#full-range flat-response

[guitarbomb]

HeadRush FRFR speakers now with Bluetooth Channel

HeadRush FRFR speakers now come with a Bluetooth Channel as standard. Available as the FRFR-108 MKII and FRFR-112 MKII. HeadRush FRFR First up is the HeadRush FRFR-108 MKII which includes a 2000-watt full-range flat-response guitar cabinet with Bluetooth, an 8” speaker, plus an HF compression driver. With two combo XLR + 1/4” inputs and an XLR output. The larger FRFR-112 MKII model comes with…

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 1

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; dom/sub elements; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Some warnings only apply to future parts!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Simon remembers telling Price to ‘piss off with that shite’ when the latter had approached him with the brass’ announcement of granting the Lieutenant the rare permission to become the handler of an emotional support hybrid.

There aren’t many officers on base who are allowed to have one, and Simon knows why that is. In his opinion, the whole handler/hybrid deal has all the negative connotations of a toxic and borderline abusive relationship, and Simon simply doesn’t want to be part of that.

Did anyone of those fuckers ever bother to read his file? He bloody well doubts it.

He does respect the official handlers and trainers of the military K9’s on base, though. Whatever bond they share was forged and solidified in battle and goes way beyond that odd and shallow power play that happens between some officers and their so-called “pets”.

So, Simon said no to the offer, firmly and several times at that. He doesn’t care for the bloody permission, no matter how rare it is, no matter how fellow soldiers who’d caught rumour about it had blatantly stated their envy about the possibility of gaining a hybrid pet themselves. Truthfully, Simon becomes sick to his stomach whenever one of the other officers and NCO’s talk about wanting to own a pretty pleasure puppy; something dumb and docile to have fun and unwind with in their time off duty.

Fucking hell. No, Simon doesn’t want to be part of that, let alone be responsible of some freakish hybrid mutt.

Weeks pass, both thoughts and arguments about hybrids and handlers are pushed back and filed away in some nook inside Simon’s mind as he falls back into his daily grind and familiar routine; running drills, paperwork, field trainings, preparing for missions, more paperwork.

Until one fateful day in January.

The UK weather has been more terrible lately; icy rain and howling winds beating down on base while Simon was trying to keep the rookies in line at the shooting range. By the end of the day, his fatigues were drenched and clinging to his broad frame while the chill was seeping through his pale skin, settling into his bones; making his limbs heavy and turning them stiff as if he’d carried a rucksack full of boulders on his back for a week straight.

The moment Simon arrives at the front door to his flat on base, though, the hairs at the back of his neck bristle immediately. The hallway is empty, but–

Something isn’t right. He can practically sense that someone was here, perhaps even inside his place in the worst case.

Halting in his measured steps while his breathing levels out to that eerie shallowness he’s adapted to on missions, his ears perk up under his skull balaclava as he listens for any odd noises coming from inside. Unable to pick up anything unusual, Simon still chooses to rather be safe than sorry as he reaches for his pistol in the holster strapped to his right thigh.

Simon manages to open the front door without any noise before he slips inside effortlessly, living up to his name as a ghost as he stalks through his flat on high alert; checking the small storage room before sneaking down the short, dark hallway leading up to his open living room. He can bloody sense that something is different, that someone has tampered with his safe space; he can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, sweat, and tangy cologne even through his damp balaclava.

The sight that greets him on his old, tattered couch when he eventually flips on the light switch, is unlike anything he expected and Simon’s whole body tenses, eyes widening comically as if he’s met face to face by a firing squad.

But it’s just you, a bloody dog hybrid, curled up on his couch like you belong there–which you don’t.

And Simon slowly lowers his pistol, watches your fluffy white ears appear from under your hair as they perk up before you lift your head, like pristine cotton balls popping open in the sunlight; your body uncurling and stretching slowly while you squint against the bright yellow drop-light.

“What the bloody… fuck,” Simon breathes, chest deflating with a deep sigh as he puts his pistol back into his holster, securing it once more. Dark eyes flicker around the room before he catches a large black suitcase next to what looks like a gift basket.

Simon approaches the basket the way he would a bomb threat while his vigilant eyes keep shifting towards you as if you could attack him any moment, although you’re clearly still waking up, all discombobulated and sleep-drunk.

When Simon catches a clear view at the assortment of goodies and the black folder tucked between them inside the basket, his cold heart stutters and his blood freezes in his veins. At the sight of the pale pink collar with its matching leash, the vein in his temple throbs with a mixture of fury and revulsion.

The sound of your soft, sickly-sweet voice chirping out a greeting nearly makes his wretched soul leave his body. “Hi… Hello.”

Simon takes a step back, needing a protective wall at his back and as much space between himself and you as possible as he tries to assess the situation.

“How the fuck did you get inside my flat?” Simon mutters under his breath, dark eyes widening when he realizes the thumping in his ears doesn’t match his rapid heartbeat but belongs to your fluffy white tail gently wagging against the soft leather of his couch; just as fluffy and white as your ears, like freshly made cotton candy.

“I was brought here and told to wait for my new handler,” you answer as your head tilts to the side curiously, gazing up at the large man with bright doe-eyes. “Are you Simon?”

Simon’s narrowed eyes widen instantly again at the sound of your voice uttering his name so sweetly, so... casually. It makes him sick to his stomach, and he swallows back the sour taste in his mouth as it fills with saliva.

“Who the fuck brought you ‘ere?”

He needs a name, so he knows who to beat to a pulp before he grabs the first poor bastard who crosses his path next.

“Uhm–oh!” Your small, triangle-shaped ears perk up, and the giggle you let out makes Simon grimace underneath his mask. “They had silly names for humans,” you tell him, still giggling softly to yourself before adding: “Gaz and Soap.”

Simon huffs in exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, it explains the “special orders” his bloody Sergeants had gotten from Price today; the reason he couldn’t attend today’s training session. And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

“You’re all wet, Simon,” you remark about his appearance; sweet voice laced with a concern so genuine that is has his spine tense and his stomach churn with aversion. “Are you not cold?”

He wants to bark at you to stop calling him by his name, to stop trying to appeal to him just because your bloody stupid nature tells you to, to stop imprinting on your so called “new handler” just because someone told you that you belong to him now. He wants you out of his flat and out of his life before anything terrible and out of his control can take root and blossom behind his ribcage.

“Get up,” he snaps at you before his thoughts can spiral any further and he almost, almost feels bad when you flinch in your seat, ducking your head submissively while your ears flatten against your head. “I’m taking you back. You’re not staying here, lass.”

“W-What?” Your face drops, your fluffy tail stops wagging; eyes glossing over as you begin to tremble and shrink on the spot. The sound of your soft whine only angers Simon more, because it tugs on his heartstring, makes his protective instincts flare.

“You heard me. Get up and grab your fuckin’ suitcase. ’m taking you back to wherever you came from.”

When Simon glances back at you, something mean and violent lodges itself into his chest cavity; twisting and squeezing his rotten heart as soon as he sees the devastated look on your face; ears drooping and shoulders slouching in defeat while another soft whine vibrates in your chest.

“Okay,” you answer eventually, snivelling when fat tear breaches your lower lash line and runs down your supple cheek as you untuck your legs from under yourself to move off the couch. “Okay…”

There’s a shrill ringing in his ears when Simon’s mouth seems to move on its own, making a decision for him. “Wait. Stay–Stay right where you bloody are.”

And you immediately do as you’re told, like the obedient pup you obviously are, settling back and perking up again as you blink dumbly at the brutish man with bright, big eyes and an expectant look that makes Simon groan internally before he reaches into one of his many pockets to retrieve his old smartphone.

He mutters and curses under his breath as the cracked screen lights up, and it doesn’t take long for him to find his Captain’s name in his short contact list. Simon taps the screen with his gloved thumb to call the man, ready to argue tooth and nail to have you picked up by from his flat again, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

Simon’s jaw is clenched tightly while his sharp gaze keeps flickering back to you, still not quite believing you’re not some stress-induced hallucination, or nightmare.

It takes two rings before Price picks up.

“Ghost–“

Simon inhales deeply. “Price–“

“Getting acquainted with your new companion, son? She’s quite the sweetheart. Easy on the eyes, too, judging by what the lads told me.”

His chest deflates, air rushing from his lungs in a long exhale. That comment alone is enough to make him even more furious. “I don’t want her. Take her back to wherever she came from, Captain.”

There’s a beat of tense silence before Price speaks up again, and Simon can hear the squeak of the old office chair as the other man leans back in it.

“Did you read her file yet?”

“No, should I?” Simon counters gruffly, feeling his patience grow thinner by the second.

“Aye, son, I suggest you should.”

“Gimme the short version, Price. I’m this close to handing her over to the next lucky bloke who passes by my fuckin’ flat.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Price says decisively on the other; his gruff voice way too calm for Simon’s liking. “She’s a rescue, Lieutenant. Got rescued from one of those terrible puppy mills.”

That makes Simon shut up as his eyes flicker over to you; softening somewhat when his eyes lock with yours. You keep watching him with the slightest pout, waiting for orders or for him to finally send you away. He’s still considering it, though the revelation of your background makes him hesitate for some odd reason. Empathy.

“Simon?”

Simon squeezes the phone harder in his grip; hard enough he thinks he might break it once and for all. “You better find a new handler for her, Captain.” He bites out through clenched teeth. “It’s not gonna be me.”

Price sighs. “Alright.” There is another pause and Simon can hear it when Price scratches his coarse beard in contemplation before he speaks up again. “Just keep an eye on her for the night, aye? I’ll make the necessary arrangement to have her transferred to someone else.”

“Good. She can stay for one night. One. Night.” Simon growls before hanging up.

The soft sound of your tail thumping against the couch catches his attention again and when he looks back at you, you’re practically beaming at him.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

[ultravi0lence14]

Only Angel

dean winchester x angel!reader

1.9k | fluff, fem pronouns

summary: dean winchester needed a little clarity in his life, and you were just his only angel to do it.

dean watched as you sat on the sidewalk in front of the motel, back hunched and eyes raking over the passages in a book sam had given you. he could see the angelic side of you clear as day, but that could’ve just been dean admiring your pretty features.

around a year ago, when dean was taken out of hell and met the angel castiel, he and his brother learned that cas wasn’t the only angel who decided to touch down to earth. you followed behind cas like a confused puppy, looking at earth and all the things you’d only heard about in passing from different angels.

you were always catching dean’s attention. whether it be the way you just sat and stared sometimes, hands placed in your lap and eyes vacant like there was no thought behind them. but somehow, dean knew that you were thinking about heaven. you had rebelled just like cas, and he could see it on your face that those human emotions were starting to take a tole on you.

when he found you one night sitting per usual, dean couldn’t stop himself from gently grabbing your arm and leading you to the small field behind the motel. there, he instructed you to look up, showing you all the stars in the sky and telling you that whenever you missed heaven, just look up, and you can imagine all your brothers and sisters as those little beams of light.

he even tried to tell you that when lightening struck, you could envision it as your brothers and sisters bowling. but all you did was stare at him funny, informing him that angel’s didn’t play any recreational games in heaven.

since that night, you felt drawn to dean. always going to him when you had questions, staying close to him when you and cas were around. dean noticed it too, but he couldn’t find any place in himself where he wanted you to stop.

so the night you appeared to dean in his motel room, not saying a word as you quickly strode over to him and planted your lips on his, dean couldn’t find it in himself to push you away. he tangled his hands in your hair, bringing you close by the small of your back and drinking in the addictive feeling of your lips on his.

the movement of your lips were small and tentative, but dean didn’t seem to care. you being shy and inexperienced added more to the charm you already exuded, and dean loved every bit of it.

you later told him that the reason you kissed him was because that’s what sam told you to do when you felt fluttery feelings in your stomach around someone. dean swore to himself that he’d be owing sam for the rest of his life because of that.

that was all a couple months ago, and now, dean watched as you shifted a strand of hair behind your ear. the black and white striped tank top, alongside the dusty pink skirt that flowed around your thighs made him want to pick you up and take you right there in the back of the impala; but dean didn’t want to rush you, so he fought his self control as best as he could.

a soft sound of feet shuffling against gravel rang through dean’s ears as he leaned over the impala’s hood, tinkering with the gears and wires to make sure everything was okay. he didn’t think much of it, but since his back was facing where you were initially sitting, he had no idea that it was your ballet flat covered feet making all the noise.

“hey dean?” your voice rang from somewhere in front of him, not sparking any questions as he gravelly called out a ‘yes baby?’ in response to your ribbon like soft voice. “when are you going to teach me how to use this?”

he lifted his head in surprise, a quizzical look dawning on his face. when he turned and noticed you weren’t sat behind him anymore, he slowly moved his head towards the boot of the impala and watched with shock as you held a shot gun full of rock salt in your arms.

eyes wide, he quickly moved his head from under the hood and rushed over to you with breaths of ‘woah’ under his lips. in an instant, he took it from your hands, ignoring your adorable pouty lips as he placed it back in the trunk. “jesus feather’s, be careful. could’ve taken an eye out.”

you frowned as he simply just walked away, ignoring your original question and moving to the front seat of the impala. “you didn’t answer my question dean.” your feet planted themselves by the opening of the drivers side door. left foot tapping impatiently as you stared intently at dean’s side profile. “i want to learn how to use it.”

dean just chuckled, turning to plant his feet on the gravel and staring into your stoic eyes. instead of dangling by your side, you had your arms crossed over your chest in a defiance of anger. though dean couldn’t help but smile at how adorable you looked.

“i’m not kidding dean!” you basically whined, sending thoughts to dean’s head that he probably shouldn’t be thinking at the moment. “i want to be helpful. my grace can only take me so far.”

with a sigh leaving his lips, dean held back his immediate rebuttal to your argument. he wanted you to feel useful. feel how important you were to him and sam. he just selfishly didn’t want you to be corrupted by all the things that ruined him. you were so pure in your own sense. being able to use your grace to fight was one way you held onto that angelic side of you. he couldn’t bare do that to you.

dean also knew that you wanted to do this. all he could muster to do was grip your waist tightly in his hands and drag your body in between his legs. his arms went up to wrap around your lower back and torso, head tilted upwards so he could look at you through his lashes. you knew he was trying to use his charm and looks to sway you towards his ideas. you felt like a lovesick follow for following his bright green eyes so easily.

