barely hold her gaze. But you didn’t have to—she held you.

And then her lips were back on yours. Not shy. Not apologetic. Claiming. Each kiss tasted like a promise, like a vow. Like you’re mine and you always will be. She moaned into your mouth as your hips rose to meet hers, her thrusts meeting you with aching precision, her fingers sliding down to trace your ribs, your belly, the tight bow of your breast. She cupped you like your body held every star she’d ever wanted to name. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered into your mouth, her voice breaking over the words like a wave.

You whimpered, trembling harder beneath her. “You are the strongest thing I’ve ever touched,” she said again, more breath than voice. “And every inch of you-every curve, every scar, every stretch and swell—is mine.”

You choked on a sob, the words branding you. Agatha kept moving, slow and powerful, hips angling just right to press deep inside you. Your body clung to her. Every movement of her strap carved something sacred through your core. “You will never question it,” she said, her voice steel wrapped in silk. “Not now. Not after the baby. Not ever.”

And you believed her. Because she was saying it not just to your skin, but to your soul. You glanced toward the mirror and moaned. Your body was flushed from the base of your throat to the top of your breasts, glowing in pinks and reds and golds. Your neck bore the evidence of Rio and Agatha's mouth—soft marks, tender bruises, holy things. Your stomach arched upward, rounded and high, your skin shimmering with sweat. And Agatha—God, Agatha. Her eyes locked on yours even now, her lips parted as she moved in you, her body flexing, strap thrusting slow and deep like she was writing scripture with her hips.

“Right there,” you breathed, the words dragging through a moan. “Baby—don’t stop—keep moving just like that—” And she did. Agatha shifted just slightly—an angle change, nothing more. A subtle tilt.  And it hit. Your whole body jerked, head snapping back as your moan broke loud and sudden, hips jerking as the head of the strap caught that spot inside you, perfectly. Louder than you meant. Louder than the room.

Rio snickered from beside the chair, where she was still kissing your shoulder, her hand now resting low over your belly, steadying you. “There’s our girl,” she murmured with a grin.

Agatha rocked forward again—deep and devastating, hips tilting just enough to make you gasp. The strap pressed inward at the perfect angle, the thick crown gliding against that hidden, aching part of you with slow, inevitable gravity. It felt less like thrusting and more like being moved through, shaped by something larger than you

The sound you made wasn’t a cry. It was a stuttering wail, half-caught in your throat, your lips parting with helpless abandon. “Baby—” you gasped, voice pitched high, eyes blown wide and glassy. “I’m— I’m so close—”

Her groan—raw, low, instinctual—shattered the quiet between your thighs. She didn’t speed up. She didn’t need to. Her control was precise, devastating, every long, deep stroke carving through the tension wound inside your body. Her blue eyes burned through you, never breaking contact, even as she watched you lose composure. She saw it all. The way your belly trembled, high and swollen and radiant. The way your thighs jerked, struggling not to close. The way your lips formed her name like it was the only word you’d ever learned to say. “Yes, baby,” Agatha moaned, her breath catching on the edge of a curse. “Just like that. You’re right there. I’ve got you.”

And she did. She rocked forward again—deeper, slower—her hips grinding in a perfect, devastating roll, dragging the strap through your soaked center. You could feel yourself around her, gripping her, pulsing, your body slick and molten. Her thighs flexed with every movement, bracing you, guiding you. “So good,” she breathed, lips brushing your ear, her voice thick with heat. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re taking me so well. Let go. Let go.” You did. You let go. Your hand flew from the armrest and caught the back of her neck, dragging her down, foreheads pressed tight, breath to breath. You could taste her exhale. Taste the sweat that had bloomed across your own lip. Her mouth brushed yours just as—

You broke. It hit like a wave tearing loose from the shore—no warning, no build-up. Just everything. Your thighs trembled violently. Your cry punched through the room, deep and guttural, pulled from somewhere ancient and instinctual. You came so hard you forgot your own name. You shook through it, muscles locking then releasing in waves. Agatha did not stop.

