(Oliver-Before)
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(Drake-Before)
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Chapter 1: The Calibration
The garage was a chaotic shrine of genius and junk, lined with exposed wires, soldered boards, glowing tubes, and half-eaten burritos. Amidst the storm of clutter, Oliver stood hunched over a sleek metallic arc device no bigger than a briefcase, its core glowing with an eerie blue hum. A homemade digital readout blinked: Coordinates Locked.
Drake sat on a beat-up couch pushed against the wall, lazily scrolling on his phone while chewing a stale protein bar. “So... this is it? The big leap?”
Oliver nodded, still adjusting the device’s stabilizer coil. “Eight test realms. Each with a unique set of physics, environments, and—well—realities. This is the real deal.”
“And this thing’s gonna get us back?” Drake asked, holding up his wrist where a clunky, reinforced metal band clicked into place. It looked like a combination of a watch, a mini shield, and a 3D printer.
“Yes. As long as you don’t take that band off.” Oliver gave him a serious look, his hand now hovering over the activation lever. “It's keyed to your biometrics. If it loses contact, the dimensional anchor won't know who you are. You'll be adrift. Like... lost luggage in a black hole.”
Drake tightened the strap instinctively. “Alright, alright, geez. You said eight realities?”
“Yeah. One jump at a time. First one’s a mirror reality—minimal differences. Like a warm-up. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. Could be cartoon physics, AI dominion, prehistoric jungle, you name it. The machine scans for compatible planes based on our brainwaves and biology.”
Drake blinked. “Wait, so if it finds a universe where I have, like, gills—”
“Then you’d better learn to swim.”
The tension in the air was electric. Oliver reached for the lever. The machine gave a low rumble, the arc above them crackling with energy. A vortex of shimmering light formed like liquid glass folding in on itself.
“No turning back after this,” Oliver said, looking to his friend.
Drake grinned. “Let’s go break some realities.”
With a sharp click, the lever dropped.
The light consumed them.
Chapter 2: Through the Looking Worlds
The first jump was a blur of color, light, and pressure. One moment Oliver and Drake were in the garage. The next, they were standing in the middle of a clean, almost sterile city plaza… but with one strange twist.
Reality 1 – The Furred World
The people weren’t people.
At least, not in the usual sense.
Hundreds of anthropomorphic animals strolled past them—some tall and graceful like deer with tailored suits, others short and stocky like bulldogs in leather jackets. There were foxes with smartphones, wolves sipping espresso, even a bear walking a pet iguana. Despite their fur, muzzles, tails, and ears, they all carried themselves with human-like grace and intelligence.
“Are we at a convention?” Drake muttered, blinking at a lion in a trench coat who nodded politely as he passed.
Oliver was already scanning with a handheld sensor. “Nope. Genetic readouts are clean. This isn’t cosplay. These are the dominant species. Humans never evolved here. Animals did.”
Drake looked down at his own hands. Still human. Still flesh and blood. “So... we're the weirdos.”
“Yup.”
A robotic traffic light changed colors with a meow and the duo crossed the street, keeping their heads down. No one paid them much attention. Somehow, they weren’t out of place enough to draw alarm. Still, a lingering unease settled in their guts.
“Let’s not overstay,” Oliver said, checking the coordinates for the next jump.
Reality 2 – The Infantile Earth
The next landing came with the smell of baby powder and the sounds of giggles and wobbly feet.
Drake opened his eyes and gasped. “No freaking way.”
They were in a city once again, but everything—everything—was baby-sized. The streets were padded, the buildings low and round like nursery blocks, and the cars were bright plastic vehicles that puttered with squeaky wheels.
And the inhabitants?
Toddlers. All of them.
Three-year-old girls and boys waddled around, some with toy phones, others with oversized lollipops or juice boxes. Yet they seemed to be functioning adults—chatting in full sentences, shopping, driving… even holding meetings in business diapers.
One baby in a tie rolled past in a stroller-mobile and waved. “Welcome, strangers! You got juice?”
Drake looked at Oliver in disbelief. “Okay, this one’s gonna haunt my dreams.”
Oliver didn’t respond. He was watching a baby police officer handing out a ticket to another baby who had thrown a tantrum in traffic.
“They're mentally grown. But biologically... arrested at toddler stage.”
“Creepy.”
“Fascinating.”
Oliver adjusted the device. “One more reality. I want a clean scan from it before we take a break.”
Reality 3 – The Land of Bimbos and Himbos
The moment they stepped through the portal, they were hit with a wave of sugary perfume and the scent of tanning lotion.
