Context : You have been taken hostage, and the four bros are searching for where you're being kept. While they're all very worried about you, one turtle is particularly affected by your sudden disappearance.
CW : Lil bit of angsty Mikey
Leo | Raph | Donnie
⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Mikey
He was in denial before getting confirmation you were kidnapped. He just wanted to believe anything else was true.
Once realizing you were, in fact, in danger, he got very serious very quickly.
The first day or two, maybe not so much. He simply made sure he was being thorough, paying closer attention to what his brothers were telling him.
There was then a much more obvious shift. He spoke up more when formulating plans. His brothers didn't think much of it at first, but hearing him actually sound more than competent shocked them.
The longer you're gone, the quieter he gets, until there's no more games, no more jokes, no room for messing around.
He ends up separating himself from the others altogether, training, meditating, waiting for the guys to signal a lead.
He feels terrified and worried for you. He feels angry at those who harmed you. Most, he feels shame.
Maybe everyone was right about him. He was too carefree, too wild, too stupid. It isn't the first time he's thought this way, but it's the first time he's been so incredibly affected by it.
The only way he can fix this is to be someone different. Better.
When you're discovered, he is devoted to battle. He is not letting there be any chance you get hurt, not while he can do something about it.
He's constantly calling out to the others, telling them to move faster, hit harder, do better.
As soon as the battle is won, he runs right for you, throwing himself at you.
Already he begins returning to normal. He's got you in a tight hold as the others release you, talking about how worried they all were, and how much he missed you.
On the walk back, he's mentally checking off a list, determining just how okay you are, which ranges from obvious physical injuries to how hard you laughed at his joke.
When you do return to safety, he's most focused on your mental state. Cant calm down after something like that if your mind still doesn't feel good.
He'll be making/ordering you your comfort foods, digging up your favorite movies, finding your comfiest pjs, leaving the doctoring to someone more capable.
After that, he definitely needs to curl up on the couch beside you for some long overdue cuddling.
He's utterly exhausted, the mental toll on him during that time was intense.
His brothers would poke fun at him becoming so tired after "having to actually think".
With it all over, things seem to return to normal. He's back to his excitable self!
But the way you catch him looking at you? The way his grip as he holds you is firmer than before? The way that, when he's near you, his breathing sounds heavier, and at times even shaky? You can tell he still thinks about what happened.
You try to ease his worries, that everything will be okay. He plays it up as if that works for him.
He may never admit he just doesn't think he's good enough the way he is.
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, MDNI, 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.
Imagine Grace coming to set, and as everyone imagines, gets mistaken for Colt. And obviously, they just think he's Colt, playing a character and making jokes, mocking Ryder and his acting by pulling on a character of his own.
"No no no, You're not listening," Ryland laughs nervously, hands grabbing at wrists that were pulling him into a body harness. “I’m not Colt. I’m his brother. Ryland Grace, I’m a teacher-”
And the people pulling him into the harness just smile and chuckle, shaking their heads.
“Yeah, why are your last names different then, smart guy?” One asks as they start pressing him towards the lift.
“We changed them!”
And it isn’t till he’s being brought a 138 ft up a lift that this might be where he dies, clutching his harness over his heart and staying silent in panic.
Meanwhile Colt strolls on to set with his glass on and coffee in hand, sidling up beside some people as they all watch the lift go up. “Hmm. And I thought I’d be getting the first jump of the day.” He joked softly, turning to look at them but only getting confused looking back. “Something on my face? I swear this lipstick is mine-I’m trying a new shade-”
Anyway, everyone is trying to radio to the top of the lift but they all have their radios on different channels, so Grace is standing at the top, knees shaking and panicking as he looks down at the jump they expect him to make. Had expected Colt to make and that’s just as scary cause he thinks he’d rather be here making this jump than letting his brother do it and his brother was the professional, had probably done something like this a million times.
“Alright, you know how this is gonna go,” A warm voice on his left says, barely able to look over with his white knuckled hands on his harness as someone straps him to a carabiner and cable. The man beside him isn’t looking at him, but he’s attractive. Dark hair pulled up into a bun with bangs and pieces falling out, thick glasses and endlessly voidable eyes that Grace would spend the rest of his life searching through, which may only be for the next ten minutes. A tight shirt pulled over an impressive chest and stretching the sleeves over wide arms, a black prosthetic holding a clipboard the man was more focused on.
“They tested it a few times with your body weight, so they’re not gonna slow fall it this time. We’re just gonna rip it straight a few times then we’ll get the rig camera to start recording. It’ll follow you down but don’t worry about hiding your face, just brace, Yeah?” The attractive man said before gently slapping Ryland’s chest with the board and flashing him a slight smile with a crinkle of his eyes, so warm and dark he was half grateful that whatever forces of the universe gave him this fate decided to soften the blow with such a handsome being as his last seen face.
The man only looked to his face for half a second, already turning and looking away before stopping dead in his tracks before he even finished his first step, looking back to Ryland’s face again with a pinched expression.
Thank god thank god thank god-
“Woah- did- What the hell is going on?” The man shouted back to the team that was a bit further back, all of them looking up from the dropping rig and pulleys for the harness system. “Who the fuck is this? I was told Colt was ripping it all day.”
“He is.”
The man looked back to Ryland, the blonde’s face contorting with relief as his hand reached out, taking the man’s flesh shoulder in his shaky hand.
He was kind too, which should be illegal when Ryland was shaking so bad he could hear his bones rattle, his savior’s face softly shifted to sympathetic as his flesh hand came up to fist in the back of his harness.
“ I’m- I’m not Colt.”
“No, no, I know you're not,” The man hushes softly, pulling him from the ledge slowly, Ryland’s legs shuffling as the man wrapped his arm around his back, and Grace had never hugged himself to someone so tight in his life. “Jesus fuck, all of you are blind. Someone get the lift back up here! And get on the right fucking channel! They’ve probably been calling around for Colt.”
“Thank you- Oh my god, thank you. You’re an angel,” Grace whispers shakily, gripping the back of the man’s shirt and tangling his hands in the back of the man’s own harness that was keeping him connected to the platform.
“Can’t believe you made it all the way up here,” The man said, putting down the clipboard on the ground and wrapping his prosthetic arm around Grace’s back so he could unclip his carabiners form the rig, then clipping it onto the other man’s harness so they were attached. “Who are you?”
“Grace. Colt’s my brother.” He laughed a little, adrenaline spiking through him and making everything fuzzy and funny. “Cripes- You're not gonna tell anyone if I pee right now, right?”
Which makes the man laugh, patting Ryland’s back. “I’m impressed you haven’t already,” The man assured. “I’m Simon. We’re calling up the elevator right now and we’ll get you back on the ground, alright? You good?”
“No.”
“That is extraordinarily fair. You’ll feel better when we get on the lift.”
It wasn’t until the radio was changed to the right channel and the crew at the top of the drop confirmed that everything was alright that a very unhappy voice rang through.
“I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD IF YOU GUYS DROP MY BROTHER I’M GONNA DROP YOU-”
“It’s fine, Colt,” Simon radio’s back, having grabbed it off one of the crew as he shuffled them both onto the lift, pale arms practically choking hims around his neck with Grace’s tight grip. “I’m bringing him down right now.”
“WHY THE HELL WAS HE UP THERE-”
“Can you save the screaming for when we get down there? Cause I'm happy to turn this radio off.”
(name) doesn't drink. the most she's ever drank was on her wedding day, and even then, she had two glasses of wine at most by the end of the night.
that being said, it was odd that leo looked at her in utter joy, holding a bottle of some sort of liquor she is not familiar of. smile so wide, it made it seem like he wanted her to join him.
the first months of the young married life has been nothing but bliss. she wouldn't trade it for anything.
"got off early, you know what means, princesa?" he kissed the top of her head with an audible, "mwuah!" as he sets his bag down, smelling of oil and grease after spending hours at the auto shop.
(name) sets her phone down, smiling. "no, i do not. please don't tell me you're about to drink before four." leo doesn't respond. he only smirks up at her as he grabs two wine glasses from the cabinet overhead.
"come on! we're young, we're free. we deserve it." (name) rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "you forget. i don't drink my leo." leo chuckles, "trust me. you'll like this one. i made sure you would. it's sweet!"
he pauses, grabbing something to open the bottle up. "you know, just like you."
she cracks a softer smile. "stop sweet talking me."
leo only sighs playfully, "ay, one of my favorite hobbies." she giggles a little louder. and he smiles. nothing beat making her laugh.
and this is how they got here. half-drunken, on the couch, and on their way to pass out till tomorrow night.
"told you it's sweet." leo speaks in a sort of mumble.
"curse you, leo." (name) weakly points a finger at him, her head resting on his shoulder.
leo lets a laugh slip, before a hiccup cracks.
"wanna see me climb that?" leo points at the tv across them.
"please don't." leo howls another laugh at his wife's response. (name) grins, playing with the ring on her finger.
"you remember when percy started dancing during the reception and his pants ripped? he didn't notice it till annie said something." (name) reminiscents in a loud laugh that her and leo continue to share.
"or the time hazel slammed face first on the cake?" leo replies, "how did that even happen??" she furrows her brows together in both confusion and amusement. leo cackles, "i don't even know!"
their laughs die down in a comforting silence, and (name) expects another joke or ruse to come out of leo's mouth when he opens it, but all he says is, "have i ever told you how much i love you?"
there is another silence.
and it breaks through a short and tiny sob. "mi sol, aww." he picks himself up, then carries her closer into his arms. "i'm sorry. i totally remember now. you're a sad drunk." he caresses her hair slowly.