“you are helpful in your own ways baby, i hope you know that.” with a grin on his lips, dean stood up and rested his hands low on your ass, giving it a firm tap before kissing your cheek. “though if this is what you want, than get in the car. i have an idea.”

a light squeal left your lips as you reached on your tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on dean’s lips. your feet shuffled around the impala and into the passenger seat, watching as dean slammed the hood of the car down and situated himself behind the wheel. in an instant, he was backing out of the parking lot and speeding down the street.

he turned onto a desolate side street, fields and dirt roads in every direction as the smell of fresh grass wafted through the windows. you looked quizzically out at the scenery, wondering what dean had in mind as his hand rested gently on your upper thigh.

slowly stopping beside an open field, dean got out of the car, watching idly as his angel sat stiff and still in the car. grabbing one of the many hand guns from the trunk, dean opened the passenger side door and chuckled as you stared up at him with wide, curious eyes. “c’mon sweets. i’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”

with an eager and excited smile on your face, you scampered out of the car and flung your arms around dean’s shoulders. peppering many kisses around his face, you joyously mumbled thank you’s into each of your kisses. dean’s laugh reverberated off his chest as you ran off towards the middle of the field, waving him over when you found a good spot.

meeting you where the field took a decline to a hill; showing acres of grass and trees at the bottom, dean slowly handed you the gun as he situated himself behind you. “the first and most important thing to know is how to hold it.” dean snaked his arms around your body as he spoke, arms positioning your own as his hands clutched yours in the perfect position.

“there ya go angel. just like that, you’re doing amazing.” dean’s praise fell deftly onto the shell of your ear, his breath hitting a spot on your neck that made a deep sigh erupt from your throat. dean’s explanation on how to aim and the recoil of some gun’s fell deaf to your ears. all you could feel was his arms wrapped around you, his solid chest pressed to your back as his chin rested on your shoulder. this was too much. and you were starting to wonder if asking dean to fuck you, right now, in the impala’s back seat, was such a bad idea.

“now just put your finger on the trigger.” dean’s words started to register again in your brain, and when you felt him back up a bit and allow you to get into position, you felt the desire you had moments ago be replaced by the overwhelming feeling of learning something new.

dean watched you as you got into position. squaring your shoulders and lifting your arms up in aim as dean relished in how you looked at the moment.

you looked so out of place. so out of your element as you held one of his guns, skirt billowing around your upper thighs in the wind. you looked out of place, but so ethereal. so beautiful in dean’s eyes that he couldn’t believe you chose him.

“is this okay?” your voice snapped him out of his thoughts as you questioned the placement of your arms. dean couldn’t help but move closer to your back again as he looked over your stance.

“yeah lovely, that’s perfect. you’re doin’ amazing.” his words encouraged you to pull the trigger, a loud pop ringing through the air as the bullet whizzed right into the lone beer bottle that dean had grabbed earlier for target practice.

an excited squeak tore from your lips, legs jumping up and down as dean’s arms wrapped around your middle. he swung you around, exclaiming in happiness as you laughed with joy. you did it on your first try, and dean couldn’t be anymore proud.

“look at you baby, that was amazing.” dean’s excitement could be heard through his voice. when he spun you around, the glimmer of pride even sparked in his eyes. “i’m so proud of you, angel, you’ve come so far.” no words came from your mouth. all you could manage was a feeble hug to show your love. dean knew what you were implying, hugging you back twice as hard as his hand smoothed down your hair.

his mouth was by your ear, whispering sweet nothings as you held onto him tightly. with a gentle kiss on his collarbone, you pulled away and grabbed his hand, dragging him back to the car with a happy skip in your step. “c’mon! i wanna go back to the motel and tell sam and cas!”

how could dean say no to his perfect angel? his only angel.

[3ight-3y3s]

S O M E T H I N G x S T U P I D

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

✦ Sevika x FemReader ✦

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

//Fluff//Light Smut//

Summary: Modern Au, Mechanic Sevika finally warms up to the bosses daughter.

Note: I wrote two scenarios for this one,

✦ click this for the other one.

✦ · · · ·────────────────── · · · · ✦

You curse as you step outside of your stalled vehicle and kick the front tire. You pinched the bridge of your nose. Just perfect. Your father tried to tell you to bring it in but you insisted you knew your vehicle better than anyone and that she was fine. Turns out you were wrong and now going to miss your classes for the day.

You sighed out a onset of curses as you pulled out your phone and called your dad's shop. It rang for an annoyingly long time. The person who answered must have felt the same because they just answered with a frustrated "What?"

"Hi Sev, um... Do you think you could give me a tow to the shop?" You asked nervously. What you didn't see was her face instantly softening at the sound of your voice.

"Text me your location." She said without hesitation. She needed a second away from these bozos anyway. The shop full of men perfectly capable of answering the damn phone.

"Thank you Sev, I really appreciate it." You meant it too. Sevika was your favorite staff member. She didn't talk much but she was always so polite.

Not to mention extremely hot. You were pretty sure she was for the girls but she never talked about her personal life. Besides she was quite a bit older than you and would probably never think twice about it. Everytime you saw her you just cursed the universe for not letting you be born sooner.

She showed up a lot faster than you were expecting. "What did you speed the whole way here?" You teased. She cleared her throat in response.

"A lil bit." She admitted. She just hated the idea of you being stranded on the side of the road alone. You laughed a little bit before thanking her again. After hooking up your car she got out the truck to open the passenger door for you.

The gesture made you blush. "Sevika..." your voice was so unsure that you were almost positive she wouldn't hear you, but she did.

"Hm?" She responded still holding the door open.

"It's too high and you don't have any steps attached." You said embarrassed. She turned her head trying to hide the smile threatening her lips. You saw it clear as day. "I'm walking." You said turning around. You got a couple steps in before Sevika's large hands found your waist filling your stomach with a million butterflies.

Within like two seconds flat you were sat and she was closing the truck door behind you. Alternatively to your struggle she got in with ease which only further cemented your embarrassment. You doubled over covering your face with shame. She chuckled in response as she pulled out onto the road.

In juxtaposition to her race to you, she seemed to be taking the scenic route back to the shop. It gave you time to calm down and even though it was quiet it was nice getting to spend time alone with her. You cleared your throat which earned you her attention.

"Hm?" She responded. You weren't trying to earn her attention but now that you had it you kind of wanted to keep it.

"So um... do you have a girlfriend? O-Or boyfriend?" You asked. She grinned softly as she subtly gripped the steering wheel tigher.

"No, I don't have a girlfriend." She responded.

"Oh... Do you want one?" You asked hoping for further clarification. She scoffed in response.

"Are you offering?" She teased.

"N-No I meant- Well not no, I mean I wouldn't be opposed- but I just meant um... you're just going to let me keep floundering here aren't you?" You bit your lip to stop yourself from digging a deeper hole.

"Should we stop somewhere?" She offered.

"Huh?" You replied obliviously. She shook her head looking up for strength.

"Forget it." She said embarrassed. The two of you fell back into silence. "Wait there." She said as she pulled into the shop. She got out and made her way around to your side. This time instead of just handling you, she offered you her hand.

You accepted it and she helped you out of the truck before shutting the door after you. "Thank you again." You said fixing your skirt. She hummed in response with a soft nod of acknowledgement. You pouted slightly. She was back to her quiet self already. You completely dropped the ball.

You cursed as you headed to the back of the counter to work on your school work. Sevika took on your car personally. The longer it took the more stupid you felt for not bringing it in sooner. One by one the rest of the employees clocked out until it was just the two of you. You bit your lip as you watched her work. She was so finely crafted.

Just as you got up to tell her to maybe call it a night, she popped up with "There, good as new." She seemed startled by how close you were. She didn't hear you shuffle over.

"Ugh thank you! I'm so sorry you had to work on it for so long. I'll definitely bring it in more often." You said resting your hand on its hood grateful it lived to see another day. Sevika grinned. In reality it was an easy fix. At one point she was literally just taking a nap under the car. She was able to actually fix the problem in the last 15 minutes.

You looked around at the empty shop and bit your lip as you debated whether or not to say something stupid. "Is there any way I could repay you?" Your dad insisted that you never had to pay. It was rule everyone was well aware of. However Sevika spent such a long time on it...

She shook her head no. You reached out to grab hold of her hand which took her by surprise. "Are you sure, you spent such a long time on it and-" She knew what you were doing. That didn't make it any less shocking. You were bating her.

The way you were moving closer to her, you kept your lips parted and batted your eyelashes. Your eyes kept doing the triangle method. This wasn't what she had planned. She was just hoping for another opportunity to ask you out but you were begging so loudly without words. She leaned down to kiss you.

You kissed her back greedily as your hands found their way into her hair. She held your waist before slightly lifting you off the ground. She gently set you down on the hood of your car whilst maintaining the kiss. She slid her hand up your leg until she made it to your knees. She gently urged you to part them for her. You were hesitant but couldn't refuse her.

You slowly spread your legs for her as she trailed kisses down your body. She pushed up your skirt as she trailed kisses up your inner thighs. You were so dizzy with lust you were sure this was just some kind of wet dream. But it wasn't. Sevika was on damn her knees for you.

She laced her fingers under either side of your underwear before looking up at you for permission. You nodded breathlessly but she just raised a brow in response. "Please" was all she needed to hear before making you completely unravel and realize that despite her quiet nature, her mouth worked perfectly fine...

[goldenstring6123]

Hello I was wondering if I could request something? I have really curly hair that I’m just learning to love. But since I’m not just learning to love it. I tend to have days where my curly hair will be fully a mess.

My ask is how would the love and deep space boys even sylus react to find out the mc has curly hair, they wouldn’t know since she would flat iron it or something.

Thank you so much!

Lnds: Curly haired cutie

Warning: No warnings, reader has curly/coily hair, fem!reader

Author's note: Thank you for making a request pookie! It's really hard to like our natural features and some days are worse than others to the point where we want to get rid of it once and for all—It's understandable, really. But I'm happy to hear (read) that you're learning to love your curls. It's is something really worth admiring. I don't personally know you but I genuinely hope you'd come to love yourself and your curly hair! I hope this little head canon of mine would brighten up your day! I'm sending you my full love and support from wherever I am <3

Zayne:

Zayne discovered your thick hair by accident. Being the polite man that he is, he always shows up on time for your dates, ready to pick you up at your home without you having to wait for him. That particular morning, your alarm decided to sabotage your 3rd date with him. When he rang the doorbell, he was greeted by the sight of you fumbling over, towel around your chest, and your luscious curly hair still damp and dripping.

Your hair was certainly different, as he could see the evident curls even when it was wet. Yet, when you came out of your bedroom, your hair had been straightened, as if what he saw earlier was a mere hallucination. Zayne didn't press further about your hair; it would be rude to do so, but he won't deny that he was curious.

It drifted from his mind soon after, but when you and Zayne went on a trip to the hot springs, he entered the room holding two wine glasses and a bottle in his hand. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of you in a bathrobe. Your hair is voluminous, shiny, and very, very different from what he's used to seeing.

"You have curly hair? I didn't know that," he said as he sat beside you. You were dousing your hand in curl cream while applying it per portion of your hair. Zayne thought you looked cute with your natural hair. But later, the view was gone when you put on a satin bonnet.

Beginning from that point on, Zayne certainly became weird. Rather than just buying a generic shampoo like he usually would, he buys the exact one that you use. Moreover, in the storage cabinet of the main bathroom, there were multiple hair products in there as well, the ones that you use. You didn't ask Zayne to buy you any of it, but it was a waste not to use, so you did. You didn't know it, but Zayne checks on the items every once in a while elated that you were using them.

Zayne would ask to blow-dry your hair. It all began on a random lazy day that coincided with your hair-wash day. Zayne was on the couch, and you were looking for a place to plug in the blow dryer. There happened to be one just under the sofa, and so Zayne offered a hand. From the looks of it, he was having fun because it looked like he was more keen on getting a feel of your hair than actually wanting to blow-dry it.

"Are you wearing your hair down?" he would ask while you fixed yourself in the vanity mirror he bought you. You had the hair straightener heated up, but you stared at your man through the mirror. He looked like he was anticipating a specific response, and so you flicked the straightening iron off. "Yes," you would reply.

For a grown man, Zayne was quite the adorable one when it came to your hair. You'd always gauge his reaction whenever you turn on the straightening iron, and you could see a very, very minute change in his expression, like a kid expressing their dissatisfaction while avoiding eye contact. When you inferred that he was happier when he could see your natural hair, you never really thought of holding that tool again. You'd puff out your hair and make it luster even more. Zayne looked happy and so did you.

Xavier:

A photo slipped out of your wallet. Xavier picked it up and stared at it. It was a photo of you in a jumper; you were around seven by then, and your hair was very different from now. Your hair was deflated in Xavier's thoughts. You were still pretty, that's for sure, but a part of him was fixated on the image of you with thick, wavy hair. Even if you had that, he thought you'd be even more dazzling.

Whenever you change clothes in his presence, Xavier always stares. His eyes were like a cat's, not watching you, but rather how your hair moves and sways as you do: it's like your hair was a wand toy for kitties.

Whenever he could, Xavier would pass by you while your hair was in its natural state. Then, out of the blue, his hand would scoop it up from the bottom and tousle it twice before moving on. At first, you could only stare when he did this, but later on, you'd gotten used to it. Heck, you were even leaving your natural hair on display to allow Xavier to do it. It was cute, and it was ticklish for you. And maybe, for once in your life, you found your hair to be something worth seeing.

He falls asleep when you do your hair routine. There were lots of creams, lots of masks, and a lot of brushing involved. As much as Xavier wanted to wait for you, he couldn't resist his eyes getting heavier and heavier. When he comes to, he is face to face with your pink cap.

