The eight-year-old Segment was unlike any child you had ever met.
When you were in the Akademiya with Zandik, you had gathered bits and pieces from what he told you about his childhood to somewhat imagine what a little Zandik would look like. It was… difficult to envision, not because you couldn’t form a picture, but because the thought of him being hurt so deeply as a child hurt you too. But when you finally saw the slice of his child self in front of you, you quickly realized the reality was far more cruel than you could ever think of on your own.
His eyes were… empty. For someone so young, not even a glimmer of light could be seen within the redness. It would have comforted you more to see even anger or sadness, but there seemed to be nothing of the sort. And yet, it did not deter you from attempting to befriend him, despite Eight’s initial lack of interest.
He was the child, and yet you were the one wandering after him like a lost kid. The Segment would just stare at you before excusing himself. Perhaps he was confused about why you were speaking to him in such an excited tone. Perhaps he did not know how to deal with it. All he knew was that the others had told him to treat you respectfully but not to bother you, and Eighteen specifically gave him a look every time you tried to usher him closer.
But in the end, a child was a child. A child would think and behave like one no matter how much they buried themselves, and that was also true for little Eight. You had noticed Eight frequently spent his spare time writing and doodling in his notebook, although he would always shut it if you got too close, obviously still guarded around you. At least he had gotten comfortable enough to let you stay in his room. Still, it was easy to piece together what he was doing in there. So, one day you slipped him a drawing of an Aranara you had drawn yourself.
Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly.
“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”
“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.
“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”
“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.
“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.
“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.
“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.
“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.
The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk.
“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”
For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.
“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”
“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.
“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?”
And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.
“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.
“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.
Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.
—
One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.
“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.
“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”
He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.
“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…
“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.
Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.
“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.
“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.
Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.
—
Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.
“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.
“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.
“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.
“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.
“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.
“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true.
—
The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.
You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.
All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.
“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.
“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.
“What do you mean?”
“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing?
“But why?”
“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”
“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.
“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.
“A-And what does he say?”
“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”
“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.
“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do?
“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.
“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.
You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…
“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.
“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.
“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?
“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.
The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.
You were truly a warm person.
His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.
The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.
CW: Nefer x Reader, Blind! Reader, may be ooc for Nefer
So hear me out on Medusa! Nefer x Blind! Reader where Reader stumbles into Nefer’s lair after getting lost in the woods. At first, Nefer is incredibly wary of Reader, solely because many have entered her lair in an attempt to slay her, but she is surprised when Reader doesn’t seem to react to her “monstrous” appearance, or even turn to stone for that matter. Instead, she cluelessly calls out for help, exhausted and hungry after her long trek through the forest.
Nefer watches from afar. She keeps her distance before reluctantly stepping out to asses the situation. Unfortunately, Nefer steps on an ironically placed twig, causing a snap to echo throughout the cave.
“Wh-Who’s there?”
Reader calls out, fearfully stepping back before suddenly tripping over a tree root. Nefer reacts instantly, an arm shooting out to catch the fair maiden by the waist before she could fall.
“Ah, careful there.”
Nefer hadn’t spoken to anyone in years, let alone touched someone. She feels the soft skin, the warm blood, the instant connection of a living, breathing, human in her arms. Reader doesn’t seem disgusted when she feels the scales on Nefer’s arms either. Instead, she brightens up at the contact of another being and thanks them for catching her.
“Oh! Thank you, ma’am. I am so sorry if I am trespassing…”
Nefer was going to attempt to kill Reader, or at least shoo her out of her cave the moment she spotted her. But after seeing how sweet and grateful the blind woman was, even reaching out to loop her arms around her neck in thanks, Nefer feels her resolve weaken. She can’t possibly chase out such a defenseless young woman. She had no guide, not even a walking stick to help her navigate these woods. She would die the minute she stepped back out, especially considering that the sun was going down…
So, Nefer makes the bold decision to let Reader stay with her in the lair, but she retains her distance as to not frighten the young maiden. She didn’t want her touching her all over, feeling the scales, hearing the snakes on her head hiss. She would grow rather accustomed to Reader’s presence, not wanting her to leave whilst caring for her at the same time. She makes sure to feed her, clothe her, protect her, all the while trying to keep her identity as a snake monster a secret.
I just think a slow burn romance with a Medusa-like character and a blind woman is just so peak. It’s kind of like a Beauty and the Beast situation except Nefer never kidnapped Reader and just takes care of her the entire time 🥺
Sooo, this was originally written after reading something @wegotfoodathome wrote (involving a pregnant reader). And, not surprisingly, it turned into something bigger.
Aaaaaand, I needed a break from all the smut I was writing. Going back to my comfy origins of fluff (with the exception of Raihan...that man is a horn dog and you can't convince me otherwise).
Characters: Corbeau, Philippe, Grisham, Ivor, Urbain, Vinnie, L/Lysandre, Lance, Raihan, Kabu, Leon, Piers, Hassel, Brassius, Larry, and Steven Stone
CW: men, pregnant reader, pregnancy, labor, nsfw is marked
Steam curled in soft ribbons above the bath, blurring the air, softening the lamplight, and cloaking everything in a warmth your exhausted body clung to. You lay back against the porcelain, one leg stretched along the bottom, the other bent to give your hips some relief. The water lapped gently around you, most of your belly submerged—except for the very top of it; the high, round swell that refused to sink, rising like a small moon above the surface.
Corbeau sat on the floor beside the tub, legs folded with that precise, feline neatness he carried into everything. His tailored coat was draped over a nearby chair, deep purple sleeves rolled back just enough for him to work. His hand—cool at first, then warm—cradled yours as he pressed his thumb slowly into the center of your palm.
You sighed. “Oh…that one hurts.”
“Mm,” he murmured, his expression unreadable behind angular glasses. “That means it’s working.”
He adjusted his grip, pushing at another pressure point with the careful precision of a man who never did anything halfway. You watched his face, his sharp yellow eyes focused entirely on your hand, his purple hair—styled in that distinctive toxic ripple—catching the lamplight. He looked uncharacteristically calm here, stripped of his coat, sleeves rolled back, attending to you with quiet, devout concentration.
“Philippe is managing bedtime?” he asked after a moment, voice low, even.
“Managing,” you echoed, smiling tiredly. “Either reading her a story or bribing her with pastries. Hard to say.”
A faint huff of amusement left him—barely there, but real. “I think she listens to him better than you or me.”
“He’s her godfather. She thinks he hung the moon.”
Corbeau’s thumbs slowed. “He should. It’s the role he was given.”
You laughed, letting the warmth soak deeper into your muscles. He shifted to your other hand, lifting it from the water and drying it gently before working on the base of your thumb. The ache eased again under his touch, spreading upward, loosening something that had been tight for days.
“Are we ready?” you asked softly after a stretch of silence.
He didn’t look up. “For what?”
“You know.” You exhaled through your nose. “To do this all over again. The whole thing. Labor. Childbirth. The sleepless nights. Feeding every two hours. Diapers. The blowouts. The spit-up. The…very glamorous healing process.”
His thumbs paused, not in hesitation, but in thought. “I'm ready,” he said simply. “More than ready.”
You smiled despite yourself. Corbeau never lied, and he never embellished. If he said he was ready, it meant he had considered every angle, every burden, every cost.
Still, you huffed. “I’m not sure I’m ready for leaky boobs again.”
He stopped massaging.
You followed his stare downward.
His gaze was locked in that sharp, unblinking, predatory way of his, on the top of your chest where the bath water glistened over fuller, heavier breasts. The man was subtle in many things; this was not one of them.
“Corbeau,” you said, snapping your fingers lightly.
His eyes flicked back to your face, utterly unrepentant. “You brought them up.”
“And you didn’t need to visually investigate my claims.”
“On the contrary,” he said dryly, resuming his massage, “I found the demonstration illuminating.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered as you continued, “And then there’s the sitting. Do you remember how much pain I was in just for sitting? The donut helped, slightly—oh, and then there was the bleeding. I swear I couldn’t even sneeze without—”
He interrupted, voice flat as stone. “It sounds like you’re not ready at all.”
You snorted at the deadpan delivery. “No. I’m ready.” You let your head tip back against the tub’s edge, your voice softening. “You all make it worth it.”
His hands worked slower on yours.
Then, you felt a firm, purposeful kick beneath the water. Your breath hitched, and y reached for Corbeau’s hand wordlessly, guiding it to the swell of your belly.
Corbeau leaned closer, glasses slipping down his nose as he focused entirely on the point beneath his palm. The baby kicked again, stronger this time, and something changed in his face—subtle but unmistakable. A softening. A bloom of warmth cracking through the austere shell he wore like a uniform.
His lips parted slightly, and when his next breath came, it was slow, and amazement.
He shifted forward without thinking, bracing a hand on the tub’s edge as he leaned in to kiss you. His mouth met yours gently—no bite, no sharpness, none of the edge he showed the world. Just warmth, and devotion, and a tenderness he reserved for only two people on earth: the child asleep in the next room, and the one still safe inside you.
When he pulled back, he touched his nose to yours as he spoke softly enough that the bath’s surface almost swallowed the sound.
“I love you.”
You drew him back in by the collar, touching your nose to his. “I love you, too.”
His hand remained on your belly long after the baby settled again, fingers splayed, protective, humbled, proud. And his other hand took up yours, slow and steady, grounding you both in the quiet warmth of the bath and the life you’d made together—twice now, and counting.
Philippe
Philippe sat at the foot of the bed like he was afraid to jostle you, even though the mattress barely dipped under his weight. For a man built like a brick wall in a tailored three-piece suit, he handled your swollen feet as if they were made of glass. His thumbs pressed slow circles into your arches, big hands warm and careful, working through the puffiness that had made even standing feel like punishment.
You lay propped against a mountain of pillows, belly huge and round beneath your soft shirt, the pregnancy having fully claimed your body in the final stretch. Bed rest had been doctor-ordered, and Philippe took that order with the gravity of a sacred oath. He refused to let anyone else tend to you if he was in the building.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice deep and surprisingly gentle for a man with mutton chops sharp enough to cut steel. “Your feet are very swollen today.”
“They’re always swollen,” you sighed. “Everything is swollen.”
“Mm,” he agreed sympathetically, adjusting your foot in his palm. “You’re carrying our first child, and your body works very hard.”
You groaned into your pillow. “Too hard. Look at me—my nose is huge. Pregnancy nose is real, and I hate it.”
Philippe blinked once, slowly. “Your nose is adorable.”
“You’re lying.”
“I do not lie,” he said earnestly, then added in a lower rumble, “Especially not to my wife.”
You huffed, covering your face for a moment. “And, I don’t even get the cute pregnancy glow. I get melasma. Blotches. I look like a taupe Rorschach test.”
Philippe’s hands paused just long enough for you to see the frown lines pull at his brow. “You look beautiful.”
You shook your head. “Philippe, you don’t have to—”
“I’m not flattering you,” he said, resuming the massage with slow, steady pressure. “I’m simply stating a fact.”
You sighed, caught between exasperation and affection, letting your head fall back. “Well…there are some perks, least.”
His silver eyes flicked up, curious. “Mm?”
“My boobs,” you admitted. “My butt. And…my sex drive. God, I couldn’t get enough of the sex! I’d have it more if I didn’t have this belly in the way.”
The pause this time was longer. Much longer. Philippe’s ears turned pink.
“Ah,” he said, reverent as a monk beholding a miracle. “Yes. Those have been…very noticeable changes.”
You snorted. “Philippe...”
“I am only agreeing,” he insisted, but the warm appreciation in his stare made you roll your eyes.
“We’re going to need a whole new wardrobe for me after this.”
“We will buy anything you want,” he said without missing a beat. “Every size. Every style. Corbeau will get us a discount.”
You laughed. “I'm sure he will.”
“He will for you,” Philippe said simply. “He fears you more than he fears me.”
Before you could respond, he shifted slightly closer, rubbing long strokes along your outer ankle to help circulation. His expression softened, seriousness edging into worry at the corners.
“You asked earlier,” he said quietly. “If we were ready.”
You swallowed. The humor faded as the real fear—your fear—rose again.
“Childbirth scares me,” you admitted. “Everything about it. The pain. The uncertainty. And breastfeeding sounds awful, at least at first. And postpartum? I’ve heard horror stories. The bleeding. The exhaustion. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not—”
Philippe stilled your foot between both of his hands, holding it.
“Mon cœur,” he said softly, “you are already doing it.”
Your throat tightened.
“You’ve carried this child with strength,” he continued. “You have adapted. Endured discomfort. Fear. Change. All for them. That is motherhood already. And when the time comes, you won’t face any part of it alone.” His voice lowered, warm and steady. “I will be with you. Every step. Every moment. Every breath.”
Your eyes stung, and you blinked at the ceiling.
“And,” he added almost casually, “the entire Rust Syndicate is prepared to assist.”
That startled a laugh out of you. “Philippe—”
“Oh, they have already organized schedules.” He nodded solemnly. “Rotating shifts. Cooking duty. Guard duty. Diaper duty. Many of them have younger siblings. They feel confident.”
You covered your face with your hands, laughing harder. “This is ridiculous.”
“That is loyalty,” Philippe corrected. “And they are very excited.”
Then, with mild irritation: “Also, Corbeau has been pestering me every day to let him be the godfather.”
“Oh my god.” You snorted. “He already is the godfather!”
“Not officially,” Philippe said darkly. “Paperwork remains unsigned.”
“Leave it to Corbeau to draft a contract for god-parentage,” you laughed.
You were still laughing when you felt the baby move. You gasped, gripping Philippe’s wrist.
“Here,” you whispered, guiding his hand to the protrusion.
He froze, wide-eyed. Another kick pushed against his palm and his entire expression transformed—softening, melting, opening in a way you had never seen outside moments like this.
“Our child…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “They are strong.”
You lifted your shirt, baring your belly fully. The baby shifted again, making the skin roll visibly. It always unnerved you a little, seeing it instead of just feeling it, and you exhaled shakily. “It’s weird, right?”
“No,” Philippe breathed, transfixed. “It is…miraculous.”
His big hand splayed over the curve of you, awe radiating from him like heat. His other hand moved to your hip as if anchoring you to the bed, to him, to the moment.
He looked at you then—not at your belly, but at you—as if something inside him had clicked into place.
“I respect and love you more every day,” he said simply. “For this. For everything.”
Your heart clenched.
And as the baby kicked again beneath his palm, Philippe bowed his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your stomach—tender enough to break you completely.
Grisham
The night had gone still hours ago, the kind of quiet that presses against the windows and turns every shift of the bedsheets into a thunderclap. You lay on your side, body pillow hugged to your chest, belly heavy and unwieldy, trying—and failing—to maneuver yourself into something resembling comfort. Every attempt to roll, even slightly, sent a jolt of pain through your hips, and the baby protested with a pointed shove that made you wince.
You groaned softly into the dark. “Ow…come on…”
The man beside you stirred. Sheets rustled. A faint sigh. Then:
“…Are you alright?”
Grisham’s voice was sleep-roughened, low, and warm in that way he never allowed during waking hours. You felt the mattress dip as he turned toward you, his movements slow and deliberate—he always moved as though calculating each action ahead of time.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” he murmured, even though you knew you had. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“Everything hurts,” you admitted. “I can’t get situated. Every time I roll, it feels like my pelvis is going to split open.”
Your shirt had ridden up in your struggle, leaving your belly exposed to the cool air. Grisham’s eyes, softened faint light from the window, drifted down to it. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched the rise and fall of your breath, the faint twitch of movement beneath your skin.
Then he reached out, fingertips barely brushing your belly before he settled his palm against it, beginning a slow, steady massage. His touch was careful, respectful, but sure as he pressed low and gentle circles near your hips before smoothing upward.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“A little,” you breathed, relaxing into the pillow.
Silence stretched, long and easy.
“I’m hungry.”
In the dark, Grisham huffed a soft laugh. “Of course you are.” He shifted upright, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand and placing them on his face. “What would you like?”
“Pain au chocolat,” you said immediately.
Another quiet laugh. “Naturally. That’s all you’ve been craving during your whole pregnancy.” He ran a hair through his red-orange and white locks, and then rubbed your stomach once more, affectionate and amused. “There were leftovers at the café today. I’ll warm one for you.”
He moved to get out of bed, but you stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Wait—I’m coming with you.”
Grisham hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I want to.”
He watched you for a moment, the faint shine of his glasses catching a sliver of moonlight. Then he nodded, before getting out of the bed.
You braced yourself, trying to roll onto your back. The moment you shifted, the baby shoved hard, painful and insistent.
“Ah—” you gasped, pausing as the ache radiated through your pelvis.
Grisham was at your side in an instant, offering both hands.
You blinked up at him.
A sleepy, gentle smile tugged at his mouth.
You took his hands, and he pulled you up with all the patience in the world. Once you were upright, you pressed your palm to your belly, rubbing the sore spot as you caught your breath.
“Slowly,” he reminded you. “One step at a time.”
You nodded and began your careful waddle toward the kitchen, following the quiet sound of his footsteps.
You sank into a chair at the table with a relieved sigh, stretching your legs out. Your hands instinctively cupped your belly while Grisham moved with quiet efficiency around the kitchen. The soft hum of the microwave, the faint clink of a mug, the gentle clatter of chocolate packets being opened; every sound felt intimate in the stillness of night.
He set the warmed pain au chocolat in front of you, then placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate beside it.
“Here,” he murmured, sliding into the chair next to yours.
You ate in silence, enjoying the way the chocolate melted on your tongue. Grisham watched you. Not in an overbearing way, but with a soft, contemplative focus. Like you were a painting he wasn’t quite finished studying.
At one point, without thinking, you set your small plate on top of your belly to free your hands for the mug.
Grisham’s lips twitched. “A convenient surface.”
“It’s a table,” you sighed dramatically. “I’ve become a table.”
“A beautiful table,” he added.
You snorted and nudged his knees with yours.
When the last crumbs were gone, you set the plate down and leaned back, content and heavy-limbed.
Grisham looked at you with a teasing glimmer in his eyes. “I’ve never seen you so devoted to chocolate.”
“It’s not me,” you corrected, patting your belly. “It’s the baby.”
His gaze dropped again, lingering. You felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected. You covered part of your stomach with your hand—not hiding it, exactly, but comforting yourself.
“…Grisham,” you murmured, “do you…regret staying with me?”
His head snapped up so fast the strands of hair that were in front of his face flung back. “What?”
“You didn’t have to,” you continued, softly. “You never talked about wanting kids. I know your upbringing wasn’t…” You swallowed. “Ideal. I figured you had no interest in being a father, not that I was expecting to be a mother so soon.”
His expression shifted. Offense first, quick and sharp, then something softer pushing through.
“I never saw myself as a father,” he admitted slowly. “That much is true.”
You nodded, absentmindedly. You’d accepted the idea long ago, but it still didn’t stop the slight pang of disappointment,
“But,” he continued, voice gentler now, “if I were ever to have children…I cannot imagine having them with anyone but you.”
Warmth blossomed in your chest as your hand resumed rubbing your belly, this time with affection rather than unease.
You breathed out. “Are you scared?”
There was a pause. A long one.
“Yes,” he said at last. “A little.” He adjusted his glasses. “But, I believe all new parents feel that way. Don’t you?”
He looked at you, then, with a softness he rarely allowed.
“And you?” he asked.
Your throat tightened. “I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything,” you said with a laugh. “What if something happens during delivery? What if something is wrong with the baby? What if—”
Your breath hitched as the spiral took hold. Your lips trembled.
Grisham reached across the table, covering your hand firmly with his own. Then he guided both your hands to your belly, brushing your knuckles with his thumb in slow, calming strokes.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re not facing this alone. I’ll be there. Start to finish. Whatever happens, we meet it together.”
