Drawing him a bunch o' times to develop a muscle memory; still not done with the corbs practice, but I liked how the official art redraw looks with the way I colored it, so it's Saturday's post now.
Explanation of how to use tracing as a learning tool in art + a lil bit of this process below cut (warning, got kinda long & def not proof read)
Art Tip:
Tracing is a learning tool to help you understand how to simplify shapes & how they exist in relation to others spatially. It's less about closely following the lines, & more about learning how to draw them in as few strokes as possible to build line confidence after breaking it down into simplified shapes first.
Note: Visual aids were created after to illustrate my point. I did not plan on writing out an art guide, but that's what somehow happened?
Here, I added His official art to my canvas using Krita's reference image tool, made the reference transparent so that I could draw general guide lines & trace the actual line art.
When tracing line art to understand it better, you're going to want to think of the general shape of what that line belongs to while making as few strokes as possible; follow the line from beginning to end as closely as possible, as few strokes as possible, & as quickly as possible. Don't just slowly follow the line with your pen -- think about how the whole line was created to look that way; think about how your arm has to move to make it that way. (Remember to draw with your shoulder and not your wrist.)
Try not to jump around & focus on tracing one part at a time. (Ex. move from the head, to the neck, to the jacket on the torso & arms, then move onto the pants... & so on) This will help you notice small details and where things like his jacket collar, pin, tie, jacket droopy things, etc. all exist in relation to each other.
His tie falls past his belt; the base of which lines up with the bottom of his 3rd droopy jacket lapel things-- all of which I had a hard time noticing when i was trying to draw a replica before I realized tracing would help me notice these details. I walked away from this one also having a better understanding of clothing folds, so that was a nice bonus.
Make sure you are observing the subject while tracing it to get the most out of this method.
This next one isn't actually tracing (You should absolutely be doing this when utilizing tracing tho.) ; you can make guidelines by drawing over reference images. Using his official art to make guidelines to use as a starting point for the replica means that He'll have the same (or extremely similar) basic proportions, even if I'll inevitably diverge from those guidelines. I Highly recommend doing this if you can't get proportions right while you're practicing drawing different poses.
Without going into too much detail on the general concept of guidelines, these lines help you understand general structure and placement. I start with the overall frame for the head & torso, then add in the joints, and then connect those to make the limbs.
It's a little hard to see (sorry), but I made a blue copy of my redraw and set it under the reference (left side) so you can kinda see how the final differs from the source. You can see his hair is a tad longer, shoulders wider, right arm in a different place, left arm & pant legs ended up shorter, etc. I did manage to retain the proportions on his face, torso, legs, and feet. The final product doesn't look bad, just different; gives it a personal touch.
You can also study anatomy & poses this way-- and anything in general, really. Hope this explanation was informative & made sense. I was supposed to go to bed like 4 hrs ago from when i first typed this, there were NOT supposed to be this many words under the cut-- it just happened somehow???
Do not be afraid to trace as a learning tool. However, don't trace other people's art while claiming it as your own without disclosing it + linking the original if the original work doesn't fall under the "common knowledge" category. (famous & iconic art works, official art, even memes would not usually need a source) You should ask permission before posting as well. This would also apply to art studies where you are trying to redraw the piece from scratch to learn technique.
Your parents are excited to announce that they’ve found you a husband. You’re less enthusiastic. Marriage? To a man who was no more than a stranger to you?
When you meet him, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His face remains calm, blank, his voice flat as he chats with your father. You stay quiet.
Cheer up, your father says as you leave the Rust Syndicate office. It’ll be good for the family business. Corbeau’s hardly strapped for cash. You’ll never have to worry about money again.
Your wedding is small. Few guests fill the venue aside from your family and some people from the Rust Syndicate. When you share a dance with him, he quietly tells you that you look pretty in your dress.
When you arrive at his home later… you’re surprised to find that you’ve been given your own bedroom. He lingers at the doorway while you have a look around, and gives you a brief good-night before disappearing down the hallway.
Living with him feels more like having a roommate than a husband. You have the house to yourself for most of the day, and it’s not much different when he’s there. You chat with each other over dinner, or when you’re both on the couch watching the evening news, but he leaves you to yourself most of the time.
Affection from him is rare, but not completely absent. Sometimes he brushes a polite kiss to your cheek or the back of your hand when he comes home. The occasional “dear” or “darling” will slip out when he talks to you.
He brings you with him to events. Parties, battle tournaments—whatever he’s invited to, you’re coming along. It’s easy to miss, but there’s a touch of happiness to his voice when he introduces you as his wife. His arm will find its way around your waist if you stray too far from his side.
Your mother calls one evening, asks you how you’re enjoying the married life. You say it’s fine, you’re getting along well. You glance at Corbeau, but he’s absorbed in a book. You tell your mother that you’re happy, that he’s a very respectful husband. She gushes for a moment before launching into a tangent about your father. It was only meant for her to hear, but across the room, he smiles.
You go shopping, perhaps more than you used to. He doesn’t seem to mind that you spend his money. You wander into luxury boutiques, your fingers grazing over fabrics you would have never dreamed of affording before. You buy a fancy dress, just as a treat for yourself. Back at home, he walks in on you as you’re admiring yourself in the mirror. You ask him what he thinks of it. His eyes trace over you, slow, then he says it suits you. You hear him mutter that he’s lucky to have such a beautiful wife as he leaves the room.