They arrived in what looked like a tropical beach city—pink skyscrapers, glittering sand, and rollerblading traffic cops in gold bikinis. Every woman had an exaggerated hourglass figure, bouncing bosoms, luscious lips, and platinum hair. Every man was bronzed, shirtless, absurdly muscular, and wore shorts so short they might as well be underwear.
“Oh. My. God,” Drake whispered, as a buxom woman with an impossibly tiny waist blew him a kiss while sipping a pink cocktail through a silly straw.
“Welcome to PlastiCity,” said a nearby billboard. “Where beauty is brains, and brains are, like, sooo last season.”
Oliver frowned. “No signs of traditional education, industry, or science. Culture here revolves around parties, spas, and body image.”
Drake elbowed him. “And I’m guessing IQ averages don’t break double digits.”
Suddenly, a himbo lifeguard strutted over, flexing. “Hey dudes! You two are, like, totally new here. You need a tan! Or a massage! Or, like, a pink smoothie!”
“We’re just tourists,” Oliver said quickly, tightening his grip on the jump device.
“Suit yourself, bruhhh.” The himbo wandered off to help a bimbo stuck in a tanning booth.
Oliver turned to Drake. “These first three realms are tolerable. But something tells me the next jumps won’t be so safe. We might want to cut this trip short.”
Drake looked back at the bimbo city, then at his wristband.
“Let’s keep going,” he grinned. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Oliver hesitated… and flipped the lever.
Chapter 3: Glimpses of Elseworlds
The vortex swirled again, pulling their atoms apart and threading them into the fabric of another world. When their feet hit the ground this time, it was… plastic.
Reality 4 – The Barbie World
The sky was always pink here, in a world of smooth, vibrant plastic. Towering dreamhouses lined perfect pastel streets. The sun never moved. Birds chirped in high-pitched musical loops. And every inhabitant—every single one—looked like a fashion model snapped out of a doll catalog.
Barbies.
Thousands of them.
There were President Barbies, Astronaut Barbies, Pop Star Barbies, Beach Barbies—even Construction Barbies with rhinestone helmets. Every one of them had long, styled hair and a wardrobe that seemed to change mid-stride. Their movements were flawless, as if animated frame-by-frame.
Ken dolls existed, but they were background figures—smiling, standing, posing.
“This place is giving me a headache,” Drake mumbled as a nearby Veterinarian Barbie walked a sparkling poodle that yipped in autotune.
Oliver was frantically taking notes. “These aren’t humans. They’re constructs shaped by idealism. Everything’s aesthetic. Everyone behaves like they’re following a script.”
A group of Barbie Flight Attendants passed by, waving in unison. “Welcome to Barbietown! Life’s fantastic!”
Drake shuddered. “Let’s get outta here before I start humming the theme song.”
Reality 5 – The Mother-Only World
The transition this time was gentler. The light around them softened, like they were entering a home bathed in sunset.
They appeared in a quiet, cozy neighborhood—yet something was instantly off. Every adult in sight was a woman… specifically, a motherly woman.
Matronly women of all ages bustled about: watering gardens, organizing community picnics, baking pies, holding babies, knitting on porches. There were no men. No children. Just… mothers.
Endless mothers.
One of them noticed the boys and walked over, hands on her hips. She had warm eyes, a round face, and an apron that read “#1 Mom.”
“Oh my stars, boys—where are your mothers? You must be lost. Or hungry! Come inside, I’ll fix you a plate.”
Oliver politely declined, his grip tightening on the reality controller.
Drake whispered, “Are we the only guys here?”
Oliver scanned again. “There are no male life signatures registered. None.”
The mom leaned closer, tucking a lock of hair behind Drake’s ear. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re such a mess. I could just pinch your cheeks. Do you want a warm bottle and a nap?”
“Portal. Now,” Drake hissed.
Reality 6 – The Centaur Lands
They dropped into a valley of golden grass and rolling hills under a sky with three suns.
And they weren’t alone.
Herds of centaurs—half-human, half-horse—galloped across the plains. Some were armored like warriors; others herded animals or carried crates with tribal markings. They were majestic, powerful, and utterly alien in how naturally their dual-body forms moved.
Oliver marveled, breathless. “They evolved this way. Full civilizations based on herd dynamics. Social ranks. Communal knowledge. Mobility-focused technology.”
A female centaur galloped by, saluting them with a sharp toss of her spear. “Travelers! Mind the wind cliffs!”