You inhaled and then exhaled, grounding yourself in the warmth of his hand.
“And,” he added, tone dry but undeniably fond, “I am told Corbeau intends to arrive at the hospital the moment he receives the call.”
You laughed wetly. “Of course he does. I’d rather it be you, though.”
With a warm smile Grisham stood then, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Feel a little better?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I…do.”
He gathered your empty plate and mug, moving with that quiet precision he never lost, even half-asleep at two in the morning.
Ivor
Lower-back pain had become your constant companion these last weeks, a deep, grinding ache that no amount of pillows or stretches could ease.
Ivor knelt behind you on the floor, huge hands working along either side of your spine, palms warm, pressure steady. He’d been at it for several minutes—long enough that you felt the muscles start to loosen, and long enough that he’d grown quiet in concentration, his breath brushing the back of your neck.
But even he couldn’t hold off the inevitable.
You groaned as another wave of discomfort rolled through your lower back. “It’s coming back.”
Ivor froze, hands hovering. His golden hair shifted as he leaned to peek around your shoulder, amber eyes wide and concerned. “Again? Already?”
“Yes,” you sighed. “Again.”
He frowned in determination, brow furrowed, lip pouting, the picture of a very serious, very large man trying to fight something he couldn’t punch. “Okay. Alright. What else can I do? Name it and I’ll do it.”
You bit back a laugh. “It was of someone gently lifting their partner’s belly to take the weight off their hips.”
His eyes widened in fascinated horror. “Lift…your belly? Like, the whole thing?”
“Only if you’re up for it.”
“I’M UP FOR ANYTHING,” he declared, too loudly, then lowered his voice. “I mean—yes. Show me how, please.”
You guided him to sit on a sturdy chair—because he was ginormous, and you were very much not. He sat obediently, thighs spread, posture perfect like a student awaiting instruction. You stood between his knees and turned around. Then, you lifted your shirt, exposing the heavy curve of your belly.
“Okay,” you murmured. “Just put your hands underneath, carefully, and gently lift.”
He slipped his hands beneath your bump, palms broad and warm, fingers curving around the underside, and then he lifted.
Relief slammed into you, immediate and overwhelming, your whole body sagging back against his chest.
You let yourself relax fully then, sinking against him, your hands resting on top of his. His arms wrapped around the lifted curve of your belly, supporting its full weight. The ache in your hips evaporated, and a dreamy sigh escaped you.
“Not long now,” you murmured, eyes half-closing.
“No,” Ivor echoed, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. “Not long at all.”
There was something new in his tone. It steady and almost…quiet. For Ivor, it meant everything.
“Are you excited?” you asked.
“Of course I am,” he replied without hesitation.
“Really?”
He huffed a small laugh against your ear. “Wouldn’t you be excited for something you’ve wanted for a long time?”
You paused. “…I suppose so.”
“Exactly.” His thumbs stroked lightly across the underside of your belly. “We’ve been wanting this. Wanting them. For months.”
Warmth spread through you—relief, affection, and disbelief that this massive, golden himbo of a dojo master could sound so earnest.
You melted deeper against him, letting the bliss wash over you.
A comfortable silence settled before Ivor spoke again. “Oh—and Gwynn’s excited to be an aunt.”
You barked a laugh. “She is not.”
“Oh, she is,” he said confidently. “She pretends she’s not. But I know my sister. She’s excited.”
You hummed skeptically. “We’ll see.”
Ivor shifted behind you, adjusting his hold slightly, and you felt the pressure return as your belly lowered a fraction.
“No,” you whined. “Don’t. Keep holding it.”
He snorted. “You’re getting greedy.”
“Shut up,” you shot back affectionately. “I’m the one growing the baby.”
His laugh vibrated through your back. “Fair point.”
You let your hands slide over his, fingers tracing the tendons in his strong wrists. “I just hope the baby is…normal sized.”
Ivor gasped, deeply, and theatrically offended. “HEY. I was a normal-size baby!”
You arched a brow he couldn’t see. “Were you?”
A long pause.
“…I think I was.”
You burst out laughing.
“No one ever told me otherwise!” he insisted. “I—well—actually, no one ever told me anything about it, but still!”
He sounded so earnest, so sincerely flustered, that your laughter softened into a warm, loving chuckle as you leaned harder against him.
“Keep holding it,” you murmured again.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said fondly, adjusting his grip with exaggerated care.
Your hips had stopped throbbing, and your spine felt like it had been unknotted. And in the steady cradle of his massive hands, supported and held, you felt—finally—light.
Ivor breathed in quietly behind you, then exhaled just as softly.
“Can’t wait to meet them,” he murmured.
And for the first time all day, you could say the words back without pain.
“…Me too.”
Urbain
You shouldn’t have laid down. You knew you shouldn’t have laid down, but the stretch had felt so good—your spine popping, your arms reaching overhead—and then the couch had looked so soft, so inviting, so perfectly shaped for a very pregnant person to collapse onto.
And now you were half-buried in it. One leg trapped. One arm pinned. Your belly taking up 85% of the available surface area.
“Urbain!” you yelled toward the hallway. “Urbain, help! I’m stuck!”
A beat of silence.
Then hurried footsteps.
Then—
A giggle. A genuine, can’t-contain-it, bubbling laugh from the doorway.
“Oh my Arceus,” Urbain wheezed, clutching the frame as he looked at you splayed helplessly on the couch. “Babe—you look like a flipped-over Torkoal.”
“Don't laugh!” you protested, already laughing too because his stupid grin was impossible to resist. “This hurts, you jerk!”
His laughter died down. “Okay, okay—hang on.”
He rushed over, slipping one arm behind your shoulders, one beneath your knees, and very carefully levering you upright. You grunted as your belly shifted with the movement, and Urbain winced sympathetically, slowing down until you were finally sitting, catching your breath.
“You good?” he asked softly, crouched in front of you, blue eyes bright with worry.
“Yeah,” you exhaled. “Just…stuck.”
He grinned. “Well, you’re unstuck now. Ready for the daily walk?”
You nodded.
He helped you stand, steadied you as you waddled outside, and then the two of you began curb-walking: one foot on the curb, one foot off, your hips swaying, and letting gravity doing its job.
Urbain walked beside you with both hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets, bouncing with leftover energy, glancing at your belly every few seconds like it might peel open and reveal a baby fully assembled.
“So…” he began. “Why exactly do we do this again?”
“To help get the baby into position,” you panted. “Sometimes it encourages labor.”
“Ohhh.” He nodded sagely. “Right. Right. Science stuff. Got it.”
You rolled your eyes affectionately.
“Okay, so—” He lifted a finger. “Birth plan. When your water breaks, we said we’re gonna stay calm—right? Pack’s already by the door. I’ll call Vinnie to let him know so he can start covering for me. Lida and Naveen said they’re good to handle Hotel Z. And Corbeau—uh—”
He coughed.
You smirked. “Go on.”
“He, uh…bought us, like…a lot of stuff.” Urbain looked vaguely unsettled. “Like…way too much. Expensive stuff. For you, mostly. Which is—y’know—nice? Weird, but nice?”
You snorted. “That’s Corbeau.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get that dude sometimes. But hey, diapers are diapers.”
You walked in silence for a minute, both of you breathing in the cool air. Urbain kept glancing at you like he wanted to ask something.
Finally he blurted, “So,you’re over due, right? Is that…bad? Like, normal-but-scary? Or, like, scary-but-normal?”
You laughed breathlessly. “It’s normal, Urbain. Babies rarely come on their due date.”
“Oh.” He nodded again. “Good. Okay.”
Another few steps.
Then, the pressure changed.
You were mid-stride when it happened: a tightening low in your abdomen, a pressure that made you stop and brace your hand on your knee. Then, with your other hand, you lifted your shirt.
For a second nothing happened. And then, your entire belly shifted downward. The round dome that had been riding high beneath your ribs slowly descended, its weight settling lower into your pelvis. The upper curve deflated slightly, softening, while the underside grew fuller, heavier. The top of your belly, once pushed forward and proud, lost a bit of its height, and the bottom suddenly had that suspended, hammock-like fullness that only happens at the very end.
You and Urbain watched in stunned silence.
His jaw fell open.
“Whoa…” Urbain breathed. “Did your belly just—like—move?”
You ran your hand along the underside, feeling its new position—lower, rounder, hanging just a little closer to your hips than before.
“Yep,” you said breathlessly, “This is a good sign.”
Urbain, eyes wide, nodded like he was witnessing Pokémon evolution in real time. “It’s so weird. And kinda cool. But mostly weird.”
You laughed. “Well, I don’t want to push my luck. Let’s head back home,."
You both turned around to head back home. Urbain yapped the rest of the way but you tuned him out, thinking about how close you were to having your baby in your arms. Then—
Pop.
You froze.
A rush of warm fluid soaked down your legs, into your socks, and onto the sidewalk.
Urbain stopped mid-sentence. “Did—uh—did you just—spill something or—”
“Um, I think my water broke...” you said, brow furrowing. "That was quick."
“Oh….OH! OH NO! HANG ON! OKAY, WE GOTTA, UH—WE DO THE…THE—THE PLAN—RIGHT? THE PLAN—what was the plan?—THE BABY’S COMING—OH MY GOD!”
“Urbain—”
“WE GOTTA GO! WE GOTTA…CALL SOMEONE! WE GOTTA—AAAAAH—”
“Urbain!”
But he was already fumbling for his phone, pacing in frantic circles, muttering to himself as he dialed numbers. And then he took off running toward home, full sprint, yelling over his shoulder:
“I’M GETTING THE BAG, STAY THERE! DON’T MOVE, BABE! DON’T—MOVE! I GOT THIS.”
"Urbain, wait—!"
You sighed as you watched Urbain sprint away, phone already at his ear, probably shouting at Lida, or Vinnie, or possibly a wrong number in his panic.
"…He really just left.”
Shrugging, you started walking slowly, carefully, toward home. Your lower belly tightened slightly, but no contraction followed.
Then, someone took your arm—steady, deliberate, but gentle.
“You know I shouldn’t be surprised at your husband’s actions,” he muttered, “Given that he had no problem getting his team into immense debt that he couldn’t repay himself. What kind of husband abandons his pregnant wife after her water breaks?”
You winced. “He didn’t abandon me, Corbeau. He just panicked…a little.”
Corbeau gave you a look so dry it could have evaporated the small puddle at your feet. “A little?”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “He means well.”
“I am aware.” His tone softened a fraction. “However, someone must compensate for his… enthusiasm.”
He offered his arm.
You hesitated only a moment before taking it, grateful for the support as the two of you began your slow walk home.
After a block of quiet steps, you glanced sideways at him.
“You know, it seems awfully convenient that you appeared just now.”
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he just smiled. Just a small, knowing curve of his mouth, the kind that said he had absolutely no intention of elaborating.
Finally, he murmured, “I make it a point to be where I am needed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That doesn’t answer anything.”
“It answers everything,” he corrected, tone silk-smooth.
You looked up at the sky, thoughtful. “…Do you know everything?”
“More than enough.”
You snorted. “That’s not creepy at all. Might be borderline stalker behavior.”
He scoffed, face sharpening in annoyance, before softening. “But if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be walking you home so you don’t face the streets of Lumiose in…your current condition.”
“I don’t think I’m in any real danger, Corbeau,” you patted his arm. Then, you elbowed him gently. “Besides, these are your streets.”
“Precisely why I prefer to supervise who walks them.”
You huffed a laugh, leaning slightly into his support as another ache tugged at your hips. Corbeau glanced down at your belly, and then returned his gaze forward, expression unreadable again, but softer at the edges.
Together, you made your way home, slow, steady, and strangely peaceful, while somewhere ahead, Urbain was undoubtedly tearing the house apart searching for the hospital bag sitting exactly where he told you it would be.
Vinnie
Vinnie’s key glinted when the apartment door swung open, his breath coming a little fast, a little winded from the rush. His sunglasses were already sliding off as his gaze swept the room in one sharp, practiced motion.
His daughter reached him first, barreling into his legs. He caught her automatically, hand bracing her back, but his eyes had gone straight to you—nine months pregnant, settled on the birthing ball, the TV playing a bright kids’ show, your breath easing out as another mild contraction faded.
“How are you feeling?” he asked immediately, voice steady, calm, controlled. “Any pain? How long apart?”
You answered with the same steadiness he gave you. “I’m fine. They’re still far apart, so they’re pretty mild for now. And I already called the midwife—she’s on her way.”
The tension in his shoulders softened. He trusted your read. and he trusted the midwife far more than any hospital in Kalos after the experience with his daughter’s birth—a memory that still tightened his expression whenever it surfaced.
“Good,” he had murmured, something warm sitting behind the word.
“She peed on the floor, papa,” his daughter piped up, still wrapped around his leg. “But I helped clean up the mess.”
You started laughing, slightly mortified, at how his daughter described your water breaking to him.
Vinnie smiled down warmly at her. “Thank you, sweetheart. That was very nice of you to do that.” Then, he turned to you. “Are you hungry?”
You shrugged. “I can eat.”
His daughter had chimed in gleefully, “I’m hungry too!”
Vinnie had sighed a fond, weary sigh and released a Poké Ball. “Alright. Let me handle it.”
Drampa materialized in the living room with a soft, crooning rumble, padding straight toward you. He sniffed your belly with slow, careful breaths before settling behind you like a massive, scaled grandfather chair.
“Hello, Grampa Drampa,” you teased gently.
Vinnie had shot you a look. “Please stop calling him that.”
“Grampa Drampa.”
Drampa puffed up with unmistakable pride and Vinnie shook his head before heading into the kitchen.
Vinnie’s daughter dropped onto her coloring books while you continued to roll your hips on the birthing ball, Drampa’s warm exhale brushing your back every so often, easing tension you didn’t notice until it softened under his presence.
Another contraction crept through your abdomen, deeper this time, but still manageable. You breathed through it, and Drampa leaned in, humming his concern.
“It’s okay,” you had whispered to him. “Just a contraction.”
He reluctantly settled, though his gaze stayed pinned to you like a watchdog who refused to clock out.
By the time Vinnie returned, he had two plates balanced in one hand and a homemade electrolyte drink in the other—coconut water, lemon, honey, salt. Quick work, even for him.
He handed you the drink first. “Small sips.”
It had been perfect. Bright. Cooling. Exactly what your body wanted. He handed his daughter her plate. Then, just as he went to hand you yours a contraction hit hard and sudden. Sharper. Your breath had hitched, your hand flying to your belly, and you braced.
Vinnie reacted instantly.
The plate was set aside, forgotten. He knelt behind you, palms pressing firmly into your lower back with steady counterpressure. It hadn’t erased the pain, but it had softened the edges, brought your breath back to you, given you something to lean into.
When it ebbed, you slumped with relief.
You turned your head just enough to look at him. “Where’d you learn that? You didn’t come to the classes…”
His expression softened into something rare, something closely held. “I learned it with my first wife,” he had said quietly.
The tenderness in his voice had meant more than the words.
You took another sip of the drink as he passed you your plate—miraculously untouched, though Drampa looked very proud of himself for the restraint.
His daughter had watched closely. “Are you hurting?”
“Mhm.” You’d smiled. “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
“A girl!” she had declared immediately.
You had laughed. “And what if it’s a boy?”
She’d paused, thought hard, then shrugged with the earnestness only a child could manage.
“Then I’ll just teach him everything I know. So he won’t be scared.” She tapped her chest proudly. “And I’ll be the bestest big sister ever. Even if it's a baby brother.”
The words had melted your heart on the spot.
Behind you, Vinnie had gone still for a beat, a warm, quiet breath catching in his chest. The sound of a man overflowing with pride for her and for this moment.
He had resumed massaging your lower back while you ate, his movements steady, grounding. Drampa had curled protectively around you both. Vinnie’s daughter had drawn hearts and smiling stick figures with wild scribbles of green and gold.
L
You sat behind the front desk of Hotel Z, half-swiveled in the chair, one hand rubbing slow circles over the peak of your stomach as another Braxton Hicks tightened everything into a stone globe. You inhaled sharply, riding it out, watching your belly go firm and high under your shirt.
“Ow—okay, that’s…cute,” you muttered under your breath. “If this is practice, could we maybe practice with less enthusiasm?”
The lobby was empty—thank the Arceus—and you leaned back when the tightening eased, catching your breath.
You patted your belly. “So what do you think, baby?” you murmured. “Will your father actually be present when you decide to make your grand entrance? Or will you wait for him like a dramatic little Flabébé?”
Another contraction seized you. Not painful, just the unwelcome clench of being nine months pregnant and thoroughly tired of it.
You winced.
“Sooner rather than later, please,” you grumbled. “Mama’s done.”
Caffeine. You needed caffeine. It helped you feel awake, helped distract from the discomfort. And frankly, Urbain and the others could shove it. You were allowed one cup. One cup wasn’t a crime.
You rose with a slow, irritated waddle and made your way to the small staff kitchen. Reaching for a mug in the overhead cupboard became an champion-level challenge; your belly pressed into the counter, your back arched, your arm strained.
You grunted, stretching just a little further, and then heard the front door chime open.
“One second!” you called, still on your tiptoes, one hand braced on the counter as another tightening contraction began to roll through. “Just—hang on—trying to get a—damn—mug—”
A warm presence drew close behind you. A hand, large, gentle, and familiar, touched the center of your back. You paused and watched as another hand reached past you, effortlessly plucking the mug from the shelf.
You turned your head.
Lysandre—L—stood there, hood down, white hair tousled from travel, his one visible eye bright and warm in a way that never stopped undoing you. His coat smelled faintly of cold air and distant places.
Your breath caught.
“You’re—” You didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, you threw your arms around him as best as your belly allowed.
He wrapped you up immediately, fully, like he’d been waiting months to feel you again.
When you pulled back, you didn’t wait. You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It wasn’t polite or cautious. It was hungry, and relieved. Weeks of missing him poured into the press of your mouth. He kissed you back with the same quiet urgency, a subtle tremble of restraint beneath the heat.
When you finally broke apart, you both lingered there, breathing the same air, drinking each other in with silent, reverent awe.
He cupped your cheek, brushing a thumb over your skin. His eyes flicked downward to your belly, and his expression softened. He lifted his other hand and, almost shyly, laid his palm against your stomach, thumb stroking the curve of it like something sacred.
“How are you feeling?” he murmured, voice low and warm.
You exhaled. “Pregnant. Tired. Uncomfortable. And honestly? I wasn’t sure you’d make it back in time.”
He pulled you into another careful embrace, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Ma lionne…I would never forgive myself if I missed such a precious, beautiful moment.”
Your heart stuttered at his words. “How long are you staying this time?” you whispered.
He sank to one knee, hands smoothing over your belly as he rested his forehead against it.
“As long as you need,” he answered. “Long enough to meet our child. Long enough to help you recover. Long enough to be present.” His fingers traced a gentle arc along your side. “I will not let you face any of it alone.”
You swallowed hard. “I…I have help. So many people are willing—Urbain and the others, Corbeau, Philippe, Grisham and Griselle—everyone’s already planning to support me. Really, we would be fine if you needed to…leave again.”
He looked up at you then, steady, heartfelt, and determined. “What kind of man—what kind of father—would I be,” he said softly, “if I placed the burden on everyone but myself?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he stood, brushing your hair from your face.
“It takes a village,” he conceded. “And I welcome theirs.” His hand settled firmly over your belly. “But we are the foundation upon which that village stands.”
You didn’t dare argue with that. Not when his voice carried such conviction.
He changed the subject gently, brushing a knuckle under your chin.
“And why,” he asked quietly, “are you working?”
You groaned. “Oh, not you too. I’m just at the front desk. Sitting. The lobby’s dead anywa.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you were straining for a mug.”
“Because I wanted coffee, and it’s difficult when your belly is the size of a watermelon,” you said, rubbing your belly for emphasis as your poured coffee into the mug.