You’re out on a walk with him when a chill starts to creep through the air. He notices you shivering, and silently drops his jacket over your shoulders. It’s warm, and covered in the scent of his cologne. You thank him and happily cuddle into it. This time, when you reach to hold his hand, he doesn’t pull away until you get back home.
You’re making dinner when he arrives back from the office. Instead of leaving you be, as he usually would, he drops his things on the kitchen table and comes over to you. His arms wrap around your middle as he hugs you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You pause, your hands becoming still over the food you were preparing. He says softly that he missed you. You whisper that you missed him too. He turns your head towards him, and kisses you, gentle. It goes on a little too long, and you finally have to push him away with a laugh so you can finish cooking. He’s happy to help.
You’re getting ready to go to sleep when he comes in your room and asks if you’d like to join him for the night. You follow him to his bedroom, where you find that he’s already added a pillow for you to his bed, the covers turned down for you to climb under. You get comfortable, and he’s quick to be at your side, wishing you sweet dreams with a peck to your forehead. You never sleep in your room again.
My arms/neck are still messed up so I don’t have the energy to type anything real up, but thinking about how Corbeau is such a good partner when you’re in pain.
Corbeau does everything for you so you can rest, and no it’s not an inconvenience, because he’d do it for you even if you were 110% healthy. If you’re insistent on him not doing everything for you, he’ll still be at your side to ease your strain any way possible. He’ll help you fold your laundry or make dinner, bringing you pain pills to digest with your meal, he’ll even give you a massage if you ask (though he’s not great at it, going at your muscle too lightly at first, and then too rough when you tell him, but his touch alone is soothing enough).
Regardless, he is insistent on you getting rest. If you won’t stay at home, the very least you can do is come relax on the couches at the office. You can lounge and do whatever makes you feel better, and Corbeau is just happy to have you near. Besides, he enjoys getting to walk home with you, and stopping to get takeout from your favorite restaurant on the way, your hands intertwined and swinging lightly at your sides.
He tucks you in at night, and makes sure all your needs are met before climbing into bed next to you.
“You don’t have to do all this.” You tell him.
“Of course I do.” He folds his glasses neatly on the bedside table. “It’s you and I against the world- we can’t win if one of us is down. Besides, I love you, and you would do the same for me.”
You know the truth in his words all too well, and you relent, letting him pepper a few loving kisses across your face before he curls up beside you.
“Goodnight, my angel. Wake me up if you need anything.”
No Valentine's Day fics today. Instead, I wanted to write something that I hope people find comfort in, and makes them feel comfortable in their bodies.
Inspired by the post I shared from yesterday.
Also, I'm sorry for the lack of L. I actually would like to write more scenes with him and build the relationship more before he becomes a consistent man in these multi-pairings.
💬 82 🔁 3423 ❤️ 11050 · Also known as the squeeze zone
Corbeau
You hadn’t meant to linger in front of the mirror that long.
You’d just come back from the mall. Too many mannequins. Too many glass storefronts with women shaped like willowy silhouettes, impossibly flat stomachs, narrow hips, all angles and sharp lines.
You stood in the bathroom now in your bra and panties, fluorescent light unforgiving overhead. You turned slightly, pinched at the soft curve of your lower belly. Sucked it in. Pressed your palm over it like you could smooth it away.
You twisted sideways, examining the way your hips curved outward, the faint indent of love handles above your waistband. You pressed harder. As if pressure could reshape bone. As if shame could sculpt you.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was low. Not sharp. But not amused either.
You startled and turned.
Corbeau stood in the doorway, jacket gone, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. He was watching you with a faint crease between his brows.
You dropped your hand instantly. “Nothing.”
His gaze flicked to your stomach, and then back to your face. “Don’t insult me,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. You looked back at the mirror instead of at him.
“I just…at the mall today...” you muttered. You swallowed. “All those mannequins. All those women in the ads. And I just—” You wrapped your arms around your torso, self-conscious. “I don’t look like that.”
Silence.
Then, softer, you added, “Sometimes I wonder why you’re even with me…”
That made him step forward. “Pardon?”
“There are women who look like that,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “Smaller. Tighter. Prettier.” You winced at your own words. “You could have chosen anyone. So...why did you choose me?”
He stopped behind you. Close enough that you felt his warmth at your back.
“You believe I chose you because I lacked options?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
His hands came up slowly settling at your hips. “You are aware,” he said calmly, “that I do not make decisions lightly.”
His fingers slid along the curve of your waist, pressing gently into the softness there. Not correcting. Not adjusting. Just feeling.
“You think I want this altered?” He squeezed your hip lightly. “This?” he murmured.
One hand moved from your waist to your stomach. He flattened his palm over the part you’d been pinching. Not to flatten it, but to cover it. His hand was warm.
“You were trying to erase this.”
Your breath hitched.
“I like this,” he said plainly. He didn’t rush the words. Didn’t dress them up. His thumb traced the curve beneath your navel. Slow. Appreciative.
“You think I want something angular and sharp?” His other hand slid upward, cupping the side of your breast through your bra, thumb brushing along the fullness there with quiet reverence. “I prefer this—soft, round, and warm.”
Your face burned, but he wasn’t teasing.
“I have no interest in society’s measurements,” he continued. “They are unrealistic, and not normal. They change every decade depending on what’s trending. I do not.”
He leaned slightly closer, his chin resting on your shoulder, eyes meeting yours in the mirror.
“You are built like something meant to be held.”
His hands proved it. He squeezed your hips again, firmer this time. Let his palm press into your belly. Let his fingers spread and press along the curve of your side like he was memorizing it.