"no i'm not," she says in-between sniffles. "but yes, you have." she speaks softly against his chest. he lifts her chin up, breath hitching before he pulls her into a deep kiss.
they hold it, before they eventually pull away.
"you taste like .." he licks his lips.
"yours?" she replies, cheeks flushed. he chuckles. "yeah, you do."
she presses her forehead against his, and she whispers, "i'm so lucky you asked me to share this life with you."
This is more of a confessional on my part, but I’m still confused on why Jax in the Zooble-Abstraction scenario was explicitly sexual and flirty with Gangle.
I know each door scene was an exaggeration of his worst traits/intrusive thoughts, but I still never got the angle that Jax thought of Gangle that way.
Sure, he’s misogynistic, and an abusive character; but, aside from the fact that he goes into people’s rooms, and a few inappropriate jokes, I still didn’t get the idea that he was sexually inclined to Gangle.
He seemed more immature, like dudes who make inappropriate jokes for the sake of, as Jax says best, being funny.
If anything, I would’ve expected Jax to be more verbally cruel and accosting. Instead of rubbing her chin, my instinct would’ve been to see him relentlessly kick Gangle down, trying to poke at her mask.
Maybe the scene was mainly supposed to be taken as a gag or shock value. Which, I mean, I guess. It’s still weird in hindsight.
It just makes me wish the show either didn’t include it or made that side of Jax a little more explicit.
Not in the nsfw way, but in a more critical way. Though, that is a shortcoming in itself when it comes to Jax and the way the narrative treats his behavior.
Like I don’t understand. Jax is shown to do terrible things, with the narrative going out of its way to point it out, but then the final still tries to push us down a more sympathetic perspective for Jax.
It’s kinda of a commitment issue, if I were to put it into other words.
I think Jax still could’ve worked if he were to be a bit more crude, though the show would just have to be brave enough to tackle that massive character flaw. As well as not shying away from Jax facing push back. Specifically, the show needed to accept that the audience very well could dislike him more for it.
The narrative constantly patches up his behavior with cues from the cast that the audience should be feeling sympathetic for Jax. Despite Goose saying she understood that people would either still hate or like Jax by the end of the show, the narrative is saying something else to me entirely.
This is shown most irritatingly through Pomni.
I think the overall mindscape scene is worse off because Pomni is so unaffected by the entire scene.
When I watched the movie in the theatre, some dude legit looked around and said, “what’s going on?”
Like dude, I feel you, because I don’t know either. I’m searching right there with you.
With each episode, I recognize that I’m more estranged from Pomni because I don’t feel like she’s representing me, aka a decent half of the audience. At least when it comes to mindset.
A lot of people have mentioned that Pomni, outside of episode 6, doesn’t challenge Jax. Or the narrative makes it seem like she’s turning a blind eye to Jax’s behavior.
After the movie, I kept scratching my head because I didn’t understand why Pomni wasn’t more disturbed by what she saw in Jax’s mindscape.
Any interesting potential there was, was thrown out the door when she said, “you know none of that is real, right?”
Like girl, if you don’t start asking him “wth was that?” You saw him choke you, and still decided to hug him?
The show couldn’t, at the least, have her meet Jax with the same energy as she did in episode 6? Not even a little bit?
Like the narrative choices are so baffling to me.
People always say, in a couple of months, all the “haters” are gonna be weeded out of the fandom, but honestly, I think the show is going to be viewed much less favorably. Especially with episode 9 dropping on YouTube with unlimited access to rewatched.
Once people binge the entire series, and have time to really sit with the story TADC gave us, I think people are going to be more openly critical. Especially when the audience grows up and consume other media.
Because, let’s be honest, over a third of this fandom has the same age demographic as Hazbin Hotel.
Sooner or later, the excuse that “open to interpretation writing = good storytelling” is going to expire. You can’t make a story and have the audience write the in-betweens and ending.
That’s the same thing Stranger Things was criticized for doing in the final season. Being indie doesn’t excuse that, and shouldn’t be praised as a new standard.
Like, nothing has been more frustrating than watching people praise the final as unique and that forgotten plots were not focused on because it was “unimportant to the story and shouldn’t be forced in.”
"You're still human, Simon." Simon's head whipped around to look at Grace. He was standing in that stupid cardigan again, his hands in his pockets. He was the picture of perfection, his stupid blond hair an artful mess. His stupid blue eyes so kind and warm. His stupid glasses hanging off one ear. Grace gave him a small smile. "You are still human." Grace started to walk over to him. Tears spilled from Simon's eyes.
"No, no I am not! I'm- I'm a monster! I'm a freak! I'm-" Simon froze as Grace's hand cupped his left cheek, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone, right above the teeth. Simon shook. "Grace.."
Grace's shoulder relaxed when he heard his name. "You're beautiful Simon, inside. And out." Simon dissolved into sobs, his knees giving out as he crumpled to the ground. Grace went with him, kneeing in front of him. "And I'll remind you every single day if I have to."
"Why?" He hiccuped.
"Because I can see how good you are. I know you're scared, you lived a hard life and you were put through so much. If I could I would have plucked you out of your life as soon as possible and bring you to this one. But I can't, so right here, right now, I'm willing and able to pick up the pieces and put you back together. Will you let me?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Willing and Able
Fandoms: Project Hail Mary, Iron Lung
Rating: Mature
Relationships: Ryland Grace/Simon "BloodyMary"
Summary:
And I wish I could know you much more sometimes
Wish I could do nothing with you
Sit in the yard while the day dies, leave it all on the table
And I'll say I love you and mean it this time
Say I'm sorry for everything else
If we found a way to the other side, I'd be willing and able
Simon never expected to survive the blood ocean.
What happens if Simon is found by the Eridians before Ryland Grace ever gets there?
Simon getting a little jealous because the COI and Eden have sent a few scientists to study and learn from Grace and one of the scientists keeps flirting with Grace. (They’re not together yet but they’re so close to confessing.)
Meanwhile, Grace is jealous because a different scientist has been flirting with Simon (not that Simon has noticed as he’s too busy pouting in the corner) and they’ve been chatting about their childhoods and other stuff. Grace tries to not be jealous as it’s nice that Simon has someone to talk to who’s been somewhat through the things he’s been through.
Cut to once the scientists go home for the day:
“So, you seemed to be getting close with Dr Francis.” Grace softly says as he’s cleaning the equipment. Simon is watching him whilst fiddling with his knife.
“Yeah I guess. They know what it’s like to grow up on the Eden side.” He mumbles. “Although, Dr Davis seemed to be…..flirting with you.”
“Oh? I didn’t notice….” Grace is telling the truth. He just thought Dr Davis was being friendly.
Simon thinks he’s lying. “Oh really? You didn’t notice him telling you how strong you are for a scientist? Or how smart you are? He asked you to go on a stroll! In Eden, that is basically asking you to go on a date!”
“He said he wanted to discuss some more research! I didn’t-“ Grace defends. He feels so embarrassed but then he asks himself. Why doesn’t bother Simon so much if he does accept Dr Davis invite? He turns to see that Simon looks angry.
“I didn’t accept his invite for a stroll.” Grace tells him softly, as if trying not to make a feral animal pounce.
“You- you didn’t?” Simon grumbles.
“No. I said I was busy.” Grace replies and he sees Simon relax at that.
“Why?” Simon asks him. “You know I make you get some sleep so you lied to him…..why?”
Grace shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to spend more time with you instead…..” he goes back to cleaning up the equipment and he feels his cheeks heat up. Why did he say that?? Where the fudge did he get the confidence to say that?!
He can feel Simon staring at his back as he cleans.
“You….you want to spend more time with me?” Simon asks in a tone that reminds Grace of one of his students.
“I mean, yeah. I like you Simon.” Grace turns his head to look at him softly. “I enjoy your company.”
“I….I like you too.” Simon replies softly. “I enjoy your company too. It feels nice…..I like it….. if I could stay here I would.”
Grace wants to push it and ask him why doesn’t he stay but they’ve argued about this a few times. Simon wants to leave but he can’t risk it. They both know how powerful Eden and the COI are. Heck, Grace knows first hand what they’re like. They’ve been trying to get him on either of their sides but Grace really enjoys being on neutral ground. It means he can help more people that way.
“I better get going….” Simon stands up and stretches and Grace turns to look at him.
“Be safe, ok?”
“I will.” Simon nods. They just stand there for a moment just staring at each other. Grace really wants to reach out and hug him but he doesn’t know how Simon would react to that.
“Get some sleep, Dr Grace.” Simon pats his shoulder as he moves to leave and Grace can’t help but lean into his touch a bit. God he’s so touched starved.
Grace nods and rubs his eyes. “I will. I just need to finish cleaning up or it will keep me up all night.” He chuckles softly.
“Maybe I can help you? Then you’ll get to sleep quicker.” Simon offers.
“No that’s ok. I don’t want you staying later than you want to-“
“I want to so let me.” Simon tells him defiantly. “Tell me what needs cleaning.”
“Ok.” Grace smiles softly as they get to work cleaning everything, their shoulders brushing every now and again.
Rating: M
This work is available here on AO3. Spotify playlist here.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6 Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13 Chapter 14
Chapter 15: Epilogue
A lot of people didn't like senior living centers. Grace understood why, to some extent. They had a unique smell, the residents all moved in a slow, unsteady way. To some people, it felt like a kind of prison.
Grace, though, loved the old folks home. He loved the stories, even the long-winded ones, all the lives that had been lived, the chronicles of mundane history.