He sighed, fondly and long suffering, then guided you toward the front desk with a hand at your back, settling you into the chair you’d abandoned. He took the second chair beside it, slid the keyboard toward himself, and began sorting through reservation tabs like he’d never left.
You sipped your freshly poured coffee with a sigh of bliss, leaning lightly against him.
"You sure you know what you're doing?"
His eye glinted with something warm. “Considering how often I stayed here with you…yes," he said, "I know more than enough.”
You hid your smile behind your mug.
And there the two of you sat as your child shifted beneath your ribs, and L worked the desk with the calm certainty of a man who finally knew exactly where he belonged.
Lance
You eased into the water, waddling carefully over the stones, your maternity bikini stretching comfortably across your swollen hips and the generous curve of your nine-month belly. The coolness bit at your ankles first, then your calves, and by the time you stepped deep enough for the water to lift you—just slightly, just enough—you felt your breath spill out in a trembling, grateful sigh. The weight eased from your pelvis like a hand unclenching. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the buoyancy cradle you, rocking your body the way you wished you could rock in bed without groaning.
When you opened them again, you skimmed your fingertips across the surface, watching the ripples wander away from you. The cavernous hush of the Dragon’s Den wrapped around you—humid, echoing, ancient—and somewhere behind you, you heard the faint murmur of the elders finishing a debate with Lance. He’d slipped away the moment they allowed a break, eyes already softening when he spotted you struggling with the uneven stones just outside the shallows.
Now he lingered a polite distance away, boots off, cape draped neatly across a rock, observing you with the serene pride of a man watching the sunrise and knowing it rose for him.
Something brushed your ankle.
You startled, then laughed as a small blue head popped out of the water, rounded snout nudging inquisitively toward your belly. A dratini—then another—then a third, weaving around you in curious coils. Their smooth bodies glided along your sides, bumping you with affectionate, clumsy innocence. One poked a little too enthusiastically at your stomach, and you swatted the water lightly in mock admonishment.
You glanced toward Lance.
He stood with his arms folded. Not defensive, but warm, contemplative, his dark eyes soft with something so tender it tightened your throat. Pride was there, yes; that ancient dragon-tamer lineage glowed in him whenever he saw the swell of you. But it was gentler than that, too. Protective. Grateful. Reverent.
You lifted a hand to wave at him, pointing to the dratini swirling around you. He smiled in that rare, quiet way. Just the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, but enough to heat your cheeks. Then he nodded for you to enjoy yourself, letting you have this moment with the his dragons. Your dragons, eventually.
Two dragonair approached next, their long bodies gliding with a grace that felt almost ceremonial. Their small wings on the side of their flicked as they circled you, assessing, understanding. One let out a low, melodic croon when its senses brushed over your belly, and the other quickly moved to intercept a dratini who tried to dart too close too fast. The chastised baby squeaked and zipped behind its siblings, chastened but clearly delighted.
You laughed softly, your hands cupping the underside of your stomach as if you were showing it off to them. “They know,” you murmured to no one in particular. “Of course they do.”
The dragonair stayed near you like silent guardians, curling protectively, letting you drift between their coils without a hint of fear.
Eventually, a melodic call echoed through the cavern, and both dragonair lifted their heads. With elegant, synchronized movements, they herded the dratini away. The babies chattered and played even as they swam off, splashing each other until one dragonair sternly flicked its tail to restore order.
You watched them go, smiling, your body lighter in every sense.
Then warm arms slid around your middle.
You hummed, leaning instinctively back into Lance’s chest as he waded in behind you. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his lower half was down to his boxer briefs, already darkened by the water. His skin was cool from the cavern air, but his hands were warm as they caressed the swell of your belly, stroking reverently from the underside to the stretched curve above your navel.
“You looked peaceful,” he murmured, his chin settling on your shoulder. The vibration of his voice thrummed through your back. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You can always disturb me,” you breathed, relaxing fully against him. His chest rose and fell with a quiet laugh, and he nuzzled the side of your neck.
“They like you,” he said. “The dragonair especially. They’re sensitive to…everything.”
“Everything,” you echoed, smiling. “They were protecting me from your rambunctious little dratini.”
“They sensed you’re carrying something precious,” he murmured, fingertips drawing slow circles around your navel. “Our little one.”
You turned your head slightly, teasing, “A baby, Lance. Not a dratini.”
He kissed the spot just below your ear, humming against your skin. “Mmm. They’re all the same to me.”
You melted, sighing as he kissed along your neck, unhurried, as if making sure every inch of you felt adored. His hands continued their slow, worshipful mapping of your belly, supporting its weight even here in the water, as though he refused to let even buoyancy do the job alone.
“Was the water helpful?” he asked softly.
“More than helpful,” you murmured. “I think I could fall asleep standing right here.”
His arms tightened gently. “Then I’ll hold you.”
Your gaze drifted toward the direction the dragons had disappeared. The dratini were so cute. All of them, in a group. And then you wondered, briefly, how many Lance would want.
You felt Lance’s lips brush against your shoulder as he hummed.
“As many as you allow me to give you.”
Heat rushed to your face as you realized you’d said the question out loud. You pressed a hand to his forearm, trying to steady yourself—not from the answer itself, but from the way he meant it. Devoted. Proud. A little wild, in that dragon-tamer way that lived in his blood and now lived in your future.
You let out a shaky laugh, flustered and thrilled.
“Dragon tamers,” you said with a smile. “You’re all the same.”
He chuckled, kissing your neck again, slower, deeper, his hands splaying protectively over your belly.
You let your eyes close, letting him hold you, letting the water cradle the two—no, the three—of you together in the quiet heart of the Dragon’s Den.
Raihan (slight nsfw, breast play, breastmilk, slight smut, MDI, minors do not interact)
You were so done.
Overdue, swollen, stretched, and uncomfortable. Your belly felt impossibly heavy, your ribs ached, your back throbbed, and your mood sat somewhere between “weepy” and “feral.” Raihan had been patient as a saint for weeks, but even saints had limits, and yours had clearly snapped somewhere around the fourth day past your due date.
You pressed a hand to your lower back, scowling at your belly. “Of course it’d be your child that decides to be overdue,” you snapped. “Stubborn and dramatic, just like their dad.”’
Raihan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that smug little grin he seemed born with. Light caught the edge of his orange headband; his hoodie hung loose, showing a sliver of toned stomach as he shifted.
“Babe,” he said, smiling with infuriating confidence, “my kid’s not late. They’re just preparing a grand, perfectly timed entrance. Like me.”
You snorted, before easing yourself down onto the bed with a dramatic groan. “Whatever. I just want this baby out, now.” You propped yourself up on some pillows.
“Well,” he drawled, “there are some methods.”
You glared at him over your belly. “No.”
“You don’t know which ones I mean yet.”
“I do, actually.”
He sauntered closer, grin widening. “Sex helps induce labor. Orgasms help. The oxytocin from the orgasms helps. Nipple stimulation helps—”
“Raihan…”
“What?” His voice was all faux-innocence, eyes bright with laughter. “I’m just listing your options.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I don’t even want to be touched right now. I feel so gross.”
“Uh-huh...”
“Seriously! I’m huge, everything is swollen, I have stretch marks—”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then scoffed.
“Soooooo?” He dropped onto the bed beside you, leaning back on his hands, looking you over with frank appreciation. “You think any of that makes you less sexy? Babe, your body is literally making a human. That’s—” He whistled. “—kinda the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You turned your head away, cheeks warm. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
That finally snapped whatever thin leash he’d kept on himself.
Raihan shifted closer, kneeling beside you, bracing one hand on the mattress as the other slid under the heavy swell of your breast.
“I don’t lie, babe,” he murmured, leaning down. “And I don’t beg, either. But for months now I’ve been trying to be good because you didn’t want touching. But look at what that’s done.”
His hand curved more firmly around your breast, thumb brushing the sensitive skin where it peeked from your maternity bra.
“You don’t even see what I see.”
“Which is…?” Your voice trembled as his breath fanned your chest.
“Mmh.” His lips grazed your skin before he spoke, voice low and hungry. “A goddess.”
Your let out a sharp, breathless laugh.
“You’ve gotten softer,” he whispered against your skin, “curvier…your boobs have been driving me insane for weeks—and you don’t even wanna know what I think about your hips and butt.”
You gasped when he pulled the cup of your bra aside, exposing your swollen breast, heavier and fuller than it had ever been. Raihan sucked in a quiet breath at the sight.
“Arceus,” he muttered, voice roughened. “Look at you.”
“Raihan wait—”
He didn’t. Instead, his lips closed around your nipple in a slow, deep suck.
Your head fell back on instinct, a desperate sound slipping from your lips as the sensation zinged from your breast straight down between your legs. He hummed as he tasted the faint sweetness of early milk, hands bracing your sides to keep you steady.
He pulled back just enough to murmur.
“Baby’s gonna have these all to themselves soon.” His tongue flicked lazily over your nipple before he sealed his mouth over it again. “I’m already jealous.”
You whimpered weakly, fingers slipping into his hair. He sucked harder, slow and rhythmic, dragging milk to the surface with a low, approving growl when a bead reached his tongue.
“Mmf—yeah. That’s it. Sweet.” He kissed your breast, lips shining. “How do you expect me not to want you?”
Your thighs pressed together without your permission.
“Raihan…I don’t—I don’t feel—”
“Beautiful?” he supplied gently, kissing the underside of your breast. “Sexy? Wanted?”
He rose up over you, one knee between your thighs, one hand cupping your cheek.
“You’re the hottest you’ve ever been,” he said simply. “And I want you. Every new curve. Every mark. Every part pregnancy gave you.”
Your lips parted. “But sex—”
“Doesn’t have to be rough.” His nose brushed yours. “Doesn’t even have to be complicated. Just let me touch you. Let me make you feel good. Let me remind you who you are.”
His thumb stroked your cheek.
“And if this helps bring the baby...then that's just a bonus.”
You laughed, a small and shaky sound, and his smile softened.
You nodded your consent and Raihan immediately kissed you again. Slow, deep, hungry without being overwhelming. His hand returned to your breast, thumbing your nipple right before he took it into his mouth again. Pleasure flooded through you so suddenly you gasped, hips lifting instinctively.
A tight cramp gripped your belly.
Then another.
You gasped, clutching his shoulder. “Oh—Rai—wait—”
He pulled back instantly, concern flickering through his cyan eyes. “Too much?”
“No—no, it’s—” You waited, breathing deeply. “It…felt different.”
“How different?”
Another cramp rolled through—sharper, lower, wrapping around your pelvis like a slow tightening rope. You gasped and squeezed his hand hard enough to make him inhale.
This time he didn’t tease.
He steadied you immediately, free hand smoothing up your spine as he kissed your forehead.
“Alright, gorgeous. Easy…I’ve got you.”
You breathed through it, waiting for the wave to ebb. And just as it passed, you felt a soft, internal pop—subtle but unmistakable—followed by a slow spreading warmth between your thighs.
Your breath hitched. “Rai…?”
“Yeah?”
“…I think my water just broke.”
You weren’t soaked. Just a gentle, steady trickle warming your skin, slipping down your inner thigh. You touched your shorts, blinked, then laughed breathlessly.
“Well,” you exhaled, “I think it’s happening.”
For a moment he looked stunned. Wide-eyed, mouth parted, then a slow, exhilarated grin split across his face.
“No way.” He squeezed your hips, thrilled. “I actually did it? I kicked off your labor?”
You swatted his arm. “Don’t brag about that.”
But he only kissed your cheek, giddy and soft, voice low with reverence and excitement as he wrapped an arm around you.
“Too late, babe.” He pressed your forehead to his.
“Let’s get ready to meet our kid.”
Kabu
The air outside Motorstoke was warm—not hot, not stifling, just comfortably sun-soaked, with that faint metallic tang of the city in the distance and the gentler scent of open fields drifting in from beyond the industrial walls. You walked slowly along the outskirts, one hand supporting the underside of your belly as it rose and fell with your waddling steps. Kabu walked beside you, matching your pace with disciplined precision, though the concern pinched gently at the corners of his eyes every time you exhaled a little harder.
“Are you certain this isn’t too much?” he asked for the third time in five minutes. His voice was calm, but the subtle tension betrayed him—the careful angle of his shoulders, the way his right hand hovered near your elbow as if ready to catch you should gravity suddenly betray you.
You laughed. “Kabu, I’m walking, not lifting weights.”
His mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “You were lifting weights in your second trimester.”
“And I’m not now,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Thanks to the doctor.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as though both amused and helpless in the face of your logic. “Even so…you’re in your final stretch. You don’t need to push yourself.”
“I’m not pushing,” you reassured him. “Walking is good for me. Good for the baby. Good for labor prep.” You nudged him gently with your elbow. “If anything, you’re the one who looks ready to break a sweat worrying.”
“Worrying keeps people alive,” he said, deadpan, though his gaze warmed with affection. “Especially when those people insist on being active days before their due date.”
You walked a few more paces, watching the distant factory lights blink like slow fireflies, before glancing up at him.
“Kabu?”
“Hm?”
“Are you ready?”
He slowed just slightly, his expression softening with a level of tenderness he reserved only for you. “Ready,” he repeated quietly. “It’s a strange thing. I never imagined having a child at my age. Not because I did not want one, but because I assumed life had moved past that chapter.” He folded his hands behind his back as he walked, posture straight, eyes forward. “But…I find myself looking forward to meeting out child more with every day that passes.”
Your heart clenched sweetly.
“Good,” you murmured. “Because ready or not, this kid is coming soon.”
He laughed, warm and low. “That they are.”
“And at least we don’t have to worry about press,” you added. “Practically the entire Galar League is on our side.”
He made a thoughtful sound. “Yes…Nessa has been particularly vocal.”
“Protective,” you corrected. “Especially of you. You’re basically everyone’s collective dad, Kabu.”
He sighed, a long-suffering but affectionate exhale. “That is what they tell me.”
“And Milo already tried to schedule babysitting time.”
Kabu nodded. “He has. Twice.”
“And if any magazine tries to stir up drama?” you prompted with a grin.
His smile turned knowing. “Nessa will handle them.”
“She’ll destroy them,” you amended.
“She will,” he agreed serenely.
You snorted, and then suddenly paused, hand flying to your belly.
Kabu instantly stepped closer. “What is it? A contraction?”
“No,” you said softly. “Just—here.”
You took his hand and guided it to the side of your belly. A moment later, your child delivered a firm, rolling kick right into his palm.
Kabu’s breath caught. A soft, stunned inhale. His eyes widened with awe, and then gentled even further than before, lines softening, posture melting with something reverent. He stroked the spot slowly, thumb tracing the curve where your skin shifted.
“…They are strong,” he said quietly.
“They get it from you.”
A flush rose on his cheekbones, faint but noticeable. “I think they get it from their mother.”
The baby nudged again, smaller this time, and Kabu smiled as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple.
You resumed your walk a moment later, slower now, hand in his, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles with each step. The sun dipped a little lower, painting Motorstoke’s metal skyline in soft gold.
You leaned into him, warm and content, belly full with life, heart full with love.
Leon
Leon lay sprawled beside you in bed, half-propped on one elbow, his other hand resting warmly over the highest curve of your belly. Your shirt was bunched beneath your ribs, and the blanket had pooled around your hips, leaving your pregnant stomach entirely exposed in the soft, early-morning light filtering through the curtains.
His palm moved in slow, reverent circles. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just present. Fully, blissfully present, in a way he rarely had the luxury of being when he was Galar's Champion.
“Y’know…” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and happiness, “I’m starting to think they kick more when I’m around.”
You snorted lightly. “That’s because you talk so loud.”
He gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest. “Loud? Me?” Then he grinned, leaning down to kiss your belly. “Oi, kiddo. Did you hear that? Your mum’s making wild accusations again.”
Your child answered with a firm thump beneath his lips.
Leon froze, then broke into the softest, most radiant smile. One of those private ones he never gave reporters or fans. This one was only for you, for your baby, for this moment.
“Oh, they’re a fighter already,” he whispered against your skin.
You brushed a hand through his messy purple hair, wilder than usual since paternity leave meant no morning stylists, no forced photo ops, no endless battles.
Just Leon.
Your Leon.
He melted into your touch, eyes closing briefly before he lifted his head to look at you. “You doing alright? Not too uncomfortable?”
“I’m okay,” you said. “Big. Sore. Tired. Ready to be done.” You paused. “But okay.”
Leon moved up to lie beside you, chest pressed lightly against your shoulder, his hand still cupping your belly like he didn’t want to let go. “I can’t believe we’re this close,” he breathed. “It still feels surreal. All those years battling, climbing leagues, running Galar… and this…” His fingers spread, feeling another kick. “…this feels bigger than any title I ever won.”
“You always wanted kids,” you reminded him softly.
“I do.” His amber eyes warmed. “But wanting something and having it become real? And with you?” He kissed your cheek. “I’m the luckiest man in the whole region. Maybe all regions. Sinnoh included—and those guys are tough competition.”
You laughed, leaning into his forehead.
“And hey,” he added, thumb brushing stretch marks like they were something precious, “you’re gorgeous, by the way.”
“Leon.” You rolled your eyes, though heat curled in your chest. “I look like a Snorlax trying to cosplay an egg.”
He tutted, offended. “Wrong. Absolutely wrong. You look like someone carrying our future. Our whole world.” His hand slipped to the underside of your belly, rubbing. “And you’re radiant. Strong. Beautiful.” Then, softer: “I’m so proud of you.”
Your breath caught, but before you could respond, the baby delivered another strong shove.
Leon lit up again, laughing under his breath. “There they go. That’s my kid.”
“You mean our kid,” you corrected.
“Yeah.” He kissed your belly again, longer this time, lingering. “Our kid.”
He adjusted himself, sliding one leg over yours to bracket you comfortably, his chest warm at your back as he spooned around your pregnancy-curved body. One arm slipped beneath your head, the other cradling your belly from behind, holding you and the baby at once.
“I’m glad I took leave,” he murmured into your shoulder. “Chairman stuff will wait. Galar will wait. The whole world can wait.”
You smiled softly. “You deserve the break.”
“I do,” he admitted. “But more than that…I didn’t want to miss a single moment of this. Not one bump, not one kick, not one late-night craving where you make me navigate Wyndon with no sense of direction—”
“You get lost in your own house.”
He groaned. “Don’t remind me.” Then he kissed your neck. “But at least now I’ve got something perfect to come home to.”
You covered his hand on your belly, weaving your fingers through his.
The baby kicked again, two little nudges, and you both felt them at once.
Leon exhaled, long and full of wonder. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m ready, love. More than ready.”
And with his arms wrapped around you, his hand stroking your belly, and his breath warm against your skin, the two of you lay there—quietly, peacefully—waiting for the moment that would change everything.
Piers
Team Yell had always been loud. But this? This was something else entirely.
You waddled down the narrow street toward Spikemuth’s main square, one hand braced beneath your belly, the other gripping a grocery bag. You were in the final stretch. So close to your due date you could practically hear your ankles begging for mercy. And for the past week, everywhere you went, two or three (or six) members of Team Yell had been “coincidentally” stationed nearby.
Walking behind you. Walking ahead of you. “Clearing paths” for you. Shouting at people who got too close. Running interference on literal strollers.
And the final straw?
One of them had tried to body-check a mailbox that “looked suspicious.”
Enough was enough.
You stormed—well, waddled with righteous fury—into Piers’ rundown venue-turned-living-room, where he sat on a couch restringing his guitar.
“PIERS.”
He looked up instantly, ponytails swaying. “Oi. Hey, darlin’. You, uh… you good?”
“No,” you snapped. “Why are there Team Yell members tailing me everywhere I go?”
Piers blinked. “What?”