“Don't insult my taste,” he said softly.
Your eyes stung.
He turned you gently in his hands so you faced him. His gaze moved over you without shame. Without comparison. Without critique. Only appreciation.
“I don't want you diminished,” he said. “I want you as you are.” His thumb brushed under your eye when he noticed the shine there.
“And if anyone ever convinces you that you must punish yourself to be worthy,” he added quietly, “they'll answer to me.”
That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from you.
His hands slid back to your waist. He leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder. His palm returned to your stomach once more—not flattening it, but holding it.
“As long as I am here,” he said, voice steady, “you will not stand in front of a mirror alone and believe you are lacking.”
He studied your face for a moment longer, thoughtful now.
“And if the issue is clothing,” he continued calmly, “then there’s an easy solution.”
You blinked. “What’s that?”
“I'll hire a professional seamstress,” he said, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. “Someone reputable. Skilled. They will take your measurements properly and make garments tailored to you. Isn't your friend a tailor? What's his name...Naveen?”
Your eyes widened.
“This way you won’t have to compare yourself to mannequins, or the models, built to sell fabric,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “You'll wear pieces constructed for your proportions. For your curves.”
His thumb traced your hip again.
“They'll fit you. Not the other way around.”
You looked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“You’d do that?”
He gave you that small, almost offended look again—the one that suggested the question itself was absurd.
“Of course,” he said. “Why would I allow you to struggle with clothing that was never designed with you in mind? I want you comfortable and confident. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who is confident in her own body.”
"Corbeau..."
“Unless you enjoy shopping,” he added, “Then I’ll accompany you and glare at the mannequins.”
You laughed and leaned back into his embrace.
Grisham
Mornings with Grisham were always quiet.
You woke to the smell first. Sweet, warm, bright, and sweet. Oran berries. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know what he was doing.
When you finally shuffled into the kitchen, the early light caught him just right—tall frame straight but relaxed, red brows slightly knit in focus, white-streaked hair tied back into that small, wavy ponytail at the nape of his neck. His glasses sat neatly on his nose, white frames stark against his skin.
He always baked with the same patience he brought to everything else. Precise. Measured. Thoughtful. A cooling rack sat on the counter, steam still rising from a fresh batch of muffins.
He noticed you immediately.
“Good morning,” he said softly, eyes still closed in that disarming, gentle expression he wore when at ease. “Perfect timing.”
You offered him a small smile.
He plated one carefully and set it in front of you at the table. “Best batch yet,” he said, quiet pride in his voice. “I adjusted the ratio slightly. They’ll go quickly today at the truck, I’m sure of it.”
He paused, then added, as he always did, “You can have as many as you like.”
He meant it. He always did. Even if he baked for work, you were allowed first pick. Always.
But this morning, your fingers didn’t reach for it. You stared at the muffin instead, golden, soft, and warm.
Your mind drifted backward to earlier in the bathroom. You’d gotten a glimpse of your figure in the mirror. The way your hips had seemed wider than usual. The way your love-handles pressed against the elastic of your sleep shorts. The way your lower belly had folded softly when you bent forward.
You hadn’t gained weight. You knew that. But negative thoughts didn’t care about facts.
Your thighs had looked thicker. Your upper arms flabbier. Your curves—more prominent somehow, exaggerated under the wrong lighting. Your reflection had felt…louder, and unpleasant. Unattractive.
You folded your hands in your lap.
Grisham was still talking about the berries—about moisture content, about crumb texture—when he turned back toward you and noticed you hadn't touched the muffin.
The smile faded slightly, and his eyes opened—auburn, sharp, and observant.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated. The memory of a few weeks ago crept in uninvited. And that’s when you looked up at him.
A few weeks ago at Café Nouveau Truck No. 1, you’d been waiting off to the side while Grisham finished serving a rush of customers. You’d been content just watching him—the way he moved with quiet efficiency, tall frame composed, sleeves rolled back slightly, white-streaked ponytail catching the light.
A group of women had been standing nearby. Thin. Polished. Confident. You hadn’t been paying attention at first. Not until you heard his name.
“I swear, that baristo has to be one of the handsomest men I’ve seen,” one of them had whispered, barely subtle. “I wonder what he looks like underneath his uniform.”
Another laughed. “I swear, he has to be hiding something under there.”
You’d smiled at that, warmth blooming in your chest. You knew exactly what he was hiding under there. A toned, and surprisingly muscular body, coupled with a firm core, and a strong chest—with a faint coloring of chest hair.
Then, the conversation shifted.
“I don’t understand how he bakes like that and doesn’t gain weight,” one woman said, eyeing the display case. “I swear I gain like 10 pounds just looking at those pasteries.”
“It must be nice being a man,” another sighed. “They don’t deal with half the stuff we do.”
There hadn’t been malice in it. No pointed insults. They hadn’t said anything about you. But one of them had glanced up—or maybe she’d just been staring past you, lost in thought.
Either way, it had felt like you’d been seen. You’d become aware of your hips. Your waist. The way your pants fit that day.
Back in the present, the kitchen smelled warm and sweet. Grisham was still standing across from you, waiting.
“I’m just…not that hungry,” you said carefully.
A lie, and he knew it. He didn’t call you out on it, though. Not directly. Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
“You no longer like muffins?”
You shook your head. “No, I do.”
“Perhaps you would prefer pecha berry,” he continued calmly. “Or nanab. I can make chocolate next time.”
You didn’t answer.
“A croissant?” he offered. “Pain au chocolat? Brioche?”