Maybe it was because he spent so much time with his grandfather as a kid. Maybe because his own parents had passed, long before they even hit the threshold for middle age, much less old. As an adult, visiting his grandfather at the senior center, he would see older couples, imagined that's what his parents would look like, if they made it that far.
Now, as they were led through the home by a caregiver, Grace wondered if that's what he and Simon would look like. He glanced his way, pictured Simon's smooth skin deepened by age, streaks of gray through his black hair.
Simon met his gaze, smiled in encouragement. Earth suited him well. He'd gotten bulkier, his skin tanned by days in the sun. He was so different from the bloody stranger Grace had pulled to shore, all those light-years away. Who could say what Simon would look like in ten years, twenty?
Grace ached at the thought, but it was a delicious, bittersweet ache.
The caregiver opened the door, murmured, "Eva? You have a visitor."
Grace was already crying before he stepped into the room.
She was sitting in a comfy chair by the window, reading. As they entered, Stratt looked up. She looked… happier than she had the last time he'd seen her. At peace.
The lines around her eyes crinkled as she grinned at him over a pair of reading glasses. "Hello, hero," she said, placing both glasses and book on the table. She rose to meet him, slowly, her body protesting.
He was embracing her before she even stood to her full height, weeping silently into her white hair.
"Oh, what's all this?" she said, but he could hear a crack in her voice as she cried too. She clung to him, buried her face in his shoulder. "Please, Doctor, get ahold of yourself," she teased.
"I did it, Eva," he whispered, the words choked in his throat. "You said I could do it, and I did it."
"I know."
"Yeah, I-I didn't know if the probe… I didn't know if it made it, but they told me-"
"That's not what I meant," she said, pulling back. She placed her hand on his cheek, brushed her thumb against the tears. "I knew you would do it. I always knew you would save us, Ryland."
So many years had passed since she said his name.
"Though," she said. "The alien was a surprise." Her eyes flickered past his shoulder, to where Simon stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Or should I say aliens?"
"He's not an alien, he's from the-" Grace paused, decided they should get inrtoduced before revealing futures and alternate timelines. He wiped the tears from his face and took Simon's hand. "Simon, this is Eva Stratt. Stratt, this is Simon."
She cocked an eyebrow. "No last name?"
Simon answered. "Grace. Simon Grace."
She glanced between the two of them, sighed, and took a seat. "Well, get comfortable. I'm sure there's a very long, strange story to accompany this… development. Can the nurses get anything for you? Orange juice?"
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
In usual Stratt fashion, she called it like it was: a long, strange story. So long and so strange that it took several hours, nearly the whole day.
The whole time, she kept her expression pleasantly neutral, which was a welcome relief to the unpleasant neutral she used to wear during the project.
Once Grace and Simon explained their return to Earth, they went into detail about how they had spent the last several months: first in quarantine, which they both appreciated while the agoraphobia passed. Constant interrogations, blood tests, and after they were cleared, there were questions. So many questions. And a lot of cameras.
The hardest part had been explaining Simon. When the Hail Mary first launched, the Earth had celebrated the three brave volunteers, memorialized them. After the probe returned, and it was revealed that only one man survived and saved them all, Grace had become a hero for the ages. The new reality had been difficult for Earth's people to accept. It was a hard pill to swallow, that there had been a secret fourth man stashed on the ship, who remained comatose during the mission, only to awaken after landing on Erid.
Simon and Grace hadn't told anyone the truth. Not until now.
Grace worried that Stratt wouldn't believe them, that she would think Simon was crazy and politely suggest he be committed.
But instead, her eyes, which had once been a sorrowful icy color, were now bright, compelled. She asked Simon questions, detailed questions, more detailed than Grace had thought she would ask.
At the end of it, both Grace and Simon stared at her, waited for her verdict.
She stared back, sagely.
"So?" Grace prompted. "Do you… believe him?"
"Of course. Project Filament, Eden. We had to have a backup plan, after all."
Grace's jaw dropped, though he shouldn't have been surprised. "You… you would have led Project Eden?"
"Yes, we began preparations not long after you left."
Grace scoffed. "You just said you knew I'd save everyone!"
"I did. But science cannot always bow to faith, Doctor." She reached for Simon's calloused hand, took it in hers and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. "Though the gods may still force us to kneel."
Simon smiled at her, shyly.
Stratt returned his grin, and said, "Don't tell anyone your story, Simon. At least, not in earnest. Not because they won't believe you, but because they will put you on every watchlist on the planet. They'll assume you hacked into government files or that you were a disgruntled employee." She paused. "You could write a book though, pass it off as fiction. It's still a good story, just change the names. Who knows, maybe they'll make a movie out of it."
"Yes, ma'am," Simon said, and Grace wondered if he'd been watching too many Earth movies.
Stratt's grin widened at his formal address, and she nodded sharply, like a commanding officer. "As for you, Doctor," she said, turning her attention back to Grace. "What will you do? Return to your middle school?"
"Nah, it's too much of a security risk teaching at one school," he said sheepishly. "Besides, most of my kids are grown up now. We're actually getting lunch with Rekha and her wife next week. Not that you… know who that is, but um, no, to answer your question, we'll be traveling."
He explained the results of his many meetings with the United Nations, lots of lawyers and diplomats and scientists going back and forth. Grace became the first person ever granted 'universal citizenship', which allowed him free entry into nearly all of the world's countries. In exchange, he was asked to travel the world making appearances at various science conferences, assisting with lab projects, and leading seminars.
Grace accepted, but on several conditions: one being Simon's U.S. citizenship and all the perks that came with it, social security number, passport, etc. The second was that for every city that they traveled to, Grace would be permitted to lead as many elementary, middle, and high school assemblies as possible.
Stratt said, "That's a lot of traveling."
"I mean," he said with a shrug and a sad, lopsided grin. "I have no immediate family. I don't even have a dog."
Her mouth drew into a slow, bittersweet smile. She didn't apologize for what she did to him, and Grace was grateful for that: he wouldn't have forgiven her anyway.
It should have been a peaceful moment, except Simon interrupted with, "No immediate family? What the hell am I, then?"
Both Grace and Stratt chuckled, and he pressed a kiss to Simon's temple. "Right, sorry. There's only been one 'Grace' for a long time, takes some getting used to."
Quiet understanding dawned on Stratt at that moment, but she said nothing on the subject of their relationship. Instead, she said, "I always thought you were more of a homebody."
"Trust me, I'd take a twelve hour international flight over sixteen light-years any day."
They told a few more stories. Once things calmed down with the UN, both Grace and Simon had taken a brief break. They flew back to San Francisco, toured the city. Grace had shown Simon all his favorite places, different buildings and restaurants, at least the ones that hadn't closed down in the last thirty or so years. He took Simon to the pier, laughed as he gawked at the sea lions. They drove west to the beach and explored the tide pools, hiked through the redwood forests.
Simon had never seen so many trees.
Grace had been a little hesitant about life on the road, constant flights, trains, car rides. But he wanted Simon to know Earth, every corner of it. And, he realized, there was so much about Earth that Grace had never known, never seen.
It was scary, of course. But now, fear was nothing more than an old friend.
When they were caught up, Grace asked about what Stratt had been up to all this time. Much of her life had been dedicated to the project, though she did have several nieces and nephews to dote on in her older years. Once the probe returned, once she watched all of Grace's video logs and the sun was saved, she finally allowed herself to relax, enjoy her retirement.
"Ah, that reminds me," she said, indicated to the nightstand by her bed. "Simon, can you please grab the object in there and hand it to your husband?"
Grace knew what it would be before the xenonite pressed into his palm.
He smiled through his tears, admired the little man Rocky had spun for him, before he reached into his pocket and removed another object.
A small Eridian fit into his other hand, the five legs spread out like a spider.
"I, um," he said, barely able to get the words out. "I brought this for you. I have one just like it."
His hands shook as he gave the figures to Stratt, who set them on the windowsill beside each other. The light of the setting sun was bright and hot and alive, casting shadows of both figures onto the floor.
Grace fell to his knees, weeping softly, and Simon joined him, arm around his shoulder in an embrace. From her armchair, Stratt reached down and held his hand in hers, sniffling gently.
"It's really over?" Grace whispered, pressing his head against Simon's, looking up at Stratt with tear-filled eyes.
She nodded. "The worst part about endings," she said, smiling sadly. "Is that now you have to begin again. Isn't that amazing?"
"Yeah," Grace said, squeezing her fingers. "Yeah, it is. Amaze… Amazing."
Rating: M
This work is available here on AO3. Spotify playlist here.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6 Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12 Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Simon's fingers trembled as he lowered the sprout into the ground. He could feel the non-eyes of every Eridian, felt Grace's fingers join his in the soil. This was a momentous occasion, bigger than him and Grace, bigger than Rocky and Adrian. This was Earth, this was Erid.
And, in a terrible way, it was Eden.
When he and his Brothers had stormed Filament Station, when they slaughtered and reached inside the corpses to plant their trees, they sang. They chanted. It was ceremony, as brutal and horrific as it was. Keeping the tree alive was more important than the flesh they scored along the way.
But now, the ceremony was different. The Eridians hummed and sang in their own language. Grace had turned the translator off so that their song wouldn't be interrupted by the robotic voice.
It felt like finality. Deep in his mind, Eden still had it's roots in him, slithering into moments when he least expected it.
But now, his Brothers could finally rest. Somewhere in another timeline, he wondered if they could feel it. In the music of the Eridians, he could almost hear their voices.