When he's bored and you're both close to each other, his hand will unknowingly drift toward your wavy hair. You won't feel it at first, but when you look over at him, you'll find his fingers playing with the ends of your hair very lightly. It slightly tickles, but it doesn't hurt, so you don't mind letting him do it.

Xavier is the type of boyfriend who would have an elastic around his arm or in his pocket. It would be the thin ones that would work well with less thick hair, but when he discovered your curls, he purchased some convenience store hair ties that looked like they could hold your hair. It comes in handy, too, when you decide to go natural, and then you have to eat.

Xavier would be there for you when you have a bad hair day. Usually, your friends would laugh it off, and you'd have to play along and just hide it one way or another. But Xavier was different—he never once made fun of you for it. He could see the frustration in your eyes. Xavier could see how you look at yourself in the mirror, and he would always recall when you'd grow frustrated at the chore of taking care of your hair. But at the same time, he's seen you trying different ways to care for it, to try and accept the hair you naturally have.

He's very patient with you, time and time again; even when you were on the brink of giving up on it. He never once failed to show his care for you, and seeing his consistency made you change yourself for the better. It was a slow and menial process because at first, you had to realize that you actually hated your hair before eventually learning to love it. Xavier has been with you every step of the way. It was a bit of a challenge, but looking back, you could say that you've really gotten far. There were times when you were still debating on getting your hair straightened for a very long time, but with your lover playfully nuzzling in it, the thought disappears immediately.

Rafayel:

Rafayel knows about your hair the first time he met you because he was looking for a salon that could get the haircut he wants. According to him, the original salon went bankrupt, and he was recommended there. You were about to get a hair treatment akin to a Brazilian treatment, but then you saw him staring. "Your hair looks pretty to me. Not that it matters," Rafayel said. You were supposed to ignore him, but his words were like a sharp knife against butter. It was all you needed to back out.

The next time he met you, your hair products had run out, and you were at the mall, donning a cute hairstyle while looking through the rack. "I knew you'd look cute with natural curly hair," Rafayel introduced himself to you, and the rest is history.

You don't know how bold a man can be until he asks to style your hair. You had thick, dark hair, and even for you, it was a workout to style, so you always opt for a lazy bun or a claw clip. Quite frankly, even if Rafayel had become your lover, you have no idea what he knows about your hair. You were pretty surprised with what he came up with. Was it pretty? Sure, it was. Would you wear it outside? Nope, absolutely not. He practically made your hair into artwork and took pictures of it. When asked what prompted it, he said that your hair is a great medium and that you have a very pretty face to match it. Something something about "creativity" and "one of a kind muse."

He likes to sniff your hair, but he's very picky about the smell of it. Your hair doesn't have an odor, but he's particular about the smell of the shampoo and conditioner you use. You had to switch between products to find what's compatible with the current condition of your hair. Though to you they all technically smell good, to Rafayel some of them smell bad. That man even has the audacity to tell you what scent you should buy in particular.

Rafayel has emergency hair products in his car: curl creams, hair gels, oils, and whatnot. Plus, he had a set of hair ties and accessories in it; when you discovered it first in his car, you nearly got into a fight because why the heck would he need hair products for curly hair? You thought that maybe he was cheating on you, but he pointed out that they're all unopened.

You never noticed until a friend of yours pointed it out, but according to them, you looked more vibrant in your natural hair, unlike before when you tried to forcibly iron it flat. Maybe that was the thing you needed to hear in order to look at yourself in the mirror and admire what you were given. And truthfully, no one else was responsible for it other than Rafayel, the man who always looks at you in the mirror with eyes full of adornment and love.

Sylus:

Sylus discovered your natural hair through pure coincidence. While you were up and about walking around his headquarters, Sylus noticed a few locks of hair that seemed unnatural. It was a more glossy finish, curled up and shriveled, unlike the remaining mass of hair that was straight. You didn't realize it but you actually missed to straighten a few locks of hair.He didn't point it out because you had disappeared by then, and he had forgotten about it. The main method he discovered it was when you were both thrown overboard onto a secluded island for a few days. After it got wet, your hair came back to its natural state the longer it dried out.

Sylus doesn't really care in what way you would like your hair. He doesn't mind if you straighten it, curl it, or leave it in whatever original form it was. Every day, he plays a wheel of fortune in his mind, trying to predict what hairstyle you would choose. If he chooses the right answer, he'd reward himself in some way. You never know what's happening in his mind, so when he stares at you, he just brushes it off.

Sylus gets a headache when he sees all your hair stuff lined up on the table. He watches you do your hair, and he gets frustrated as well when you have to start over, so he offered to get you a hairstylist, to which you declined because you don't want other people touching you other than the hairdressers at a specific salon.

There are bobby pins in every bathroom in the headquarters, so he puts a dedicated container in each so you won't have a hard time looking for them. He also secretly has a pack of hair ties in his desk, which he spontaneously bought at a night market abroad.

If you're thinking about what hairstyle you should do to match your outfit, Sylus would nonchalantly offer you his suggestions, which were very helpful. But half the time, you had to struggle with finding out what that hairstyle is because it changes every other day. Rather than naming the style, he refers to the date that you wore it, which will make you have to dig through the memory jar.

Hair wash day is fun because Sylus gets to wash your hair. He does this voluntarily. He rolls back his sleeves and puts the product in his hand, lathering it and massaging your hair and scalp in layers. You once fell asleep while he was doing it and speaking because you felt really at ease. When you opened your eyes, he was in the process of rinsing.

Sylus is willing to pay for the expensive things for yourself. You forgot your mousse at home? Just buy one at a foreign supermarket. If you'd like, you can choose the most expensive one. He also once gifted you a one-of-a-kind hair dryer that claims to not damage the user's hair. It became your holy grail.

Sylus will always say that you look pretty no matter how you do your hair. You never really took him seriously until you found out that Mephisto secretly takes pictures of your hairstyle and has a catalogue for it. When you threatened to cook the bird, Sylus fessed up. Though it was just a light, fun confession, it made you think deeply about yourself. How could a man so willingly admire a woman's hair when the woman herself loathes it? Sylus could read the thoughts behind those eyes. He patted your hair and gave you a reassuring smirk. "Whatever your hair is and whatever you plan on doing with it—I don't mind. But you have to realize that you're beautiful regardless of what you choose, sweetie." That made something inside you well up.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and smiled. Maybe you'll wear your hair down tonight.

Author footnotes: I'm very very nervous about this prompts because I don't have curly hair and I'm not sure if the things I said in the headcanons are accurate (They're pretty generic but still T-T) feel free to correct me if i got stuff wrong.

Layout by me, using Canva premium | Do not repost |

[betweenstorms]

Part Eight of Where We Part A Place Without Partings (previous chapter) (masterlist) (first chapter) (all WWP chapters) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Snow fell in thick, lazy flakes as you stepped off the bus, pulling your scarf up to your face to fend off the bite of the cold air.

Simon’s message had come so suddenly, a single line on your screen: I’m back. That was all it took, warming you more than any fire could. You were out the door before your mind had fully registered it, anticipation sweeping through you, carrying you down the stairs of your building, leaving your flat a dark, empty shell in the evening.

It didn’t matter that it was the dead of night.

You would’ve gone to him any night, any hour. You would’ve crossed any distance just to be near him.

Your heart raced with each step, beating faster than the snowflakes that drifted from the ink-stained sky. As you hurried down the street, snow crunching softly beneath your boots, the streetlights casted golden pools that glimmered on the fresh powder like scattered crystals. It was as if the world itself had dressed in crystallised anticipation for this reunion, wearing precious jewels, cloaked in silver and shadows.

You were almost at his building, your breath coming in puffy clouds of white, cheeks flushed and eyes as bright as the stars. The cold had painted your skin with winter’s blush, and your hair was windswept, tousled from your hurried journey, but you barely noticed. All that really mattered was the light in his window, that faint glow that told you he was there—

—waiting for you.

You rang his doorbell, almost out of breath. Before he could even answer, you whispered, “It’s me.”

There was no response, only the faint click of the door unlocking, welcoming you in with a warm embrace. You took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator entirely, unable to waste another moment. With every step, the pulse of longing, of hope and fear, grew louder, until you felt it in your throat, a hum beneath your skin.

Since that night you’d sent him the message, confessing the love you’d held silent for so long, you’d dreamed of this, the chance to look into his eyes, to see if they held the same unspoken answer you’d always hoped for. God, those eyes—dark and mesmerising, holding worlds within them, as though he carried a universe in his silence.

You longed for them, for the soft gravity that pulled you close despite never really feeling the warmth of their orbit. It was an ache full of longing, this yearning to exist in his universe that you could only glimpse from afar, a place where the planets reflected in his gaze, a shooting star that felt like home, even though you’d never really set foot there.

When you reached his door, you paused for a heartbeat, steadying yourself, feeling the swell of your own breathing. Then you knocked, and he opened the door. His gaze immediately met yours, and in that instant, you felt every mile, every moment of silence, every whispered wish converge in the space between you.

The sight of him was almost too much, like a dream finally taking shape before you.

Simon Riley stood in the light of his flat, dressed in the simplest of clothes—a worn shirt, loose at the collar, and faded jeans that seemed to soften his sharp edges. His face was still, unreadable as ever, though his eyes held a quiet promise that caught you off guard, drawing you into him. It was like looking into the depths of a calm sea, pitch black and unfathomable, but with an undercurrent that promised there was so much more below the surface.

“Made it through the snow, then,” he hummed.

You smiled nervously, fidgeting with your fingers. “Would never let a bit of snow stop me.”

Your voice was soft, almost tentative. The words felt too small for the weight of this very moment, but they held a sincerity that seemed to resonate between you.

After a seemingly endless moment, Simon stepped aside, silently inviting you in.

You crossed the threshold, letting the warmth of his flat wrap around you. It felt comforting, like slipping into an old dress. You fumbled with your scarf and coat, casting them aside with clumsy fingers, your movements a touch too quick, too eager. Everything felt heightened, the ordinary taking on a new gravity, and you couldn’t help but feel as though you were seeing his place for the first time, taking in every small detail like it was something precious.

His space, with its muted colours and sparse furnishings, had always struck you as a reflection of him—a spot of quiet endurance, stripped down to essentials, nothing unnecessary, nothing to soften the edges. You’d teased him about this countless times, saying he could pitch a tent on the street and call it a day, that he needed a woman’s touch here, a little warmth, a little life. 

But tonight, as you looked around, you realised you wouldn’t change a single thing.

Every corner, every empty wall, every threadbare cushion felt distinctly, profoundly him, and that familiarity wrapped around you like a soft blanket. Here, in this bare simplicity, he was himself, and you felt the privilege of being allowed in.

You drifted into the living room, awkwardly resting your hands on the back of his grey sofa, your gaze roaming over the room as if you’d find answers tucked into the corners. You could feel his presence behind you, solid and grounding, yet somehow distant.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, you asked him, “What happened, Si?” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but the question hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of everything you needed to know.

You wanted to believe that his absence was just the nature of his work, that it was a necessity and not a choice, but part of you feared otherwise. Part of you feared that now, just when you had finally given voice to your love, he would vanish again, leaving you without the chance to know what lay hidden in his heart.

He didn’t answer at first, his gaze shifting away from you and his expression darkening as he drew a long, tired breath.

After a few painfully long seconds, he finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging as if he carried a weight you couldn’t see.

“Work,” he stated, his voice rough, laced with a weariness that seemed to go far deeper than the past few weeks. He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair, a gesture you recognised as his way of grounding himself, of trying to find the right words. “Things got… messy.” His jaw tightened, and you knew, there was so much he wasn’t saying, layers of meaning buried in his words, like the murmur of a story beneath the surface of a still lake.

A lake that held a monster.

“How messy?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Simon mirrored your posture, leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans, tilting his head to observe you with a strange, clinical intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes seemed to hold a quiet calculation, as though he was gauging just how much truth you could bear, assessing the weight he might lay upon you without breaking you.

Seeing the look in his gaze, you straightened, pulling yourself up, a brave front in the face of his hesitation, though you felt your facade cracking. He must’ve seen it—the slight tremble in your stance, the way your fingers twisted together to keep them from shaking.

With a sigh, he looked away, his gaze dropping to the side table where a half-empty glass of whiskey sat, a faint reflection of the dim lamplight glinting in the amber liquid. 

You hadn’t noticed it until now.

At that moment, the message you’d sent him on New Year’s Eve, the confession of your love, felt impossibly insignificant and childish. Whatever you’d been waiting for, whatever words of love or promise you’d hoped for, seemed small in the shadow of the silence he wore like a second skin. You wondered if, amid everything he had faced in the past months, your feelings had become another burden for him, another layer of complexity he didn’t need.

Whatever had dragged him down into this quiet desolation felt much larger, much darker, and for the first time, you questioned whether you truly belonged in his world, whether he could let you in without burdening you with things he fought so hard to bury.

“Didn’t mean to leave you, love,” he murmured, the words barely audible, his gaze still fixed on some invisible point beyond you. The quiet roughness of his voice was like a brush of cold air, chilling and real, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. “Work went sideways.”

You shifted your weight, fingers finding your elbow in a nervous scratch.

“What d’you mean?”

He moved slowly, reaching for the glass of whisky, lifting it to his lips but pausing, as though the answer was nestled somewhere in its amber depths. He took a single, measured sip before setting it down again, exhaling heavily.

“One of my mates didn’t make it,” he murmured, his voice like sandpaper, rough and scraped thin by grief.

Your hands clenched unconsciously, fingers digging into your palms, leaving little half-moon imprints that stung. The thought of him losing someone again, of him carrying yet another loss on those already abandoned shoulders, twisted something painful in your chest. But you said nothing, sensing that he wasn’t finished.

“Happened right in front of me. Shot in the fuckin’ head. And the bastard who did it slipped away, just like that. Bloody vanished.”

His confession hit you like cold rain, each one soaking into you, settling with a heavy, aching permanence. So you looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the hollowness lingering in his gaze. In his deep voice, you could almost feel the raw injustice, the senselessness.