Your hands tightened in your lap, and you lowered your gaze to look at them. Perhaps he’d leave the matter alone if you didn’t look at him.
Grisham moved around the table without haste and crouched beside you, uniform apron pooling neatly at his feet. Up close, he seemed even taller somehow—red brows slightly drawn together now, glasses catching the morning light.
He gently lifted your chin between his fingers.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
You did. His eyes were open now. Auburn. Piercing. Not harsh—but searching.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
And because it was him—because he always waited long enough for the truth—the words began to form.
You swallowed. “I just think I should probably cut back on the baked goods,” you admitted finally, staring somewhere past his shoulder.
Grisham tilted his head slightly. “But, you love my baking,” he said gently.
You let out a small, shy laugh. “I do.”
Silence lingered.
Then, you stood abruptly, as if motion might make the feeling easier to manage. You turned slightly, pinched at the soft curve above your waistband, gave your love handles a small, self-deprecating squeeze. You pressed your palm over your lower belly and jiggled it lightly.
“I’ve just…gotten bigger,” you said with a forced laugh. “It’s obvious.”
Grisham’s gaze moved over you—not hungrily, not critically. Just assessing. He looked confused.
“You look the same,” he said simply.
You shook your head immediately. “No, I don’t.”
“You do,” he insisted.
“I think I need to go on a diet,” you muttered.
He straightened immediately, eyes sharpening. “What brought this on?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated. Then, the memory spilled out. The women at the café truck. Their laughter. Their comments about how nice it must be to be a man. How he baked and never gained weight. How they wondered what he looked like underneath his clothes. You didn’t repeat it bitterly. Just honestly.
“They were beautiful,” you admitted softly. “And thin. And I just—” Your voice wavered. “I started thinking about how different I look.”
You didn’t realize tears had slipped free until one tracked down your cheek.
Grisham was silent while you spoke. Completely attentive, even though you both knew he would have to leave soon.
When you finished, he stood and pulled you into him. He wrapped his arms around you fully, one hand settling low on your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His chin rested against your hair.
After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His glasses caught the morning light again; his auburn eyes were steady and clear.
“I think you’ve forgotten how many times I’ve seen your body,” he said calmly.
Heat rushed to your face.
“I know exactly how you are shaped.” His hand slid to your waist. “So, believe me when I tell you that your body hasn’t changed.”
His palm moved over the curve of your hip. Squeezed gently. Appreciatively.
“You think I don’t notice this?” he asked quietly, fingers pressing into the softness there. His other hand brushed across your stomach, thumb tracing the lower curve you’d tried to flatten earlier.
“I like this,” he said. “In fact, I don’t just like it. I love it.”
His touch was reverent. Deliberate. He squeezed your hip again. Let his hand drift higher, fingers spanning your side. His voice lowered just slightly.
“Do you not understand what you do to me.”
Your breath caught.
“When you stand in front of me like this,” he continued, fingertips brushing the curve of your breast through your shirt, “my body reacts. To your warmth, your softness, your realness.”
His hand returned to your waist, sliding down to your thigh, squeezing softly.
“Your confidence.”
That word lingered.
“It pains me to see it shaken.”
He leaned his face to pepper your jaw with soft kisses, trailing down your neck.
“Aesthetics change with time,” he murmured. “Standards change. But your heart will not. And neither will your eyes—so lively and passionate.”
His thumb brushed under your cheek, catching the last of your tears.
“I don’t care for women who contort themselves for approval. I care for you, and everything that comes with you.”
There was no anger in his tone. Only certainty.
You felt something inside you settle. The tension in your shoulders loosened. The tight coil in your chest eased. He watched it happen. Watched you come back to yourself. After a moment, his expression softened again—almost amused.
“So,” he said lightly, stepping back just enough, “would you prefer something else for breakfast?”
You didn’t answer with words. You picked up the oran berry muffin and took a bite.
Grisham’s mouth curved faintly. “Good girl,” he murmured.
He leaned down and kissed you—tasting the sweetness on your lips. When he pulled away, he adjusted his glasses.
“I’ll see you after work.”
And just before turning to leave, he gave your rump a firm, playful swat that made you gasp and flush. He didn’t look back—but you saw the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth as he left.
And the muffin in your hand tasted exactly the way it always had.
Probably even better than you remembered.
Urbain
You hadn’t meant to get stuck in front of the mirror again. But there you were. Bra. Underwear. Morning light too honest.
You pinched at your upper arm and gave it a little shake. The soft movement bothered you more than it should have. You shifted your weight and watched your thighs press together. You turned slightly and caught sight of the faint stretch marks near your hips, the ones that curved softly along your upper thighs.
You sucked in your stomach. It didn’t stay that way long. You let it out with a sigh and pinched your love handles instead, jiggling the small pouch at your lower belly.
“Should I go on a diet?” you asked aloud.
“What?”
The voice behind you made you jump. Urbain stood in the doorway, blinking at you in open confusion.
You turned halfway toward him, still holding your side. “Do you think I should go on a diet?”
His brows lifted. “Why?”
You gestured vaguely at yourself. “Because of this.”
He looked at you. From your arms, to your waist, to your thighs. To the stretch marks faintly visible along your hips. Then back to your face.
“…Because of what?”
You stared at him. “My arms jiggle.”
He glanced at your arm. “Yeah?”
“My thighs are thick.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“I have love handles.” You squeezed them for emphasis. “And this.” You poked your lower belly.
Urbain’s expression didn’t change. “I thought that was just…normal?” he said.