“You heard me,” you said, tossing the bag down. “Everywhere. Grocery store. Pokémon Center. The bathroom, Piers. The bathroom.”
He blinked again, then frowned. “I didn’t tell ‘em to do that.”
“Then maybe they’ve gone rogue?”
He set his guitar down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I swear, I didn’t. I’ve been tryin’ to get ‘em to tone it down since Marnie took over. Why would I—?”
Marnie’s voice came from the hallway, flat as a Flapple pancake. “Brother. Please stop lying.”
Piers stiffened. “I’m not lyin’! I didn’t ask ‘em to follow her!”
“You didn’t have to,” Marnie said, walking in with her arms crossed. “They’re reacting to how weird you’ve been lately.”
You arched a brow. “Weird?”
Piers sank lower into the couch like someone had unplugged his spine. “…Define weird.”
Marnie raised a dry finger. “You’ve been pacing.”
“Can’t a man pace in his own home?”
“You’ve been pacing,” Marnie repeated, “while muttering things like ‘due any day now’ and ‘not on my watch’ and ‘if anyone so much as looks at her wrong I’ll ban hexagon patterns from this town.’”
Piers groaned into his hands. “That got taken outta context.”
“Oh?” you asked, hands on your hips. “And what context would that be?”
“I dunno,” he muttered. “Hexagon patterns are creepy. Too many angles. And they're related to Dynamaxing, which you know I hate.”
Marnie rolled her eyes. “Piers. Just tell her.”
Piers sighed, a long, moody, reluctant exhale that flowed out of him like leaking fog.
“Fine.” He stood, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, hair falling forward as he avoided your gaze. “I’m…anxious.”
You softened, just a bit. “Anxious?”
“I know! I’m supposed to be the cool one!” he snapped, cheeks flushing. “But yer due date’s almost here, and you’re walkin’ around all tired and sore, and I can’t sing to scare people off, so what do I have?! Team Yell! The only tool in my toolbox!”
“You used them,” Marnie deadpanned, “like human traffic cones.”
Piers pointed at her. “They make good cones!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Piers, sweetheart, I appreciate the concern, truly. But Team Yell is…a lot. Or don’t you remember how obnoxious they were when Marnie took on the gym challenge?”
“I know,” he mumbled, scuffing his boot. “I know. I just—” He finally looked at you, and his tired, punk-rock gloom cracked open into raw sincerity. “I don’t wanna miss anything. And I don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to you or the kid. That’s all.”
You stepped closer, belly brushing his front, and captured one of his hands.
He went still, shoulders dropping.
“I’m okay,” you said softly. “Really. And I love that you’re worried. But maybe…not the entire fan club following me into public bathrooms?”
He winced. “They didn’t—?”
“They did.”
“I’ll fix it,” he said instantly. “I’ll yell at Yell. Make them un-Yell for a while.”
Marnie nodded toward the door. “I’ll help. They listen to me.”
“Thank you,” you said, exhaling.
Piers sighed, then brushed his fingers along the top curve of your belly—tentative and gentle, in a way only a man who secretly had the softest heart in Galar could manage.
“You’re almost there, yeah?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
The baby kicked beneath his palm, and Piers’ entire face lit with quiet wonder. His thumb traced the movement, slow and careful.
“Oi,” he whispered to your belly. “Settle down in there. Don’t freak your mum out.”
You snorted. “This from the man deploying a personal militia around me.”
He groaned. “Please never call them that.”
You rose on your toes—well, closer to your toes—and kissed his cheek.
His ears went bright pink.
“Piers,” you said softly, “you’re gonna be a great dad.”
“…Yeah?” he asked, voice cracking just slightly.
“Yeah.”
He swallowed. Looked away. Muttered something like “don’t start cryin’, not in front of Marnie,” to himself.
Marnie stepped out, giving you two a moment. “I’ll handle Team Yell. You just… breathe or something.”
You laughed.
Piers wrapped an arm carefully around your waist, fitting himself into your side with all the awkward tenderness of a punk rocker who loves harder than he knows how to say.
“No more bathroom followers,” he promised.
“Thank you.”
“But I’m still checkin’ on you,” he added quickly, “’cause I worry and that’s not gonna stop.”
You leaned into him. “Good.”
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice low.
“Any day now, huh?”
“Any day,” you echoed with a nod.
He squeezed your hip with a shaky breath.
“Alright then,” he whispered. “Let’s meet this kid.”
Hassel
Songs referred to:
and
The cello’s voice filled the living room—warm, resonant, and aching with emotion in a way only late pregnancy and the melody could coax out of you.
Your bow glided across the strings. Each slow and deliberate stroke vibrated through your chest and down into the heavy cradle of your belly. The song, a simple melody played from a single scale, had always been reflective, but tonight, with your hands curved over your instrument and your belly rounding outward in its final stretch, it felt like a memory you hadn’t lived yet.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your breath syncing with the swells of the melody.
The front door opened softly.
You didn’t hear it over the music, but Hassel did hear you. He stopped in the entryway, frozen by the sight before him.
You, illuminated by the soft lamplight, cello nestled between your knees, skin glowing, posture curved protectively around the child you carried, and playing with a rawness that made his throat tighten immediately.
He set his bag down silently. One hand lifted to his mouth, already emotional, already fighting the threat of tears. He took a long breath, gathering himself, then stepped quietly into the room.
Your fingers shifted positions, bow trembling into the high notes of the scale.
Hassel didn’t speak. He simply moved to the piano, your upright, the one he insisted belonged in your home because “every house with love needs a place for music”, and sat down.
He waited for the right measure.
And then, he joined you.
Soft, steady chords blossomed under your melody. Notes braided together, piano and cello weaving into the duet that the song had written like a promise, like a memory of two souls meeting in the middle.
Your eyes opened, and you met his gaze as your bow faltered just once—not because you lost your place, but because emotion surged so thick you could barely breathe.
But you kept playing. And he kept playing.
And for those brief minutes, the world was just sound and breath and shared love—two artists, two hearts, and one unborn child listening from the warmth of your womb.
When the last note faded, you lowered your bow, chest rising and falling.
Hassel exhaled shakily and wiped at the corner of one eye. “Oh,” he whispered with a strained laugh, “my dear, my heart, I hadn’t…I hadn’t expected to walk into something so beautiful.”
You smiled. “Welcome home.”
He set his hands in his lap, still trembling faintly. “Your tone tonight—it was…” His voice broke. “It was full of so much feeling. I—pardon me.” He cleared his throat. “It moved me.”
“You’re home early,” you said, shifting slightly on the bench, belly pressing against the cello. “Long day?”
“Mmm,” he hummed. “Rewardingly long. Though nothing as rewarding as this.”
He studied you a moment, gaze tender, lingering on the swell of your belly. He reached out and brushed a thumb along the side of it, a simple gesture, but reverent enough to melt you.
“Would you…” His voice softened further. “…play a duet with me?”
You snorted lightly. “Hass, you know I’m not a pianist.”
“You are learning,” he corrected in that gentle, earnest teacher voice of his. “And you are doing wonderfully.”
“Only because of you. And I fumble even with your teachings.”
He clasped his hands in dramatic pleading. “Then fumble with me. It is good for the baby to hear us play together.”
You sighed, laughing as you carefully set the cello aside. “That’s emotional manipulation.”
“Is it working?” he asked hopefully.
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. But I’m playing the higher part.”
He lit up, golden eyes bright as autumn sunlight. He scooted over immediately, making room on the piano bench and offering you his hand as you waddled over.
Once you were seated, he adjusted the bench height, then placed the sheet music gently in front of you both.
“For River (Sarah & Tommy’s Version)”
He nodded for you to begin.
Hassel rested his hands on the keys first, inhaling softly. Then he played the opening bars—those gentle, descending chords that sounded like a memory being exhaled. His touch was delicate but sure, each note weighted with feeling, his left hand shaping the simple lower line with the tenderness of someone offering a path forward.
Only once the melody settled—familiar, wistful, and comforting—did he nod for you to join.
You placed your fingers on the keys and entered with the higher melody, careful and a little timid. Hassel shifted instantly to accommodate you, his harmony folding beneath your line like a steady arm guiding your steps.
When the melody climbed, you moved toward the upper register. Hassel anticipated it perfectly, sliding his left hand beneath your right in the soft, practiced crossover this song demanded. Your knuckles brushed lightly each time your hands passed, a quiet intimacy woven into the music.
The two parts braided together: your hesitant, earnest melody and his warm, anchoring harmony. Whenever you faltered, Hassel adjusted without missing a beat, easing you back into rhythm with the subtle confidence of a master musician who adored teaching you.
And soon, even with your rounded belly nudging the edge of the piano the two of you sounded less like separate players and more like one shared voice.
You laughed once when you hit a wrong chord.
He laughed too, soft, and charmed. “It’s wonderful,” he murmured. “You’re wonderful.”
Halfway through the piece, something nudged your lower belly—a firm, rolling kick. You gasped, hand flying to the movement.
Hassel’s playing stopped immediately. “Is everything—?”
“Here,” you said breathlessly, taking his hand and guiding it.
The baby kicked again, right beneath his palm.
Hassel froze. Then he choked on a breath, eyes flooding instantly. “Oh. Oh…” His voice cracked as tears welled. “They…they heard us. They’re responding to the music—”
“Hassel,” you laughed, reaching up to wipe a tear. “Don’t start crying.”
“I cannot help it,” he sniffed. “This is—this is the most beautiful moment of my life.”
He leaned forward and pressed a slow, adoring kiss to your belly. Another to your hand. Then one more to your lips, gentle and warm.
His hand never left your stomach, fingers tracing the life inside you with wonder.
“Shall we continue the song?” he whispered.
You nodded, pressing your forehead lightly to his.
“Together,” you said.
“Always,” he replied.
And you resumed your duet, the music echoing softly through the home you’d filled with love.
Brassius
Brassius insisted the studio be warm, because, as he claimed, “the divine vessel of creation must not shiver.”
You sat upon a low chaise draped with soft moss-colored fabric, your flowing maternity dress pooling around your hips in gentle waves. Light makeup, hair loose, belly round beneath the fabric’s gentle stretch. You looked serene, radiant in that quiet way late pregnancy brings.
Brassius stood at his easel some feet away, vine-whip belt hanging loosely at his hip, green hair a wild, thorny halo of manic artistry. His grey eyes—sunken, intense, and ever-seeking—moved between you and the page with an almost holy focus.
He drew quickly at first, decisive lines carving out the shape of your posture, the curve of your belly, the tilt of your head. Then he slowed, and then softened, his expression dissolving into one of awestruck reverence.
“My beloved,” he murmured, voice low and breathy, “your form is…ah—avant-garde in the purest sense.”
You smiled. “Is that good or bad today?”
“Gloriously good.” He pressed a hand to his chest as if steadying his heart. “You are the very essence of life undone and remade. I can scarcely—” He paused, blinking hard. “—scarcely capture the fullness of your beauty. It is almost…” His breath hitched. “Overwhelming.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Brassius. Breathe.”
He obeyed, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Yes. Yes—of course. I must stay grounded! The muse demands discipline.”
He bent again over the sketch, pencil sweeping in long, emotional strokes. His gaze lingered on your belly, reverent and humbled.
“You carry creation itself,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Every line, every contour—it is a sculpture of nature in motion. A masterpiece even time cannot dare diminish.”
You snorted softly. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” He straightened, looking personally wounded. “This?” He gestured at you with both hands, vine belt swaying. “This is the most profound, the most stirring tableau an artist could hope to behold. Your very silhouette is poetry rendered in flesh.”
You chuckled. You had long ago stopped trying to temper his theatrics. Now, you adored them.
But after a while, he stilled. His pencil hovered in midair. His brows knit.
You saw the subtle signs immediately: his shoulders drooping, breath softening, concern quickening underneath. Then his gaze slid to you, lingering on the way your hand pressed absently to your lower back, the slight slump of your posture.
“My love,” he murmured, setting his pencil down with sudden urgency, “you are tiring.”
You exhaled, shifting, a soft guilty smile on your lips. “A little.”
He was across the room in moments, fluid and purposeful, his hands gentle on your shoulders as he helped you change position.
“No more sitting like this. Unacceptable.” He fussed with the pillows, rearranging them into a structure that looked more architectural than supportive, and it worked, cradling your spine perfectly. “Your comfort is not merely important—it is sacrosanct.”
You laughed as he hurried off. “Brassius, I’m literally just sitting up. We’re just taking a small break”
“Yes, yes—precisely why you must have refreshments worthy of the moment!”
He returned with a chilled lemon water, two shortbread cookies, and the tiniest vase holding a single Sunflora petal.
“For ambiance,” he said gravely.
You accepted the glass, sipping gratefully. “Thank you.”
He sat beside you on the chaise’s edge, hands folded, studying your belly with quiet awe. His voice, when it came, was softer. Still dramatic, but tinted with sincerity deep enough to still the heart.
“You have given my art new purpose,” he said. “But more than that—more than muses or masterpieces—you’ve given my life a joy I did not realize I was permitted to feel.”
His hand hovered before settling on the side of your belly, thumb brushing tenderly.
“You, and the child we await… you are both my magnum opus.”
He leaned down, placing a reverent kiss to your belly. Then another. Then one more, lingering.
The baby shifted beneath his touch, and he inhaled sharply.
“See that?” you teased. “The baby loves you too.”
“Of course they do,” he whispered, voice trembling as he rested his forehead against your belly. “How could they not? Their mother is the most radiant being in all of Paldea.”
You cupped his cheek until he looked up at you. Then you kissed him—soft, warm, and lingering.
He sighed into it, utterly undone.
When you pulled back, Brassius exhaled shakily. “Let us continue the portrait later,” he said. “For now…all I wish is to worship the miracle before me.”
His fingers brushed your belly, tracing curves no sculpture could capture.
Larry
You drifted awake to the smell of food—warm, savory, comforting in a way only home-cooking could be. It coaxed your eyes open more gently than any alarm ever had. For a moment, you lay still, curled on your side on the couch, one hand cupped beneath the firm roundness of your belly. Everything ached: hips, ribs, lower back, feet—every joint broadcasting a weary little complaint.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d meant to take care of dinner the way you always did because Larry worked himself half to death most days. But late-pregnancy exhaustion had other plans.
You pushed up slowly, groaning under the weight of your belly as it shifted. And over the quiet hum of the stove, you heard some muttering.
“…thought I bought the low-sodium one.”
Larry’s voice. Dry. Resigned.
“Well. Too late now.”
You smiled. Then, softly and sleepy, waddled toward the kitchen.
Larry stood at the stove in his suit pants and shirtsleeves, jacket draped over a chair, tie loosened. His square-pupiled eyes were half-lidded in that perpetual state of exhaustion that was just Larry, but there was something different tonight. Something softer around the edges. He looked calm. Focused. Maybe even a little proud of himself.
And he didn’t notice you right away, too absorbed in flipping something sizzling in a pan.
You cleared your throat gently.
He turned. His brows lifted a millimeter.
“Oh. You’re awake.” He sounded relieved. “Good timing. Dinner’s almost done.”
You blinked at him. “You cooked?”
“Yes,” he said plainly. Then, after a beat: “…Someone had to.”
You laughed, rubbing your sore belly. “I’m sorry. I was going to.”
“You fell asleep sitting upright,” he deadpanned. “I decided not to wake you. Thought you might throw something at me.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “Only if you deserved it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he said, turning the stove down. But his voice warmed, quiet but unmistakable. “You’ve been…tired. More than usual. I can handle dinner.”
Your heart squeezed. “But you worked all day.”
“I work all days,” he said. “This isn’t different.”
“But your job is exhausting.”
“That’s why I’m practiced,” he replied, then cracked the faintest smile. “Besides…Geeta already approved my paternity leave. Doesn’t want me keeling over before the baby arrives.”
You snorted. “See, she likes you too much to let you collapse.”
Larry gave a small sigh, somewhere between beleaguered and touched. “She likes you, actually. Said if she sees you waddling around the League offices again, she’ll ‘relieve me of duty by force.’ Her words.”
You covered your face, giggling.
Then he gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit. Carefully.”
You sat with a groan, belly settling like a boulder in your lap. Larry plated the food—simple, comforting, and hearty—and set it before you, the steam curling upward like an invitation.
You took a bite. “Larry…this is good.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s food.”
“It’s good food,” you insisted.
He looked away, ears faintly pink. “I…looked up some things.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. “Thank you.”
Larry finally met your eyes and something in him softened, like the slow unfurling of a flower bud.
“You’re carrying my kid,” he murmured. “Least I can do is make sure you eat dinner.”
Your throat tightened. He wasn’t poetic. He wasn’t dramatic. But the ways he loved you were steady and practical and so deeply him.
After a moment, he pulled up a chair beside you, sitting with a small sigh, knees brushing yours.
“You know…” you said between bites, teasing gently, “you’re going to have actual time off soon. Paternity leave. Imagine—Larry, the Medali Gym Leader and Paldea Elite 4, relaxing.”
He stared at you like you’d told him he’d won the lottery. Or been sentenced to death. Hard to say with Larry.
“…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with time off.”
“Rest?” you suggested. “Spend time with your newborn child? Sleep in?”
He blinked slowly. “…Sounds exhausting.”
You laughed so hard you felt your belly tighten.
Larry’s expression flickered with concern. “You okay? Braxton Hicks again?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “Just a practice contraction.”
He placed a careful hand over your bump, thumb brushing small arcs. “Tell them to knock it off,” he muttered. “It’s dinner time.”
You snickered. “I’ll try.”
He kept his hand there a little longer, then leaned in and kissed your temple. A small kiss. A tired kiss. A perfect Larry kiss.
“Eat,” he murmured. “Then lie down again. I’ll clean up.”
“You cooked and you’re doing dishes?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m a responsible adult.”
You laughed again, leaning your head on his shoulder.
Larry exhaled slowly, contentedly, letting the warmth of you and the soft rise of your belly settle against him.
“Get used to this,” you teased. “You’re going to be a dad any day now.”
He nodded, eyes softening in that quiet way only you ever saw.
“I know,” he said softly. “I’m…looking forward to it.”
Steven Stone
The contractions were coming harder now. Sharp, deep, the kind that made you fold over the kitchen table and breathe like your life depended on it. Your midwife was on her way. Steven had promised he’d be back before things “truly began.” And instead?
You had Wallace.
Wallace, the flamboyant and handsome gym leader of Sootopolis.
Wallace, who was currently pacing your living room like a Milotic with a tangled antenna, cape fluttering dramatically, hands clasped in prayer-like despair.
“You should be in a hospital,” he declared for the eighth time. “With monitors! Professionals! Safety!”
You gripped the edge of the table as another contraction rolled through you. “For the last time—Wallace—we chose a home birth.”
“Yes, yes, I KNOW,” he said, throwing his arms up. “But Steven isn’t here, and you’re—you’re making noises that sound like…like…a dying wailord.”
"...I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that."
"Well, it's true."
“Oh, for the love of—” You forced yourself upright, panting. “Wallace, if you don’t stop talking I swear I will THROW YOU OUT.”
Wallace gasped as if personally attacked. “You are lashing out. You are in pain. I understand. I forgive you.”
“I don’t WANT forgiveness—” Another, sharper contraction slammed into you, cutting the words in half. “I want—quiet—”
Wallace fluttered to your side, hands flapping uselessly. “Do you need water? Ice? A towel? A battalion of nurses—”
“I need Steven,” you hissed.
“And I deeply agree with you!” Wallace nodded frantically. “I simply don’t know where the man is. Of all the times, why does he insist on spelunking now! He has a very pregnant wife—he should be spelunking HERE—”
Your back spasmed, and you gasped, bracing yourself against the counter.
And then, a steady, warm hand touched the center of your spine.
You whipped around, snapping, “WALLACE, I SAID—!”