“Went up to Scotland after,” he murmured, his voice thick, his gaze far away. “Took his ashes with the team. No family left that wanted anythin’ to do with it. Just us. So we scattered him there, in the hills.” He paused, his hand resting on the glass, his fingers tightening around it. “You’d have liked him. Right pain in the arse, but big heart. One of the fuckin’ best.”

“Oh, God,” you whispered, words catching in your throat, useless and small in the face of something so raw, so immediate, so irreversible. You felt the painful ache in his words as though they were your own, a dull throb that settled beneath your ribs, swelling and settling like a bruise you couldn’t see.

You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, anything, to reach across the impossible gulf between his grief and your presence, but each phrase you thought of felt inadequate and hollow. Somehow, the words felt too sharp, like fragments of glass too small to piece together as a whole.

What could you say that he hadn’t already heard a hundred times, that wouldn’t sound hollow in the wake of so much loss?

The last time he’d lost someone, you’d written him a letter. You’d written to him about the tragedy of childhood, about guilt, about family, about all the things you wished you could take back. Pages upon pages of words had come to you then, spilling out with a feverish need to comfort, to connect, as you lay in a bloody hospital bed, trying to capture everything you couldn’t say to him in person. Back then, every thought had felt vital, every line a confession of all you wished he could hear.

But here, standing in front of him, faced with the raw, unhealed wound of his sorrow, you felt adrift, unable to find even a single sentence that could touch the mere vastness of his agony. You wished you could say something to soothe him, to ease the suffering he bore, but every instinct told you that this grief was too sacred, too traumatic and too deeply embedded for anything you could say to lessen it.

So you did what you always did when you were lost—

—you started to ramble.

“You’re… you’re so fuckin’ strong, Simon. I mean it. To carry all this, to keep going. I can’t even imagine—” Your words caught in your throat, and you pressed on, fumbling, “Whatever you need, I’m here, yeah? Just say the word. I mean, if there’s anythin’ I can do—”

Before you could finish, he let out a sigh.

An all too familiar reaction, cutting through your words with that weary impatience you knew so well.

That sigh had always been enough to silence you, to bring you to a halt. He looked at you with a weariness so deep it felt almost like an accusation, as though your very presence exhausted him in some strange, bittersweet way. You could feel the anxious heat blooming under your skin, your palms damp with the tension that had knotted itself in your chest. You hugged yourself tighter, as though afraid that if you let go, you’d simply fall apart.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

The command was soft, but it held that same authority that was so unmistakably him. So you blinked, his order lingering in the air, settling into your skin like a brand. Your mind struggled to process the meaning behind his words, to make sense of the kind invitation hidden beneath his blunt command. His tone was gentle, almost tender, yet there was an unspoken weight to it, as though this was more than just an instruction—

—it was a surrender.

You felt like you were being given a choice, a step across a line you’d both danced around for years, but he’d left no room for uncertainty. The moment was his, and you felt the weight of it settle around you.

When you didn’t move, when the reality of his request rooted you to the spot, he let out a quiet grunt, a sound both frustrated and resigned, and stepped closer to you himself. The distance between you disappeared in an instant, and the air felt thicker, charged with something unnameable that made your skin burn.

You felt the warmth of him even before his hand reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of your sweater before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but there was a quiet conviction in the way his fingers curled around you, pulling you just a fraction closer.  He was so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the quiet hum of his breath, steady and measured.

Leaning against the sofa, you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, your heart racing wildly as his eyes bore into yours, dark and unguarded.

You had never seen him like this.

The world narrowed, focused entirely on him, on the roughness of his calloused hand against your body and the way his gaze held yours like you were something precious, something he was trying desperately not to break. Your knees brushed against his, a subtle, almost shy touch that felt strangely intimate, like a promise you didn’t dare to speak. He loomed over you, a figure carved from all the resilience and sorrow he’d carried through his life, a force of gravity that drew you in even as he held back.

Your breath caught as he said, “This is why I’m here.”

The words sank in slowly, stirring a sense of nervousness, of realisation.

“Yeah, I know, but—” you replied, your voice trembling, almost inaudible. “I just… I didn’t know what you were going through. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have made things harder for you. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologisin’,” he cut in, his hand tightening slightly on your waist, grounding you in the present, pulling you out of the spiral of guilt. “You’ve been doin’ that shit since we were kids. Fuckin’ annoying, y’know that?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I mean—”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at his bluntness, the way he could strip you down to the very core with so few words, cutting through every layer of pretence.

His tone was rough, his words clipped, but the faintest hint of amusement softened his gaze, a glimmer in his eyes that betrayed the sharpness of his voice. There was no real anger there, no frustration, only a quiet, steady warmth that held you in place, disarmed you completely.

You looked up at him, utterly captivated, feeling the way his fingers pressed against you, warm and solid, a gentle weight that made your skin prickle with hurried anticipation. He was looking at you as though you were the centre of the universe, as though you were something irreplaceable, and in that moment, every doubt, every hesitation melted away.

The world around you dissolved, leaving only him, the unspoken emotions flickering in his gaze, the faint brush of his thumb along your side—a gesture so small, so quiet, but charged with something vast, something that held years of waiting, of missed moments, of unspoken words. Your poor heart thundered, a wild beat that matched the intensity in his eyes, the silent confession that seemed to hover between you, waiting, unspoken, in the air.

“Never been good at sayin’ things, not when they matter.”

His other hand rose, stalling for a second before brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was featherlight, a rare gentleness that felt almost out of place against the roughness of his hand, the hand of a soldier who had known only violence and destruction.

But here, with you, he softened, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if he was memorising the feel of you, storing it away like a keepsake. The closeness between you was dizzying, each breath shared, each hurried heartbeat in tandem, and the weight of his confession was enough to make your knees tremble.

He scoffed, his gaze dropping, but he didn’t release his hold on you, not even a little bit. “I’m too much of a fuckin’ coward to say it right, to say what you deserve to hear. But all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. That’s all I bloody want, alright? So I left. Left you to find some other bloke who could give you everythin’ I couldn’t.”

The words landed softly, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but they pierced you deeply, each syllable burrowing into your heart.

It was as if he was laying himself bare, offering you the fractured pieces of a man marred by grief and shadows, hoping you’d take them and see him not for what he had done, but for what he could be. The years of silence, all the glances and all the unspoken promises, all seemed to unravel in that single moment.

Simon Riley, the unbreakable, unshakable figure you’d known since childhood, stood before you now in this split second of the universe, open and exposed, offering you himself.

Your heart swelled at the sight and you felt yourself drawn even closer, like gravity binding you both together in a way that felt irreversible. You reached up, your hand steady despite the wild beat of your pulse, and let your thumb brush along his scarred lips, tracing the rough edges and feeling the warmth beneath.

“Y’know, I thought I knew what I wanted,” you whispered, each word carrying a weight you hadn’t known until this moment. “Thought I wanted a picture perfect life, the kind you dream about, that I had to meticulously fix everythin’ in my life to deserve happiness… but none of it means anythin’ if it doesn’t include you. Ever since we were kids… maybe I’ve loved you since then, without even knowin’.”

He let out a soft, almost bitter huff, a sound that was somehow both happy and sad. His gaze fell away, then he turned his head, just enough that his lips brushed the inside of your hand, a gesture so fleeting it could have been a mere accident. But it wasn’t.

You felt the warmth of his breath, the slight tremble in the touch, and it set something alight within you—a spark that had lain dormant, waiting, perhaps, for this very moment.

“You’ve got some daft ideas, love,” he murmured, voice thick with something unspoken, the quiet tremor of a man who’d spent too many years swallowing his own feelings. His words were meant to sound gruff, deflecting, yet the way he looked at you gave him away entirely, his gaze lingering on you as though he could see something he’d missed before.

His gaze lifted, and for a moment, he looked almost fragile, as though he didn’t quite believe he was worthy of your words, of your love. But then, something shifted in his eyes, a spark of hope flickering in the depths of his soul.

And just like that, he closed the last sliver of space between you, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both gentle and desperate, a silent vow that spoke of all the words he couldn’t bring himself to say, a kiss that felt like both a promise and an apology for all the years spent apart, all the words unspoken. 

The kiss deepened, a slow, tender exchange that felt like a thousand promises wrapped into one. He tasted like whiskey, cigarettes and regret, like something raw and real that anchored you to him, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair as he pulled you impossibly closer. You felt his heartbeat under your palm, steady and strong, and it felt like coming home after wandering for years, lost in a world that had never made sense without him. The warmth of his lips spread through you like the quiet promise of dawn breaking over a frozen landscape, melting away the distance that had once felt insurmountable.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your lips. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

And then he whispered, barely audible, a breath against your skin, “No more partin’.”

The words cut through you, raw and piercing, like an arrow finding its mark. You understood, in that moment, that this was where the distance ended, where all those unspoken goodbyes, all the quiet departures of the heart, finally came to rest. He was offering you something more precious than any words could capture—a life in which you wouldn’t have to watch him walk away again, in which the space between you would no longer be an endless, aching divide.

You leaned into him, feeling the truth of it settle in your bones, feeling the relief that washed over you, a warmth spreading through you that felt like homecoming.

In that moment, you understood that this was the place you had both been searching for, that all the roads had somehow led here, to him, to this quiet room, to the snow falling softly outside, to the words you’d both carried with you all this time, waiting for the right moment to be spoken.

Outside, the night stretched on, blanketed in white, the world a vast, unbroken silence. But here, in his arms, in the space where all words had faded, you knew that the search had finally ended.

And so, the chapter closed, not in the place you thought it would, but in a place neither of you could have ever imagined—a place without partings, without endings, a place where you could finally be whole together.

Where We Part Chapters

Thank you so much to everyone who followed this story and for all the incredible support and love along the way. I’m incredibly grateful to each of you who stuck with me until the very end, and I hope you’ll join me on my next project. I’m planning a new story that will focus on Simon, Johnny, and Reader, and of course, I’ll be continuing Skin of Thunder as well. Thank you again from the bottom of my heart!

[bigtreefest]

Made up fic title: What Once Was Lost is Always Found

Ohhhh, Kris. You’ve really got me in the feels with this one🥺. So angsty, but so hopeful? This one’s for all my millennials/divorcees🫡 (gosh, I can’t tell you how much I love this tho. She’s a lil long)

Based off of this ask game

What Once Was Lost is Always Found

Ari Levinson x divorced!Reader

You huffed as your mom shoved the silverware into your hands, shooing you out of the kitchen to set the table, as she finished up dinner.

Upon her return from the grocery store, she pulled you up off the floor where you were wearing your threadbare college hoodie, looking through old photos, insisting you put on ‘normal people clothes.’

The last time you had been in your childhood room this long was before you had even gotten your degree, followed quickly by a job, a wedding, then a cat. And then after building that life for years and watching it crumble before your eyes, a divorce. With nothing else left for you there, you went to the one place you were always safe: home, bringing the cat, of course. Everything just needed to stop for a little bit.

You set the utensils down on the placemats and brought the extras back to put in the drawer when she stopped you.

“No, I gave those on purpose. Make a fourth place setting. We’re going to have company for dinner.”

You looked at her with a furrowed brow, an expression she knew all too well, as you went to the cupboard to grab the plates.

“Mom, I really don’t want anyone seeing me like this right now. Can’t you and Dad just go out to dinner with your friends like normal people?”

She laughed and shook her head, checking the oven before slipping off the mitts and using them to point at you.

“At least we have friends, missy. You’ve gotta get yourself out there. Can’t hide in your room forever.”

As she turned back to the stove, you heard her mutter in that low voice she always used when she was up to no good. “And you could use the social interaction, I’m sure.”

You rolled your eyes and continued laying out the dishes while your mom debriefed you about her day.

“And you won’t believe who I ran into at the super market today!”

“Who?” Your voice fell flat.

She turned to look at you, her eyes sparkling with something that you couldn’t quite decipher. Excitement? Nostalgia? And a slight wariness to your possible response?

“None other than Ari Levinson. I always liked that boy, you know. Turned into a good man. Shame it seems like he could never quite find the right girl around here after you left. And believe me, he tried. All those young women he went out with tried even harder.”

You sighed, burying your head in your arms against the kitchen island at her mention of your high school sweetheart. The one you had left behind before going to college. The one you’d always had a little spot for in your heart. But he stayed home and you had a career to make for yourself. And by the time school had come and gone, you were engaged and had heard he’d been dating. Waiting around at that age didn’t seem practical, especially when he so willingly had given you the space you asked for, and seemingly moved on. That was a good thing, right? Taking time apart gave you an answer: if he was yours, he’d come back to you, but he didn’t. Last you heard, every girl on this side of the river was pining for him. And who wouldn’t? He was a good looking, great guy. No chance he’d want to try again with the girl that chose a new life over him.

You worked in silence, straightening out the place settings when the doorbell rang. As your mom worked on bringing the food out to the table, you trudged to the front door, preparing for the onslaught of questions and hugs from a family friend. Except when the door swung open, your eyes were met with a firm chest. You followed it upwards to a soft smile and shining eyes, framed by a full beard and luscious locks of hair. Even more heart throbbing than you remembered. In his hand sat a pie, one that you’d know by smell anywhere, from your favorite diner in town where you’d share a slice almost weekly. Your jaw was dropped, throat dry, as you stood stiffly, blocking the doorway. But in Ari fashion, his demeanor was welcoming, smooth, calming, as he spoke to you in a voice that sounded like home.

“Hey there, honey bunch.”

[imagination-mess]

A Second Chance at Life (Touya Todoroki X Fem!Reader) Chapter 7

Summary: For the past five years, you’ve been raising your son as a single mother. You’ve successfully avoided questions about his father by claiming that he died during the Paranormal Liberation War. From what you believe, this isn’t a lie. The last time you saw him was when he personally escorted you to U.A.’s shelter amidst the chaos in the streets.

Unbeknownst to you, he has been alive all this time, clinging to life in a facility working to keep him alive. His father, Enji, has been desperately searching for someone willing to heal him. After his presumed death, a single photo of you and Dabi began circulating through the underground, hinting at the nature of your relationship. To protect yourself and your child, you had to pay someone to stop the pictures from spreading further.