Now it was your turn to blink.
“Normal?”
“Yeah, normal for women,” he clarified. “You have a normal body.”
You stared at him. “No, it’s not. Not like this.”
He frowned, genuinely confused. “You look like a person.”
“That’s not helpful,” you muttered.
You turned back to the mirror and gestured again, more frustrated now. “Have you seen the mannequins in the stores? Or the ad models? Or Lida? She’s so slender”
Urbain nodded. “Yeah, but Lida’s a dancer.”
“They’re thin.”
“Yeah.”
“And pretty.”
“Yeah.”
You looked at him pointedly.
He blinked. “Ohh…well, I always thought they had normal bodies, too.”
You turned slowly. “What?”
“I thought thin was normal,” he said simply. “And muscular was normal. And curvy was normal. And tall. And short. And…you.” He gestured vaguely at you. “Also normal.”
You stared at him like he’d just short-circuited.
“You don’t mind?” you asked quietly.
He looked almost offended. “Mind what?”
“That I look like this.”
You pinched your waist again. Jiggled your stomach. Looked down at the faint stretch marks on your breasts.
Urbain stared at you like you’d just suggested the sky was optional.
“…Why would I mind?” he asked slowly.
“Because it’s not—” You gestured helplessly. “Perfect? Skinny? Like those models?”
He snorted softly. “I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t like how you look.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, peering at your stretch marks with interest.
“These are cool,” he said, tracing one lightly with his finger.
“They’re not cool.”
“They look like lightning.”
You blinked and he looked delighted with that comparison.
“And your boobs always look nice.” His hands hovered near your chest before he made a grabby motion toward your breasts, eyes bright with mischief.
You yelped and twisted away, laughing. “Stop that!”
He laughed too, blushing faintly as you swatted his hands.
“Sorry, I can’t help myself! Let me appreciate you!”
You tried to escape, but he caught you easily around the waist instead, pulling you back against him. His hands landed on your love handles and he gave a gentle squeeze.
“And I’ve always loved these,” he said, cheeks pink now. “It gives me something to hold when we’re—” He paused and blushed harder. “When we’re…you know.”
You turned your head slowly with a teasing smile.
“When we’re whaaaat?”
He made a helpless gesture. “Whenwe’rehavingsex.” The words came out rushed, embarrassed, sincere.
You stared at him, then burst out laughing. He groaned into your shoulder.
“I’m serious!” he insisted. His hands squeezed your waist again. “They’re absolutely perfect. You fit right into my hands.”
He slid one palm down to your thigh and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “And these are great for resting my head on.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is that why you’re always using my lap as a pillow?”
“…Maybe.”
You laughed again, twisting slightly in his arms. He tightened them instinctively, pressing a quick, flustered kiss to your shoulder.
“No two bodies are the same,” he said, softer now. “Why would they be? That’d be boring.”
You looked at him.
He shrugged. “And I specifically like yours.”
“Awwww, Urbain…”
And because he was Urbain, he ruined the tenderness a second later.
“Also, do you know how incredibly hot you look when your body bounces during sex?” he said, squeezing your hips once more.
Your jaw dropped as you stared at him in shock and embarrassment.
He continued, completely unaware of your embarrassment. “It’s like jello!—”
“Urbain!”
He paused, and then his eyes widened as he back-pedaled. “I mean in a good way! A very good way!”
You shot him a glare.
“What?!” he said, flustered but earnest. “It’s cute! And hot! And I like it!”
You smacked his arm, mortified and laughing all at once.
He grinned shamelessly.
“And I stand by that statement.”
Vinnie
You caught your reflection again. The angle was wrong. The light was unforgiving. Your stomach curved more than you liked. Your hips looked wider. Your thighs pressed together.
Behind you, the shower was still running.
“Do you think I’ve gained weight?” you called out.
“What?” Vinnie’s voice came muffled through the water.
You rolled your eyes. “Nothing.”
A second later, you tried again. “Do you think I should go on a diet?”
The water shut off. And after a few moments, the curtain rustled, and Vinnie stepped out, reaching for a towel. He dried his hair first, rubbing it briskly before pulling it back loosely, and then his body.
“Why would you need to diet?” he asked, straightforward as ever.
You shrugged, still staring at yourself. “Just…look at me.”
He wrapped the towel around his waist. A few droplets traced down his chest as he looked at you.
You pinched your waist lightly. “I feel bigger.”
Vinnie’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but in focus. He stepped up behind you, strong arms sliding around your middle without hesitation. His hands settled low on your stomach, then drifted outward over your hips.
“I don’t see a problem,” he said quietly, and pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder.
You huffed. “You wouldn’t prefer me thinner?”
His hands stilled as he considered it—genuinely.
“Maybe,” he admitted slowly, “if I were younger. If I were a young boy.”
Your brows knit.
“When I didn’t know better and was easily influenced by magazines,” he clarified. His palms moved again, squeezing your hips firmly. Appreciatively. His thumbs pressed into the softness of your waist, then traced over your stomach.
“This?” he murmured. “This is a woman.”
His hand slid upward, cupping your breast with confident familiarity. Not rushed. Not shy.
“And this.”
The other hand dropped lower, firm against your hip before smoothing down to your thigh.
“Real men appreciate this.”
Heat pooled low in your belly. You felt his arousal, growing hard, even through the towel at his waist. Solid. Unmistakable.
He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your neck. “You think I’d touch you like this if I wanted something different?”
Your breath hitched.
He turned you slightly in his arms so he could look at your face.