Most of all, though, he heard his mother's voice. And his mother told him only one thing.
"Enough."
He'd done enough. He'd completed his mission, the mission assigned to him and every other Brother of Eden when the Quiet Rapture took place. Eden would live on, Earth would live on, here at the edge of the universe, across all the vast expanse.
He was finally free.
Simon clung to Grace, their tears falling around the sprout.
They were both free. And they were going home.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
They spent a few extra, selfish days saying goodbye to Rocky and Adrian.
Between packing the house, Grace and Rocky sat together for hours recording, Grace explaining his future lesson plans for the pebbles, telling any and all final details he could recall about Earth and his life. Simon did the same with Adrian, going into great detail about Eden and Filament Station. Grace was secretly glad not to be involved: it was hard enough at the end of each day when Simon would emerge, his eyes red and raw.
It was good, though, for both of them. It felt like they could leave it behind, get a true fresh start.
In turn, Rocky and Adrian provided as much information about Erid as possible. They spent hours making small figurines, replicas of their ships and tools and dwellings. They made figures for Grace and Simon, the biosphere house, the SM-13, Rocky's ship, and the tree sprout. Adrian ensured that all the information from Simon's sub was preserved, though Grace wasn't sure if the scientists of Earth would accept an alternate timeline.
On the last night, they all watched Rocky again, snuggled into the projection deck floor amid piles and piles of blankets and pillows. When Rocky-the-character climbed the steps to the art museum, pumped his fists in the air, all four aliens joined him.
Grace had said goodbye to Rocky-the-alien before, but it had been different. That goodbye had punctuated a mission. Now, saying goodbye meant leaving the makeshift life they had created on Erid.
Their human eyes leaked so much water, for hours and hours. They delayed, longer than they should have, maybe.
Rocky had spun xenonite armbands for Simon and Grace, mimicking the chirping noise that came with the Eridian goodbye. Both Simon and Grace stood in front of the ship's door, gently raking their hands up and down the armbands. A chorus of croaking chirps echoed around them.
"Thank you," the chorus said. "Thank you, Friend Grace, Friend Simon. We will always remember you."
Both Rocky and Adrian came onto the ship with them, to run final diagnostics, to have one final goodbye.
"Do not," Rocky said sternly to Simon. "Let Grace drive. He is terrible driver."
Simon chuckled, bent down to embrace Rocky's xenonite barrier. "Will do."
Adrian said, "We will keep the tree safe, Friend Simon. We promise. All Erid will know about your journey, about Simon the Savior."
Grace saw tears well up in Simon's eyes. Finally, a moniker that fit him. Not a convict, not a butcher. A savior. That's who he was, who he had always been.
"Thank you, Adrian," he said, choking up as he embraced her as well.
It was Grace's turn. Fudge, he hated goodbyes.
"Uh… thank you, Adrian, for… you know, keeping me alive. Us," he corrected, indicating Simon.
Adrian chirped, "Eridians like rainstorm. We keep this, adapt for Erid."
He grinned, forced himself to face Rocky.
Rocky said sadly, "We save stars."
"Yeah, bud. Yeah we did." He paused. "Well… we'll see. We definitely saved Erid's star. We'll see if we saved Earth."
Rocky placed his hand against the barrier, Grace's fingers joining from the other side. "You did," Rocky said. "I know you did."
Grace smiled sadly. "That's nice of you to say."
"No," Rocky sounded annoyed. "Simon's Eye confirmed. The god sent him here because we all saved stars. Earth's star too."
That hadn't occurred to Grace, that the Eye god thing had confirmed it. Earth's sun, his sun, was alive and well.
He fell apart all over again, draped himself over Rocky's barrier. "We… we did it."
"You gave me back my life, Grace. It is time to go live yours."
Eventually, Rocky and Adrian disembarked for the last time. Eventually, the Hail Mary rumbled, the astrophage fuel ignited.
Simon and Grace were both strapped into the pilot seats, their fingers entwined. Grace had worried and worried that the ship was too old, that it might fall apart midair over Erid. But no. The Eridians had reinforced it with xenonite. It survived past orbit, and soon, they were in outer space, Erid growing smaller and smaller behind them.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Four years crawled by.
The important thing was to keep up a routine. Eating, sleeping, working, resting. And making out, which made a hell of a difference compared to the first time Grace had been trapped in space. Because of the zero gravity situation, their blood pressures were too low to get boners. There were a few times where Grace stopped the ship specifically to get the centrifugal force going, if only to bang one out real quick before they continued their journey.
Another part of routine was keeping track of the seasons, or at least, what should have been seasons. Simon, wanting to integrate as smoothly as possible into American Earth culture, insisted on celebrating any and all holidays. Grace complied, even celebrating the most mundane ones with him: Presidents Day their second year out was awesome.
Knowing they would be ship-bound for several years, both men had made lists of projects to keep their attention. Grace had several science projects to work on, but his primary goal was preparing a presentation for the United Nations. Hopefully the probe had made it, all his recordings from his mission. He tried to predict what other questions they would have, about Erid, about the Taumoeba.
He often wondered if Stratt was still alive. And, if she was, if he saw her again, he wondered if he would kiss her or kill her.
He also wondered what on Earth had changed, if there had been any wars, technological developments. When he first taught Simon about Earth history, he glossed over the wars, over the weapons of mass destructions. At the time, it hadn't felt fair to Simon, introducing him to a bloody history when he had only barely escaped one himself. But once they were in space, he went into greater detail—gradually, over time.
Simon, meanwhile, tended the plants. He did have a green thumb, it turned out. There were several seed packets from the Hail Mary that had never been planted, that Grace had never bothered with, that Simon was able to grow. He was a natural botanist.
When he wasn't taking care of the plants, Simon tinkered. He advised on Grace's work, details about Erid that Grace had forgotten or overlooked. He had other projects, little pieces of technology to make their lives easier. That, and he studied. Read through every textbook front to cover and back again.
It was a big question, whether or not to present Simon's history. It sounded too fantastic, even with the records from the sub, all the data Adrian had provided. They talked about it a few times, mused if anyone would believe him.
Ultimately, they decided to just wait and see. If Stratt was still alive, they would tell her first, gauge her reaction, then go from there.
They aged. Slowly, not noticeably. Grace celebrated his 50th birthday when they were mere months from the solar system. Simon asked if he wanted to wait until they were on Earth, but he declined. It felt more appropriate to celebrate in the stars.
Simon also aged, though neither of them had an idea as to when his birthday might be. They settled on the middle of July, after America's Independence Day. Or at least, what felt like July out in the void.
And they just kept going. And going. And waiting.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
They had just passed Neptune's orbit when the first signal came through. On entering the solar system, they had slowed the acceleration from light-speed. The Hail Mary was still going fast enough that the message had been received in a compressed format, but they adjusted it easily.
It had been a long time since Simon heard another human's voice, though he knew it had been even longer for Grace. The language wasn't English: Simon picked out some words that he'd learned from the ship's movie collection, recognized them as Mandarin Chinese.
Grace sent out a response. They waited for the Chinese ground control to decompress their message, and within seconds, they got another back.
Excited chatter overlapped, so quickly that Simon had trouble picking out any recognizable phrases. They did make out two words:
"Ryland Grace! Ryland Grace!"
Instantly, Grace blushed. Simon felt a swell of pride. His Grace, the hero of Earth.
Before long, the ground control team found a translator, who let them know in English that they would connect the Hail Mary to the American ground control.
They had waited years for this. And now it was here. It felt surreal.
American ground control guided them the rest of the way through the solar system. For Earth, months passed: for Grace and Simon, it was only a few more days.
Past the orbit of Uranus, of Saturn. Jupiter was close enough for them to see in the distance, and when they passed by, Simon cried, so deeply reassured that all the planets really were still there. The Quiet Rapture would never happen now, all the suffering, all the death that came with it, would never happen. Because of them.
They passed the orbit of Mars.
Then there was Earth.
Simon and Grace strapped into the pilot seats, prepared for descent. Grace rattled off science words to American ground control while Simon held the controls.
Only in this moment did it occur to Simon that maybe, just maybe, it was still a dream. Maybe it was all in his head, the Eye, Erid, Grace. Maybe he would wake up and find himself back in the blood ocean, or on Filament, or Eden.
Please, he prayed, to no one and nothing in particular. Please.
Grace asked ground control for one favor, shot Simon a lopsided grin as the speakers crackled. "I've been waiting to hear this song for years," he said with a chuckle.
It was a new song to Simon, one that hadn't been part of the Hail Mary's pre-established playlist.
Watching in a trance, the crew is certain
Nothing left to chance, all is working
Trying to relax up in the capsule
"Send me up a drink," jokes Major Tom
The count goes on
Grace counted out with the song:
Four, three, two, one!
Earth below us, drifting, falling
Floating weightless, calling, calling
Home
The song played as they descended, drowned out by the cacophonous re-entry into the atmosphere. It was hot, so hot.
Down they went, towards a massive expanse of blue off the coast of what Simon recognized as the western United States. California.
The ocean. The real ocean.
When the Eridians reinforced the Hail Mary, they had constructed a series of parachutes for them, massive swaths of fabric that caught the wind and slowed their descent. Even then, they hit the water harder than expected. Simon knew that he would find bruises on his hips and shoulders from the seatbelt.
But it didn't matter.
They unbuckled, grabbed two xenonite life vests created for just this moment. They clambored out of the Hail Mary, stood on the wing as waves rocked the ship. The ocean stretched and stretched forever. The sky actually was blue, a brilliant blue, blue like Grace's eyes. Simon had a piece of Earth this whole time.