The photo provided answers to a long-standing question: who was the healer Dabi had been protecting? It identified you as the healer who had been deemed untouchable, but it also brought unwanted attention.

A/N: Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors in advance.

Word Count: 2.3K+ Masterlist of ASCAF Previously Chapter Six

Seishiro knew this was going to be a fucking freakshow the moment he saw the two white-haired women across the table at the pastry shop.

He didn’t even try to fake a smile, but he was still polite enough to hand the flowers to the older woman, his supposed grandmother.

The second he walked in, he felt the damn tension hanging in the air. It was obvious just from the way the younger man kept glancing at Endeavor.

Something was already wrong.

Seishiro was really trying to be respectful and polite, but Endeavor was picking him apart with every answer he gave. He hoped it wasn’t on purpose, but it sure as hell felt like it was.

It didn’t feel like a conversation.

It felt like a fucking interrogation. The amount of personal questions that he is asking ranges from what school he attends to, what are his grades like, to personal questions. 

How old is he?

"Twelve years old."

Who’s raising you primarily?

"Mom."

What kind of quirk does he have?

Death type. It’s classified.

It wasn’t a lie. His quirk was classified.

The only people who really knew about it were his mom and his quirk trainer. No one else needed to know.

How much does he train?

"Twice a week."

What does he do in his free time?

"Sports. Video games."

What does his training look like?

"Running on the trampoline mostly. Building stamina. Using my quirk in a confined space until I get tired."

Who’s training him?

"My quirk trainer mainly, but sometimes Mom too."

Seishiro started fidgeting with his bracelet, already noticing small cracks and marks on it. The plans are to get one today after this meeting…

“He’s behind for his age,” Endeavor said, already sounding annoyed. "Dr. Remedy."

Seishiro clenched his jaw. He didn’t even get a chance to defend himself because you cut in first, voice flat but sharp enough to cut glass.

"He’s wearing those chil—" Endeavor started again.

"Personally," you said, tone turning cold, "it took me until I was sixteen to have good control. Those bracelets can be used for anyone. No matter their age. Their purpose is to protect the user from harm.

Seishiro is still a child at the end of the day. I’m sorry he didn’t fit your dumb expectations."

You said it with a smile that looked so sweet it was venomous.

“He’s on a good track of control without sacrificing his body for his age," you added.

"That shows weakness," Endeavor muttered under his breath.

Seishiro’s eyes widened completely in shock. Shouto looked like he was going to say something, only for you to beat him to it.

"There’s nothing wrong with using quirk nullifying bracelets," you said.

"Another reason they’re popular among teenagers is because they don’t have full control. It protects them and everyone else. It’s responsible to know your limits."

You leaned forward slightly, your stare heavy and suffocating.

"And it’s the individual’s decision. Not yours."

You don't blink when you deliver the last blow staring into Endeavor.

"Seishiro doesn’t have to wear those bracelets. He chooses to. So keep your unproductive opinions to yourself."

"You are still teaching him to rely on them. Look at those things, They're ready to break at any second You're setting him up for failure! You're failing as a parent!" Endeavour yelled, slamming his fist against the table.

Seishiro narrows his eyebrows at the giant. 

For the first time, he met Endeavor's eyes directly and spoke, calm but sharp as a blade.

"Are you sure? You aren't projecting. Didn't you fail as a father?" There was a sharp rasp that echoed throughout the room. Seichiro doesn't know who it comes from and frankly. He doesn't care. 

The man in front of him didn't deserve even basic respect. He was done being treated like some cornered animal.

Seishiro knew better than Endeavor. 

He knows how much you try and always fought for him regardless of the circumstance. 

You got him tutors when he was struggling in school. You never once made him feel ashamed for needing help. 

You always celebrate every small victory with dessert and a trip to the delicious hidden spot of the soba shop among the countryside. 

When he got straight A's, you showered him in gifts and money for his hard work. You were proud of him. You pushed him to join clubs, not because you cared about appearances but because you wanted him to find friends and happiness outside of his quirk. Money didn't matter as long as he was happy. 

When he used to wake up from night terrors, crying and shaking from orphanage, you never once got angry at him. You let him join you and hold him. You stayed up with him reading stories until he fell asleep again. You brought a lot of nightlights through the house to make the nighttime less scary. 

You always made sure that he felt safe at home and school. You care about his feelings. 

This man?

His supposed grandfather was sitting across from him. He didn't care about any of that. 

He didn't care if he was happy, or loved or healthy.

He only cared about his quirk and what it was.

Why should he spare his stupid feelings?

"No wonder, my father hated your fucking guts. You are still fucking asshole." Seishiro snapped, with venom.

"Watch your mouth."

"You only care about power! Look at the mirror, old man! " Seishiro yelled, voice cracking under the weight of his anger. 

He doesn't even realize it. The glare, the desperation, the rage twisting in his young face. It was mirroring Touya exactly that night when Touya begged Endeavor to not give up on him. 

"You didn't even ask the basic questions." Seishiro shouted

"How are you? Do you feel safe where you are being raised! Are you happy?! THings that grandparents are supposed to ask to their fucking grandchildren!" 

"List-

"Shut up!" 

"You don't get to judge my mother! Not when you failed my father! who knows how many other kids you failed too!"

Seishiro is completely oblivious to the quirk that the nullifying bracelet is glowing. His pupil was flickering back and forth as if his eyes were glitching. More like they were blending into the whiteness of his eyes. 

A clear warning that the bracelet is going to fail against the pressure. The intensity of his emotions was bubbling in his chest which is influencing his quirk.  

"Alright! This meeting is over." You say sharply, standing up and getting close to him. 

You turn him around to break eye contact with Enji for you to look at his eyes. 

The look that you gave him was enough to tell him to reign in. It can't help the rage bubbling in his chest, and felt like it was clawing at his chest to be let out. 

He claws onto his hoodie, staring down his feet. He takes a deep breath and clutches it in an attempt to make it go away…

___________________________________

You need to get him out of there. 

You don't like that look in your son's eyes. 

Not one bit. 

It's feral and animalistic. 

Raw emotion.

A stare that you have never seen before. And you are confident that you have seen every emotion he ever had.

Did Enji pissed him off that much just disrespecting you? 

Or

Was that all it took to push him this far?

"Remedy, I need to ask you a question." Rei’s voice cuts through the tension, but you barely hear her. Your focus is on Seishiro, who is struggling to steady his breathing, his body trembling under the weight of his own quirk.

"This isn't the time or place. For any more questions." You snap, sharper than you intended, but you need to pull Seishiro back now!

His turquoise eyes are gone.

Wiped clean, replaced by an endless, blinding white. Like a blank slate. Like something else... 

You flick your gaze down to see the bracelet completely shattered on the ground. 

Shit.

You can't touch him recklessly now. Not when you don't know if his quirk has fully activated. One wrong move, and you are gambling with your life. 

You are not in any condition to handle Seishiro at his 100%.

Rei’s voice pulls you sideways again.

"Is the other boy that Seishiro was with–?" Rei begins, making you glance over and momentarily pull your eyes away from Seishiro.

"Is he also Tou-" Before she can finish, the hospital's alert system is triggered by Seishiro's quirk, a loud The piercing siren balring through the building and pinpointing your exact location. "An unauthorized quirk is being used!" 

Within seconds, Seishiro is already leaping across the long table, his hand raised with black mist around his palm as he lunges towards her. Shouto immediately pulls his mother away and steps between her and Seishiro. 

The lights flicker violently in the room, the flashing red sirens painting everything in red. You can only imagine how terrifying it must be from their point of view. 

Without hesitation, you grab Seichiro's ankle and yank him aggressively back from them, even as you feel your energy begin to drain. A cold sensation around your body and tightens around your throat, but you push through it, forcing yourself to activate your quirk to counteract his. 

You press your hand firmly against the back of his neck, ensuring skin-to-skin contact, focusing all your strength on draining his energy and making him unconscious. 

His quirk is fighting back violently against yours, insitcticely trying to protect him.

But you have far more  experience handling your quirk than he does…

Even so, your body isn't in any shape to handle using your quirk again, especially not at full force. You release him the moment you feel his quirk stop resisting you.

Your vision blurs, the room spinning out of control. Your muscles go slack, your body relaxing against your will.

Everything goes black.

Bonus Scene: Rei knew she should have asked this question at another time, but there might never be another chance—especially with how your son was reacting towards Enji. And he was right.

Enji wasn’t asking any questions about Seishiro’s well-being; instead, he went straight into interrogation mode.

She knew Enji didn't like that he hadn’t been informed about Seishiro’s existence sooner. It wasn’t until Shouto reminded him that Touya’s blood had only recently appeared in the system. That’s why no one had known until now, especially with Seishiro’s existence being classified information, tightly sealed with NDA and disclosure forms. 

Rei couldn't afford to keep this question to herself, knowing the possibility that the other boy might be Touya’s. You had made yourself clear, if it wasn’t required by law, you would have never reached out.

You kept your composure throughout the interaction, knowing Enji was falling back on his old habits of intimidation tactics. You followed his flow without losing your composure, maintaining your professionalism. You weren’t bothered and didn’t even flinch but rather stared at him as if he was a small child throwing a tantrum.

She felt Shouto touch her arm to stop and not ask that question, but she ignored him. She had already let them know what she and Fuyumi had seen with their own eyes.

Seishiro and a smaller boy who was wearing a preschool uniform.

"Is the other boy that Seishiro was with?" Rei asked, making you glance over to her and remove your eyes from Seishiro.

"Is he also Tou-"

In seconds, Seishiro leaped across the table, and everyone reacted, except for her. 

Everything seemed to move in slow motion for her. Seishiro’s face was half covered in black mist, resembling a half-skeleton form. His face was completely void of emotion, including his eyes, and his hand, raised and covered in black mist, revealed a skeletal-like hand.

She was taken back decades ago when she was holding baby Shouto in her arms, and Touya leaped across the room to harm Shouto. 

The difference now was in their quirks and the intentions behind them. Seishiro wasn’t going to miss if it weren’t for Shouto pulling away and Remedy pulling his ankle with full force, making the boy lose his footing on the table.

Seishiro immediately crashed on the table after losing his balance, but Rei immediately noticed when you were struggling to drag him. It was a blur trying to process what just happened before seeing Shouto catch you before you fell to the ground.

The door slammed open, and a few doctors and nurses entered, pushing beds outside for Shouto to place you on. A tall, muscular man, covered head to toe in padding, took Seishiro’s unconscious body, completely limp in his arms.

An older man with white hair glanced quickly at Seishiro as he was taken out of the room. He shared similar features with Dr. Remedy.

"Dr. (L/N)."

"Endeavor."

The man picked up the chair that had been knocked over and pushed it back in.

"I have to ask you all to leave. This meeting is over. You can keep the photographs of him. Those are for you to keep." The older man said softly before adding, "I’ll have my personal assistant escort you to the backdoor to avoid the chaos from the media."

Before he could leave, Fuyumi asked the question that had been on her mind as well.

"Will they be okay?"

The white-haired man looked over his shoulder. "Seishiro is going to be fine. I can only imagine what happened here because that boy’s instinct to respond to any danger or push him over the edge is fight and confrontation."

"As for Dr. Remedy, she is going to be hospitalized for subduing Seishiro. All of you should appreciate that she took action quickly, and no one got hurt, because no one in this room would have been able to. She wasn’t supposed to even be using her quirk until at least a month from now. The operations on Mr. Todoroki took a toll on her body, but she’ll be okay in a couple of months and will fully recover."

Dr. (Y/N) didn’t sugar-coat it and was blunt about it before adding, "Due to Dr. Remedy's fragile condition at the moment, I will be taking over Mr. Todoroki's case until he is discharged."

_______________________________

Author's note: 

Seishiro is protective of his family, especially his little brother and Remedy. Remedy has been his person and rock since the beginning. I wanted to clarify this since I wasn't really able to put it into words.

The reason Seishiro was impulsive and more than willing to attack Rei is that he imagined his little brother going through the same thing he just went through. Seishiro also knows how you feel about strangers finding out about his younger brother's background.

Enji and Rei felt the parallel between Seishiro and Touya when he was that age, and it was intentional.

[ghoularaki]

baby's breath | 27

↠  summary: Merely by coincidence, Erwin, your father's former friend had crossed paths with you again after nearly a decade. He offered solace once finding out you were struggling with not just school, but your home life as well. His home he shared with another one of your father's friends, Levi, became a sanctuary. Though, the more you came over for study sessions, the more they wiggled themselves into your private life. And like baby's breath, they weeded themselves in so deep you couldn't uproot them.

↠ word count: 1,943

↠ pairing: levi ackerman x reader x erwin smith

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, daddy kink, forced infantilism, age gap, emotional manipulation, mental breakdown, age regression

"Aren't you sick of this?" Your soft voice rang through the room.

Levi paused. He didn’t respond.

Sitting you on top of the counter, he rolled up the knee high sock in his hands. Continuing in silence, Levi shoved the bunched up thick fabric over your foot. His knuckles brushed up your skin as he traveled up. Snapping the band around your mid-thigh, he reached for the other sock. Paw pads were printed on the bottom. The flash of pink caught your eye as he reached for the other sock.

Upset by him ignoring you, you pulled your foot away. “Do you even like this shit?” You pinched at the bloomers he just slipped onto your hips a moment prior.

Grabbing your ankle, he brought your leg back to him. “Don’t try it.”

“Try what,” You squinted your eyes at him.

“Think you’re smart enough to drive a wedge between me and Erwin.” His tone was flat, final.

An almost jealous twinge sparked in your chest. You knew you were completely alone in this, that Erwin and Levi will always come first in their minds. Though, the needy child in you, just wanted to be something more than a possession for once in your life.

“I don’t get you,” You finally admitted.

He peered from under his lashes as he continued to slip the thigh high up. Other than a click of his tongue, he gave no verbal response.

You continued, “You say that, but I overheard that you didn’t want Erwin to bring him over. You don’t like most of Erwin’s decisions. Why try to defend me—try and help me—and then do nothing when it’s at his whim? Why kidnap me if never wanted me here in the first place? Why are you being nice to me!”