Drake ducked as a young centaur boy raced past, laughing, his hooves kicking up dust. “Okay, I’m starting to get jealous. These dudes look awesome.”
Oliver grinned, but something in his gut twisted. These worlds were becoming more immersive. More… tempting.
He checked his wristband. Still intact. Still human.
For now.
Reality 7 – The Age of Machines
The jump dropped them into a gleaming metropolis of towering chrome, flashing neon, and humming electricity.
This world was silent except for the precise clicks of machinery.
Sleek robots walked the streets in symmetrical lines. Drones zipped overhead. A massive screen above broadcasted a calm, artificial voice:
“Order is efficiency. Emotion is outdated. Humanity 2.0 has arrived.”
The robots varied in form—some humanoid, others insectoid, others abstract with floating limbs. Yet all of them moved with purpose.
“Do you see any humans?” Drake asked, watching a robot with twelve arms assemble a hovercar mid-air.
Oliver shook his head. “No. If humans ever lived here… they’ve either gone extinct or uploaded into machines.”
A floating security bot drifted near them, scanning silently.
“Organic anomaly detected. Displacement pending.”
“Time to go!” Oliver shouted.
The air shimmered as they activated the device once more, leaving behind a world where silicon had silenced flesh.
Chapter 4 Tease: One More Jump
Back in the dimensional tunnel, both boys panted, their eyes wide with adrenaline and awe.
“One more jump,” Oliver said, sweat dripping from his brow.
Drake was silent, gripping his wristband.
But neither noticed the tiny glitch in its lights…
Chapter 4: The Split
The swirling vortex around them felt like a violent storm of light and energy. As they hurtled toward their next destination, Oliver and Drake could feel the pull of the unknown tugging at their very beings. Suddenly, a sharp, metallic clink echoed through the tunnel. Drake’s wristband—secured tightly just moments before—slipped off his wrist, falling into the depths of the chaos.
“No!” Oliver shouted, reaching for Drake as the device began to flash erratically.
Before either could react, the safety bubble around them shattered like glass, the dimension’s fabric snapping in half. They were no longer side by side.
Drake was thrown first.
Reality 8: The Land of the Redneck Virus
Oliver’s body slammed against the ground with a hard thud. He groaned, pushing himself up from the dirt. A quick scan revealed he was in some sort of rural area. The air smelled of damp earth, gasoline, and something distinctly unpleasant—like a mix of rotten food and tobacco. As his vision adjusted, Oliver saw a trailer park sprawled before him.
And then, he saw them.
Men and women, though mostly women, trudged through the mud in flannel shirts and cutoff jeans, their thick bodies jiggling with every movement. The women were loud, brash, and had a sharp edge to their voices that could slice through the air. It was like being thrown into a mix of a party and a fight.
“Goddamn, who the hell are you?!” a woman shouted from a nearby porch, holding a half-empty beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette hanging from the other.
Oliver’s eyes widened. The women—no, the people—around him were, in every sense of the word, trashy, overweight, and unapologetically crass. Their speech was harsh, peppered with swears, their voices like gravel grinding together.
“Yeah, that’s right, look at me, stranger! What the hell you want?” another woman yelled from the trailer, spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco.
“Is there… a virus here?” Oliver muttered under his breath, his mind racing. He reached for his portable scanner, but it was suddenly heavier. He pulled it out to see it was working in overdrive—scanning, analyzing, but showing a weird result: Genetic mutation detected.
This wasn’t normal. Something had gone wrong with the people here.
Oliver barely had time to process it when a group of men, large, stocky, and wearing dirty overalls, swaggered past him. Their faces were covered in beards, and their attitudes screamed superiority, despite the grime caked onto their clothes.
“Hey there, little fella. You new around here?” one of the men said, holding a can of beer in his hand. “What you doin’ on my turf?”
Oliver stepped back instinctively. “I… I’m just passing through.”
“Passing through, huh?” The man took a swig of beer, tossing the can at Oliver’s feet. “Well, ya better be real careful. Ain’t no strangers welcome ‘round these parts without a proper introduction.” He smirked, revealing a row of stained teeth. “We got ways of makin' ya feel right at home.”
The tension in the air was palpable, but Oliver had no choice. He had to find Drake and reverse this… whatever it was.
Meanwhile…
Reality 9: The World of Pregnant Women
Drake’s landing was softer, more controlled, but his surroundings were just as surreal. The soft pink glow of the sky lit up the endless horizon of pristine fields, gentle rolling hills, and a village of cottages. The moment he stood up, the first thing he noticed—aside from the eerily quiet landscape—was the women.