She stayed in you, stayed with you, hips rolling just enough to let you ride the full crest of your climax. Every stroke dragged the edge of it out, made it echo, made it bloom. You pulsed around her in rhythmic waves, your breath stuttering in sobs that weren’t sad—they were relief.Surrender.“That’s it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Let me feel you fall apart, baby. You’re so—fucking—beautiful.” Rio moaned softly into your shoulder, her own breath hitching as her arms wrapped tighter around your belly. Her mouth found the slope of your shoulder, then your collarbone, lips open and hot against your skin. She kissed you as you came, as you shook, as you gave.

“That’s it, hermosa,” she murmured, reverent and wrecked. “Let go.” Every kiss she laid against you felt like a seal. A new love. A vow. Agatha held your waist with both hands, the strap buried deep, her body still and strong, holding you open—holding you safe. You moaned into her mouth once more, softer now. Spent. Your breath hitched. And then it slowed. And in the echo of it—in the tremble that lingered in your thighs, in the ache low in your belly—you finally breathed. Not just air. Not just oxygen. But ease. You took your first breath of the day. Agatha slipped out of you with care, her hand braced against your hip for steadiness as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek—soft, breath-warm, filled with reverence. You didn’t have to speak. The look in her eyes was enough: thank you, I love you, rest now.

And then Rio was already moving, one arm under your shoulders, helping you sit up slowly. Your body ached—not from pain, but from openness. From release. From the way you had been held in more ways than one. You let out a soft, dreamy sound, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and whispered, “I’ll shower tomorrow… before the game.” Your voice was thick with sleep, heavy with joy, floating somewhere in that in-between space where your body was loose and your heart was still fluttering.

Rio chuckled, warm and low, as she kissed your forehead. “You’re not going anywhere tonight except to bed.” She helped you stand just enough to slide off what remained of your clothes, moving with the instinct of someone who had dressed and undressed you a hundred times in love. She reached for a pair of underwear from the drawer, then paused. “No,” she said to herself, already switching them out. “You’ll want boxers.” You hummed something that might’ve been agreement. Or adoration. You didn’t even have the energy to tease her. You lay back on the bed with a long exhale, your limbs already melting into the cool sheets. The weight of your body felt good now, earned. You shifted once to make room, and just as your eyes fluttered closed—

Agatha walked back into the room, barefoot, wearing only Rio’s shirt. A book was in her hand. The baby book. Worn edges, soft cloth cover. Her expression was one of quiet determination—focused, affectionate, amused. She arched a brow at you, then glanced at your belly. Your daughter had apparently not fallen asleep during the earlier activities—or maybe she had and was now making up for lost time. Her kicks returned with newfound enthusiasm, thumping high beneath your ribs, then low toward your pelvis. You groaned softly.

Rio slid in beside you, her thigh pressed against yours as she leaned over and kissed your cheek. Then her palm spread wide over your belly. “You okay in there, little one?” she asked, grinning as she traced a slow circle. “Did someone sneak you a coffee when we weren’t looking?”

The baby answered. A firm press, then a sweep. Like a slow tumble. Like she was stretching her limbs to show she was still here. Agatha perched at the edge of the bed, the book resting in her lap as she leaned over and pressed a kiss to your stomach. Her voice came next, soft and low, spoken in a register you’d come to recognize over the last few weeks. She didn’t use that voice for anyone else. Only her daughter. “Okay, Sprout,” she said gently, her lips brushing the top curve of your belly. “Mommy and Mamí are going to read to you now. But let’s try to stop running drills, okay? This isn’t batting practice.”

Her hand followed Rio’s, rubbing slow circles. “Mama needs a break. And you, baby girl… you need to rest.” The room fell quiet, but not silent.

Rio’s hands kept moving—gentle, rhythmic, steady—offering comfort in the language of touch. You felt her breath against your shoulder, her heartbeat pressed into your side. Agatha opened the book with care and began to read, her voice smooth and warm, each word flowing like a lullaby. And slowly, your daughter began to settle. The kicks softened. The punches became stretches. Small rolls. Gentle turns. Like she, too, was listening. Like she knew—knew—she was safe.

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