Your voice escalated as you started to sob, breaking down. Levi stood straight up and grabbed your shoulders. Shaking you a bit to get your attention, he stared straight into your watery eyes.

“Listen to me. You are not mine,” He said the words through gritted teeth, “I shouldn’t have done what I did yesterday. In the end, what Erwin does to you is not my business. I simply don’t want to pick up the mess of your corpse and Erwin’s bitch fit that another pet project didn’t fucking work.”

“You’re lying,” You snarled the words with a mouth full of teeth.

“Yeah, brat, I am?” He matched your gnarl, sneering.

“You don’t like that I’m Erwin’s. He tends to leave messes you have to pick up, including me. That’s why you fucked me without his permission, again-”

“Careful.”

“You don’t like your pets hollow. You want them writhing and full of fight so you can-”

Your words were cut off with a firm slap. Head spun to the left, you stared at the marble countertop. Digging your nails into the stone, you hoped it broke.

“Knock this shit off.”

Tears boiled up in your waterline. You didn’t reply as you bit your wobbling lip. Childishly, you rubbed at your swollen cheek with a pitiful ow.

“I don’t know what the fuck that was, but you better nip it in the bud, now.”

“I thought you wanted me like this.”

He clicked his tongue, “I didn’t want a spoiled brat. I wanted the mutt in my fucking bed to stop sulking.”

How stupid of you, of course he didn’t care. If you kept going with your downward spiral, Erwin would have gotten sick of you. You could tell he thought he broke you beyond repair. Snapped you in half like his other strays. All his previous toys were made of hard plastic. Easy to break. You, unfortunately, were malleable elastic string. You can't break, only be worn down.

Sniffling, you nodded as you digested his words. Refusing eye contact, you let yourself turn your brain off. There’s no point in trying to get through to either of them. Despite his actions, as Levi said, he would always be loyal to Erwin. Might as give it up before it exploded in your face.

Levi watched you wilt inward before him. Rubbing his temples, he wished he could take the past few minutes back. Words were not his strong suit, and what he meant to say got lost in his blunt tone. You weren’t his, technically. Getting attached would only worsen your state. Showing favoritism towards Levi as you have been, has only caused Erwin to be more cruel.

He could see the creeping signs of stockholm syndrome a mile away. You’re affliction towards Levi was a survival tactic. Levi knew what he felt was more. Something that would only result in you getting killed. Erwin never favored sharing.

So he dropped it before you slipped under. “Come. You need to eat.”

Hooking his hands under your armpits, he lifted you off the counter. Standing on your own, you followed behind him. Staring at the back of his head, the frustration hadn’t left. The mind games had you spinning like a top.

Not once did he look back as he lead you down the stairs, the hall and into the kitchen. Erwin sat at the head of the table, his breakfast half finished.

“There’s my darling girl,” He smiled.

Grabbing your wrist, he pulled you to his lap. Sitting on one of his thighs, your legs hung by his crotch. Stabbing his fork in his pancake, he lifted the syrupy morsel to your mouth. Turning away quickly, stickiness hit your cheek.

Erwin’s face fell as the utensil hung in the air. “Don’t be fussy.”

Your jaw clicked at his baby talk.

Levi cut in, “She’s been bratty all morning, ignore her.”

Your head jumped up and glared directly at the man, “Judas.”

Levi knew the true meaning of what you meant. This isn’t just about right now. He crossed his arms, not backing down.

“We don’t talk like that,” Erwin inserted himself back into the conversation. “I know you haven’t been feeling well-”

You scoffed at that. His hand snapped out and grabbed your jaw. Welding your gaze to his, he glared down at you. “Watch your tone.”

His voice warbled with someone else’s, and you were a child all over again. Ripping his hand off your mandible, you pushed yourself backwards until you fell off his lap. Erwin sucked in a breath as you slammed against the hardwood floor. Your tailbone took the brunt of the fall.

Slapping your ears over your head, you chanted, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Pushing his chair back, Erwin got out of his seat as he watched in horror, “Y/n-”

“Don’t touch me!” You screeched as he went to lift you off the ground. He paused and his forehead crinkled as he locked gazes with Levi over your head.

Scrambling backwards with your feet, you started to sob so hard your body heaved. Both men could only observe you in shock. Your hands threaded through your hair and pulled.

Levi attempted to be the one to get you off the floor, but when his hand brushed your back, you screamed again.

“Go away! I hate you, hate you, hate you. I fucking hate you both!” Spit dribbled out your mouth as you hiccuped with blurry vision.

“Hey-”

“I want to go home,” You pathetically wailed, clutching your chest.

Their gazes bounced to each other again.

Erwin softly spoke, “Sweetie, you are home.”

Shaking your head so fast you got dizzy, you babbled, “I want to go home, wanna go home.”

“You want to go back to living in your car?” Levi barked, hoping to snap you out of it.

You nodded your head, and then stopped. “I can’t because you ruined it. Like you guys ruined me.” A new wave of sobbing pierced the air.

Hovering over you in a crouch, Erwin handled you like a startled animal, “Don’t you want off the floor, princess?”

You scooted away, hitting Levi’s legs in the process. Flinching back like you were hit, you fell into more hysterics. “Please just let me go home. I- I can’t take it. If I’m here any longer I will die!”

“Whoa, who said anything about dying?” Erwin gasped out in shock.

“You did! I wanna go home, just let me go,” You bellowed while kicking your legs out like a toddler. He was approaching too close.

“Levi?” Erwin asked, unsure where to go with this. Levi could only scowl, hesitant as well. They both winced as you cried out again so hard you gagged.

“Princess, please, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let me go home!”

Levi’s face pinched, “We all know we can’t do that.”

“Fine.” Heaving, you sucked in all the air you could til your cheeks puffed out. Clenching your eyes, you held your breath. Pinching your own nose, you weren’t going to breath until they agreed to take you home.

Erwin grabbed your shoulders, but you kicked him in the stomach, hard. He grunted as he hunched over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Levi seethed. Gripping right above your elbow, he hauled you on your knees. “Fucking look at me.”

You whined deep in your throat, refusing to listen. Your lips were starting to tingle from the lack of oxygen.

“You’re not leaving, you shitty brat, you fucking get that?” Levi shook you in his hold, ripping your hand away from your nose. Grabbing your jaw, he dug his thumb into the hinge of the bone.

“Ow!” You whimpered. The pressure point throbbed. He forced your mouth wide until you had no other choice but exhale. Gasping out, you coughed, your lungs begging for air. Drool dribbled out the corner of your lips.

“Why did you do that?” Levi continued to berate you.

Sobbing, you mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know isn’t an excuse,” Erwin’s icy tone cut through you and Levi.

Letting you go, Levi stepped back. You slumped on the floor, your shoulders bouncing with each pitchy hiccup.

“I guess you still haven’t learned your lesson. I think a couple of hours in timeout will suffice.”

“No!” You whimpered, and scrambled away from him.

Standing back up, he reached down and pinched your ear between his index and thumb. Hauling you up by the fragile cartilage, you cried out in pain.

“Erwin-”

Said man tutted at Levi. Scrambling to match his pace, you were forced to lean over from his grip. Clutching onto his forearm to pry him off was unsuccessful. Your fingernails dug into the skin, he only pulled harder.

Stomping down the hall and to the right, he stood at the closet door. Flinging it open, he pushed you inside. Yelping, you tripped and fell on your knees with an audible thud. Spinning around, Erwin stood in the frame, casted in shadow.

“Let this be a lesson.”

With that, he slammed the door and clicked the lock on the knob. Frantically, you rushed to the door and pounded on it.

“Erwin? Levi? Let me out, please!” You begged, terrified. You didn’t want to be alone, you just want to go home.

From past the door, you could faintly hear Levi scolding Erwin. Their escalating argument was drowned out by the pulsing blood in your ears. Hitting the slab of wood over and over, you could only beg. But it fell upon deaf ears.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

"tea" - emily prentiss x fem!liasion!reader

summary: you make a cup of tea to help you sleep

wc: 1.2k

cw: none, really? mostly fluff, & just emily being the best girlfriend ever

a/n: i'm in an emily phase rn and i'm not responsible for the fics i write ok ly all bad

A teal, ceramic mug with I <3 MYRTLE BEACH carved into it is cradled between both your hands as you lean against the kitchen counter. Your sleepovers at Emily’s apartment have become more and more frequent these days, which is lucky for you, really, because now you have a drawer where you can keep your comfortable, printed pajama sets. The set you have on tonight is blue, decorated with cartoon puppies. The shorts ride up your ass a little as you lean against the counter, but it’s no matter to you. Not right now, not when you’re the only one awake.

Or so you thought. 

Emily’s steps are akin to that of a kitten as she pads into the kitchen. Her ivory skin is the first thing you see, standing out in contrast of her dimly lit apartment. Then her dark hair, pulled up in a chaotic bun on the top of her head, leaning a little to the left because she always sleeps on her side. 

“Shit, Em, did the kettle wake you?” You grimace as she treads softly towards you. Her eyes squint to adjust to the light you have on over the range, and she reaches a closed fist out to chuck your chin playfully on her way to the refrigerator. 

“It’s alright,” she says, her voice like sandpaper compared to the usual velveteen you hear all day long. She must have been deep asleep, then. You feel a pang of guilt tug at your heart as you take a long sip of your tea. Emily grabs a handful of green grapes from the bowl in the fridge, popping one into her mouth. She glides to stand against the kitchen island, opposite a small stretch of linoleum from you. “You’re having trouble falling asleep again?” 

You shrug a little, trying to be nonchalant about it, but the truth is, you’ve been unable to fall asleep for a few weeks now. You chalk it up to a bad case about a month ago - unfortunately, both the unsub and their latest victim didn’t make it. You’ve had cases that didn’t end well before, but this victim was a young girl and you can’t help the way this one lingers in the back of your mind, like a bad aftertaste. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, baby,” Emily says before crunching down on a grape, the last one in her hand. You set your tea down on the counter beside you and cross the linoleum street that separates you and your girlfriend, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her satin pajamas tickle your cheek as you press your forehead into the crook of her shoulder. 

You cling to her like a koala and Emily just keeps her hands on your waist, holding you closely as you embrace her. She smells like jasmine and vanilla, and you almost want to chastise her because you know that means she stole your perfume. 

“My head just feels very full these days,” you sigh after a few moments, pulling away. Emily uses her hold on your hips to guide your back against the kitchen island. You hoist yourself up onto it and Emily moves to stand between your legs. 

“It’s that Oregon case, isn’t it?” she asks, tucking your hair behind your ear with one hand, the other palm resting flat on your thigh. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, an eyebrow quirking upward. 

“You asked Reid to help you finish your report on it,” Emily begins. “Two out of three cases since then have revolved around young girls, like you’re overcompensating, and Derek told me he saw you zoning out by the coffee machine while Anderson and JJ were discussing the case.”

You feel pink rush to your cheeks. All of Emily’s evidence is factual, much as it pains you to admit. “Is that all?” you deadpan, feeling a little sheepish. You also want to lay into your coworkers for being such tattletales. As the Communications Liaison, you generally maintain a well-rounded, professional disposition, but you suppose even your attitude at work has been lacking recently. 

“And, y’know, the gut feeling,” Emily adds. “You’ve been a little slower getting ready for work, almost like you’re dreading it.” 

“We agreed, no more profiling at home,” you remind her. She runs her thumb over the dimple in your chin. 

“It’s not profiling, it’s knowing my girlfriend,” Emily bites back with a compassionate sincerity that makes you want to eat her alive. How did you get so lucky? “You’re usually dragging me out of bed in the mornings, not the other way around.” 

You rake your fingers through her hair, meeting her dark eyes in the soft, dim light of the kitchen. This is as romantic a backdrop as any, in your opinion - lovelier than Paris, Rome, and London combined. You’ve always heard that to be loved is to be known, and boy, does Emily know you. 

“Well, I’m sorry for waking you up,” you concede in a slight change of subject, tracing your thumb across her hairline. “D’you want some tea? It’s that herbal stuff for sleep that Penelope recommended.” 

Emily shakes her head, kissing your jaw gently, then your cheek, finally your lips. It’s brief but it carries so many words. “No, thank you,” she says in a whisper, then steps back, grabs your cup from the other counter, and hands it to you. 

You take a drink, the warmth seeping in through your nostrils. “Do you love Myrtle Beach, Em?” you ask with a small laugh as you examine the mug in your hands. It’s obviously handmade, with the splotches of teal paint and weird lumps - and the lack of a handle. 

Emily just laughs, turning around and hoisting herself up onto the countertop beside you. You eye her smooth legs sticking out of those black, satin pajama shorts, and, uncontrollably, you set your mug down and place a hand over her thigh. “I’ve actually never been to Myrtle Beach,” she says. “I bought that at a thrift store.”

“So, you buy designer pajama sets off the rack, but you shop for your mugs secondhand?” you chortle a little, drawing circles into the sliver of pearly white thigh peeking out from her shorts.

“Yep,” Emily confirms, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word and shooting you a sideways smirk. “I like some things luxurious, but other things with lots of personality.”

“And which one am I?” you ask all-knowingly, leaning a little closer so your mouth was mere centimeters for hers.

“Oh, c’mon, now, you know you’re both.” Emily teases, then kisses you softly. 

You smile into the kiss, one hand curving against the smooth angle of her jaw to keep her face by yours for just a moment longer. “I really am sorry I woke you up,” you whisper as you pull away. 

“Don’t be,” Emily insists, resting her forehead against yours. “If it comes down to staring at the ceiling all night or waking me up by making tea, just wake me up. Okay?” 

You start to pull back, but Emily’s hand cups your cheek to keep your eyes on hers. “Okay?” she repeats. 

You nod. “Mhm. Okay, Em.” 

“Good, sweet, lovely girl,” Emily murmurs, pecking your lips once more before hopping off the counter. She offers you a hand to help you down. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

[bluebirdsfeathers]

You’re real, you’re here with me.

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

Relationship: Lenny Busker X Reader

Summary: slight AU where the events of the first season are just bad dreams Lenny is having after her time at clockworks. You are her ex-girlfriend who she turns to once she is released.