Grace took his hand, grinned at him. "Ready?"
Simon gripped his fingers tightly. He was afraid, still, even after everything. But that fear is what made him brave.
Together, they jumped.
The Earth ocean felt nothing like the bloodwaters of AT-5. It was clear, salty, so much saltier than the one in Grace's biosphere. It wasn't viscous like blood, but cold and smooth.
Grace pulled him to the surface, their life vests inflating. They were clinging to each other, laughing. Just… laughing.
In the distance, they heard the rumbling of an approaching rescue team.
Soon, they would be pulled from the water, celebrated, then quarantined, interrogated, tested.
But for now, they were here, together. It was real. They were alive. They were home.
Grace kissed him, not to consume his soul, guide him to death. No, this kiss brought them both back to life.
⟢ synopsis pjo boys finding out you have new lacy panties
⟢ starring pjo boys (percy, jason, leo, connor and luke)
⟢ 18+.
⟢ percy jackson
✶ he’ll see them poking out your pants and get turned on immediately. he’d slyly come up behind you, dick pressing up against your ass, chuckle-whispering in your ear “are those new panties y’got here?” he’s practically itching to bend you over right then and there.
⟢ jason grace
✶ he’ll find them after offering to bring your laundry down atop the pile. blushes so hard. almost drops the whole hamper infront of everyone. he’ll stuff them in his pocket, drop off your laundry then immediately bring you over to his cabin to “talk”. that “talk” ends in you riding him with your panties stuffed in his mouth.
⟢ leo valdez
✶ finds out when you casually change infront of him in the workshop into cooler clothes. so flustered but tries to play it off by making a stupid sexual joke, immediately followed by making out on the workshop floor -> fucking on the workshop floor, where he gets very grabby.
⟢ connor stoll
✶ doesn’t find out on his own, you tell him right before dinner just to tease him. he doesn’t even know how he made it through that. he will bring you round behind the big house to eat it through your new lacy panties like a starved man.
⟢ luke castellan
✶ sees them through your jeans fly. almost aggressively push you up against his wall and fucks the living shit out of you calling you names and saying wearing buying those was “so whorish” of you.
more bloodymary brainfood but in this au; inspired by this post on twitter, go check it out
so like. i love this actually
(note: i’m just making shit up as i go, i’ve never actually been in a space engineering museum and idfk what they would have in there)
- grace bringing his students on a field trip to a space engineering museum
- simon being one of the tour guides and conveniently the only one on that shift—everyone else is already on their lunch break
- grace walking in with his kids, sorting out the tickets and tour guide arrangements and simon behind the reception/front desk
- simon noticing his fox cardigan-sweater, and the glasses that weren’t entirely level on grace’s face. the visitor sticker that said “hello, my name is…” and seeing “mr. grace” written in all small caps handwriting
*i think that grace would absolutely write in that sciency all caps handwriting (i mean it was shown in the movie) but smaller. because science
- also simon peeping the “damn he’s a little older but really cute” (i’m thinking that simon is like. 33-34 ish and grace is around 41 or 42 to make sense for simon being ex military)
- grace, looking at this buff dude with shoulder length hair tied into a half manbun, dark cargo pants, boots. very militaristic style (and grace thinks it looks absolutely attractive)
- grace also noticing the silver nameplate that has “simon” engraved, in red letters
- the tour starts as simon walks the kids around the museum, looking at photos and newspaper clippings about apollo 11 and laika as part of the history aspects of the museum
- grace, with his hands in his pockets, lowkey blushing whenever simon looks back to make sure the kids are still following him
- simon stops at this like. space hull? but cut in half so the kids can climb around in it and have fun (like mcdonalds play place pre-covid)
- simon reaching to give grace a handshake for courtesy and to introduce himself
- grace looking between simon’s hand and his face a good couple of times before actually taking his hand and shaking it
- simon assessing the handshake (why wouldn’t he) and noting the differences between their hands—grace’s being more towards soft, but a decent grip. simon’s being much more calloused and a firm handshake (all those years in the military)
- grace mentioning how much history and space artefacts there are, simon mentioning that he saw a lot more in his days in the military
- grace being lowkey shocked but like. it makes sense yk
- some of the kids noticing them talk and, y’know. kids aren’t stupid. they see mr. grace getting shy and talking to the hot and edgy tour guide and 💡
- the kids pushing to continue the tour, and making grace walk next to simon as he gives more of the tour
- the kids becoming a hivemind and staying a few feet behind the two of them as they end up talking to each other throughout the tour
- simon psyching himself up & at the end of the tour, gives grace his number in the excuse of “if the kids want a better history lesson about space engineering, feel free to reach out”
- one of the kids overhearing and yelling, “CAN MR. SIMON VISIT US IN CLASS??”
- the kids start yelling about how cool it would be if the cool museum tour guide worker guy visited the class and talked about space engineering
- grace sighing and rubbing his face like a tired mom
- looking over at simon with an awkward smile (lowk blushing at the same time but simon chooses not to pay too much attention to what it means) and “i’ll give you a call, haha”
- simon nodding and watching as grace corrals the kids out the door and into the bus. watching as he turns back around and gives a short wave before climbing on the bus, and watching it leave
- and then it really hits simon that this grace guy is kinda cute and he’d just have to hope he calls
hiiii! Could I request a Leo fic where some characters from HOO are hanging out in the night at CHB and reader and Leo aren't dating (yet) but reader gets instinctively closer to Leo cause he's a human fireplace and he warms reader up? (GN reader) Thanks! Loveee the way you write for Leo btw
Aaaa, thank you!!! Leo is honestly just my favourite person to write for, I've missed writing for him, so it means a lot to me that you like how I write him :), hope I did your idea justice, sorry for the late reply and that the ending kind of sucks, I'll maybe redo it later if I'm not tired, and thank you so much for requesting!
Cold summer nights
Pairing(s): Leo Valdez x (no pronouns) Reader
Warnings: one use of (name), but other than that nothing
Word count: 1k
Requested: Yesss!!!
Proofread: Lightly
A hushed whisper and laugh was what could be heard, as a group of halfblood teens raced quietly to the docks, you being one of them. It was the beginning of the end when it came to summer, nights starting to catch a chill and a nip to them, a chill that one could easily forget. One being you, the only person there who forgot to bring a jacket. A shiver crossed your body as you sat with your friends by the docks, your drink quivering in your hands.
“Jeez, it's freezing.” You say through guarded teeth, the rest chuckle and urge, ‘It’s fine, you’ll be fine.’ You just groan and huddle closer to yourself. Piper exclaims that you're being dramatic, Percy comments on your early exchange, when you claimed you had no need for a jacket. You roll your eyes, trying to form some kind of protest, but the buzzing minds of the group have turned to another topic, leaving you to sourly gaze around. As you scan the area again until you spot Leo, crossing over to you with that grin on his face, the one you like to hope he keeps for you, because at this point it gives you too many butterflies in your stomach for it not to be. His brown curls slightly dishevelled from the wind, he’d slipped on a simple hoodie, some skate thing he’d got last time the two of you had gone into town, a drink of his own in his hand. You can’t help but think about how handsome he looks, and how he’s still wearing the bracelet you made him during some random arts and crafts seminar. He plops next to you, already spurring out words as his attention focuses instantly on you.
“How’s it cooking? Good looking?” He grins, his voice has a crackle to it as his usual flirting splurged in his opening overused lines. You’d heard this one before, and you would roll your eyes, but you're freezing, so you just nod back. That doesn’t stop the warmth in your cheeks from forming, if you could call it warmth at this point. You hate how he can say stupid lines like that, ones he uses regularly on you, and still make your heart flutter.
“No jacket today? You'll catch a cold.” He pouts playfully.
“I’m fine.” You retort, ego already bruised from the earlier jabs. He gives you a curious look, which you return with a shrug. “Seriously, don’t worry.”
He looks like he wants to say something, but nods instead. His attention, though never fully drifting from you, turns to the conversation of the rest of your friends. Though his eyes glance back often as his hands fidget with the strings of his hoodie. So you're again left sitting there, feeling like you're crazy for your shivers. You do notice, however, the heat radiating off of Leo. You assumed it, him being a son of Hephaestus and all, but it hadn’t registered in your brain just how warm he was until you could practically feel it radiating off of him despite the space between the two of you, the one you were now eager to cross, brain itching at the idea of doing it, of just biting the bullet and curling up to the boy. Your nervousness says no, that's too brash, unfair to him… but you're so cold… the debate settled in your mind as you leaned on his arm slightly. You felt his body stiffen with the sudden pressure, but he looked over and relaxed, a small smile on his face.
“I knew you were cold.”He grins, and you shoot him a glare in response.
“Shut up.”
His smile widened, taking the bold move of lightly wrapping his arm around you to pull you closer. His hoodie is plush; it cushions you in. “One benefit of being a child of a fire god, I suppose.” He mumbles playfully, heart beating faster as you offer no reply except for a head buried on his shoulder. Sighing at the warmth finally being provided to you. You can't even stop thinking about the situation, for you know if you did, your heart would beat so fast it'd fall out. The others pretend not to notice, because, well, at this point, they feel like they’ve waited forever for at least one of you two to make the move. All so tired of watching the two of you stumble and grin at each other, flirting then not flirting, then touching and not touching, exhausting really. So they take this as a sign, the group migrates, you and Leo along with it, but they make sure to slowly fall further and further behind you two as you walk, Leo’s arm still around you.