And that was it.
There were only women.
But not just any women—every single one was pregnant.
The women around him were stunning, each of them radiating a quiet power and authority. Yet, there was something strange about it all. They walked with purpose, their swollen bellies sticking out before them, and they carried themselves like they were the very foundation of this world.
A woman with glowing skin and flowing, flower-patterned robes passed by, her belly swollen to an extreme degree. She smiled at Drake, then stopped. “You look lost, dear,” she said, her voice soft, maternal, yet unwavering. “Are you here for your turn?”
Drake opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. His head spun, trying to grasp what she meant. Was this some sort of twisted dream? The woman’s belly seemed to glow, and her presence was calming, almost hypnotic.
“Where are the men?” Drake asked hesitantly, his voice betraying a hint of confusion.
The woman smiled softly. “There are no men here, sweet one. Only women. We are the creators of life. We bear our children, we nurture them. And one day, you will too.”
Before Drake could respond, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. Her touch sent a strange warmth through him, and for a moment, he felt a deep, instinctual pull to stay close to her. It was like his very being recognized her as an answer to some ancient longing.
A small group of other women, all clearly pregnant, approached. They greeted Drake as though he belonged. But there was a strange underlying tension in their eyes—like they were all waiting for something… or someone.
“Are you here to join us?” one of the women asked, her voice low and inviting.
Drake felt an unsettling shiver crawl up his spine as his gaze flicked to their bellies once again. There was something undeniably powerful, yet uncomfortable about being surrounded by nothing but pregnant women, each of them so confident, so poised. It felt like they were all part of some strange, unspoken pact.
“Where am I?” Drake muttered, his words almost lost in the breeze. “What happened to the world I came from?”
The woman who had first approached him smiled knowingly. “You’ve come to the world of the mothers. The land of creation. You will soon understand. We all carry the seed of the future.”
Drake's heart began to race as confusion and curiosity mixed into something more primal, more instinctive. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his arrival in this world meant something far more significant than he could grasp.
Chapter 5 Tease: Lost in Two Realities
Oliver and Drake, now separated by the chaos of the reality jump, each faced their own strange new worlds. Oliver was surrounded by a rough, uncouth society of beer-drinking rednecks, while Drake was immersed in a world of only pregnant women, where motherhood was the axis around which everything spun.
As both explored their new surroundings, they would have to navigate these unfamiliar environments—until they realized the deeper, more unsettling truths about their transformations.
Chapter 5: Trailer Trash Metamorphosis
Oliver had been wandering for hours through the sprawling, disheveled trailer park on the edge of the muddy swamp. He clutched his scanner in one hand and his broken wristband in the other, desperately trying to recalibrate it. But something wasn’t right. His vision had started to blur slightly, and there was a strange heat creeping through his limbs—like his body was simmering from the inside out.
He stumbled past a line of rusted-out pickups and crushed beer cans littering the gravel road. Loud country music blasted from nearby trailers, mixing with the screeching of old TVs, barking dogs, and shouting arguments.
That’s when the first change hit.
It started subtly—his posture shifted, almost involuntarily. His spine curved forward, his shoulders sagged. He scratched his head and winced. His fingernails were getting longer, grimier, and his hands looked... pudgier? Swollen?
“Damn bugs,” he muttered.
But the voice didn’t sound like his. It was deeper, raspy—gravelly like someone who smoked two packs a day. His throat burned slightly, and he instinctively coughed harshly, spitting into the dirt.
“Shit,” he growled, blinking in confusion.
His clean, slightly nerdy button-up shirt felt tighter—uncomfortably so. He looked down, and to his horror, saw his chest beginning to puff outward—two soft mounds of flesh pressing against the fabric. His stomach was also swelling, rounding out like he’d just guzzled a keg of beer and followed it with a family-sized plate of fried chicken. The scanner slipped from his greasy fingers and hit the ground with a clack.
His jeans split open at the seams.
“God—dammit! These cheap-ass pants ain’t worth a damn!” he shouted without thinking, his Southern twang thick and completely unfamiliar to him.
A wave of warmth washed through his lower body, and Oliver staggered back, leaning against the side of a beat-up trailer. He moaned in discomfort as his hips flared outward, ballooning into wide, jiggling curves better suited for squeezing through tight trailer doorframes than jumping realities. His thighs thickened to match—thunderous, wobbling columns of fat that rubbed together with every awkward step.
“Hell’s bells…” he muttered, now sounding like an entirely different person.