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: mental health, self harm, hurt/comfort, angst, slightly unhealthy relationship, David slander.

A/N: i have started season two but this is mostly inspired by just the first season. Also sorry if this is too angsty.

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

It was an unusually chilly night for June, but it made sense with all the rain that had fallen the past few days. Grey and miserable outside with the sun barely being able to break through the clouds. “Raining cats and dogs” Lenny had said on day 3 of being trapped inside. She’d been on edge since returning from clockworks and you knew the lack of sunshine wasn’t helping.

Barely awake, you reached across the bed to try and steel some warmth from her but you couldn't find her. Opening your eyes you saw that Lenny was gone, and a quick glance around the bedroom you shared didn’t answer the question of her whereabouts. You sat up at once, your mind racing with worrying scenarios Lenny could have found herself in.

How long had she been gone? Where had she gone? Had she gone out into the rain? Had she gone to find David? David. You pushed down the feeling of anger that man brought about in you. It was his fault she’d broken up with you, his fault she’d ended up in that place. You knew she cared about him, but he wasn’t going to help her get better. That was your job, and it wasn’t one you took lightly.

Walking out of the bedroom and into the rest of the flat you saw a light on in the kitchen and followed it. You stated to relax a little knowing Lenny was still in the warm and dry. Not that the flat was that warm but there was no way you were going to put the heating this time of year. The cost of living had skyrocketed, and you were barely able to pay rent and now you had an extra mouth to feed. Lenny was in no state to get a job yet. She was worth it though; you loved her deeply and how could you turn her away.

She’d shown up on your doorstep last weekend in just her clockwork patient tracksuit. No coat, no shoes, no belongings, just tears in her eyes and bandaged up wrists. You hadn’t seen her in years she looked healthier, clockworks had done a good job feeding her and getting her sobber, but at the same time she was still broken.

Clockworks hadn’t let you see her; you’d tried but they had a strict rule about only blood relations being about to see patients. You’d written to her, but the lack of response told you she’d never received them, that didn’t stop you from trying to reach her. Over the years you’d sent her hundreds of letters. Some containing her favourite chocolates and sweets just in the hopes she was getting them.

When she finally came home, you held her tighter than you ever had before. Lenny mumbled her apologies into you and promised she’d leave if you still hated her. It broke your heart. You never hated her, even when you argued. There was no way you were going to let her leave you again, no matter how hard things would be, and things were hard.

The flat was small and messy. Tidying up had never been something of importance to either of you. Clutter and rubbish littered the living room, you always told yourself you'd clean up later but later never came. As you rounded the corner to the kitchen you saw Lenny leaning over the sink, still full of dirty plates, with a knife in her hand. Your stomach dropped but you tried to not startle her with your presence.

“Lenny, baby?” You said gently and she quickly dropped the knife the sound of it clattering against the metal sink rang through the otherwise quite room. Lenny sharply turned around to face you.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” She yelled. Her manic eyes met your worried gaze, and she turned back around. “I’m sorry… I wasn’t hurting myself I promise…”

“Let me see?” You closed the gap between the two of you, it wasn’t hard the kitchen wasn’t very big. Lenny reluctantly let you look at her arms. Her older scars were faded but still there, her newer ones had started to heal and thankfully there were no fresh cuts. “What were you doing with the knife sweetie?”

“I… was scared…” Lenny seemed more twitchy than usual. “Had a bad dream… the bad dream… the one where I…” Tears threatened to fall from Lenny’s eyes as she tried to explain. She told you about the bad dreams she’d been having but never went into any detail. You knew they had to be pretty bad. She’d often wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Punching and kicking anything that touched her in her first few seconds of consciousness. You’d unfortunately been caught in the crossfire of her spurts of violence a few times and couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling her going for a knife had given you.

Lenny refused to talk about her years at clockworks, she just wanted to act like it had never happened. To pick up where the two of you had left off and act like things were back to normal. However, at night the façade would crumble. Lenny was so scared of something. Something she wouldn’t talk about or something she couldn’t talk about.

You didn’t care about what it was, you just wanted to know so you could help her. All you could do now is the same thing you did every time. Hold her close and rub circles on her back till she was ready to go back to bed. Lenny nuzzled her face into you, her arms limp by her sides as you gently rock her side to side.

“David called him the yellow eyed demon…” Lenny mumbled into you. At the mention of his name you froze, pushing away from her to look at her face. She was still crying, her chest shaking as it rose and fell. “I see him too… he makes me do things like give me memories that aren’t mine, they can’t be… I died… David killed me…” Lenny began to panic, pushing you away with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry… I’ll go… you don’t need this.” She hurried out the kitchen and towards the living room.

“Sweet no.” Without missing a beat you hurried to the front door blocking Lenny from leaving. “I can’t let you leave in this state you’ll hurt yourself.”

“But all I do is hurt you,” she continued to cry, “in my dreams all I do is hurt people… I’m a monster.” Lenny fought to get past you but despite her efforts it was nothing more than a weak struggle. The lack of sleep and refusing to eat had left her with little strength. Giving up she let her body fall to the ground before curling up in a tight ball. “Just let me go!” She yelled repeatedly smacking her head with her fist.

“Lenny it’s okay, I’ve got you,” sinking down to your knees as you shushed her, gently holding her wrists to stop her hitting, “you're very brave tell me about your dream sweetie, I love you.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I know sweetie that’s why I’m here to help you.” You stroke her hair, brushing it from her wet face. “Your dreams aren’t real. This is real, me here with you.”

“I don’t feel real.”

“I know sweetie, but you are. I promise you are. You’re real, you’re here with me.” Leaning down you plant a kiss on Lenny’s forehead. This was still the beginning of her healing journey, and you knew it would get worse before it got better. There was a chance she might never get better but there was no way you’d give up on her. No matter how hard things got.

[thecreaturecodex]

Giant, Iron

"Iron Age" © Piotr Foksowicz, accessed at his ArtStation here

[This creature appears under the name "hephaeston" in the Basic D&D Creature Catalogue, a name which I kept as an endonym. Like a lot of the monsters from that book, the text is mostly mechanics and not a lot of flavor, allowing me some room to explore. This monster also acts as a worldbuilding fulcrum and a way to answer Watsonian questions. Who makes all those nice masterwork weapons and armor that Huge humanoids always seem to have? And who buys, sells, and trades magic items to monsters? And for those GMs who are sick of having the PCs always teleporting back to the nearest large city to go shopping, why not have them meet a 20 foot tall, iron-skinned merchant up on the mountain a mile or so away from the dungeon?]

Giant, Iron CR 16 LN Humanoid (giant) This giant humanoid has skin like cast iron and a steely gaze. He is muscular and top-heavy and carries a finely crafted sword.

Iron giants—they call themselves hephaestons—are giants with both a cultural and biological affinity for metal. Their skin is impregnated with iron, giving them immunity to fire and a hide tougher than the strongest manufactured armor. All hephaestons consider metalworking to be the finest of callings, and almost all of them devote their lives to making weapons, armor and other tools of warfare. These, they sell or trade to other giants. Iron giants are responsible for much of the fine craftsmanship of giant weapons and armor, and may be an economic hub for “monstrous” species. Iron giants do not care who they trade with, as long as they are not cheated and their handiwork not slighted. Doing either of these things is a sure way to earn the ire of an iron giant.

Iron giants are somewhat more creative combatants than the average giant. Although they rely on their enormous physical strength to deal damage as any giant does, iron giants have a number of spell-like abilities that allow them to manipulate metal objects, and foes with metal armor or weapons are likely to have them yanked around or ruined. An iron giant’s forge is a hazardous environment, full of white hot ovens, molten metal and all manner of sharp and heavy things, and the giant will use its environment to the fullest to disrupt tactics and debilitate enemies. Iron giants are much too mercenary to fight to the death over trifles, and value surrender as a tactic both accepting and offering their own.

Most hephaestons do not much care for company, and so live alone. A few might have slag or fire giants working for them as craftsmen, in which case the boss does not fraternize much with their employees. Marriages and childcare are treated more as matters of contract than with much affection—a young iron giant will usually be apprenticed to a third party rather than raised by their parents as soon as they can work a forge. Hephaestons vary dramatically in height, between eighteen and twenty five feet, and incorporate metal into their diets. Iron giants maintain that consuming a higher percentage of precious metals like gold, mithral, or adamantine is more likely to make them taller, but this appears to be just a superstition.

Iron Giant CR 16 XP 76,800 LN Huge giant (earth) Init +5; Senses low-light vision, Perception +25

Defense AC 30, touch 10, flat-footed 28 (-2 size, +1 Dex, +1 dodge, +20 natural) hp 237 (25d8+125) Fort +19, Ref +11, Will +12 DR 10/adamantine; Immune fire, mind-influencing effects; SR 22

Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee +1 longsword +27/+22/+17 (3d6+11/19-20), slam +21 (1d10+5 plus grab) or 2 slams +26 (1d10+10 plus grab) Ranged javelin +17 (2d6+10) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft Special Attacks fling foe Spell-like Abilities CL 16th, concentration +20 At will—heat metal (DC 16), warp metal (DC 18) 3/day—heart of the metal, telekinesis (DC 19, metal objects or creatures only) 1/day—magnetic field (DC 21), wall of iron

Statistics Str 30, Dex 13, Con 21, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 19 Base Atk +18; CMB +30 (+32 bull rush, +34 grapple); CMD 42 (44 vs. bull rush) Feats Alertness, Craft Magic Arms and Armor, Critical Focus, Dodge, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (longsword), Improved Initiative, Improved Vital Strike, Iron Will, Lightning Reflexes, Power Attack, Staggering Critical, Vital Strike Skills Appraise +18, Craft (armor, weapons) +23 (+31 metal items), Knowledge (local) +18, Perception +25, Sense Motive +22; Racial Modifiers +8 Craft for metal items Languages Common, Giant, Undercommon SQ martial weapon proficiency, metal mastery

Ecology Environment any mountains and underground Organization solitary or pair Treasure double standard (Huge +1 longsword, 6 Huge javelins, other treasure)

Special Abilities Fling Foe (Ex) An iron giant can fling a grappled creature at least one size smaller than itself as an attack instead of maintaining the grapple. Treat this as a ranged attack with a thrown weapon with a range increment of 10 feet. A creature struck by a thrown creature takes 2d6 damage (adjusted for the thrown creature’s size) plus the iron giant’s Strength bonus, and the creature thrown takes the same damage plus an additional 1d6 for every 10 feet it traveled. Martial Weapon Proficiency (Ex) An iron giant is proficient in all martial weapons. Metal Mastery (Ex) An iron giant gains a +8 racial bonus on all Craft checks made to create metal items, and can create such items in half the usual time.

[nattyromanoffswife]

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁Day One . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

⟡ word count: 1.1k

summary: along came another expectation that you’d let down yet another couple, starting the seven days all over again.

a/n: i hate this but i just accepted i wasn’t going to get it to a place i liked. sigh.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This was it. Another Day One. Another couple you’d spend an entire seven days with, already knowing they’d be let down in the end, with no chance of achieving their dream.

It’s not like it was hard for you. You’ve never been taught how to love, so not being able to came easy to you.

You strictly saw each couple as a job awaiting completion, like a box to tick on your checklist. No attachments, no genuine feelings, at least on your end.

These thoughts were swirling in your head as you knocked on the door, and rang the doorbell of your next victims.

“Ding dong,” the doorbell only just sounded as the door swung open, and you’re greeted with an awfully cheerful looking woman. Given the circumstances, you’re rather surprised, she’s so full of joy, yet you ensure your face remains emotionless, as she greets you.

“Hi! Come in, come in, you’re our assessor right?” she says as she moves aside to let you in.

As you enter, you take a mental note of how she’s presented herself. Her hair has a slight bounce thanks to the light curls, nearly tucked behind her ear on one side. She’s wearing a little black dress, you assume because of the warmth in the area.

After the delay to answer her question, you give her a nod, “I am, yes, but you can call me y/n.”

You proceed to wordlessly follow her to the living room, where she sits beside another woman, and you take a seat opposite them.

You can tell the redhead who was already sitting is a lot more reserved. She seems to radiate nonchalance, an instant calmness you don’t quite know how to describe. Even her appearance of slacks and a tank top reflects her vibe. Her hair tied back in a precise plait, and you can’t help but notice the slight graze that marks her cheek.

The other woman grabs your attention by deciding to finally introduce herself, “Oh silly me I forgot to tell you our names, I’m Wanda, and this is my wife Natasha.”

“I know.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Over the next seven days, you will undergo observation and formal testing to ascertain suitability for parenting. I want to get to know the real you.”

Natasha smirks, “is that a good idea?”

“Yes.”

She seems to falter at your flatness, “I- it was just a joke.”

You barely smile, uttering “I know.” once again. “In the event of a pass, your material will be passed on for ex-utero gestation. All other methods of reproduction still remain forbidden. In the event of a fail, candidates will be notified immediately. Candidates have the right to withdraw from testing at any point, in which they waive any and all right to future applications. The Assessor's decision is final. Clear?”

They both nod, “and finally, everything that takes place over the next seven days is highly confidential.”

Wanda lets out a breath before deciding to ask “So, what are we being assessed on exactly?”

“The less you know the better, as I said earlier, I want to get to know the real you. That starts with initial interviews, so who’s first?”

They turn to each other seemingly having a silent conversation as Natasha wordlessly stands and leaves the room.

“Wanda, on a scale of one to ten, what would you rate your relationship with Natasha?”

“Oh, at least a nine, definitely. I know she seems sort of cold as of now but she’s only like that with new people really-”

“Detailed explanations are not required or necessary, Wanda.”

She blushes in response and mumbles her apologies.

“How would you describe Natasha in three words?”

“Well, she’s intelligent, loving and protective, perhaps overprotective.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Some people might not think so, but I think it’s nice, it shows that she loves me.”

You ask many questions to get to know their dynamic a little bit, leading you to quiz Wanda on a perhaps more personal and intimate topic.