He’s talking about nonsense now, well, not nonsense to him, definitely nonsense to you. But the way his eyes light up as he explains some mechanical achievement he’s done, pulling you closer subconsciously with every gust of wind that blows your direction, made it all worth it to just stand and listen. His eyes would meet yours, brown and twinkling with something. You hadn’t noticed when he fell silent, or when you two stopped walking. Only that you were now alone on the freezing beach, the group having run off, and were staring at each other.
“Are you still cold?” Leo asked, quiet and soft. You nodded, soft eyes mirroring his. He stepped forward a little, taking his other arm and wrapping it around you, pulling you close. You swayed with the wind, tucked into Leo’s arms. His arms around you, one hand on the back of your neck to keep your face sheltered. He hummed into your hair.
“(Name)...?”
You pull back, meeting his eyes.
“Leo.”
He smiles softly, concealing a nervousness in the corner of his lips.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath hitched, eyes widening, you couldn't even form words.
“You want to?” You managed to stutter out, he nodded.
“Well… Yeah. ‘Thought I made that obvious.” He chuckled shyly.
“I thought you were just like that with everyone.” You admit, smiling sheepishly, he shakes his head.
“So… how about it?”
You laugh at his reintegration of the topic, not stopping to reply as your lips connect to his in a sweet, soft, long-awaited kiss that has your stomach fluttering and your heart lifting. Pulling away with twin flushed cheeks, you both smile.“ Okay, I may be a little less cold now.” You grin, he smirks.
“Oh, so you won’t be needing my warmth now, huh?” He says, sliding his arms off of you before he's stopped by your grabbing, holding his arms in place on your shoulders.
“Don’t you dare!”
Here's one that's maybe unique: how would the ZA men react to accidentally hurting the reader? Not in the sense of them saying something mean, but like opening a door with a little too much force and the reader was on the other side and gets hit by it, or stepping on her foot, things like that. Little accidents that nonetheless would hurt.
I'm only doing the main guys here because I'm lazy (sorry, no Philippe, Vinnie, or L). It's actually quite exhausting trying to do 4+ guys, which is why you don't see me do these often as much XD
Ivor
Whack.
The café door flew open.
Pain shot through your hand.
“OW—!” The door bounced slightly on its hinge as you stumbled back, clutching your fingers.
“What was th—oh no!” Ivor froze in the doorway, hand still on the handle, eyes wide in horror. “My love!” he blurted. “I didn’t—I thought— I didn’t see—”
Gwynn stepped aside instantly. “Ivor.”
He was already moving, dropping to your level without hesitation, crouching in front of you like you were made of glass.
“Your hand,” he said urgently. “Show me.”
You winced but held it out. His face fell.
“I opened it too hard,” he muttered, clearly blaming himself. “I knew I opened it too hard. I always open it too hard.”
“Ivor, it’s fine—”
“It's not fine,” he said immediately. “I hurt you.” He hovered his hands around yours, afraid to touch without permission. “Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them experimentally. It hurt, but nothing felt broken.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
He still looked stricken. “I should’ve checked,” he said. “I should always check. I forget how much force I use.”
Gwynn sighed gently. “You forget because you’re built like a battering ram.”
“That’s not helpful,” he muttered, but he didn’t argue. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, so careful it was almost comical compared to the strength he usually carried.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just earnest. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
The way he said it made your chest squeeze.
“Ivor, it was an accident,” you insisted. “You didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s worse.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I’d never mean to,” he clarified quickly. “But that means I need to be more careful.”
He gently cradled your hand now, inspecting it like he was studying a fragile artifact. “Does it need ice?" he asked you. "We can go back in. I’ll get ice. Or we can go home. Or both.”
You laughed despite yourself. “I’m not made of glass.”
He looked up at you, eyes serious.
“I know,” he said. “You’re not.” His grip tightened just slightly—protective now instead of panicked. “But I still need to remember that I’m…me.”
You squeezed his fingers with your good hand. "It's alright, Ivor. I'm still here, in one piece," you assured him. "And I'll just be more careful next time."
He huffed, but then leaned forward and pressed a careful kiss to your knuckles.
“I’ll open doors slower,” he promised.
Corbeau
The Poké Ball slipped from your hand, hitting the pavement and roling just out of reach.
“Seriously?” you muttered, bending down quickly to grab it.
THUNK.
The doors swung open, the edge caught you clean on the forehead, hard.
You stumbled back with a sharp hiss of pain.
Corbeau stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. Philippe behind him. Corbeau’s eyes locked onto you, and he blinked.
You faintly heard him say your name as you were rubbing your forehead, trying to ease the pain. “Wow," you grimaced, "great timing.”
Corbeau stepped forward immediately, not rushed, just decisive, and caught you by the waist before you could fully regain your balance.
“Stay still,” he said.
“I’m not concussed,” you muttered.
“I'm verifying that.”
Philippe quietly shut the door behind them.
Corbeau tilted your chin up with two fingers, cool gaze scanning your forehead where a faint red mark was already forming.
“You chose today to attempt headbutting industrial doors?” he asked dryly.
You stared at him. “Uhh, you hit me.”
“You were beneath the door.”
“I was picking something off the ground. You were the one that swung the door open without looking.”
A brief pause.
His mouth twitched. “…That's fair.”
Philippe looked away, very politely.
Corbeau brushed his thumb gently over the mark, testing for swelling.
“Vision?”
“Fine.”
“Dizziness?”
“Only from your ego.”
His gaze sharpened slightly, then softened when he saw you were steady.
“You're right, I should have checked,” he sighed. "Or at least been more careful.
"No harm done," you shrugged, “It was an accident. Accidents happen”
He shot you a look. “I don't enjoy accidentally striking my girlfriend with Rust Syndicate infrastructure.”
You blinked. “That’s a sentence,” you said.
“It's a new one for me.”
You snorted.
He shifted his hand from your jaw to your waist, steadying you again, though you were clearly upright now.
“I suppose this is what I deserve,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“For what?”
“For mocking Philippe’s door safety suggestion last month.”
Philippe made a small sound of vindication.
You stared at Corbeau. “You’re joking.”
“I rarely joke about safety,” he replied smoothly. “But when I do, it appears I am punished.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. He leaned slightly closer, inspecting the mark again.
“You will stand to the side of doors from now on.”
“I'll just be more careful,” you said. "Maybe I need to work on my reflexes."
His fingers lingered at your temple for just a second longer than necessary. “You are certain you are fine?” he asked, quieter now.
You nodded. “I’m fine.”
There was a beat before he leaned in and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to your forehead, directly over the red mark.
Grisham
The lunch rush at Café Nouveau Truck No. 1 was relentless. From outside, Griselle’s voice cut sharply through the hum of the street.
“Two oran berry scones and a Burning Roast with extra foam!”
You were inside the truck with Grisham, the space tight and warm with oven heat. You passed him ingredients, refilled containers, slid trays into place while he handled the delicate precision work. The truck rocked slightly every time someone shifted their weight.
You turned to grab a fresh stack of parchment just as he stepped back from the oven, and his heel came down squarely on your foot.
You squeaked.
Grisham froze. “…What was that?” he asked evenly.
“You stepped on me,” you said, half laughing.
He immediately lifted his foot.
“…I did. I apologize.”
“It's okay! No harm, no foul.”
There was a beat of silence as he recalculated the last three seconds of movement.
Outside, Griselle called, “We’re backing up on drinks!”
“We're moving,” Grisham replied smoothly, but his attention was fully on you. “Are you injured?” he asked, quieter now.
“It didn’t even hurt,” you assured him. “You just startled me.”
“That's not what I asked.”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s a food truck, Grisham. There’s nowhere to go.”
“I just want to make sure you're okay.” His hand came to your waist, and his thumb pressed lightly as if confirming you were steady. “I should have accounted for your position,” he murmured.
“You account for everything.”
“Then this was an oversight.”
From outside: “Gris!”
“Yes,” he called calmly.
His eyes flicked down briefly to your foot, then back up.
“You are certain?”
“I promise," you said, making a show to cross your heart.
He studied your face one more second, sharp and assessing, before giving a small nod.
“Very well.”
But after that, every time he moved behind you in that cramped space, his hand would hover briefly at your hip first. And once, when he passed close again, he murmured just low enough for only you to hear:
“Announce your movements.”
You laughed. “Yes, chef.”
Outside, Griselle smirked faintly through the window.
Urbain
Morning light spilled across the kitchen at Hotel Z. You were leaning over the counter, focused on slicing fruit, one hand braced against the surface as you finished the last piece.
Behind you, Urbain padded in barefoot, still half-awake but cheerful.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
You straightened. And at the exact same moment—
Bonk.
Urbain swung open the cupboard overhead, the wooden edge caught you square on the forehead.
You recoiled immediately, hands flying up to your head.
The cupboard door slammed shut again.
“AH—!” Urbain spun around like he'd just witnessed a tragedy. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” He rushed toward you in three long strides. “I hit you! I hit you with the cupboard!”
You were already laughing a little through the sting. “It's okay! I’m fine—”
He cupped your face instantly, eyes wide with horror.
“I didn’t see you stand up! I thought you were clear! Oh man—oh man—”
“Ivor does worse on a daily basis,” you said, hoping to cheer him up.
“This isn't about Ivor!” Urbain insisted. “This is about me hitting my girlfriend in the head!”
He turned pale.
“Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“I can slice fruit, Urbain.”
“YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION!”
He gently turned your head left and right like he was conducting a medical exam he had absolutely no training for.
“I bonked you,” he said, voice small.