But it wasn’t Wallace.
Steven stood there, calm as moonlight, his silver-blue hair damp from the drizzle outside, his clothes slightly dusty from travel. His eyes softened immediately.
“Darling,” he murmured, smiling that small, earnest smile that could stop a stampede, “I’m here.”
Your knees nearly buckled with relief. “Steven—”
He caught you gently, supporting your weight with ease. “Breathe. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
The familiar scent of stone dust and soap settled your pulse. Wallace sagged dramatically into the nearest chair.
“THANK THE OCEANS!” he cried. “Please take over, Steven. She threatened me.”
Steven glanced at him, amused. “Thanks for staying with her, Wallace. You can rest now.”
Steven guided you to the couch with slow, careful movements, one hand firm at your lower back. “I ran into the midwife on the road,” he said. “We arrived together.”
As if on cue, she stepped inside, bag in hand. “Alright, dear,” she said, calm and practiced. “How long has it been since the contractions got strong?”
You answered between breaths. “Maybe…40 minutes?”
She nodded, easing beside you. “And how long apart?”
You winced through another wave. Steven’s hand tightened protectively on your shoulder. When it passed, you managed, “About…five minutes.”
The midwife nodded again and began setting up her equipment.
Steven brushed a lock of hair from your forehead. “You’re doing wonderfully,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”
You clung to him, burying your face against his shoulder as the midwife checked your dilation.
“Well,” she said after a moment, pleasantly surprised, “you’re already a good six centimeters. Things are progressing beautifully.”
Wallace made a strangled noise. “Six—? Already?! I— I must lie down—”
“Wallace,” Steven said gently, “you are relieved of your duties, my friend. I’ll update you when the baby arrives.”
“Bless you,” Wallace breathed, grabbing his cape dramatically and stumbling toward the door. “If you need anything—ANYTHING—do NOT call me, I’ll only panic.”
He vanished behind the front door.
You laughed, weakly but genuinely, and Steven kissed your temple.
“I’m here,” he whispered again, hand stroking soothing circles over your spine as another contraction built. “We’re going to meet our child so soon. You’re not alone for a second.”
You leaned into him, letting his steadiness anchor you.
And as the midwife prepared for the next stage, Steven held you close ready to guide you through bringing your shared child into the world.
Not when he followed Hiromi Higuruma home, half out of curiosity, half because Higuruma had said, in that flat, exhausted voice of his, “You can meet my wife, if you want.”
Yuji had expected someone serious. Stern. Maybe even a little cold, someone who matched Higuruma’s quiet, heavy presence. A woman who spoke in clipped sentences and stared people down like a judge passing sentence.
The door swung open before Higuruma could even knock properly.
“Oh! You’re finally home—”
What he got instead...was you
Short. Soft. Warm in a way that hit Yuji immediately, like stepping into a heated room after being out in the cold too long. Your sweater sleeves were pushed up, flour dusted faintly across your cheek like you’d been baking, your body plush and soft in a way that made you look safe. Comforting. Your eyes lit up when you saw Higuruma and then your gaze shifted to Yuji.
And widened.
“Oh my goodness—”
Yuji barely had time to react before you were right in front of him, hands gently grabbing his face.
“You’re so skinny. Hiromi, why didn’t you tell me you were bringing a child home!! are you eating properly? Do you need food? You look like you need food.”
“Uh—” Yuji blinked, caught completely off guard. “I...I ate earlier—”
“That’s not an answer.”
It wasn’t harsh, wasn’t loud.But it landed.
Yuji froze.
Because somehow, somehow, this adorable, soft, flour-dusted woman had just commanded him like a general.
Behind him, Higuruma sighed, slipping off his coat.
“She’s going to feed you regardless of your answer,” he muttered. “You might as well sit down.”
Yuji nodded immediately. "Okay.”He didn’t even question it.
Five minutes later, Yuji was seated at the table with a full plate of food he did not remember agreeing to, watching as you bustled around the kitchen with alarming efficiency.
“More rice?” you asked.
“I...I’m okay—”
You were already scooping more onto his plate ignoring Yuji's answer.“Yes, you do.”
Yuji stared at the pile. “…okay.”
Across from him, Higuruma sat quietly, sipping tea like this was completely normal.
Yuji leaned toward him slightly.“…Does she always...?"
“Yes.”
“…Okay.”
It wasn’t just the food.
It was the way you hovered, fixing his posture slightly when he slouched, brushing crumbs off his sleeve without even thinking, refilling his drink the moment it dipped below half.
“You’re still growing,” you said firmly at one point, crossing your arms as you looked him over. “You need proper meals. None of that convenience store nonsense Hiromi probably eats.”
“That’s—” Higuruma started.
You turned your head slowly.
He stopped. “…fair.”
Yuji stared between you both, because what just happened.
But then it shifted, just slightly.
Yuji noticed it when Higuruma reached for a second cup of tea without asking.
Your hand caught his wrist mid-air, gently. Your thumb gliding over the skin. “Hiromi.”Your voice was soft.
Higuruma stilled. “…Yes?”
“You’ve had three cups already.”
“…It’s just tea.”
“And you haven’t eaten properly today.”
Yuji blinked.
Oh.
Oh no.
He recognized that tone.
That was the same tone you used on him.Except now....Now it was worse.
Because Higuruma, Hiromi Higuruma, a man who faced curses and courtrooms without flinching actually looked… cornered.
“I’ll eat,” he said.
You smiled. “Good.”
And just like that, the tension vanished. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek as you passed him a plate.
Yuji watched, wide-eyed.Because this terrifying, composed lawyer man just got handled.
Later, when you stepped away for a moment, Yuji leaned forward again, whispering urgently.
“…She’s scary.”
Higuruma didn’t even look up from his plate.“Yes.”
“…But like… nice scary.”
“Yes.”
“…Like she could ruin my life but also make me soup.”
Higuruma paused, thinking then nodded his head as he peered at you from the kitchen.“That’s exactly it.”
You came back before Yuji could say anything else, setting down something sweet in front of him.
“Dessert,” you said brightly. “You did well.”
Yuji lit up immediately. “Oh! thank you!”
You beamed at him, soft, warm, proud.Then glanced at Higuruma. “…You too.”
Higuruma nodded once. “…Thank you.”
Yuji nearly choked.Because that was the most obedient he had ever seen that man.
Yuji waited until you disappeared fully into the kitchen, the faint clatter of dishes and your soft humming just barely carrying through the apartment.
Then he leaned forward, like he was about to ask something dangerous.
Across from him, Hiromi Higuruma sat with his usual composed posture, tea in hand, completely unbothered.
Yuji lowered his voice anyway. “…How did you meet her?”
Higuruma didn’t answer immediately.Which, to Yuji, was already suspicious.The man always answered immediately.
Finally, Higuruma exhaled softly through his nose.
“She hit me with her bike.”
Yuji blinked.“…What.”
Higuruma took another calm sip of tea. “She hit me with her bike,” he repeated, like this was a normal, everyday sentence. “And then,” he added, just as calmly, “she blamed me for being in the way.”
Yuji stared at him. “…But she’s the one that hit you!!”
“I know.”
“You know?!” Yuji’s voice cracked slightly, hands coming up in disbelief. “You’re telling me she ran you over and then yelled at you for it?!”
Higuruma nodded once. “Yes.”
“And you just...what...stood there??”
“More like I was sitting on the ground but I had to.”
Yuji leaned closer, squinting at him like he was trying to find the missing logic. “You had to?”
Higuruma set his cup down with a soft clink, finally looking at him.And for the first time there was something faintly… human in his expression.Something softer. “…You didn’t see her.”
Yuji frowned. “I’m seeing her now.”
“It’s different,” Higuruma said quietly.
Yuji blinked.“…Different how?”
Higuruma leaned back slightly, gaze drifting, not distant, but remembering as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “She was standing there,” he said, voice low, steady. “Hands on her hips. Short. Absolutely furious....”
Yuji snorted a little. “Yeah, that tracks—”
“She told me I shouldn’t block the sidewalk.”
“…You weren’t blocking the sidewalk.”
“I wasn’t.”
“And she still yelled at you?”
“Yes.”
“And you just let her??”
Higuruma didn’t answer right away.Instead, his gaze softened just a fraction more.
“…She looked beautiful.”
Yuji froze.“…I’m sorry....what.”
Higuruma didn’t even flinch.“She looked beautiful yelling at me.”
Yuji stared at him like he had just said the most insane thing imaginable. “…So you didn’t do anything.”
“No.”
“Because....”
Higuruma met his eyes, completely serious.“Because she looked beautiful, I knew I would marry her.”
Yuji leaned back in his chair slowly, processing what the man had just told him. “…So you didn’t do anything because you simped for her.”
Higuruma paused, he wasn't offended, he wasn't defensive, he was just....thinking. “…If you want to phrase it that way.”
“THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT THAT IS!”
Yuji slapped the table lightly, pointing at him like he’d cracked a case. “You got hit by a bike and fell in love immediately!”
Higuruma picked up his tea again. “It was not immediate.”
“How long did it take?”
“…A few seconds.”
“THAT’S IMMEDIATE!” Yuji groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re a lawyer! You’re supposed to argue! Defend yourself! File charges or something!”
Higuruma took a slow sip. “She was holding the bike.”
“…Okay?”
“She was still yelling.”
“…Yeah?”
“She had a small scratch on her knee.”
Yuji blinked. “…So?”
“I asked if she was hurt.”
Yuji stared at him, long, hard. “…You got hit.”
“Yes.”
“And you asked her if she was okay.”
“Also Yes.”
“…And she was yelling at you.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought—”
A sigh. “She looked beautiful.”
Yuji dropped his head onto the table.A long, suffering groan muffled against the wood.“You’re unbelievable.”
Higuruma said nothing, because he wasn’t denying it.
From the kitchen, your voice floated out. “Yuji, do you want more food?”
Yuji shot upright instantly. “Yes, ma’am!”
Higuruma didn’t even look surprised.
But as Yuji turned toward the kitchen, he leaned just slightly back toward Higuruma, whispering under his breath. “…You got hit by a bike and said ‘yes, this is my wife.’”
Higuruma’s lips twitched. “…Essentially.”
Yuji shook his head, already standing. “Crazy.” Though his gaze lifted to the kitchen. “…She is really pretty though."
Higuruma picked up his tea again, calm as ever.“…I know.”
What is it like dating the second Fatui Harbinger?
Synopsis - People pity you the moment they hear you are dating the Il Dottore. How terrible it must be! Little do they know, Dottore treated you like you hung the damn stars
Tags - OOC Dottore/ Golden retriever energy/ lots of praise/ Dottore and his clones are obsessed with you/ Obsessive Dottore/ But not gross obsessive
Eli note! Dottore is SUPER ooc in this, not cannon at all, so don't come for me!! This is because I played the new Archon quest...no spoilers but im sobbing. ENJOY
People feared Il Dottore.
No — fear wasn’t a strong enough word for it.
People dreaded him.
The Second Harbinger carried a reputation soaked in blood and whispered rumors, spoken carefully behind closed doors and only in hushed voices.
Mad scientist. Monster. Inhuman.
A man so brilliant that even fellow scholars regarded him with unease.
The kind of man mothers warned their children about.
The kind of man soldiers straightened for the second his footsteps echoed down a hall.
And somehow—She was dating him.
Not trapped.
Not threatened.
Dating.
The realization alone always earned the same reactions from people unfortunate enough to learn about it.
Wide eyes.
Careful sympathy.
Concern disguised as politeness.
“Oh…”
“That must be difficult.”
“Are you…safe with him?”
As if she were some poor thing being held captive in his laboratory.
If only they knew.
If only they saw the way Dottore looked at her when nobody else was around.
The way his sharp crimson eyes softened the second she entered a room.
The way his gloved fingers immediately sought her waist, her hand, the sleeve of her shirt—anything to establish contact.
The way his voice lost that cold clinical edge and melted into something quieter.
Warmer.
Possessive, yes.
Obsessive, absolutely.
But cruel?
Never.
Not with her.
The first time she’d visited one of his laboratories, she’d expected something intimidating.
Complicated machinery.
Guards.
Security measures she wouldn’t understand.
Instead, Dottore had calmly taken her hand and pressed it against a glowing mechanism near the entrance.
The machine whirred softly.
“Biometric authorization accepted.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered smoothly, “you may enter any of my laboratories whenever you please.”
“…Any?”
“Yes.”
“And everyone else?”
Dottore tilted his head slightly.
“If an unauthorized individual attempts entry, the defense system will eliminate them.”
Silence.
Then—“
You said that *way* too casually.”
“I fail to see the issue.”
“Zandik.”
His lips twitched beneath the edge of his mask at the sound of his real name.
That stupid, tiny reaction nearly always happened when she used it.
A terrifying Harbinger capable of unspeakable things, and his composure still cracked over hearing his name from her mouth.
“It is important that you are protected,” he said simply, as though he hadn’t just informed her his laboratory would kill intruders on sight. “You will never be denied access to anything that belongs to me.”
And that was the problem, really.
Dottore cherished her with the same frightening intensity he applied to everything else in his life.
Every emotion he possessed existed in extremes.
His ambition.
His anger.
His curiosity.
His devotion.
Especially his devotion.
It manifested constantly in little things that left her flustered beyond belief.
A passing comment about cold hands resulted in him redesigning the lining of her gloves himself.
One mention of struggling to sleep earned her an entire absurdly expensive mattress specifically engineered for “optimal spinal support and temperature regulation.”
When she admired a dress in passing, he bought it before she’d even finished the sentence.
And the praise—Archons, the praise.
It never ended.
Sometimes she genuinely suspected he enjoyed embarrassing her.
She’d stepped out wearing a new dress once, smoothing down the fabric nervously.
The silence from Dottore had been immediate.
Intense.
His gaze traveled over her so slowly she could physically feel herself heating up.
“…What?” she’d asked cautiously.
He approached without a word, resting both hands on her waist before turning her gently.
“Again.”
“What?”
“Turn again.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are beautiful. Humor me.”
Her face burned, but she spun once more anyway.
Dottore watched her with undisguised fascination, like she was the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
She groaned and covered her face while he leaned down, clearly delighted, pressing kisses against her knuckles despite her complaints.
Another time, she’d made the mistake of criticizing herself aloud after a particularly exhausting day.
“I look awful.”
Dottore had gone still.
Slowly, dangerously still.
“What,” he asked carefully, “did you just say?”
She immediately regretted it.
“It’s not a big deal—”
“You,” he interrupted, stepping closer, “are attempting to call my partner ugly.”
“…Maybe a little?”
His expression turned almost offended.
“Absurd.”
“Zandik—”
“No. Absolutely not.” He cupped her face firmly in both hands, forcing her to look at him. “Do you have any idea how frequently I am distracted by you?”
She stared at him.
He continued without hesitation.
“You are beautiful when you wake up. Beautiful when you are angry. Beautiful when you are speaking. Beautiful when you are silent.” His thumbs brushed warmly over her cheeks. “You are quite possibly the loveliest creature I have ever encountered, and I am growing increasingly irritated by your inability to comprehend this.”
By the end of it, she could barely form coherent thoughts.
Which, unfortunately, seemed to amuse him greatly.
“There,” Dottore murmured, smug satisfaction bleeding into his voice as he watched her turn red. “Much better.”
------
There was one major problem with dating Il Dottore.
Actually, several problems.
But the *main* one?
The segments.
At first, she’d assumed they would ignore her.
Perhaps tolerate her at best.
After all, each segment possessed different objectives, personalities, and levels of patience. They were all Dottore, technically, but fragmented into different versions of himself across various ages and mindsets.
Which meant, unfortunately for her—Every single one of them inherited the obsession.
The moment she stepped into the laboratory halls, it began.
Every.
Single.
Time.
The heavy laboratory doors hissed open, and instantly heads turned.
Conversation stopped.
Pens paused.
Mechanical limbs froze mid-adjustment.
And then—
“There she is.”
“Good afternoon, beautiful.”
“You visited later than usual today.”
“She braided her hair differently.”
“Oh, she did.”
“It suits you.”
“Very pretty.”
Heat flooded her face instantly.
“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.
One of the younger segments leaned halfway over a worktable just to wave enthusiastically at her.
Another abandoned whatever horrifying experiment he’d been working on entirely.
The eldest among them merely looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully before speaking in that calm, intelligent voice that somehow made everything worse.
“You appear fatigued. Did you sleep poorly again?”
“She definitely slept poorly,” another chimed in immediately. “Look at her eyes.”
“She is still adorable.”
“Agreed.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Would you all stop—”
But they never did.
That was the problem.
Dottore’s mind, regardless of age or fragmentation, apparently reached the collective conclusion that she was the most fascinating creature alive.
Which meant traversing the laboratory hallways felt less like walking and more like enduring an onslaught of affection from dangerously intelligent men who all shared one consciousness.
“You should stay longer today.”
“You smell nice.”
“That color is pleasing on you.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Your heartbeat increased the second we noticed you.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that. You’re embarrassing her.”
“I believe she’s already embarrassed.”
She kept her head down and walked faster.
Which only made them more entertained.
“There she goes again.”
“She’s hiding her face.”
“Her ears turned red first.”
“Cute.”
“Extremely.”
By the time she finally reached the main laboratory, she was fully flustered beyond recovery.
Dottore himself barely had time to look up before she marched directly toward him and buried her burning face into his chest.
Silence.
Then his hand settled automatically against the back of her head.
“…What did they say this time?” he asked, sounding entirely too unsurprised.
She groaned.
“That does not answer the question.”
“They’re horrible.”
A pause.
“They are technically me.”
“You know what I mean.”
She could feel the faint vibration of amusement in his chest.
Traitor.
“They seem fond of you,” he said smoothly.
“‘Fond’ is not the word I’d use.”
Dottore hummed thoughtfully while stroking a hand slowly through her hair.
“They *are* behaving more tolerably than usual today.”
Her head snapped upward in disbelief.
“More tolerably?!”
“Yes.”
“Zandik, one of them analyzed my heartbeat!”
“That narrows it down very little.”
“Another one told me I smelled nice!”
“That was likely an observational statement rather than flirtation.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Then, slowly—The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“You’re enjoying this.” She huffed.
“A little.”
“Unbelievable.”
Truthfully, though?
She suspected he liked seeing her flustered because he caused it just as often himself.
Especially whenever he made things for her.
Dottore approached care with terrifying thoroughness.
Nothing involving her was ever rushed.
A passing complaint about restless sleep had resulted in nearly three straight weeks of research.
Not because he wanted to sedate her.
Quite the opposite.
He refused to make anything habit-forming or harmful.
“It would be irresponsible,” he’d said flatly when she suggested ordinary sleep medication. “Most solutions merely force unconsciousness rather than improving sleep quality itself. Inefficient.”
So naturally, he made his own.
When she arrived at the lab that evening, he was already waiting near his desk holding a small glass vial filled with pale lavender liquid.
“I have completed it,” he announced.
She immediately reached for it.
Dottore lifted it slightly out of reach.
“Before you drink unidentified substances, perhaps allow me to explain what they are.”
“You wouldn’t poison me.”
“Correct. But your confidence remains concerning.”
She held out her hand expectantly instead.
Without missing a beat, Dottore glanced around the laboratory.
Then, with complete seriousness, opened a drawer and retrieved a glass straw.
He handed it over like this was a perfectly normal interaction.
Which, unfortunately, for them?
It was.
Satisfied, she took the vial back and waited patiently while he adjusted his gloves and picked up a notebook.
“It should encourage natural sleep onset by calming excessive neural activity,” he explained, already slipping into lecture mode. “Non-addictive. Mild herbal base. No dependency formation during trials.”
She took a sip through the straw.
“…Sour.”
Dottore stopped speaking immediately.
“Sour?”
“Mhm.”
He picked up his pen instantly.