“How often do the two of you have sex?”

“I-um like a couple of times a week?”

“With climax?”

“I- do you really need to know that?” Wanda can’t help scoff with a bright blush.

You simply shrug, “I need to observe every aspect of your relationship.”

She quickly mumbles with a red face, “yes, with climax.”

Questions continue until you’ve summed up her general perspective of their relationship.

Natasha was going to be a harder nut to crack, you could tell. She was going to give you what she needed and nothing more, which from your past experiences you know makes it harder to catch them out.

“Natasha, what would you rate Wanda as a partner?”

“I’d say 10, she’s pretty perfect to me.”

“Do you think kids would affect that?”

“My love for my wife?”

You simply nod.

“Well, my love wouldn’t be affected by anything, no. But it would be ignorant to not recognise that things will change.”

“Have you decided who would carry the baby?”

“Wanda would. My past would make that impossible.”

You made sure to note your own observations from these interviews too, secretly aiming to pick out anything you could that would disrupt the peace and challenge their dynamics.

Wanda

Overly cheery

Welcoming

Stereotypically motherly

Sweet

Caring

Fairly open

Natasha

Closed off

More hesitant

Sarcastic

Breaking the awkward silence that admittedly had grown on you, you simply asked “where will I be staying?”

They both stand immediately, you can tell they’re a little taken aback by all your questioning earlier, before they start walking with a simple gesture from Wanda to follow.

“This is the guest room we have, our room is just next door, we thought that’d be best so we’d be close if we were needed.”

You walk around the room, observing quietly. With one nod, “it’ll do.”

It’s Natasha who speaks up next, “we’ll let you unpack, and give you some time to settle in.”

As soon as the door shuts and you’re finally alone again, you can’t help but fall face first into your bed. Your bed which is ridiculously comfy and smells incredible. Your thoughts drift to the two women without you being able to stop it; they are the most attractive couple you’ve ever got to assess, or perhaps set your eyes on.

This is going to be a difficult one.

[jaydick-week]

Jaydick Flower Zine: Interest Check Results! 🌷🌻

The numbers are in... we had 206 people respond to our interest check (wow!), and wanted to share some of the key findings!

75% of respondents indicated that they are "very interested" (5/5) in the project. The average interest rating across all 206 responses was a 4.7/5. Not too shabby!

81% of respondents indicated interest in potentially purchasing a full bundle.

69% of respondents indicated interest in potentially purchasing a NSFW side volume. nice

The top choices for physical merch included: enamel pins, acrylic charms, prints, book upgrades, sticker sheets, and die-cut stickers

The top choices for digital merch included: wallpapers, coloring pages, icons, and emotes

66% of respondents indicated interest in purchasing merch add-ons such as minifigures or tote bags

We also had 168 people sign up for our mailing list! However, a few emails bounced when we sent our first email... if you signed up and haven't received an email from us, you can join our mailing list here → http://eepurl.com/izX_ZA

Ask | Email | Info Doc

You'll also find some of your questions answered below the cut.

LOVE the flower idea, but as a Canadian I'm just worried about shipping/duties

We will try to keep shipping as low as possible for our non-US friends, and are not trying to make a profit off of shipping at all. Knowing that non-US shipping can be pricey, if anyone has any concerns about finances come pre-order period, they are welcome to reach out to us and we may be able to work something out.

Would be over the moon to participate! But I not sure I would be able to if purchases are required to be a writer/artist/etc.

Purchases are not required to participate! However, if contributors would like to receive their free full bundle (should profits allow), they will be asked to play a flat rate of $10 for shipping (our info doc has been updated to reflect this). This is due to the high cost of shipping and the number of contributors we expect to have. If there are financial difficulties, one of the mods will cover this cost on their behalf.

Once items are available for purchase or help is needed, an email notification would be appreciated. Though not too many emails please. Thank you for your time and effort.

Absolutely! We will only send emails when there are updates. You have our no-spam guarantee!

Is there an estimate range for how many pages the zine would have? Because it greatly effects how much I'd want to spend on the physical zine.

Our last physical zine was approximately 200 pages, and we anticipate this zine coming out to around the same size.

And an extra big THANK YOU to everyone who left us a lovely message on the interest check. We're so grateful for you all! 🌺

[kathlare]

beneath the stillness

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Max visits his best friend Lando, who has been avoiding everyone and struggling emotionally after encountering unresolved feelings related to his ex, Amelie.

Wordcount: 2.1 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

November 24th, 2022 - London, United Kingdom

Max hadn’t heard from Lando in days. Usually, that wasn’t a huge deal. Lando was a busy guy—he had races, media obligations, and his own life to deal with—but the silence had felt... different this time. It wasn’t like Lando to go off the radar without any warning. They were best friends, and after everything they’d been through together, he knew when something was up. So, with a feeling of growing concern, Max made the decision to go check on him.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this about Lando, but every time he did, it was usually something related to Amelie. Max had known from the start that Lando had never quite gotten over her, even after their messy breakup. Lando had tried to move on with other girls, but there was always something—always her—lingering in the background. Max had seen it all, witnessed the way Lando would shut down after hearing news about her or seeing her posts on Instagram. Lando never really talked about it, but Max knew better than to ask. Still, he couldn’t help but worry.

Max rang the doorbell, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, a small sense of unease settling in his chest. Cisca answered the door, her usual warmth replaced with something like concern.

—Max, good to see you,— she said, giving him a hug. —Lando’s in his room, but... he’s not doing too well. He’s been a bit weird since he got back. You might want to talk to him.—

Max nodded, giving her a quick smile. —Thanks, Mrs. Norris. I’ll go check on him.—

He made his way up the stairs, the familiar creak of the wooden steps underfoot bringing a wave of nostalgia. Lando's family home was something of a safe haven for him, a place where they’d spent countless hours as kids, talking about everything from racing to the future to their stupidest inside jokes. But today, something felt off. The silence in the house was unsettling.

When Max reached Lando’s room, he hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the door. No response. He pushed it open slowly, and there Lando was—lying flat on his back, the duvet pulled up over his head like a shield. His usual cocky, upbeat demeanor was nowhere to be found. Max’s stomach tightened.

—Lando?— Max called, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

A low groan came from under the blanket. Lando shifted slightly, pushing the duvet off his face to reveal a tired, unshaven version of himself—his eyes bloodshot, his hair a mess, and his usual vibrant energy completely drained. Max couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him look this bad.

—You look like shit,— Max said, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the concern gnawing at him. He crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Lando didn’t respond, just stared at the ceiling with a vacant expression, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

Max sighed and nudged him gently. —Come on, mate. What’s going on? You’ve been off the grid for days. I know you’ve been home from Abu Dhabi for a bit, but... you haven’t said a word to anyone. What’s up?—

Lando’s eyes flickered briefly toward Max, and for a second, there was a hint of recognition, but he quickly looked away, clearly not wanting to engage. Max could feel the weight of the silence between them. Something was seriously wrong.

—It’s Amelie, isn’t it?— Max asked quietly, his voice low.

Lando’s head turned slowly, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. The silence between them thickened, and Max felt the tension in the room as if it had physical weight. He didn’t need an answer; he already knew. The way Lando’s posture had slumped further into the bed, the way he avoided looking Max in the eye—it was all too familiar. Max had seen this before.

Lando didn’t answer immediately, and Max could tell he wasn’t ready to speak. But eventually, Lando sighed deeply, the sound of his exhale filled with frustration and pain.

—She’s back...— Lando mumbled, almost as if the words themselves were a burden.

Max frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He studied Lando's face, waiting for him to say more, but it was clear that every word was a struggle.

—Back where?— Max asked gently, even though he already had an idea of what Lando meant.

Lando shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed on a crack in the ceiling. —Back in this. Back in my head. Back in my fucking life, apparently.—

Max raised an eyebrow. —I didn’t know she ever really left, mate.—

Lando let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. —Yeah, well, I tried. You know I fucking tried, Max. I did everything I could to move on, to forget her, to, whatever. But then she just, poof, shows up again. Like nothing ever happened.—

Max sat back, crossing his arms. —What do you mean "shows up again"? You saw her in Abu Dhabi, didn’t you?—

Lando scoffed, sitting up slightly and leaning back against the headboard. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept properly in days. —Yeah, I saw her. She was there, all smiles and pretending like I don’t fucking exist. She ignored me the whole time, Max. Like I wasn’t even there. And the worst part? She looked...— He trailed off, swallowing hard as if the words physically hurt him.

—She looked what?— Max pressed, though he already had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.

—She looked happy. Like, genuinely happy. And I just... I couldn’t handle it. Seeing her like that, knowing I wasn’t a part of it anymore... it fucked me up, mate.—

Max sighed, leaning forward again and resting his elbows on his knees. He watched his best friend closely, seeing the pain etched into every line of his face. He didn’t know what to say. He’d been there for Lando through the breakup, through all the flings that followed, through the long nights when Lando would get drunk and ramble about how no one would ever measure up to her. And now here they were again, back at square one.

—You’re not over her,— Max said simply, his tone not judgmental but matter-of-fact.

Lando shot him a look, his jaw tightening. —Of course I’m not fucking over her. How am I supposed to get over someone like Amelie? She was...— He stopped himself, running a hand over his face. —She was everything, Max. And yeah, maybe I screwed it up. Maybe I didn’t fight hard enough, or maybe I was just a stupid kid who didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because she’s gone. She’s moved on.—

Max stayed silent for a moment, letting Lando's words hang in the air. He could feel the weight of his friend’s emotions, the rawness of it all. Lando rarely let his guard down like this, and it wasn’t something Max took lightly. He leaned back against the chair by Lando’s desk, crossing his arms and watching him carefully.

—You don’t know that she’s moved on,— Max said softly, choosing his words carefully. —I mean, yeah, she’s dating that footballer, right? But that doesn’t mean...—

Lando cut him off, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. —Rodrigo fucking Riquelme. Yeah, I know. Trust me, I’ve seen the photos. They look perfect together, don’t they? He’s this big shot, all successful and charming and shit. Meanwhile, I’m just the idiot who fucked things up and ended up on the sidelines.—

Max frowned. —Come on, don’t do that. You’re not just some idiot, and you know it. You’re Lando fucking Norris. One of the best drivers in the world, with a career people would kill for.—

—Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean shit when it comes to her,— Lando muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. —She doesn’t care about that stuff. She never did. That’s what made her... different.—

Max could see where this was going, and it wasn’t anywhere good. He’d been here before, in this room, having this conversation in various forms. Lando’s feelings for Amelie weren’t new; they’d been festering for years, growing roots that he couldn’t seem to cut. Max sighed, running a hand through his hair.

—So, what are you going to do? Just sit here and feel sorry for yourself?— Max asked, his tone slightly sharper than he intended. —Because that’s not going to help. If seeing her again stirred all this up, maybe it’s a sign you need to deal with it. Like, actually deal with it, mate. You can’t keep burying this shit.—

Lando looked at him, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. —What the hell am I supposed to do, Max? Go to her and what? Beg her to take me back? She hates me. Did you not hear the part where she ignored me the entire time in Abu Dhabi? She didn’t even look at me. It’s over.—

—Maybe it is,— Max admitted, leaning forward again. —But you’re never going to move on if you keep running from it. If you keep pretending like you’re fine and hooking up with girls who mean nothing to you. It’s not working, Lando. It hasn’t worked for two years.—

Max could see where this was going, and it wasn’t anywhere good. He’d been here before, in this room, having this conversation in various forms. Lando’s feelings for Amelie weren’t new; they’d been festering for years, growing roots that he couldn’t seem to cut. Max sighed, running a hand through his hair.

—So, what are you going to do? Just sit here and feel sorry for yourself?— Max asked, his tone slightly sharper than he intended. —Because that’s not going to help. If seeing her again stirred all this up, maybe it’s a sign you need to deal with it. Like, actually deal with it, mate. You can’t keep burying this shit.—

Lando looked at him, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. —What the hell am I supposed to do, Max? Go to her and what? Beg her to take me back? She hates me. Did you not hear the part where she ignored me the entire time in Abu Dhabi? She didn’t even look at me. It’s over.—

—Maybe it is,— Max admitted, leaning forward again. —But you’re never going to move on if you keep running from it. If you keep pretending like you’re fine and hooking up with girls who mean nothing to you. It’s not working, Lando. It hasn’t worked for two years.—

Lando didn’t respond, his gaze dropping to his hands. The room was silent again, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Max felt a pang of sympathy for his friend. He knew Lando was hurting, but he also knew that the only person who could pull him out of this was Lando himself.

—Look,— Max said after a moment, his voice softening. —I’m not saying you need to do something drastic. But maybe it’s time to stop avoiding it. Stop avoiding her. If she’s going to be around again, you’re going to have to figure out how to deal with it. Otherwise, you’re just going to keep spiraling every time you see her.—

Lando let out a heavy sigh, leaning his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes. —I don’t know if I can do that, Max. Seeing her again... it messed me up. It’s like every feeling I’ve been trying to ignore just came rushing back all at once. And the worst part? I can’t even be mad at her. I can only be mad at myself for letting her go.—

Max didn’t know what to say to that. He’d always believed that Lando and Amelie had something special, something rare. But he also knew that timing and circumstances could ruin even the strongest of connections. He just hoped that, whatever happened next, Lando would find a way to heal.

—You’re not alone in this, mate,— Max said after a long pause. —I’m here. I’ll always be here. But you’ve got to stop shutting everyone out. You’ve got to let someone in.—

Lando opened his eyes, looking over at Max with a small, tired smile. —Thanks, man. I appreciate it.—

—Anytime,— Max replied, clapping him on the shoulder. —Now, why don’t you get up, take a shower, and maybe eat something? You look like you’ve been living under a rock.—

Lando laughed weakly, the sound more genuine this time. —Yeah, okay. Maybe I do need to pull myself together.—

Max grinned, standing up. —That’s the spirit. Baby steps, mate. Baby steps.—

As Max left the room, he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope. Lando had a long way to go, but at least he was starting to acknowledge his feelings. And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward figuring out how to move forward.

[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.

----------

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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