“You bonked me,” you agreed, lightly.
“I feel terrible.”
“I can tell.”
He leaned forward, peering at your forehead like he expected structural damage.
“I think it’s turning red.”
“It was quite a bonk.”
“That...that doesn't make me feel any better.”
You laughed.
He did not. He looked at the cupboard like it had betrayed him. “That cupboard is dangerous," he said, narrowing his eyes at it.
“It is not dangerous.”
“It attacked you.”
“Teeeechnically, you attacked me, since you're the one who opened it.”
He let out a pathetic whimper, and you laughed again. Suddenly, he pulled you into a careful hug, like you might fall apart if squeezed too hard.
“I’m really sorry,” he said into your hair.
Your arms slipped around him. “It's okay, Urbain.”
After a moment he pulled back, still frowning. Then, because he was Urbain, his eyes suddenly got suspiciously shiny.
“You’re not gonna get a bump, right?”
"I might. But it'll go away—are you tearing up?”
There was a sniffle.
“I might be!”
“Oh, Urbain...” You laughed helplessly.
He sniffed once, wiped his eye quickly like he hoped you hadn’t seen, then leaned down and pressed a very careful kiss to your forehead.
“Sorry,” he said, again.
You smiled. “Forgiven.”
And for the rest of the morning, every time you walked into the kitchen he announced every cupboard, draw, door he opened.
Rating: M
This work is available here on AO3. Spotify playlist here.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6 Chapter 7Chapter 8 Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The first time Simon kissed him, it had been brief and shallow, a man on the brink of death accepting his fate. But this time, Simon wanted to live, and he was out for blood.
Simon crushed Grace's lips to his, nearly cutting them with his teeth, the stubble of their jaws scraping together. He held Grace's neck firmly, as firmly as he had their second time meeting, though instead of threatening to end, his fingers now insisted on beginning.
Surprise locked the function of Grace's technical mind, so his instincts took over. Every impulse, every fantasy spoke through his hands as he took Simon's waist and possessively dug in his fingertips.
Simon responded with a guttural grunt, deepening the kiss so they could taste each other. There was no coppery blood in this kiss, just the fresh, cool rainwater, the heat of their tongues.
Grace pulled Simon close so that their hips were pressed against each other, both groaning as they felt the other swell.
Then as soon as it began, it was over. The rain, not the kiss, though once the rain abruptly ended, both men pulled back from each other, dazed.
Simon frowned at him, lips parted by his breath. "Is that… normal?"
Grace smirked, unable to resist the joke that only he would really understand. "Sorry, it's uh… been a while for me."
Simon blinked at him. Desire still clouded those mournful eyes, and Grace realized every passing second they basked in his stupid joke was another second they could be making out instead.
Grace leaned in, whispered against his lips, "Inside."
"Agreed," Simon murmured before stealing another desperate kiss.
The wet sand made traveling difficult, but they were both so flushed with adrenaline and hunger that they made the journey in half as much time as usual. The whole way, Grace rambled about the rain test, one of the main issues being the timing. The ultimate goal was to get a miniature water cycle going on: Simon hadn't made it to the water cycle chapter of the science textbook yet, but he was almost there. They also needed to design the clouds so that the rain didn't fall hard and fast within a few minutes, spread out over longer periods of time in order to-
Every thought abandoned Grace's mind when they reached the door and, instead of opening it, Simon pressed Grace into it from behind. Simon's arm pinned him on the right, his mouth hot on his neck from the left.
"You," Simon breathed against Grace's skin, grinding his hips against him. "Need to shut the hell up. Doctor."
A giddy thrill ran up Grace's spine, intertwined with fear. Is that what Simon wanted? To take him from behind? Is that what he wanted? Well, obviously it was what he wanted, one of the many things that he fantasized about, but now? Tonight? For their first time?
Even though Grace's mind was a scrambled mad science lab of specifics, his mouth knew what to do. "Make me."
Simon bit Grace's earlobe, lowered his hand to the door handle.
Grace turned to catch Simon's mouth, pulling him inside the door and not even bothering to close it. He had more important things to do, like take off all of Simon's clothes.
Of course Simon had borrowed the stupid periodic table pun shirt that day. Of course that shirt, like every one of Grace's shirts, was a size too small for him and even more difficult to remove now that the fabric was soaked through. Grace considered ripping it off, but was taken by surprise as Simon seized him by the waist and guided him to sit on the kitchen table.
With one smooth motion, Simon removed the shirt himself, threw it aside, then claimed Grace's jaw with his fingers, pressed their lips together again. Grace had hoped to steal a glance at Simon's body, but even in the brief snippet he'd seen, he was just as impressed as he had been the first time. If anything, Simon looked even more filled out and muscled than he had during the rescue.
It occurred to Grace, then, that Simon must have been working out while he was teaching class during the day. Like a Pilates housewife.
He chuckled at the thought, instantly regretted making the noise out loud.
Simon growled into his neck, "Something funny, Doctor?"
"No, no, I- ah!" He gasped as Simon palmed the bulge in his jeans. "Wh-why do you keep calling me Doctor?"
"Because you are one." Simon massaged him through the denim. "And because I thought it'd be hot."
It was hot.
"It is hot," Grace acknowledged, groaning as his hips bucked hungrily into Simon's hand. "What should I call you, then? Butcher?"
Simon froze.
Swing and a miss. First his bad joke outside, then laughing while Simon was kissing him. Now this. Did that mean he'd struck out?
Simon said in a low voice, "What did I tell you…" Then his hand was on Grace's jaw again, but this time, gripping his face on either side. "About shutting up?"
Before Grace could say another stupid quip, he was drowning in Simon: his mouth, his tongue, his breath. Grace was deliciously helpless under the deluge, and decided to go below the belt.
Despite having two hands to Simon's one, he was a lot worse at removing clothing, fingers fumbling with the band of Simon's sweatpants. He gave up on trying to pull them down and reached inside them instead, taking Simon's length in his hand.
Simon tensed, dropped his face from Grace's and moaned into his shoulder, his hair slick in wet tendrils along Grace's cheekbone.
Finally. The upper hand. Grace worked Simon, his brain already calculating the size of him. Yeah, yeah he could handle that, with enough lube. He would have liked time to prepare beforehand, considering another human hadn't been inside him since his last relationship over a decade ago.
Then it occurred to him. Simon had mentioned a few sexual exploits, not in any great detail. But he had never mentioned gender.
"Is this…" Grace whispered into his ear. "Would this be your first time? With a man?"
Simon made a ragged, "Uh-uh," sound, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Once or, ah, twice."
Cool. Still, should probably table the butt stuff, at least for now.
"St-stop," Simon growled, pulling away.
Grace jumped to his feet. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
"No, it…" Simon's shoulders heaved, his eyes closed as he regained his composure. "No, it felt… too good."
Grace couldn't resist smirking. Finally, a purpose to his flawless technique. After all, he had spent over a year in outer space alone. Not much else to do, once the vodka ran out.
Simon glanced up at him, narrowed his eyes at the smirk on Grace's face. "Why the fuck are your clothes still on?"
Grace reached back for the neck of his shirt, and halfway through pulling the fabric over his head, jerked in surprise as Simon made quick work of the button and zipper on his jeans. He tossed the shirt, joined Simon in pulling his pants down, jeans pooling on the floor around his feet. Simon palmed him through the boxers first, which had little heart-eyed cats printed onto them.
Simon snorted at the sight. Even though the two shared clothes, Grace had kept these boxers hidden, too embarrassed to let Simon see them. "Cute."
Grace's huff melted into a groan. "Shut up. Gift from an ex-girlfriend."
The boxers joined the jeans on the floor, and Simon took Grace in his hand. His grip was clumsier, clearly made for hard and fast release in the shower between death cult activities.
Before Grace realized what was happening, Simon was kneeling in front of him. Grace wanted to protest—it was their first time together, they could drag this out a little bit more—but the sound died in his throat as Simon took him into the wet warmth of his mouth.
As far as blowjobs went it was terrible, sloppy and uncoordinated and way, way too fast. Simon set a brutal pace, as though they would be caught any moment and needed to get this done as soon as possible. His tongue slid messily along him, his molars catching the tip of him every so often.
But it was almost better this way. On the ship, Grace always had so much time to kill. His jerking off had become a slow habit, a brief release from boredom, lacking substance or novelty.
Simon, though, Simon was going down on him like the world was ending. And it was really, really hot.
Grace couldn't contain himself, could only entwine his fingers in Simon's wet hair and gasp sharply when he finished.
Simon treated it like a mission, rose to his feet and spat into the sink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Was that good?" he asked, returning to Grace, brushing his lips against his again.
"It was… amazing." It was mostly the truth, but Grace felt a little guilty for the part that was a lie. Then again, they had all the time in the world. He could give him notes later.
Grace reached up to hold Simon's face, tasting himself on his tongue. As his mind cleared, he wondered why Simon had been so desperate, so quick.
Eden. Of course. Quick, sloppy sex was one of the rare luxuries that Simon had been afforded in his miserable life.
Simon tried to push Grace down to reciprocate then and there, but he resisted. Not like this. Even though Simon had been quick, unrelenting, he deserved better from Grace. He deserved to take his time, to feel real pleasure for once.
Grace pulled away, took Simon's hand and led him to the bedroom. Once inside, it was Grace's turn to press him up against the door, trail kisses along his neck, his collarbone. He cradled Simon's face with one hand, the other gripping his waist. Then he pushed Simon down onto the bed.