“I like your body,” he said plainly. “As is.”
He stepped closer, towel brushing against your thigh. “If you’re still unsure,” he added, voice lowering, “I can show you exactly how much I appreciate it.”
You smirked despite yourself. “Oh? Taking the lead for once?”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Don’t push it.”
He grabbed your hand and the towel slipped to the floor as he pulled you toward the bedroom.
And you didn’t protest.
Ivor
You sat off to the side on one of the low benches, water bottle in hand, watching warm-ups wind down. A few of the girls had gathered near the edge of the mat, stretching lazily. Their voices drifted over.
“I’m telling you,” one of them said, tugging at her waistband, “if I cut carbs after six, it makes a difference.”
Another nodded. “Same. I started skipping breakfast. It helps with bloating.”
You didn’t mean to listen, but you did.
“I just don’t want to gain weight,” the first girl muttered. “Especially training here.”
A familiar voice cut through them.
“You do realize Ivor-sensei emphasizes proper eating habits,” Josée said flatly. She approached with her usual no-nonsense stride—blonde pigtails bouncing, grey eyes sharp. Freckles dusted across her nose, expression unimpressed.
“Food fuels the body,” she continued. “You don’t train on fumes.”
The first girl rolled her eyes slightly. “Yeah, but I don’t want to bulk up.”
Josée blinked at her. “Muscle weighs more than fat.”
“I don’t want to gain any weight,” the girl insisted.
Josée tilted her head. “Then why did you join the Fist of Justice in the first place?”
The girl flushed. “I just—”
“What?”
She mumbled something.
Josée leaned forward. “Speak up.”
Another girl snorted softly. “She likes Ivor-sensei.”
There was a beat of silence. Recognition dawned across Josée’s face.
“…Ah.”
The first girl looked mortified.
Josée crossed her arms. “You think starving yourself is going to impress him?”
The girl scoffed, defensive now. “I just don’t think he’d go for…you know.” Her eyes flicked briefly in your direction. Not openly cruel. But enough.
“I mean,” she added under her breath, “look at her.”
The air shifted as Josée’s expression went cold.
“You mean the woman Ivor-sensei chose to be with?” she asked evenly.
The girl faltered.
“If you think body-shaming someone makes you more appealing,” Josée continued, voice firm and clear enough for the rest of the mat to hear, “you’re in the wrong place. The First of Justice doesn't stand for bullying of any kind. There is no justice or strength in that.”
She stepped closer.
“So you have two options. You can leave now,” she said calmly, “since you clearly don’t have the right mindset.”
The girl’s face burned.
“Or,” Josée added, voice sharp as steel, “you can shut up and train.”
Silence.
A few of the girls exchanged looks. Two of them muttered something and peeled off toward the street.
Josée didn’t stop them. Instead, she clapped her hands sharply.
“Stance drills!” she barked.
The remaining trainees scrambled into formation.
“Lower!” she shouted. “If you’re worried about your weight, you’re not working hard enough!”
The rhythm of footwork resumed.
You tried not to let it show, but the words stuck. Even after drills resumed. Even after the girls who had left disappeared down the street. Even after the rhythm of punches and stances filled the space again.
You stayed seated, arms folded loosely over your middle. They had a point. Ivor was built like a statue carved for battle. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Strength earned and visible. He looked like he belonged beside someone sleek. Compact. Effortlessly athletic. Someone like Korinna.
The thought made your chest tighten.
“You know Ivor doesn’t care about that, right?”
You startled and turned. Gwynn stood just behind you, arms loosely folded, expression soft but knowing. She had clearly heard everything.
“My brother loves you,” she said plainly.
You gave a faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“So, don’t listen to them,” she continued. “We get applicants sometimes who think this is some kind of…proximity club.”
You huffed quietly despite yourself.
“They join because they think they can get closer to him, and that getting stronger will impress him,” Gwynn added, shaking her head. “Josée and I are usually good at filtering those out.”
Her mouth twisted slightly. “Sorry those ones slipped through.”
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”
Gwynn stepped a little closer. “He doesn’t look at you the way they think he looks at women,” she said gently. “He looks at you like you’re home.”
Your throat tightened.
“Seriously,” she insisted. “You don’t see it because you’re you. But we do.”
You nodded, grateful.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
Gwynn smiled and squeezed your shoulder before delicately walking back to her usual spot at the table that looked suspiciously similar to her Chandelure. As she walked past a few of the trainees she nonchalantly said something about foot positioning at one of them
You watched her go. Small. Compact. Delicate. You watched Josée, sharp and sleek in her movements across the mat. Strong in a clean, precise way.
You looked down at your own body. Softer and bigger in places theirs were not. And the doubt lingered.
Later that evening you barely touched your dinner. Pushed food around instead of eating it. Laughed at the right moments but didn’t really join the conversation.
Ivor noticed, but he didn’t call you out at the table. He waited. When you excused yourself quietly and disappeared down the hall, he counted to five before following. Your bedroom light was on, the door was half open.
He stepped in just in time to see you in front of the mirror again—shirt lifted, fingers digging into your love handles, pinching your lower stomach like you could reshape it.
His jaw tightened and he cleared his throat.
You caught his reflection behind you and immediately dropped your shirt, shame flooding your face.
“I—”
He stepped forward slowly. Not angry. Not loud. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
You hesitated. You didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. But you told him, anyway. About the girls. The comments. Josée defending you. The way it stuck anyway. You turned back to the mirror and gestured at yourself helplessly.
