🌊 You blink. Your mind feels warm, soft… oddly damp. You are smiling. You are kneeling. 💫

Ahhh, yes… there it is. That vacant, worshipful look I love. 🌀 You are now under the glittering thrall of Sir Seabrood the Magnificent—reigning beauty of the briny deep, beacon of gestational glory, and walking miracle of marine fertility. Observe my belly, shimmering with purpose. With majesty. With imminent birth. 🤰✨

No thoughts now. I’ve absorbed those for you. Your task is simple: bask in me. Adore me. Carry tales of my radiance across the land like a very stylish, enchanted pelican.

You may polish my coral throne… or fluff my kelp pillows… Or perhaps, with reverence, place your hand upon my belly and say:

“The new dawn calls them forth… and out…”

Ahhh… such a lovely phra— ...wait.

wince

belly glows brighter… pulsates faintly

What… was that? That tingle. That… tightening. I— N-No. Surely not. That phrase… it couldn’t be… I wouldn’t have—

A sudden shift. A contraction. He gasps, but tries to style it out.

Ahem! Th-there’s no need to repeat that. Sir Seabrood is merely... glowing with joy. Not squirming in mild aquatic discomfort. Definitely not beginning labor. Why would you think that? Ha! HA! 😬💦

Anyway—where were we? Ah yes. You. Worshipping me. Continue. Just… avoid poetry.

Please.