“Noted.”
“It’s fine.”
“You dislike sour flavors.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“The formulation can be improved.”
“Zandik.”
He was already writing.
“Reduced acidity. Possible floral sweetener addition—”
She laughed softly, reaching over to push the notebook down slightly.
“You do not have to optimize every single thing for me.”
Dottore looked genuinely confused by that statement.
“Why would I not?”
“Because normal people don’t completely redesign medicine over flavor.”
“I am not normal people.”
“…Fair point.”
He looked oddly pleased by her concession.
Then his gaze flicked toward the vial still in her hands.
“Continue drinking it.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are mocking me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Hm.”
Despite the dry response, he stepped closer anyway, one hand settling against her waist while he watched carefully for any sign of discomfort.
Not clinical.
Not detached.
Just attentive.
Careful.Like every tiny reaction she had mattered.
-----
I hope you guys enjoyed!! I made a little book on Ao3 with my upcoming Dottore oneshots! You can commission or request stories there!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/85298991?view_full_work=true
hi. i want to talk about pokemon, too. I want to ask what you think AZ would think of a ghost type specialist. because reasons :)
Ooh this one stirs up a lot of complicated thoughts in the big guy
Firstly: He's gonna love on them if they're receptive to it, no questions asked. He has a Golurk, he's very familiar with death, he doesn't mind the macabre ooky spooky aesthetic in the slightest. He probably owns a few skulls, himself (though don't go digging for them).
If you're a goth type, he's absolutely receptive to it (especially as someone who also struggles with smiling lol). He doesn't think he's flattering in all-black though (he is, but he's a stubborn old man who likes the clothes he's made already) so he might not join in unless you bribe him a bit haha
He'd be so doting though. He'd help to ease the pain of a chipped Polteageist's pot, give your Litwick some lamp oil to snack on, keep your Haunter entertained so it doesn't cause mischief where it shouldn't, so on and so forth. He doesn't treat any Pokémon differently than any other, regardless of type (unless they're Floette or a Legendary, in which case he's either very partial to them or tepidly reverent toward them respectively)
That said, he knows where Ghost-types usually come from in the wild. He's seen Phantumps manifest in the woods, he knows how Shuppet and Banette are generally made, and... he is very familiar with how restless spirits constantly course through our everyday lives. He often wonders if, when seeing a Ghost-type Pokémon out and about, if he knew them once as a normal human...
If those thoughts ever come to him while spending time with you, though, he either doesn't share them, or asks careful questions about where you met each of your friends. He doesn't want to rouse too much worry from you, that isn't right. But if you ever catch on, ask if he's thinking about that... oh, he'd weep a little.
Not for anything you've done, mind you, he'll insist, but he's fretful over how nostalgic and sentimental he can get. How difficult it is to grieve when so, so many kind people have passed you by in 3,000 years, how they ought to be able to truly rest... it's a difficult thing to empathize with, nearly impossible, but he'd immensely appreciate it if you stuck with him as he talks this through.
Eventually, he might realize that... if those ghost Pokémon are the spirits of people he once knew, is that such a bad thing? To be able to bond with kind trainers, especially ones like you... maybe that is worth celebrating, not mourning.
If your partners ever seem to recognize him, though, he's back to crying and maybe hugging them while they stare in confusion as the cobwebs in their little brains get tidied up haha
He'd have so many stories for them, to catch them up :,)
I was just thinking about learning Corbeau's nervous habits and how to quell them, like a hand on his bouncing knee or gently running the back of his tense neck. And then I started thinking about it for all the guys and I knew I had to come to you
Sydni, I'm sorry this took me forever to get to. But I finally got to it.
Lunch with Urbain always felt a little like trying to picnic in the middle of a windstorm. There was energy everywhere, but none of it ever quite settled. Today, you’d managed to wrangle him away from the marble-and-glass sprawl of Quasartico’s top floor, all the way down to a sun-warmed bench just outside the office building. The city buzzed around you, and Urbain buzzed right along with it, leg bouncing, fingers drumming the edge of his takeout container. He barely touched his sandwich, eyes darting between you and the screen of his phone.
“Okay, so, after lunch I’ve gotta meet with the finance team and then, uh, the board wants a status report? And I think I might’ve lost the—” He broke off, biting his lower lip, blue eyes flickering with that blend of panic and hope that always made your heart twist. “Sorry, I’m just—there’s so much to remember. I thought being CEO would be, like, more fun? Or at least less… numbers.”
You smiled, watching as he gnawed at his lip again, worry etching little red lines along the soft skin. His tousled hair caught in the breeze, wild as ever, the sun catching on his platinum bangs and illuminating the faint freckles across his nose. Even now, with his trademark grin nowhere in sight. He looked every inch the golden boy, just a little more frayed at the edges.
You reached into your bag, fingers closing around a tube of cherry lip balm. Urbain didn’t notice. He was too busy worrying his lip, voice trailing off as he tried to remember the next item on his endless list. You uncapped the balm and smoothed it across your lips, thick and shiny, the scent drifting up in a gentle, sweet note in the city air.
He glanced at you, a question forming, but you didn’t let him ask it. Instead, you leaned in, cupping his jaw in your palm, and pressed a kiss to his mouth, slow, soft, and lingering, letting the balm transfer from your lips to his, coating the chapped skin with gentle pressure. He blinked, startled, then melted beneath your touch, shoulders loosening, the tension draining from his body as you kissed him again, slower this time, your thumb sweeping across his cheekbone.
You pulled back just enough to see the dazed, sheepish smile blooming on his face, lips shiny and pink, eyes wide with surprise. His fingers came up to touch his mouth, and you caught them, lacing your hand through his.
“Hey,” you murmured, voice barely above the hum of the city, “you’re doing better than you think. You’re still learning, Urbain. No one expects you to have it all figured out already.”
He flushed, laughter bubbling out of him, sweet and grateful. “Yeah? Even when I’m screwing up the lunch schedule and chapping my lips to death?”
“Especially then,” you said, grinning. “That’s when you need someone to remind you to take a breath. And maybe kiss you until you remember you’re not alone in this.”
He grinned, wide and real. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up, careless and boyish as ever. The stress didn’t vanish, but it faded for a moment, softened by the warmth of your touch and the taste of cherry on his lips. Urbain leaned in for another kiss, this one clumsy and a little desperate, but sweeter for it, as if he’d just remembered how to be himself again.
“Thanks,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, voice soft and sure. “I…I needed that more than I knew.”
And for a little while, the city noise faded, and it was just you and Urbain, the world slowing down to the steady, unhurried rhythm of your hearts.
Corbeau
You slipped through the door at the edge of noon, arms full of lunch. Fresh bread, a lacquered box of onigiri, something sweet from a back-alley bakery—hoping to coax him out of the storm he always carried behind his eyes. But Corbeau was already in the throes of battle: reports scattered across the desk, a mountain of grunt rosters, and a ledger bristling with crimson tabs. He sat rigid in his high-backed chair, sharp suit pristine, but the muscle in his jaw flickered, and his fingers, long, elegant, usually so precise, kept raking back through his dark, wave-streaked hair.
He didn’t notice you at first. His glasses caught the light as he hunched forward, reading a report, then tossed it aside with a soft, venomous curse. His hand went to his hair again, twisting a lock and pulling it taut, tension bunching at his temples. You set the lunch down without a word, crossing the room on silent feet. The scent of bergamot and ink lingered around him, sharp, cool, and so very controlled.
He startled a little as you came up behind him, but didn’t protest when you laid your palms on his shoulders. “I brought lunch,” you murmured, voice gentle, as if soothing a wild Liepard. “You’ve been working yourself to death.”
He shook his head, the motion stiff, but you didn’t let him argue. Instead, you leaned in, letting your fingers drift up to the back of his neck, finding the corded tension just at the base of his skull, where stress pooled and hardened. His hand, still tangled in his hair, trembled faintly.
“Stop,” you said softly, catching his wrist before he could twist another strand. “Let me.”
He let you guide his hand down, his long fingers uncurling, resting against your palm. You cradled it gently, then slid your other hand into his hair, working slow circles into his scalp, smoothing the wildness back from his forehead. The movement was deliberate and tender, tracing the wave-shaped locks, soothing each tensed root until the urge to pull faded, replaced by your steady, grounding touch.
Corbeau’s breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. His eyes fluttered shut behind those angular glasses, the sharp lines of his face softening, the shadows retreating. You kept your hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slow arcs against the knots, your other hand carding through his hair with gentle persistence.
“You work too hard, Beau,” you murmured, close enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. “Even you need to be cared for sometimes.”
He let out a low, reluctant laugh, a sound rarely heard in this office. “If only my subordinates could see me now,” he murmured, voice rough, but no longer fraying. “The mighty Corbeau, undone by a gentle hand.”
You pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, letting your lips linger. “Perhaps they’ll be jealous then,” you teased. “Not everyone can have a loving and caring girlfriend like me.”
He leaned back further into your touch, tension melting from his shoulders, the urge to fidget, to pull, twist, and control, quieted by the steady rhythm of your care. For a moment, he was simply a man, not the syndicate boss, just yours to soothe and care for.
When he finally opened his eyes, they were clearer, the storm receded. “Stay,” he said, low and certain. “Lunch can wait a little longer.”
You smiled, hands still buried in his hair, and stayed with him in the hush, your presence the antidote to every poison in his veins.
Grisham
The Café Nouveau’s Truck No. 1 was parked beneath the striped shade of a patchwork awning, steam curling from the vents as the breakfast rush faded into a lazy late morning lull. The scent of dark roast and almond croissants hung in the air. You found Grisham perched on the metal step at the back, just outside the open service window, the midday light catching the orange-and-gray sweep of his ponytail and the neat triangles on his pale shirt. He looked calm, almost serene, bow tie perfectly straight, glasses glinting. But his hands were hidden, folded in his lap, tension humming beneath the cool exterior.
You passed him a pastry and coffee, slipping onto the step beside him. He thanked you with a quiet smile, lifting the croissant with careful fingers. But when he reached for his cup, you caught a flash of red—a strip of gauze wound neatly around his index finger, another on his thumb. You frowned, thinking of oven racks and sharp knives. “Rough morning in the kitchen?”
Grisham’s expression didn’t flicker. “A small mishap, nothing more. The almond paste was particularly stubborn today.”
You accepted the answer, but something about the way he held his hands, the careful way his right thumb pressed into the pad of his left palm, set a spark of worry in your gut. You watched as he absently rubbed his cuticle, then quickly tucked his hand beneath the fold of his napkin, fingers tight. He changed the subject, asking after your day, and his voice was smooth, but a little too quick, like a page turned before the ink was dry.
It wasn’t until Griselle breezed past, ponytail swinging and eyes bright with mischief, that you got the truth. She leaned in, voice pitched just for you: “He does that all the time, you know. Worries himself raw. Won’t stop picking ‘til he bleeds. Used to drive Lysandre mad back in the day.” She winked, then slipped inside with a tray of cups, leaving you with a new lens on Grisham’s quiet injuries.
You waited, letting the silence stretch between you, the city noise drifting in from the curb. When Grisham finally looked up, you reached for his hand, catching it before he could tuck it away again. Your touch was gentle, thumb brushing over the fresh wrap. He stilled, sharp eyes searching yours for judgment.
“You know you can always come to me, right?” you said softly, voice edged with warmth but no accusation. “You do so much for everyone. You should let others do something for you, once in a while..”
For a moment, he hesitated, pride and habit warring behind his glasses. Then he exhaled, long and slow, letting his shoulders drop as you unwound the gauze. The skin beneath was red and raw, the cuticle chewed, but you only pressed a kiss to his knuckle, soft and deliberate. You reached into your bag for a little tin of balm, smoothing it over the sore skin, careful and thorough. Grisham watched, color rising high across his cheeks, his posture melting into something looser, his free hand trembling in his lap.
“I… It’s a difficult habit to break,” he admitted, voice gone soft, vulnerable as you’d ever heard it. “I never realized you noticed.”
“Well, for a while I thought it was just general mishaps in the truck. But I started getting suspicious when you’d come home with more fingers wrapped,” you said, finishing the wrap with a new, clean bandage, your fingers lingering against his palm. “Next time it gets too much, come to me, alright? Let me help before you hurt yourself.”
Grisham nodded, lips pressed tight, but this time there was no quick retreat—no hiding, no deflection. He leaned into your touch, letting your hand cradle his, the sharp edges of tension blunted by your care. You stayed like that, the world slowing around you, the city’s noise fading to the gentle rhythm of breath and heartbeat, until someone called for another round of cappuccinos and Grisham, with a grateful glance, pressed a gentle kiss to your fingers before slipping back into the bustle of the café.
Ivor
Ivor was standing where he usually was, watching his students spar but his hands never stilled, knuckles popping, one after the other, the sound sharp as thrown pebbles in the city hush. You wandered over, drawn by that familiar staccato.
The girls were running drills, and Ivor, though outwardly relaxed, cracked his knuckles again and again, tension rippling through his massive frame like a restless Machamp. When you sat beside him, he grinned, but his hands kept moving.
Left, right, back, twist, pop.
“Ivor,” you said gently, reaching to still his fidgeting hands, “you’re gonna run out of knuckles if you keep that up.”
He blinked, sheepish, then let you take his hand. The size of it amazed you every time, callused but warm, the palm easily engulfing yours. You started massaging his fingers, slow circles over the joints, kneading the thick muscle at the base of his thumb. The tension bled away beneath your touch, his knuckles relaxing, his breath coming a little slower.
“That feels good,” he rumbled, a little shy beneath all that bravado.
A soft smile touched your face as you worked your way up, hands gliding over his broad wrist then kneading the dense muscle of his forearm before tracing the pronounced lines of strength and effort that years of training had carved into him. His skin was hot beneath your palms, his arm heavy but yielding, the muscle shifting under your touch like a coiled spring finally unspooling.
A slow, contented sound vibrated in his chest. He shut his eyes, tipping his head back, wild blond hair falling even messier. “Wow. You got magic hands, huh? If you keep that up, I might fall asleep right here.”
You grinned this time, sliding both hands up to his biceps, which were broad, iron-hard, but softening as you kneaded deeper, coaxing away the tension. His breath hitched, a flush rising on his tanned cheeks. The chatter of the dojo faded, your world narrowing to the heat of his skin and the quiet gratitude in every little sigh he let slip.
You leaned in, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his shoulder, then another at the corner of his mouth, right beside the little mole. “You don’t always have to be hard as steel,” you murmured against his skin. “Even the strongest need to take a break and relax sometimes.”
Ivor turned to you, eyes bright with surprise and delight. Then, in one swift and exuberant motion, hooked his big arms around your waist and swept you up off the ground. Your breath caught in a startled gasp as your feet left the cracked pavement and you instinctively flung your arms around his neck, holding tight, laughter bubbling up as his wild golden hair brushed your cheek.
He held you close, grinning wide enough to light up the entire Jaune district, his chest rumbling with that deep, happy laugh. “With you? I could get used to that,” he crowed, spinning you once in the golden afternoon light before settling you against his shoulder—safe, weightless, and fiercely cherished in his embrace.
The dojo’s shouts and clatter faded around you, replaced by the security of Ivor’s arms—steady and unyielding, but warm and gentle as his smile. For once, the restless cracking of his knuckles stilled, all his restless energy folding into the simple, joyful strength of holding you close.
@soil-clown @jacksfoxevangeline @bonesgocrunchandsodoesmy @karochlebek @its06xand @yourmomsalright @caketheidiot @pomelo-verse-offical @itsuwari-no-kibo-offical @chocymilkmilo @caravalxjurdan240 @cami11e4450 @mail-jeev4s @qrxlvz and anyone else who sees this, get her some help FAST
Overview: Muzan Kibutsuji X Blind!Reader - set in Edo Period Japan, you are a Geisha kept to the back confines of you Okaasan's teahouse, having gone a long time without any company. One visitor claims you, however, in a way that makes it eternal.
CW: suggestive themes, blood, biting, injury mention, possessive behaviour, she/her, xReader, canon X reader, not beta read.
A/N: I had a brain worm, had to go with it - I was going to make this character an OC but then I thought it would probably work better as an X reader just for this little snippet. I potentially might still make an OC with this thought process in mind, but not sure yet. I already have two OCs for KNY that I've tortured enough...
Please comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed, it really helps me out!
Also, if you wish to see anything like this and you have ideas, send in a request! The rules are in my bio!
「✦ Cipher ✦」
A caressing breeze breathed against shoji doors, as a floral scent urged through the paper and filled the room. Against the creak of the doors, just beyond, the sway of japanese maples and the sighs of bamboo accompanied the soft 'clack' of the shishi-odoshi that centred the trickling stream of the garden. Over the ease of the evening atmosphere, the silvery glow of moonlight filtered through and weaved along the ornate paths - in the heated air of the summer night, fireflies danced and bobbed, the rhythmic pulse of their yellowed light singing a silent song.
Inside the room, a singular lonely soul remained seated in the centre, waiting patiently as her hands braced against the firm tatami mats. She focused on the sensation, as she breathed slow and calm. Behind her, the moonlight glowed the pale paper of the shoji doors, casting a faint hue of silver over her figure. Immediately to her right, where her elbow brushed against it, was a plain cedar table, and atop it was a teaset with gradually waning heat.
In front of her were fusuma doors, intricately painted with the story of a beautiful woman and her lover, with picturesque canopies of trees and nature surrounding them. They had not been opened in some time, she noted, and nor could she hear the oncoming footsteps of Okaasan or other Geisha's. It seemed, yet again, she was to have a night entirely in her own company.
The Geisha couldn't help but wonder when they would grow tired of her. When would they find that keeping her there was more hassle than it was worth? After all, she had done nothing to earn her spot there for a long while, most patrons seemingly growing unnerved and seeking other company once they entered her room.
A melodic hum filled her chest, as she quietly recited the tune of an old lullaby, the tones gentle and serene. If only they would listen to her voice, they might find her enticing, entertaining, and she would find herself with no need to worry over the safety of her position at the teahouse. Her mind stuttered, pausing as the last part of the lullaby's tune suddenly evaded her memory, and the room once again fell silent.
Taking a deep breath, she tentatively shifted her position to seek a comfort that she had lost to the amount of time seated in one position; she winced at the tingling in her feet, wiggling her toes to urge the sensation to return quickly, before she settled back into a different seated position. This time, she leant against the table, arms crossed over themselves as she languidly stretched over its surface. She was careful not to knock the tea set, the skin of her scalp sensing its closeness once she rested her head into the crook of her elbow.
A sigh passed her lips, eyes closing as she returned to humming another tune.
In this time, the moonlit sliding doors behind her was swallowed by a shadow, the figure imposing and eerily still. Their silent arrival went unnoticed and the hand of the shadow moved to grasp the edge of the door. With ease and composed quiet, the figure opened the sliding door.
It was at this gesture that her head perked up, turning slightly in the direction of the sound, the hum in her throat dying out.
"Hello?" She called out, remaining still, calm. A moment of silence and then she was sighing, ever so gently. Her tone was quiet, timidly ethereal, as her giggle sounds like the tinkling of glass bells, "if that's you, Sachiko, you know you shouldn't be here. Okaasan will be very upset with you for sneaking around at night."
Met with silence again, the woman heaved a sigh, but didn't move. Instead, she resettled, her head falling into the crook of her elbow as she pitifully murmured, "it can't be Sachiko…"
A beat.
Red eyes remained steadfast on the small frame of the young woman, narrowed and contemplative. They glowed against the shadows on his features, a unreadable emotion dancing within the crimson hues.
Was it curiosity?
Or a disbelief laced with the markings of resentment?
One could be sure of one thing, only that they glowed and they were on her, in such a way that implied nothing would be enough to entice them off her. The figure's features were stoic, cold, and upon stepping further into the room, his presence filling the space to the brim, he found himself unable to enjoy the lack of reaction. There was the lightest twitch to his eye, as annoyance flickered through his gaze.
