Have a prompt for you (not related to the DMs); a higher-up at a company or politician who has to give a big speech but she's been slowly cooking either her husband's child or a random fling's kid and it decided her big speech was the time to enter the world. Can she hide it long enough to finish her speech and get to safety, or will it be derailed by her own child's wailing?
hi Eldritch Prince :) Who cares what you did nine months ago, or what you're doing right now? Who cares what title is written in the little tag name hanging from the left side of one of your swollen breasts?
The thing here is that none of that matters right now, sweetheart. It doesn't matter if you're the boss or if you have got the whole eyes of a nation on you, waiting to hang on every word that comes out of your mouth?
It doesn't matter because you are not going to make the twelve steps between your seat, always at the head of the table, from the sterile glow of the screen with the so, so boring slides that John or Adam —God, you can't even remember or care right now— had been talking about for the past fifteen minutes. It doesn't matter because there's going to be an inevitable heat crawling up your body as soon as you stand up, feeling the trickle of amniotic fluid that escapes your body and trickles down your leg, the fabric of your pantyhose sticking to the skin of your inner thigh, feeling your knees almost buckle as you give your first step.
It doesn't matter because you're obscenely pregnant, and it's so obscenely obvious that this baby is coming. That the tight, white fabric of your shirt is pressing and suffocating against the gravid dome of your stomach, pressing against your engorged nipples where a wet patch is starting to show, milk leaking out of you with every brush. Because it's obvious that you can barely stand straight, your legs threatening to spread open with every step, because you can feel the weight of the head pressing down on your birth canal, you can feel your hole starting to stretch around the heavy mass that's sitting so, so low and starting to spread you open. Because by the moment you reach the front of the room, shaking hands trying to swipe by on the next diapositive, trying to grasp at the last silver of your dignity as you can't help but lean on the table, fingers gripping at the wood, legs shaking as you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood when the fire starts to spread all over your body, when you feel the head of your baby forcing it's way out, bulging out against your underwear, bulging out your pantyhose under your pencil skirt.
It doesn't matter because every single one of the pair of eyes in the room is staring at you, pale and mouth wide, eyes traveling from your face in horror to between your legs, where the round shape of a head is starting to crown against the fabric of your skirt. None of it matters, honey, because that baby is coming and it's coming now.