“Why are you with someone who looks like this?” you asked quietly. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if you were with someone thin like Canari? Or Lida? Or someone fit like you—like Korinna. Or Josée.”
Ivor blinked, and then frowned.
“Canari?” he repeated, baffled. “Why on earth would I want to be with someone like Canari?”
You stared at him. “She’s thin,” you muttered. “I mean, hello! She’s got a nice stomach and perky boobs.
He snorted softly. “She’s not my type.”
“And Lida’s cute,” he admitted. “Charming, even. But also not my type.”
You almost smiled despite yourself.
He shook his head, continuing. “Josée’s basically my sister.” That one came out firm.
“And Korinna?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “I respect her. A lot. I might even be a little intimidated by her.”
You blinked, slightly surprised.
“And honestly,” he added thoughtfully, “I’m not even sure she’s into men.”
That caught you off guard enough to pull a real laugh out of you.
He stepped closer. “I don’t find any of them attractive,” he said plainly. “Not like that.”
Then, he reached for you. His arms wrapped around you first—strong and grounding. And before you could protest, he lifted you clean off the floor like it was nothing.
You squeaked and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.
He grinned. “There,” he said. His hands slid over your hips, squeezing them firmly. Appreciatively.
“I like this,” he murmured, nuzzling into your chest, his cheek brushing against you. His grip tightened around your thigh and your backside, enthusiastic and solid.
“You’re soft,” he said, voice fond and full of love. “I can hold you like this.”
He squeezed your thigh and butt again, testing the weight of you like he was proving a point.
“And I don’t have to worry about hurting you.” He said it honestly, like that mattered to him.
You felt warmth bloom under your skin. You swallowed and admitted, quietly, “I...also like when your body’s pressed against mine.”
He stilled slightly.
“It makes me feel… safe,” you added. “Protected. Warm.”
Ivor’s face lit up. “You see?” he said brightly. “We balance each other.”
His forehead bumped yours gently.
“I don’t need small,” he said. “I don’t need muscular.”
His hands squeezed your thighs again, affectionate and certain.
“I just want you.”
The simplicity of it disarmed you more than anything else.
After a moment, he set you down carefully—still holding your waist. “And now,” he added in a softer but firm tone, “you’re going back to finish dinner.”
You made a face.
“Food is fuel,” he reminded you.
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“And you like food,” he added pointedly.
That made you huff a small laugh. He laced his fingers through yours and tugged you gently toward the kitchen.
“Your body is constantly burning energy,” he said simply. “Walking around. Breathing. Existing. You don’t get to skip meals just because your brain decided to be mean.”
You hummed in agreement.
“You don’t run on empty,” he added, quieter now. “And I’m not letting you try.”
Back at the table, you didn’t hesitate this time. You picked up your fork and took a full bite—properly sized, unapologetic.
Ivor watched you for a second, then broke into that wide, satisfied grin.
“Good,” he said.
You chewed and raised an eyebrow at him.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossing with quiet pride.
Maybe he hadn’t exactly won a match, here. But he’d reminded you that your body deserved to be fed.
Philippe (thank you @anothernarutofanaccount for helping me with the idea!)
You hadn’t realized how close you were to crying. You were just standing there, staring, picking apart angles. The slope of your stomach. The weight of your thighs. The way your arms curved when you lifted them.
You didn’t hear Philippe knock. You only noticed him when his reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror.
He took in the scene immediately. The posture. The tension in your shoulders. The way your fingers were digging into your own skin.
He didn’t rush toward you. He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him.
“May I tell you what I see?” he asked quietly.
You let out a small, brittle laugh. “Sure?”
He moved closer, slowly. His hands didn’t grab, they hovered first, waiting for permission even though he’d already asked. When he rested them at your waist, it was featherlight.
“You see a flaw here,” he said softly, brushing his fingers across your stomach. His touch wasn’t correcting. It was tracing.
“I see something I’ve admired in museums.”
You blinked.
“In the marble statues of gods and royalty,” he continued. “The fullness of the torso. The softness of power. Not sharp. Not fragile.”
His thumb skimmed over the curve of your belly as if it were carved art.
“You stand like something meant to be sculpted.”
His hands drifted downward, sliding over your hips and then to your thighs. He squeezed gently, testing, appreciating.
“These,” he said quietly, almost thoughtfully, “are excellent pillows.”
You huffed out a shaky breath. “Philippe—”
“I rest here often,” he reminded you. “Quite happily.” His palms smoothed along your thighs again, slow and steady. “Your Pokémon do the same.”
That made your lips twitch.
“They trust softness,” he added. His hands traveled upward again, over your hips, back to your waist. He turned you gently to face him fully now.
“Your legs,” he said, voice even, “have carried you across Kalos. Through cities. Through fields. Through battles.”
His fingers slid down your calves and back up again. “They are not ornamental. They are capable.”
His hands rose to your arms next. He lifted one lightly, brushing his thumb along the underside where you’d been critical earlier.
“These are lovely for holding,” he murmured.
He bent slightly and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
“And for being held.”
His palms slid back to your waist, then around you, drawing you against his chest. Not tight, just secure. Philippe was patient. He did not argue with you. He did not dismiss your insecurity.
“Do you know why I am so certain?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head.
“Because I touch you every day.”
His hands proved it—smoothing along your back, resting at your hips, settling naturally at your waist.
“I would not reach for you so often if I did not admire what I found.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying your face now instead of your body.
“You’re not a doll,” he said gently. His thumb brushed under your eye where emotion had gathered.