His hair itched—grew. It sprouted out into a wild, untamed, bleach-blonde mane with greasy roots. Long, frizzy, and crunchy from over-bleaching. As he scratched his scalp, he noticed his fingers were now tipped with bright pink acrylic nails, chipped and dirty. Rings—cheap, chunky, and plastic—clung to swollen knuckles.
A painful popping echoed through his jaw as it reshaped into something rounder, softer—but not delicate. His face puffed up with the unmistakable softness of someone who lived on beer, smokes, and microwaved bacon sandwiches. A faint smear of smudged eyeliner and overdrawn lipstick appeared on his face as if he’d just woken up from a rough night.
Oliver’s transformation was accelerating now.
He dropped to all fours as his balance shifted. His voice howled out, deep and raspy, now undeniably female.
“Fuuuuck! What’s… happenin’?!”
But even her own panic began to fade. As Oliver’s thoughts tried to string themselves together, they started getting… foggy. Sloppy. Her vocabulary shrank with every tick of the moment. Scientific terms were pushed aside by phrases like “fixin’ to,” “damn right,” and “who’s bringin’ the beer.”
She—yes, she now—reached for the dropped can of beer nearby and cracked it open. The hiss of carbonation was like a bell tolling the death of the old Oliver.
“Damn, I needed that,” she muttered, taking a long gulp. Her new name was forming—Charlene Jo-Lynn Baxter—and it felt right.
Memories invaded her brain like a sudden flood: skipping high school, fighting her cousin over a man, getting married at a drive-thru chapel in Reno, working night shifts at a gas station for six years, having two kids she only saw on weekends. Her trailer lot number was 84B. Her ex drove a monster truck. And she hated her stuck-up neighbor Brenda.
Her wide feet stepped into a pair of tattered flip-flops as she waddled toward her trailer with a cigarette already lit in her mouth. Her tank top clung to her sagging, oversized chest, her lower belly peeking out proudly. She belched loud enough to make the neighbor’s dog bark.
“Damn, I gotta go get me some more smokes before the NASCAR rerun comes on,” Charlene Jo-Lynn said to herself, adjusting her waistband with a scratch of her now massive rear end.
The last trace of Oliver vanished like steam on a grill.
Chapter 6: Becoming Part of the Wombworld
Drake wandered through the serene village, trying to stay calm.
Everywhere he turned, glowing women strolled past in long flowing gowns, soft sandals, and bare feet — their pregnant bellies swelling proudly beneath layers of silks and wraps. They looked strong and sacred. But he felt out of place. Wrong.
He gripped the wristband nervously.
Or what was left of it.
A jagged crack ran through its screen, flickering between warning glyphs and static. He hadn’t noticed until just now, and before he could try to fix it—
A strange wave passed through his core.
His stomach churned, not from fear, but nausea. His throat tightened and he bent forward with a groan.
“Ughhh, what the hell…”
He staggered to a nearby bench and collapsed onto it, panting. A sharp gurgle echoed from his belly, followed by a strange pressure low in his gut. He clutched it, eyes wide.
His jeans suddenly dug into his skin. Not because he was bloating—but because his waist was shrinking. At the same time, his hips began to spread. Bones cracked gently, his pelvis widening. He let out a surprised yelp as his thighs thickened with a soft femininity, his legs trembling from the shifting weight redistribution.
His hands flew to his chest just as it began to tingle.
Right behind his nipples, a dull ache grew—and then they started to swell. Not just grow—fill. The skin around his nipples darkened and puffed, stretching as two very full, very sensitive breasts ballooned outward beneath his shirt, jiggling with weight and tension. They were heavy. Soft. Veiny.
And leaking.
Drake gasped as warm droplets soaked through the thin fabric.
“No, no no no…”
He felt a tug in his groin. His eyes watered as the change below started. His manhood shrank—folded—vanished, leaving behind new folds and warmth, unfamiliar and exposed. He crossed his thickening legs instinctively as a strong cramp shot through his pelvis.
Another wave of nausea surged through him.
He doubled over just as morning sickness hit. Vile bile crawled up his throat and he vomited off the side of the bench. A group of passing pregnant women simply smiled and nodded sympathetically.
“It begins,” one of them whispered knowingly.
Drake didn’t understand.
But his back was arching now. His spine curving to accommodate a swelling womb that pressed outward with sudden urgency. His lower belly ballooned forward with shocking speed, stretching tighter and tighter. Veins surfaced. Skin flushed. His navel popped outward with a tiny plup.