Tilting his head, he regarded the woman for a moment longer, hands hanging at his side and limber, ready for when he decided to devour her.
Then, she spoke again.
"You're still here?"
Quiet.
He narrowed his eyes, unsure of why he wasn't ending her miserable life within seconds and consuming ever last bit of her. He couldn't place the reasoning for his hesitation, nor why the trill of her voice chipped at the ice in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he decided to respond, voice tempered and deep, "I am."
A soft hum of recognition resounded in her chest, head rising as she suddenly became rigid. There was the taste of anxiety in the air and the figure finally thought he was receiving the attention his presence usually wrought. Instead, he found himself stilling in the waters of contemplation once again, as he watched deft hands reach and feel for the tea set.
With attentive decision, he urged himself further into the room, though kept himself distant from the woman. A small purse of his lips, somewhat in mild disgust towards his own confusion, came about his face as he watched the woman's fingers tap away at the surface of the table. Eventually, her fingertips brushed against the side of a cup, and she picked it up.
Her voice reached him again, his eyes darting to the side of her face, searching her figure, "please accept my apology, I didn't think my company was requested tonight. Though, I don't understand why they sent you through the gardens. It's quicker through the teahouse."
There it was, the anxiety he thought would have been over him was simply over her own failed etiquette. He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, his curiosity becoming something warmer, less irritable.
"If I may," she continued to speak, as she began to search for the teapot, "I would like to invite you to sit, I'll pour you a drink of tea and we can get to know each other."
There was shuffling behind her and she tried to put on a unwavering smile, hoping that, this time, someone decided to stay and keep her company.
Just once, she would like that.
"No," came the short response. There was a dejected sensation filling her gut, as her grip on the teapot wavered. She placed it down, as gently as she could, though she still caused a little haphazard thud against the table's surface.
"Could I ask your name?" She added, once she realised silence was threatening to hang in the air again. Movement could still be heard behind her, as the figure moved into the small alcove that she was granted; there wasn't much there, only simple paintings, dusted over instruments and a singular, broken hairpin.
It was dismal, he thought, pathetic even. This woman was supposed to be one of the most beautiful Geisha recorded at that teahouse and yet it seemed she was shoved away into the darkest corner and forgotten about. He would liken her to nothing but a discarded doll, one that had lost the love of its owner and tossed aside for greater things. If he were able, he was sure he would find a slither of himself pitying her; whether it was genuine, he wouldn't be able to say.
When she asked, though, he brought his attention back from her lack of personal belongings, ruby eyes settled on her form once again, in that stilled, predatory way. He pondered, if only for a moment, whether offering his name to a human with only moments left to live was even worth the breath he would use. Then, when he found himself stepping closer, hand reaching for the long, silken locks of hair, his voice betrayed him.
"Muzan."
He quickly regained himself, hand freezing mere centimetres from running his fingers through her hair, and snapped upright. He grimaced at himself, detesting the allure that keenly soaked into his senses.
Muzan's lips parted in a silent gasp when a thoughtfully delighted hum filled her chest, that same, featherlight laugh chipping at more of the ice within him. He gritted his teeth, fangs crunching slightly at the strength, before he forced himself to relax his jaw.
"That is a strong name," came her response, "I wonder if a strong man bears it."
Much to Muzan's surprise, the small woman tentatively rose to her feet, as her hands wiped out any creases from her nemaki. Even at her full height, his engulfed her, crowding her like a wolf about to savage a rabbit. But he hung back, remained still, simply watching.
Always just watching her.
"Can I see you?"
What?
He frowned, about to speak, but the words were snatched from the tip of his poison tongue; the woman turned and when he assumed her eyes would lock on his form, they didn't. Even in the dim light of the room, there was no escaping how her the colour of her eyes was frosted over with a cloudiness, the echo of sight long-gone as her eyes continually searched. Searching, searching, but unable to settle on anything, met with nothing, not even dark. The ever-present flicker of movement was joined with the slight inability to level her gaze exactly where he was, just venturing off to his left.
He noted, though, that she was beautiful.
"Are you…"
"I'm still here." He offered, quietly.
"Then, may I?" Her question was accompanied by the raising of her hands, her palms angled upwards to the ceiling and reaching out in the direction she had heard him speak from.
There was a slither of amusement in his voice when he next spoke, the smallest of upturns to his lips as agreed. The hum of his voice guided her, small steps taken to ensure she didn't trip, though Muzan made no move to shorten the gap between them. He wanted to watch her seek him out.
Eventually, he found his skin aflame with anticipation when the heat of her right palm radiated through the fabric on his chest. She pressed the palm flat, left hand hovering slightly as she tilted her head in thought, it seemed. Muzan could practically see her mind working, how she mulled over the feeling of him beneath her skin. As her hand glided over his chest, fingertips danced over the small area of exposed skin in the dip of his fastened robes, tracing to the inner edge of his collar bone and up.
Instinctively, his eyes closed, savouring the warmth of her touches as the path ventured over his throat, hesitating at his jawline. When her movements stopped, his eyes opened and levelled her with a halfhearted glare, only to realise she was bringing her left hand to mirror the opposite side. Her palms cupped his cheeks, thumbs gently caressing under his eyes before they moved upwards. Her tender touches, featherlight, dancing over his brow, his eyes, cascaded until she had mapped out what she thought his face looked like.
Eventually, her left hand dropped down to her side, but her right remained, finger tips of her forefinger and middle finger gracing the soft skin of his lips.
Muzan's eyes were half-lidded, hazed, drunk almost, and unwaveringly glued to her.
"I don't believe I have before me a man," she whispered, brows furrowing.
Muzan grew rigid, a cool anger beginning to colour his features as his hands grew tense. The muscle in his jaw twitched, eyes widening as his entire regard of the woman teetered on the edge of dangerous. But she leant up, fingertips brushing to the corner of his mouth, and he fought against his instincts to grant him one more second to simply watch.
Her furrowed look melted into one of reverence, as though she were suddenly someone at the centre of a shrine and beckoned by a deity. Sightless gaze flickered, lips quivering as a pious feeling came about her, the feeling etching deep into her bones as her heart fluttered.
"Perfection," she was almost breathless, as her hand retreated from his form, features laced with the unbidden horror that she had sullied the image of someone beyond her. Her voice shook, the fragility of those glass bell tones almost shattering under the weight of whatever realisation she was having. Her hand clutched at the lapel of her nemaki, fingers tracing over the fabric to soothe her quickening heart rate. She spoke once more, afraid that she had done wrong, "perfection like this, it's reserved for deities."
Muzan felt himself bristle with anticipation, the anger lending the space it had taken to something much more vibrantly aggressive.
His pride.
A mean smile formed on his face, fangs harsh as a deep laugh rattled in his chest. Without a second thought spared, he closed the distance between them, hands reaching for her wrists and gripping them tightly. His sharp movements caused a yelp to stir from her, but he disregarded her discomfort, pulling her closer. He leant down to her height, eyes level with hers, as his fingers crowded around hers, thumbs pressing into her palms as he forced her hold his face again.
"Again."
"I-"
"Say it again." He demanded.
Muzan felt her hands twitch against his grip and he held tightly until he realised she was trying to hold him properly. With a worried whimper, she shakily graced his skin with her tentative touches, their breaths mixing in the minimal space between them. He could feel the heat of her skin, hear how her blood rushed to her face in embarrassment from how close she was to her perceived deity. He enjoyed every second of seeing her squirm, seeing how she fought against the need to dive to the level she belonged to as a human and the will to fulfil his desire.
"You look perfect," she breathed, as she felt him tower over her, his nose against hers and his hands moving to encase her body against his.
"You called me a God," he murmured, as he felt a hunger surge to his core, lustful, possessive, his mind wishing simply to cage her and keep her. If he did, would she bow to him, revere him, love him as a devout soul would love a God?
Oh, he was drunk on that thought alone. To be seen as perfection, reminded, branded a God even before he had truly reached such heights. It was like he was being vindicated, offered the truth that, yes, you will be eternal.
His comment received no response, only a quiet worry that the woman was doing something she shouldn't.
"Why show yourself to me?" She eventually asked, as Muzan felt her body slowly relax, her fingertips lightly tapping against his jawline. The mean smile on his face softened, but only marginally, as he lowered his head to the crook of her neck. He inhaled her scent, the smell of her faint perfume, and he gently brushed his lips against her pulse. The curve of his lips didn't go unnoticed by her, a woman who simply allowed herself to be moulded, guided, unwilling to deny this otherworldly being his desires.
"I don't need a reason," he stated, as he remained focused on the sensation of the throb of blood against his lips. It would be so easy to bite down, to tear out her throat and let her blood fill his mouth.
He wondered if she would taste sweet, like honey.
He wondered if he could get that taste simply by kissing her.
"A human like me," she began, body beginning to tremble against the growing heat that threatened to course through her. Her knees felt like they could buckle. Her chest was rising and falling in deeper motions the deeper her breathing got. Heart burst against her chest as a slickness pooled between her legs, causing her to squirm and whine silently. She barely achieved the next words, voice working past a sigh as she felt sharp teeth edge into her skin, "I shouldn't be with you in this way- I-I don't deserve-"
There was a hum, deep, warning, a bid for her to be silent and compliant. The notes vibrated against the skin of her neck, as the bite stilled; she felt the pain, the ebb of sour heat searing across the wounded skin, before the wetness of a tongue danced over the wound. There was a slight dribble of warmth as small beads of blood escaped the deepest punctures, the coolness of the night air icy against the damp stripe of saliva left behind in the wake of Muzan moving away.
His tongue was bloodied, thick with the scent of her honeyed blood, as his eyes grew feral. In that moment, he decided he needed to keep her, mark her, ensure that such sweet affirmations would only ever be spoken to him, the man who would ascend to godhood and become eternal.
The metallic taste filled her mouth, pungent and overbearing, but sickening intoxicating as his tongue worked against hers. His lips were punishing, kisses greedy and devouring, as a hand came up to entangle in her hair and grip tightly. Muzan angled her to his liking, low growls of desire rumbling through his chest. Though she yelped against him, voice muffled by his mouth against hers, swallowing each sound, her body spoke for her. Her hands shakily reached to grab onto his sleeves, anchoring herself to him, willing him to shape her however he wished.
The hand that remained at her waist soon travelled upward, fingers sneaking beneath the hem at her shoulder and pushing the cotton fabric down, palm gliding over the parts of her exposed skin, nails threateningly close to marring the unblemished surface. Muzan moved from her lips, to her jaw, to her shoulder, feverishly kissing and nibbling. Between each movement, he spoke with clarity, "I can offer you a place at my side."
A beat.
With a deep inhale, he quickly returned to her swollen lips, wet with their shared saliva, biting at her bottom lip sharply. The pain caused her to whine, tears forming in her waterline before he soothed in with another kiss.
"You just need to say yes." He added, slowly his fervent kisses to a singular, gentle one.
There was the sound of unwanted voices growing louder on the other side of the fusuma doors, a faint flow of lantern light spilling over the outer corridor. Muzan straightened up to his full height, hands still possessively holding the woman to him, lips red with the stain of her blood; his eyes glowed with a crimson rage, as he cast them to the two encroaching shadows upon the sliding door.
Of course they would want to interrupt him now, right when he was getting what he wanted.
How convenient, though, that they would step right into the lair of the beast; all she had to do was say yes, yes and then the two stains could her first devour for strength, for power.
"Muzan…" the breathy utterance of his name sobered him, drawing his gaze back to the woman in his hold. His name on her tongue, his perfect name like sweet liqour pouring down her throat, he wanted her to swallow it, for his name to be the only one that ever dared dance behind her teeth.
The sliding door began to open and that mean smile returned to his lips, his breath fanning over the shell of her ear as he whispered, low and tempting, "your answer."
She wasn't entirely certain if the arms around her belonged to a deity or a devil, but the seal was spoke from her lips, hushed and bruised from his heated touches, "yes."
Muzan's smiled widened, knowing the night would have always ended up in blood.
But this addition? Oh, he couldn't have accounted for that.
a/n:
My understanding of his character is still limited to what we know so far, so I apologize if there are any inaccuracies. Hopefully, we’ll get to learn more about him soon.
This fic is also uploaded on Ao3: Here
Italics are used for flashbacks.
Minajael couldn’t fall asleep.
For the past few days, his thoughts had been occupied persistently by a certain someone.
It began on the first day of the tournament between NRC and RSA.
“Excuse me, where do I put this?”
A voice cut through the room while Minajael was drinking from his bottled water. He turned around, only to see you holding a box of bottled drinks in your hands.
Minajael quickly walked over and took the box away from you.
“Let me help you.”
NRC had given RSA students their own rooms to rest during the tournament, and Minajael had chosen the pantry to cool himself down for a moment, away from the others. He had just received a call from his parents regarding another potential marriage arrangement, and his mood had been particularly sour ever since.
The box landed on the counter with a dull thud.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
Against his better judgment, your words irritated him.
“No need to call me that. Just my name is fine.” The words came out colder than he intended, and he could see how you were taken aback for a brief second.
“Oh, sorry. I just wanted to be polite.”
“Well, you don’t call Leona and Malleus with that title, do you?”
“…True.”
You fell silent after that, shutting your mouth as you glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, a hint of reluctance in your expression that made Minajael feel a flicker of guilt.
He sighed.
“…Sorry. I got agitated for no reason.” he said, more politely this time, genuinely meaning it.
You only shrugged, smiling lightly at him.
“No worries. I’m used to being a rage dump.”
?
Minajael raised an eyebrow at your statement, but you only met him with a smile.
What kind of wretched situation are they running at NRC.
He had heard rumors about several students overblotting in NRC, though he was never entirely sure if they were true. However, he had seen that video of STYX breaking into the school and taking some students away, and as a prince, he was not unfamiliar with the organization.
Which means the rumors were, at the very least, partially true.
The thought made him remember something else.
Minajael’s gaze shifted toward you.
Of course he knew who you were.
You were, in a way, quite well-known in NRC, and your name had come up more than once even among RSA students. He had seen you as well, scattered across photos and videos on his cousin’s Magicam, often appearing somewhere in the background or at his side.
Though he rarely paid much attention, he knew enough.
You were close.
“Hey, you’re… friends with Kalim and Jamil, right?” Minajael asked.
“Hm? Oh, yeah. I do.”
Minajael went silent for a moment, weighing whether he should continue or not.
“…How is Kalim doing?”
The question left his mouth quieter than he intended, but you seemed to catch it anyway.
It had been a while since he last saw his cousin, or even contacted him.
Minajael had always been a different kind of prince growing up.
He always asked, “Why does it have to be done this way?” to his parents and teachers alike, over and over again.
As a prince, he understood that it was his duty to become a wise and just ruler, and for that reason, he always tried his best in both academic and social studies. He excelled to the point that, by the time he reached fifteen, there was barely anything left for him to learn within his age range, and he had already been given advanced studies on a university level.
People praised him constantly for his intelligence and his flawless composure.
And yet, the question remained.
Does it always have to be this way?
Minajael feels so suffocated. He rips his royal robes that make it hard to breathe at the end of each day.
He begins questioning more things, challenging more ways.
He admits that he has not been in his best behavior as a prince most of the time. He throws a big fit when his parents do not allow him to attend RSA when he receives the invitation, until they are forced to finally agree to let him go.
Minajael wants freedom. To live outside the life he has always been ‘supposed’ to live.
To see a whole new world he has never seen before.
And even if he ends up having to live in it, he wants to live it his own way.
Thus, he does not understand Kalim.
His cousin, though not a royal, is still an heir to a very powerful family. Hell, Minajael could even say he carries the same expectations as a royal.
The only difference is that he is given more freedom than someone who must always be on their best behavior.
That’s why he does not understand why Kalim does not take it.
Despite how others see Kalim—as oblivious, carefree fella—Minajael knows he is nowhere near a fool.
He can command an entire army with a single word, and they would be willing to die for him.
And still—
he chose to remain in that position.
Walking around every day with a retainer who did everything for him, to the point where he could not even do certain things himself.
Minajael especially despises how he keeps his silence, even when he disagrees with what others do, or what his family tells him to do.
And that is why Minajael is not close to him.
The clash in their beliefs. Their views.
They barely spoke, even though Minajael still had Kalim’s number.
“Ah, yeah. I remember. You are his cousin, aren’t you?” Your sudden words pulled him out of his reverie.
“Yeah, we are.”
“Hmm.” You seemed to be thinking, ignoring him for a moment. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Minajael blinked.
“…What?”
“Why don’t you ask Kalim how he’s doing yourself?”
Minajael closed his mouth.
“…I’m not sure if he wants to talk to me.”
You tilted your head.
“What makes you think he doesn’t?”
Minajael leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as he closed his eyes.
“…Nothing.”
Minajael remembered the last time he and Kalim had a conversation, and it did not end well.
They met during a family dinner, and at the time, Minajael had been at the peak of his rebellious phase. He had been so frustrated with Kalim. Frustrated that he seemed unable to understand his perspective, just like everyone else.
So he lashed out at his younger relative unjustly.
He had been too embarrassed to show his face ever since.
Minajael opened his eyes to see you giving him a slightly awkward look.
“A bit rocky, isn’t it?”
He said nothing.
“Well, if you want to know—he’s fine. I think he’s even happier these past few months. Though again, I’m just a third party. That’s only based on how I see him. I don’t know what’s actually on his mind.”
Minajael studied your expression for a moment before huffing.
“Well, good then. At least he’s not stupidly falling into endless poison or kidnapping anymore.”
There was a brief pause between the two of you before you raise your hand.
“Permission to ask something, Your Highness.”
“Minajael.”
“Your Highness Minajael.”
“Tch.” Minajael clicked his tongue in irritation, but you didn’t seem to care.
“…What is it?” he said.
“This might be a bit nosy of me, but I’m kind of offended by the way you spoke about my dear friend, so I want to know. Why don’t you like him?”
Minajael had to admit, your bravery was almost admirable.
Very few would ask such a question to a crown prince, let alone him, with such a straight and unbothered expression.
You seemed genuinely curious, slightly irked, yet at the same time, not particularly concerned about him or the weight of what you were asking. And still, you asked anyway.
Much to his displeasure.
Fine.
Since you were brave—or foolish—enough, and you were, after all, both Kalim and Jamil’s friend, he supposed he could give you an answer.
“It’s not like I dislike him,” he said.
“I disagree with his way of living.”
You raise your eyebrow in interest.
“I don’t agree with his way of living. He lives solely by his family’s expectations. Kalim Al-Asim has always followed what the people around him tell him to do. Even his personal retainer.”
“He has no initiative to do something himself, and constantly lives in a role assigned to him. Even when that role, and what he does, has nearly gotten him killed over and over again.”
“I can’t understand someone who refuses to step outside his own cage. Even when the door has long been opened.”
Minajael said at last, pouring out the final piece of his thoughts on Kalim.
Now it is your turn to cross your arms over your chest and close your eyes in thought.
“Hmm…”
Minajael watches you.
He expects an argument, but you give him nothing. The silence stretches longer than he is comfortable with.
His fingers tap once against his arm. Then still.
After a minute, you open your eyes and look straight into his, wearing the same unreadable expression you always have.
Then, you step closer. One step at a time.
He scrunches his eyebrows, questioning your movement.
You stop directly in front of him and lean your face forward. Minajael instinctively inches back, caught between confusion and a ? what the fuck?
And then, your eyes change.
There is a sharpness to them now, a flicker of irritation that cuts whatever words he had in his throat.
“What do you know about his life?”
Minajael stunned on his feet.
Then, a set of footsteps drags your attention toward the door. You see Neige LeBlanche standing in the doorway.