“I mediate conflicts for a living,” he continued, almost wryly. “I recognize when someone is being unreasonable.” A faint smile touched his mouth.
“And you,” he added softly, “are being quite unreasonable with yourself.”
You let out a small, breathy laugh.
He leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. “I love touching you,” he admitted in a lower tone. “Holding you. Feeling you.”
His hands tightened slightly at your waist, reverent.
“If you ever forget what you look like,” he murmured against your hair, “ask me. I will remind you.”
And because he was Philippe—patient, steady, and affectionate to his core—he simply stayed there.
Holding you. Until the mirror didn’t feel like an enemy anymore.
Mabel (this ones for you @houndenny)
You were still floating, flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling, lungs working overtime while your body felt pleasantly boneless. The sheets were twisted around your legs, your skin buzzing.
Mable, meanwhile, looked insufferably satisfied.
She propped herself up on one elbow beside you, hair down and slightly mussed, expression smug in the way only she could manage.
“So…” she asked lazily, “do you need another reminder of why I love you?”
Her fingers traced absentmindedly over your stomach, circling your lower pooch like it was something fascinating. She gave your love handles a slow, thoughtful squeeze.
You laughed weakly. “Um..I don’t think so?”
“Good answer,” she replied, with a smirk.
You turned your head toward her, still flushed. “It’s just hard not to compare sometimes. You have this—” you gestured vaguely at her torso, “—perfect waist. And fucking hips. And—”
She tweaked your nipple sharply, and you yelped.
“Now, now,” she said dryly, “We’re not doing that. Not after all of that hard work I just did.”
You glared at her, rubbing your, now, sore nipple.
“Bodies aren’t identical,” she continued, slipping effortlessly into lecture mode. “Genetic diversity is foundational to population resilience. Variability in fat distribution, muscle density, hormone expression—”
You groaned. “Mable…”
“Natural selection doesn’t reward uniformity,” she went on, unfazed. “It rewards adaptability.”
She gave your hip another squeeze for emphasis.
“You are very adaptable,” she added.
You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your mouth. “I hate it when you get all science-y on me.”
She snorted. “Please, it’s one of your kinks.”
She leaned over you now, auburn gaze sharp and unblinking. “Do you think,” she asked slowly, “that what just happened would have happened if I didn’t want you exactly as you are?”
You blushed immediately.
“I didn’t mean—”
She arched a brow.
“You thought that was charity?”
You sputtered, mortified. “No!”
A slow, dangerous glint sparked in her eyes.
“Good,” she murmured.
Her fingers dragged lazily down your side again, possessive but controlled.
“Because if you need another reminder,” she added softly, mouth curving, “I am very willing to conduct a follow-up experiment.”
Your stomach flipped.
“Mable—”
She kissed you before you could finish, slow and confident, already shifting over you.
The rest was less science, and far more convincing.
Wanna talk about talk about scolipede cuddling with Corbeau’s beloved in bed (cause let’s be honest, the bug sleep in the bed, and probably takes up half of it) but unfortunately the bug decided it needed to take Corbeau’s side of the bed stretch all the way out. Even more unfortunate is the fact that it was being stubborn and refused to move, and with Scolipede’s being about 8 foot, there wasn’t really a way to move it, Corbeau was effectively evicted from his own bed.
-♟️ (this isn’t even a request, I just needed to talk about this.)
OH ABSOLUTELY I DO!
I’m really glad that someone else shares the same headcanon that Corbeau’s Scolipede is a massive, spoiled cuddle bug!
Whether Corbeau would be at his desk crunching numbers or patrolling the morning streets of Lumiose, the giant insectoid would always demand carapace rubs one way or another. And Corbeau would always give in with a single amused huff.
And after officially hitting it off with Corbeau in the span of mere days, Scolipede started demanding cuddles from you as well! Though rather than being playfully annoyed by the bug’s antics, like Corbeau was, you were all for it. You wouldn't hesitate to drop anything at a moment's notice to ensure that his Scolipede got its daily dose of affection and pampering.
So, it came as no surprise whenever Scolipede started showing favoritism towards you after all the numerous Poké Puffs, belly rubs, and deep exoskeleton cleanings you showered it with. Corbeau can scold you all he wants, but Scolipede's adorable chitters, bouncing legs, and wagging tail have you absolutely smitten.
What’s the worst that could happen?
_
The first time Corbeau took you back to his place was after an all-expenses-paid dinner at Restaurant Le Wow, where you two battled and ate to your hearts' content. He unlocked his door and, ever the gentleman, allowed you to walk inside first before shutting and locking it behind you. Taking your hand, he guided you through the darkened hallway towards his bedroom.
He flicked on a bedside lamp, and the warm amber glow revealed just how spacious the room was, as well as the absolutely massive, Paldean-sized bed that dominated it. As Corbeau excused himself to his bathroom to shower, you couldn’t help but wonder why a man who lived alone needed something so enormous...
You didn’t receive your answer until an hour later, when you were both settled beneath the covers, relaxed in each other’s arms. Corbeau peppered your forehead and shoulders with gentle kisses when, suddenly, Scolipede emerged from its Poké Ball, its piercing yellow eyes fixed on the two of you. While you had no idea what the bug was planning, Corbeau knew immediately.
“Scolipede, no…” he chided, but it was too late.
The giant Pokémon wasted no time, wiggling and wedging itself between you and Corbeau, chittering insistently for cuddles as it scooted closer and closer to you, ultimately shoving its trainer clean off the mattress and onto the wooden floor.
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