Huh. Grace had never been the push-someone-down-onto-the-bed kind of person. But seeing Simon sitting there, arm braced behind him, his knees spread, his sorrowful eyes glinting with need… it did something to Grace. It made him want to take control, to take this man who had suffered unimaginable horrors and show him what paradise really felt like.
Grace knelt in front of him, didn't bother removing the sweatpants as he put his mouth against the bulging fabric.
"Fuck," Simon gasped.
Looping his fingers into the hem of the sweatpants, Grace pulled down, taking Simon's boxers with them. He spat into his hand before touching him again. But this time, after a few efficient strokes, his lips joined his fingers.
Simon's ragged gasps escalated into a harsh moan when Grace took him deep into his mouth. He stayed there, locking Simon in the back of his throat, taking a ridiculous amount of satisfaction in the stream of curses that flowed from Simon's lips.
Then he worked him. Slow, torturously slow, his tongue swirling against the tip of him before his mouth took him deep again. It was definitely not the cleanest blowjob: he was way out of practice, but Simon didn't seem to notice. Simon's hips bucked beneath him, his voice an incoherent mess of curse words interrupted by groans. He fell back onto the bed, writhing.
"Fuck, Grace, I'm-"
Slower. Slower.
"Grace," he keened, needy. "Please-"
Slower. He wanted Simon to feel every inch of his throat, his tongue. He didn't want him to come hard and fast the way he was used to, the only way he had ever allowed himself to. Grace wanted him to relish every torturous sensation, draw out his pleasure as much as possible.
He wanted him to know that he deserved this. He deserved to feel good.
Simon's fingers threaded through Grace's hair, his grip tightening so hard he worried he'd pull some out. "Fuuuck!"
Grace kept moving as Simon finished down his throat, decided not to insult him by spitting when he was done. After all, Simon had certainly put much more disgusting liquids in his mouth, and on day one, no less.
Simon lay on the bed, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, eyes closed. Grace joined him, unable to keep the smirk off his face. He'd done good work, he had a right to be proud of himself.
"Fucking hell," Simon finally spoke.
"Yup," said Grace, swiping a thumb against the corner of his mouth. "That's how I earned my doctorate."
Simon glared at him. "No you didn't. You earned your doctorate with that bullshit thesis you told me about."
"Which turned out to be true," Grace pointed out. "But no, most of that doctorate was because I give great head."
"You're lying," Simon muttered, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"No, it's true. I had to blow a lot of professors. And a couple of janitors, but that was unrelated to the doctorate program. There were just a lot of hot janitors at Uni- ow!"
Simon whacked him with the pillow, unable to keep the grin off his face.
They lay there in silence for a long moment, so long that Grace thought Simon had fallen asleep.
Grace knew they should talk about this, clear the air. But he was just so comfortable, so happy. He wanted to steal this night, at least, act like stupid kids before they had to be adults in the morning.
But he did have one thing to say, before either of them passed out. "I'm sorry I listened to the recording, Simon," he muttered.
He half expected a snore in response, but Simon turned his head, gazed into his eyes. Simon rolled his jaw as he searched for the words. "I… I didn't want anyone else to live through that, least of all you."
"Why me least of all? If anything, I'd think I was the only person who'd understand." He didn't add that he was the only person, period. That seemed unnecessary.
Simon sighed deeply, so deep that the bass of his voice hummed. "I don't know. Because you're… good. This place, you… it still feels like a dream sometimes. It feels like Heaven."
Grace cocked an eyebrow at him. Did that mean Simon had finally accepted the truth, that this was real?
Simon continued, "You're the only angel I've ever met, Grace, and I didn't want to drag you to Hell with me."
Grace smiled softly to himself. Simon was just soooo dramatic. And it was so precious. Earlier, he had driven Grace crazy with his ridiculous returning-to-the-ocean stint, but man if he didn't just love him more for it.
He leaned over, pressed a chaste kiss to Simon's lips, this time without hunger or need. Just to kiss him, just to let him know he was here, and real, and alive.
"Heaven, Hell, Erid, wherever we are," Grace whispered against his lips. "What's important is that we're together."
He let the words settle, before resting his head on Simon's chest, arm wrapped around his waist. "Now go to sleep. It's late, and I have a class to cancel in the morning."
Idea for possible (50/50 of it being platonic) Bloody Mary
The Eridians are going over the knowledge of humans on the laptop, hoping to help Grace live a more comfortable life on Erid (He wasn't wrong when he said the odds of him surviving a trip back to Earth were not great) and they learn about touch starvation. That humans basically need physical contact with other humans to maintain their health.
Rejected Option the First: Direct physical contact Eridians causes damage to humans and human atmosphere causes damage to Eridians. They cannot be a source of physical contact for Grace.
Rejected Option the Second: They cannot ask for another human to be sent. Even if they could get a message to Earth, any human sent would be as likely as Grace to die en route and that would do no one any good.
Rejected Option the Third: Make a clone of Grace wouldn't work because they would not be able to provide the wider variety of care and nutrition and baby would need.
Solution: Find another way to get to humans. There was some very interesting research being done on the concept of 'wormholes'. Combining that with the Eridian's own science might be able to get them closer to Earth and either safely bring Grace home or at least request companionship (and maybe more food they can clone)
Their first attempt seems a success and they send Rocky in, as he has the most experience with humans. Rocky enters the wormhole with a little translator and a xenonite exosuit and...um...
Something is very wrong here.
He's an a rent metal box filled with plant and gore and blood. There's a human there, but he's very injured, missing an arms, and his dentation is wildly different from what the medical records of humans implied. Rocky take him anyways. He's not going to leave someone to die ever, not if he has the chance to fix it.
Simon never expected to wake up again. He definitely didn't wake up surrounded by living rocks chanting "Excite! Excite!". Not the new arm made of the strange translucent metal. Less pleased about the changes to his eye and teeth.
He manages to piece together that these rock-aliens broke through space-time somehow (and seem a little embarrassed by it) and brought him through to a world where the Quiet Rapture was averted through the efforts of Rocky and a human who was now stranded on this planet. The whole point of the expedition was to find a companion for the 'Grace' person so they wouldn't have to live their life alone.
Given he was about to die, Simon thinks he can handle a gig as a friend.
Simon realizes after meeting Grace he has no idea how socialization works. It's okay. Grace is willing to teach him.
Grace did not think he was touch-straved until he met a weird mutant human and just hugged him for ten minutes straight. Simon was a good sport about it.
Hearing about the timeline where the astrophage hadn't been uncovered, even after it was too late, Grace is all to eager to introduce Simon to creature comforts, like movies, video games, and bean bags. And baked apples, once they make the wonderful discovery of what kind of tree seed was in Simon's pendant.
It's not anything Simon pictured for himself. And he has plenty of night where he wakes up screaming and lashing out. But it's okay. Grace has plenty of nightmares about being abducted and drugged by people he trusts. They both get it.
I'm so emotional about Adrian. I mean think about it. Their partner leaves on Erid's first ever attempt at space travel. They don't know if they will ever see him again. But they wait, for decades looking to the stars for his return. 186 years is a long time. But so is 50+. Some people think they're a fool, that they should accept that Rocky isn't coming home. But they never lose hope. Because who would they be if they lost hope?
And then Rocky comes home! He's alive!! But he's alone, the sole survivor. Adrian can't even imagine what 46 years alone would be like. No one to watch him sleep. Their heart breaks.
But he wasn't completely alone! He made a friend. A leaky space blob that he calls "Friend Grace". All of Erid (and Rocky) would be dead if not for Friend Grace.
And Rocky, for his part, is so attached to Grace that he can't leave the space elevator. He's the savior of Erid, and he can't even set foot on it. That's a problem. Not just for optics (people want to see the savior of Erid! They want to hear about his adventures!) but for Adrian. They want their mate home.
But this leaky space blob can't survive on Erid. And even more importantly, he's dying. So the brightest minds get together, the second largest Thrum in Eridian history. (Both this and the largest involved Rocky, which Adrian finds amusing. He always did have a talent for finding trouble.) And they figure it out! They can save the leaky space blob! (Friend Grace, Rocky corrects them.)
But he can't live on that tiny spaceship forever. And Adrian wants Rocky to come home. To be able to watch him sleep. So they put their everything into making a home for Grace. They lead the project. Not just because they are one of the best engineers on Erid (the best, Rocky would say), but because while all of Erid owes their lives to Grace, Adrian owes something more. Grace saved their mate. Saved Rocky. He gave up his only chance to go home so that Rocky could come home. The very least Adrian can do is give him a home on Erid.
And it takes years, but they do it!! A dome on the surface where Grace can live. And finally (FINALLY) Rocky can spend more than a day or two on the surface without pacing anxiously, carapace tilted towards the space elevator and the ship docked at the top.
Throughout all of this, Adrian gets to know Grace, and it turns out they like him. More than they were expecting. They can see why he and Rocky got along. Rocky has always been a bit of an oddball among Eridians, even before his nearly half a century of isolation in space, but he and Grace are perfect for each other. And as much as Adrian wishes they could truly understand what happened to Rocky out there, they can't. There is a kind of comfort that can only come from someone who gets it, and Grace gets it. Adrian is just glad Rocky has someone who he can lean on (although in most cases it's Grace doing the leaning, at least physically. Erid's gravity is HARD on him, at first.)
And privately they worry about what will happen when Grace dies (human lives are so short compared to Eridian ones) but for now they're just glad that their mate is home, and they welcome Grace into their life with open arms. Rocky may be Erid's savior, but Grace is Rocky's savior, and Rocky is Adrian's world.
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