“Oh! You!” he beams.
“Hi, Neige.” you greet him, already strolling over and leaving Minajael behind.
“It’s been a while since we last met, isn’t it?” Neige says.
“I know, hasn’t it been… in Fleur City, right?”
“Correct! How have you been?”
Your distant chatter with Neige fails to register in Minajael’s mind as he remains stuck, trying to process your words.
“What do YOU know about his life?”
Minajael finds, to his irritation, that he does not have an answer he is willing to say aloud.
“Hello, want to buy our fresh lemonade?”
“It’s you again.”
Minajael looks up to see you smiling brightly at him, a tray strapped to your body and a hat perched on your head.
You beam. “Hello, my prince. Would you like to buy some fresh lemonades?”
Minajael grunts at your words.
Well, he understands that what he said the other day might have annoyed you enough that you are now insisting on addressing him with the very title he dislikes.
When he doesn’t respond, you lift a hand to your forehead, as if shielding your eyes from the sun.
“Today is very hot. Surely you’d want something refreshing while you watch the tournament?”
Minajael’s gaze drifts toward the sports field below, where a break between matches is currently underway and the staff prepare for the next event. Having finished his own tournament yesterday, he chose to remain in the stands today, watching the games while blending in with the crowd.
He sighs. “Okay. One lemonade.”
“You don’t want two? It’s buy two, get one free right now.”
“…No. I’m here alone.”
“Surely you’ll get thirsty watching for so long?”
Minajael closes his eyes.
You—
He really isn’t sure if you are trying to annoy him or if this is simply how you are.
Deciding it is better to agree than waste any more energy, he exhales.
“Fine. I’ll buy two.”
“Then you’ll get three.”
“…Alright.”
You hand him the cups one by one, and he nudges the person beside him.
“Excuse me. Would you like some lemonade?”
The boy startles. “Eh? Uh—sure,” he says awkwardly, taking the cup from Minajael. At Minajael’s prompting, he passes the other one to his friend sitting next to him.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe Prince Minajael talked to me,” the boy whispers to his friend, as if Minajael cannot hear.
Minajael takes a sip. The cool, citrusy taste washes over his throat instantly, cutting through the heat. He glances over the rim of the cup and notices the ‘Mostro Lounge’ stamp printed on it.
“Thank you,” he says to you.
“My pleasure. Thank you for buying our drinks. If you’d like to treat the others in this row as well, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Minajael lets out a low chuckle at that.
“No, thank you.”
You smile and move along, offering your drinks to the others nearby. Minajael watches you from the corner of his eye.
Against his will, his thoughts drift back to your conversation yesterday. Truth be told, he hasn’t been able to get your question out of his head.
What do you know about his life?
It was such a simple question, yet it has been circling his mind ever since.
He has always been prone to overthinking, and your words have only given that habit more fuel.
What does he actually know about Kalim’s life?
Minajael pauses on the thought.
Minajael did not know.
He knows the environment Kalim grew up in. The guards, the precautions, the constant vigilance that follows him wherever he goes. None of it is unfamiliar to Minajael. If anything, it is simply another variation of the life he himself has always known, shaped differently but rooted in the same expectations.
He knows the incidents as well, the poisonings and the threats. Things that, within their circles, are not treated as distant rumors but as quiet facts, acknowledged and then set aside as part of reality.
But that isn’t what you asked.
You asked what he knows.
What Kalim sees when he wakes up in the morning. What he notices, what he ignores. What he fears, what he dismisses. The weight of the things that happen to him, and the way he chooses—consciously or not—to carry them.
Not the story.
The person inside it.
…and Minajael realizes that he does not know.
“Hey.”
He calls out when you return to his row.
You turn immediately, raising a brow in question.
“I would like to apologize for my previous conduct. It seems I have offended you, and spoken ill of someone you care about.”
You chuckle.
“There’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who should apologize, honestly. It seems I judged you as well.” You shrug lightly. “What do I know about your life—or Kalim’s, anyway?”
You purse your lips, as if wanting to say something more but unsure whether you should. Minajael waits.
“Have you talked to Kalim?” you finally ask.
Minajael’s brows draw together. You really do have a knack for being irritating, don’t you? Why would you ask something so personal?
You raise a hand quickly. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t ask something like that. But in case you forgot, I’m nosy, so I can’t really help it.” You gesture casually. “But hey, if you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.”
Minajael studies you for a moment. “Did you talk to Kalim about this?”
“And ruin my chance to see his reaction when he gets a message from his dear cousin? Absolutely not.” You smirk. “I’m waiting for both his reaction and yours.”
Minajael rolls his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”
“What a pity.”
Minajael exhales softly, unimpressed. “You seem overly invested in matters that do not concern you.”
“I sell drinks to people for a living,” you reply lightly. “Getting involved in things that don’t concern me is practically a job requirement.”
“That hardly makes it appropriate.”
“Neither is judging someone based on a life you’ve never actually asked about,” you return, just as easily.
Minajael’s gaze sharpens slightly at that, though his expression remains composed. “You speak as though you know him better.”
“I don’t,” you shrug. “But at least I’m aware that I don’t.”
There’s a brief pause, the noise of the crowd filling the space between you.
You tilt your head, studying him for a second longer before your brows draw together, not in mockery, but something closer to mild disbelief.
“For someone who’s said to be free,” you say, “you’re quite trapped in your own mind, aren’t you?”
Minajael’s jaw drops open in disbelief.
You have already walked away, continuing to sell your drinks as if nothing happened, leaving him behind in his shock.
“Hey, want to buy some lemonade? Prince Minajael of Scalding Sands buys from us, you know.”
“Uh—”
“So do famous actors Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanc. And Prince Leona Kingscholar, and Prince Malleus Draconia, and the famous Kalim from Al-Asim. Everyone buys my lemonade.”
“You’re just naming your friends!” a Heartslabyul student chirps.
“Yes, and?”
Minajael cannot stop staring at you, watching your utterly ridiculous upselling tactics unfold without a hint of shame.
This girl, honestly.
And that is how he ends up in this situation. Staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours on end. He hasn’t been sleeping properly for the past three days, your words lingering far longer than they have any right to.
He curses inwardly. Minajael really is a fool, an avid overthinker, and you—why would you make it worse? He truly doesn’t understand.
He exhales sharply, turning slightly against his bed when yet another attempt at sleep fails him, his mind already circling back to the same thought it has been trapped in for days now.
For three days now, he has been turning your question over and over in his mind, as if circling it long enough will somehow make the answer appear.
Somewhere along the way, the question shifts.
It is no longer just about Kalim.
It becomes about the freedom he always believe in.
What do you know about his life?
The more he thinks about it, the more it begins to unravel something he has never thought to question before.
Minajael has always considered himself free. Not in the naive sense of having no responsibilities, that would be ridiculous for someone in his position, but in the way he carries himself, the way he speaks as he pleases, refuses what he dislikes, and does not bend easily to expectations placed upon him. He has always believed that this, at the very least, sets him apart from those who simply accept everything handed to them without resistance.
Kalim, in his eyes, has always been one of those people.
Carefree to the point of carelessness, too soft, too willing to accept everything with a smile no matter what is done to him, as though the world has never given him a reason to think otherwise.
That is what Minajael has always believed.
And because of that, he has never once considered Kalim to be free.
But now, forced to sit with that belief, he finds it… strangely rigid.
Because Kalim, despite everything that surrounds him, despite the restrictions and dangers Minajael knows all too well, still does as he wishes in the ways that matter. He speaks to whoever he wants, trusts as he chooses, gives freely without hesitation, and moves through the world without that constant edge of judgment Minajael himself cannot seem to let go of.
Kalim does not measure others the way Minajael does.
He does not confine people into neat conclusions, does not decide what they are and leave them there.
He simply… accepts.
And Minajael, who has always claimed himself to be free, cannot help but notice how narrow his own thoughts begin to feel in comparison.
Because what is that freedom worth, if it only exists within the limits of his own understanding?
What does it mean to be free, if he is still bound so tightly to his own perspective that he cannot see beyond it?
He has always thought of himself as someone who moves as he pleases, yet here he is, circling the same thoughts, the same judgments, the same conclusions, unable to step outside of them even when he tries.
It feels, suddenly, like being trapped in something he had never noticed before.
Minajael exhales slowly, the tension in his chest settling heavier, his gaze fixed on the unmoving ceiling above him.
For all this time, he has looked at Kalim and thought him naive.
Now, he is no longer certain which of them truly is.
The thought lingers until he finally lets out a quiet sigh.
…He really has to talk to Kalim tomorrow.
“Hi, Mina!” Kalim waves enthusiastically when he spots Minajael in the crowd.
Minajael smiles as he weaves his way through the sea of people, making his way toward where Kalim and Jamil are standing.
Jamil bows the moment Minajael stops in front of him, earning a slight scrunch of Minajael’s brows in disapproval. “My prince.”
Minajael catches the faint smirk tugging at Jamil’s lips, so subtle no one else would notice, but he does. At this point in his life, he already knows Jamil is a little shit, and will take any chance to tease him simply because he can.
…Right. Focus.
He didn’t come here for that.
“How have you been? It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”
“It sure has!” Kalim beams. “My dad asked you to come visit one of these days. He misses you, and so does Mom.”
Minajael smile.
The conversation flows easily between the three of them, carried by Kalim’s cheerful tone and Jamil’s constant, dry interjections. Minajael finds, somewhat to his own surprise, that it is not unpleasant at all.
Perhaps it is simply because they have all grown older now, left behind the sharper edges of their younger selves.
Or perhaps—
He finds himself studying Kalim for a brief moment, the thought returning before he can dismiss it.
“I think… I may have misunderstood you.”
Kalim blinks, clearly caught off guard.
“Eh?”
Minajael exhales softly, almost as if reconsidering his own words, before shaking his head.
“It’s nothing. Pay it no mind.”
“But you just said something serious!” Kalim leans forward slightly, concern already creeping into his expression. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”
“No,” Minajael answers, more quickly than intended. He pauses, then adds, calmer, “No. It has nothing to do with you.”
Jamil’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze flicking between the two of them, clearly catching onto something beneath the surface, though he says nothing.
Minajael straightens, smoothing over the moment as if it had never happened. “I simply had a thought, that’s all.”
Kalim still looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway. “Okay… but if something’s bothering you, you can tell me, you know?”
Minajael hums noncommittally.
There is a brief lull, but it does not linger long before Kalim starts talking again, effortlessly filling the space as he always does.
Minajael listens, responds when appropriate, but his thoughts have already begun drifting elsewhere.
After a while, he steps back slightly.
“I should take my leave.”
“So soon?” Kalim asks, visibly disappointed.
“I have something to attend to.”
Kalim brightens immediately. “Oh! Then don’t let us stop you. But come visit soon, okay? Dad will be really happy!”
“I will,” Minajael replies, the promise coming easier than he expects.
Jamil inclines his head. “Safe travels, my prince.”
Minajael gives him a look, but says nothing, already turning away.
Kalim scrunches his brows in confusion.
“What was that about?” he asks, turning to Jamil.
Jamil narrows his eyes slightly, suspicion settling in. Minajael is not the type to say something like that without reason.
His gaze follows Minajael’s retreating figure, tracing the direction he is heading, until he spots you, standing with Grim, casually eating an ice cream.
Understanding settles in almost immediately.
Jamil grins.
“I see.”
Kalim blinks. “You do?”
Jamil lets out a quiet chuckle, folding his arms. “You really can’t mind your own business, can you?”
“What do you think freedom is?”
You jolt lightly at the sudden voice beside you, lifting your head to find Minajael standing there, looking at you with an expectant sort of calm.
You tilt your head, confusion clear on your face.
“Ha?”
“What is freedom to you?” he repeats.
You stare at him for a moment.
“…Did I suddenly get a pop quiz or something?”
END
a/n:
I can’t get him out of my mind, help. I just really love bratty pretty boys.
This fic is inspired by a Twitter thread discussing the not-so-close relationship between Minajael and Kalim, and how Minajael and Leona, or even Malleus might not have been exposed to the same kind of dangers that Kalim—and even Jamil—experienced growing up. It’s interesting to think about how those differences shape their beliefs.
Personally, I think both Mina and Kalim have their own perspectives, and neither of them is wrong. The way you define something depends on the life you’ve lived. For Mina, freedom might mean autonomy, while for Kalim, it could simply mean survival.
I do want to write longer fics for Mina, but since we still don’t know much about him, I think it’s better to wait until more information comes out so his personality and characterization can feel more real.
I also can’t wait to meet Alice and see him have a standoff with Ace and Riddle. It’s going to be so cute. Ace is still my favorite and will forever be my Alice, but I can have little room in my heart for a new one. I have a big heart after all.
It's actually so crazy to see this historic moment in ao3 history and that she's no longer in beta like wdym ao3 is now a fully fledged site now I feel old
saw your platonic alice reader but can i offer another idea, mad hatter , reader in heartstanbul, bunny occasionally inluded
-new anon
[TWST] Heartslabyul₊˚⊹♡ x Mad Hatter! reader
Contains: Mad Hatter! Reader, Tea time, Rhyming, Riddles, Random Hatter shit
A/N: I loved this request aswell welcome new anon! The Mad Hatter is such an awesome character! I was debating whether to even include Mad Hatter! syndrome, which literally was just mercury poisoning, but I thought maybe not too I think I kinda half assed it 💔
Summary: You never really followed the rules of Heartslabyul; you always found a way to weave around them by the nick of your hair.
Riddles were always spillinh from your mouth, and somehow Riddles order and rules bends without breaking. What should be neat and proper turns crooked, loud, and strangely alive wherever you are!
Tea time stops being routine and starts becoming an occasion. Your moods tick and turn like clockwork, and no one can ever tell if you’re playing or planning something far worse. Riddle tries to correct you. It never sticks because to YOU Somewhere between nonsense and meaning, Heartslabyuls forced to consider that madness might have a logic of its own and well if a white rabbit keeps pulling you into trouble… well. That’s hardly your fault.
╰┈➤⸝⸝★ Twisted Wonderland୭ ˚.
Heartslabyul ran on rules the way clocks ran on gears precise, unforgiving, and always ticking forward. The roses bloomed red on command, the paths were swept spotless, and every student knew exactly where they were meant to stand, sit, and bow. It was a dorm that thrived on certainty.
You had never been very good at that. Rather than breaking rules outright, you wove around them like a needle going through thread for a hat, slipping through their gaps by the barest margin. A minute early instead of late. A technicality instead of defiance. A smile that made it difficult to tell whether you were joking or daring someone to stop you. Somehow, the order of Heartslabyul bent in your presence without ever fully snapping.
This afternoon’s tea table was a perfect example. Porcelain cups crowded the long table in the courtyard, mismatched saucers clinking softly as the breeze passed through. You sat at its center, top hat tipped back just enough to reveal your eyes, fingers drumming idly against a teacup as if keeping time with a clock only you could hear.
“Would you like a little more tea?” you asked pleasantly, tilting the pot Trey, seated nearby, eyed the growing collection of cups. “You’ve already poured three rounds.”“Ah, but you see,” you replied, voice lilting, “you may not be able to take less than nothing, but you can always take more.” Cater snorted, phone already raised. “They’re at it again,” he said cheerfully. “Heartslabyul’s Mad Hatter.”
Before Trey could respond, sharp footsteps approached the trio “Rule one hundred fifty-three,” Riddle Rosehearts announced, his voice cutting clean through the courtyard. “The only tea permitted in the evening is herbal.” You peered into your cup, humming thoughtfully. “Who’s to say which is which?” you mused. “Morning, evening dream, reality. They get so mixed up if you don’t label them.”
Riddle stopped short. His cape fluttered once before settling, eyes narrowing as they always did when he sensed you skirting the edge of something punishable. “What tea is that?” he demanded, eyebrows furrowed “Chamomile,” you answered promptly. “With honey. No lemon. I’m not reckless.” Cater laughed. Trey hid his smile behind his hand.
Riddle clicked his tongue. “You always do this.” “And you always notice,” you replied lightly. “It’s a talent of yours.” Before Riddle could retort, two unfamiliar voices drifted into the courtyard. “I’m telling you, this dorm is insane,” Ace Trappola complained as he and Deuce Spade rounded the corner, uniforms still crisp with first-year newness. “Who needs eight hundred rules?” “They’re important!” Deuce insisted. “We’re supposed to follow-”
Both of them froze when they spotted the table. More specifically, when they spotted you standing now, balanced on a chair, pouring tea out of your hat like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ace stared. “What is happening.” Deuce tensed, speaking slowly. “Is that… allowed?” “No,” Riddle and Trey said together “Yes,” Cater added, snapping a picture.
You hopped down, turning toward the first-years with open curiosity. “Oh! Guests without invitations,” you said warmly. “How wonderfully improper.” You tipped your hat. “Call me [Name]. Or don’t. Names have a habit of changing when you’re not looking.” Deuce bowed immediately. “I-I’m Deuce Spade! First year!” “A spade!” You clapped once. “Sharp edges, honest weight. You’ll do just fine so long as you don’t try too hard.” Ace squinted. “And you’re…?” You leaned closer, smile bright and unreadable. “Mad,” you answered easily. “But only on days that end in y.” Ace blinked, raising a finger to question you, but Trey just gestured to him not to ask.
You laughed, pouring yourself a cup of tea without looking as it overflowed to the brim. Riddle cleared his throat sharply. “They are a second-year. And they are not to be encouraged.” “Encouragement is such a strong word,” you hummed. “I prefer participation.” You gestured to the table. “Sit. Tea is always served when celebrating anything other than a birthday.”
Deuce looked panicked. “Housewarden?” Riddle hesitated. Trey paused as he glanced at Cater’s phone, checking the date. “…It’s the fifth.” Riddle exhaled through his teeth. “Fifteen minutes,” he said tightly. “No longer.” You beamed. “See? Order and nonsense can share a cup.” Then, as if struck by a thought or chased by one you added cheerfully,
“If you’re late, blame the rabbit. If you’re early… also blame the rabbit.” Right on cue, something white and fast tore through the courtyard. A blur of fur and motion streaked between chair legs and tablecloths, knocking over a stack of neatly arranged napkins as it bolted past with a tiny gasp of panic. A white rabbit dressed in a little vest far too formal for sprinting clutched a gold pocket watch in its paws, ears flattened back as it ran.
“I’m late, I’m late, I’m terribly late-!” The rabbit skidded to a halt when it noticed the tea table. Its red eyes flicked from the overflowing cups, to you, to Riddle’s visibly thinning patience “Oh no,” it squeaked. You waved cheerfully. “See? Evidence.”
The rabbit yelped and took off again, vanishing down the path in a flurry of white fur and frantic apologies. Silence followed broken only by the soft clink of porcelain. Ace stared after it. “…Did anyone else see that?” “Yes,” Deuce said weakly “No,” Riddle snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose Cater grinned. “Oh totally. I got it on video.”
You settled back into your seat, perfectly content. “Heartslabyul’s always on time,” you mused, lifting your teacup. “It just can’t decide for what.” Riddle opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again sipping his tea while staring at you softly as the tea party continued.
DO NOT PIRATE ANYTHING. NOT SHOWS/MOVIES. NOT GAMES OR SAFER GAMES. AND CERTAINLY NOT BOOKS. AND DO NOT DOWNLOAD YOUTUBE VIDEOS. AND NEVER EVER EVER WATCH MUSICALS WITHOUT GOING TO THEM AND DONT USE ADBLOCKERS/OTHER ADBLOCKER TO AVOID ADS AND VIRUSES PIRATING IS VERY HARMFUL TO THE CORPORATIONS WHO WORKS VERY HARD TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF PEOPLE AND THEIR MONEY. ANYONE WHO PIRATES IS BAD. BAD PIRATING. EVIL. OH AND THIS