He groaned and clutched his belly. It kicked.
“What—was that—?!”
He looked down and saw it. Three distinct bumps shifted across the taut curve of his now massively pregnant belly.
Triplets.
He was pregnant… with triplets.
The realization shattered what little resistance was left.
His body continued softening and rounding — thighs thick and dimpled, feet bare and swollen, face fuller and glowing with a maternal flush. His mind, overwhelmed, began to melt into something simpler, warmer. Softer. Rational panic gave way to an emotional wave of craving—of longing. She wanted to nest. To sit with the other women. To rub her belly and gossip and sip warm tea.
Her bladder spasmed.
She gasped as a small dribble soaked through her pants.
“Oops…” she whispered with a dazed giggle. Her voice had shifted completely. Feminine. Sweet. Tinged with fatigue and an airy cheerfulness.
A rumble from her bowels followed and she blushed. Her body had little control left—it had needs now. Bodily functions were unpredictable, exaggerated. She waddled toward the cottage steps in front of her and knocked, crossing her legs and shifting uncomfortably.
A pair of women opened the door and smiled warmly.
“New one?” one asked. “She looks far along already.”
“Come in, darling,” the other cooed, helping the heavily pregnant woman inside. “What’s your name?”
The question hung in the air.
Drake blinked slowly. “Mmm… Destiny. Destiny Bloom.”
Her smile widened.
That was her name.
She remembered now—her peaceful days in the garden, the morning sickness, the back rubs, the sisterhood. She remembered the names of her babies—Luna, Grace, and River. She remembered how beautiful it felt to be full.
She sat down on a soft chair, letting her belly rest between her knees as her breasts leaked gently onto her gown. She rubbed her bump lovingly and let out a contented, gassy sigh.
“Feels like I been pregnant forever,” she chuckled, completely unaware she was ever anyone else.
And maybe now… she never had been.
Epilogue: Lives Rewritten
Charlene Jo-Lynn Baxter
Down in lot 84B, beneath the low hum of a busted ceiling fan and the flicker of a beer sign she “borrowed” from the local dive bar, Charlene Jo-Lynn sat on her sagging recliner in her smoke-stained trailer, hollering at the TV while ash dangled precariously from her cigarette.
"Goddammit, Earl, flip it back to the rasslin’ or I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind!" she bellowed, scratching at her belly through a stretched-out tank top that proudly read “Born to Raise Hell.”
Earl, her off-again, on-again boyfriend, was out back trying to fix the lawnmower with duct tape and cuss words. Charlene had long since given up trying to civilize him—hell, she barely wanted to be civilized herself.
She worked weekends at Debbie’s Beer & Bait, where she handed out six-packs, told off customers who got too handsy, and smoked like a chimney between orders. Most days she just lounged around with her gal pals from the next lot over, talking trash, drinking cheap beer, and comparing tattoos and chili recipes.
Charlene had no memory of dimensions or devices or being a man. To her, she’d always been Charlene—loud, crass, trashy, and proud. And she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Destiny Bloom
Far, far away in a world bathed in eternal soft light and sweet floral breezes, Destiny Bloom sat on a wide, cushion-lined bench with her swollen belly nestled gently in her lap.
She hummed to herself, gently massaging her feet while warm droplets of milk stained the front of her gown. Her breasts ached constantly, and she needed to pee nearly every twenty minutes, but she didn’t mind. The soft kicks of her triplets in her womb were a constant comfort, a reminder that she had purpose, that her body was fulfilling its sacred role.
Every morning, she joined the others in the Gathering Circle, where they shared tea, belly rubs, and gentle songs. Every afternoon, she tended to her tiny garden, despite her waddle and frequent gassy interruptions. And every evening, she sat under the starlit dome, hand resting on her belly, whispering dreams to her unborn daughters.
She was known for her sweetness, her calm demeanor, and her blissful forgetfulness. The name Drake meant nothing to her. That person had vanished the moment she became Destiny, a beloved sister in the great matronal sanctuary.
Her only fears were stretch marks and running out of lavender oil.
And so…
Two once-curious explorers—clever, bold, and scientific—had become completely absorbed by the very realities they once studied.
Charlene swore, smoked, drank, and lived loud in a world of grit and grime.
Destiny glowed, leaked, and waddled through blissful motherhood in a paradise of eternal pregnancy.
Neither remembered who they were.
Neither missed what they had been.
And both were exactly where they belonged.
The End.
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(Oliver/Charlene-After)
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(Drake/Destiny-After)
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