Could I request another Mikasa x pregnant reader story? Their relationship is a secret, but when the reader finds out she’s pregnant, it becomes much harder to hide it. As people start noticing and guessing who the father is, Mikasa gets increasingly annoyed because she’s the one who is the baby’s parent.
A Secret Under the Heart: The Fury of the Black Panther
Mikasa Ackerman (Aot) x female reader
Word Count: 2325
The Survey Corps barracks always smelled of dampness, weapon oil, and old leather. For most soldiers, it was the scent of inevitable death and heavy duty, but for you, Y/N, it had long been synonymous with the word "home." And synonymous with the safety provided by one single person.
Your bond with Mikasa Ackerman had lasted seven long years—a feeling forged in blood, loss, and night watches on cold walls. You never publicized your relationship. In a world where every day could be the last, shouting about love seemed like an unnecessary luxury. Mikasa wasn't one for public displays of affection. Her love was expressed in how she discreetly covered your back in battle, how she gave you her portion of hot soup, and how at night, when the headquarters fell asleep, her strong arms would lock around your waist, holding you as if you were her only anchor in this cruel world.
But now, hiding the truth was becoming increasingly difficult.
It was the twenty-first week. Twenty-one weeks since Hange Zoe, with her mad genius and access to forgotten medical archives, helped create what seemed impossible. A new life was growing inside you. Your shared life.
The morning started hard. You were on your knees before a bucket in your tiny private washroom, breathing heavily. The morning sickness, which should have receded a month ago, decided to return with a vengeance. Cold sweat beaded on your forehead, and your body trembled slightly.
Suddenly, a cool, calloused palm rested on the back of your head, gently gathering your hair so it wouldn't get soiled. A second hand rested cautiously on your back, stroking the tense muscles.
"Y/N..." Mikasa’s voice was quiet, filled with a deep, almost painful anxiety. She only used that tender tone when you were alone. "Breathe. Slowly. I’m here."
You exhaled raggedly, closing your eyes, and leaned back directly into her embrace. Mikasa lowered herself to the floor beside you, caring nothing for her pristine uniform. She pulled you to her chest. She smelled of soap and the freshness of morning air.
"I’m okay, Mikasa. It’s just... a bit worse today," you whispered, smiling weakly and resting a hand on your stomach, which had taken on a noticeable, rounded shape beneath your loose shirt.
Mikasa frowned. Her grey eyes darkened. She gently covered your hand with hers. "You’ve eaten almost nothing since last night. What do you want? I’ll get anything."
You laughed softly, burying your nose in her red scarf. Lately, your cravings were driving you both mad. "Peaches. I want peaches so badly, Mikasa. Sweet ones, dripping with juice."
Inside the walls of Paradis, fresh fruit was a luxury available only to the elite in Mitras. But Mikasa only nodded with frightening seriousness. If her Y/N wanted peaches, she would overturn the entire black market of the Underground District to get them.
"I’ll bring them," she said firmly, helping you to your feet. "But you need to wear a wider uniform. Your stomach is showing."
You sighed. That was the main problem. The rounded belly could no longer be dismissed as a heavy lunch or poor posture. Rumors were spreading through the Corps like a forest fire.
By lunchtime, Mikasa had truly accomplished the impossible. When you went down to the mess hall, a tin of canned peaches in thick, sweet syrup was waiting at your usual spot. It likely cost her a month’s wages, but the look she gave you as you greedily ate the fruit was one of absolute satisfaction.
She sat across from you, arms folded over her chest, silent and immovable as a statue. But her peace was soon disturbed.
The hall hummed with voices. Opposite you, at a neighboring table, sat Jean, Connie, and Armin. Unfortunately, you were the main topic of their conversation. They tried to speak quietly, but the superior Ackerman hearing caught every word.
"I’m telling you, she’s pregnant," Connie whispered, gesturing wildly with a spoon. "Did you see her waist? And she’s sick every morning. Sasha would have known exactly what’s up!"
"Even a blind man can see it," Jean snorted, rubbing his chin. "The question is: who’s the father? We’re always in each other’s sight. I haven't seen Y/N seeing anyone."
The word "father" struck Mikasa’s ears like a whip.
Her jaw reflexively clenched so hard the muscles jumped. Her eyes narrowed. Inside her, a dark, thick, suffocating irritation began to rise.
Father, she thought, and the word made her physically nauseous. Who were they even talking about? What man? This child was hers. Her blood flowed in it, mixed with yours through a miracle of science. She was the second parent. She was the one who protected you both.
"Maybe it’s someone from the Garrison?" Jean continued, oblivious to the icy aura emanating from the next table. "Remember that tall captain who came with reports last week? He was looking at her."
"Nonsense," Connie dismissed. "My money’s on Armin. He’s always so quiet, and it’s the quiet ones you have to watch..."
Armin choked on his water, waving his hands frantically. "W-what?! No! Y/N and I are just friends! I swear!"
You stopped chewing your peach, feeling the atmosphere at the table turn unbearably heavy. You looked up at Mikasa.
She was sitting unnaturally straight. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wooden table. In her gaze, fixed on Jean and Connie, there was no usual indifference. It was the gaze of a predator. A black panther whose territory had been trespassed upon. Such a terrifying, primal bloodlust radiated from her that even the air seemed cold.
She hated it. She hated that these idiots were trying to attribute a fictional man to you. She hated that they were erasing her love, her right to you, and this child. The urge to stand up, grab Jean by the collar, and roar to the whole room that this child was an Ackerman was almost overwhelming.
Crr-ack.
The edge of the thick wooden table cracked under Mikasa’s fingers, leaving a physical indentation.
The conversation at the next table died instantly. Jean and Connie swallowed hard, staring at the Ackerman with superstitious dread, not understanding what had triggered her wrath.
"Mikasa," you called out softly, calmingly, gently touching her clenched fist under the table.
She snapped her gaze to you. The fury in her grey eyes yielded for a second to a deep, hidden hurt. She pulled her hand from under yours, stood up abruptly, pulled her red scarf up to her nose, and walked out of the mess hall without a word.
You looked at the unfinished peach with a heavy sigh. Hiding was becoming unbearable—not just because of the belly, but because it was destroying Mikasa.
The tension grew every day. Pregnancy in the Survey Corps was unprecedented. Captain Levi and Hange knew the truth, of course, but for the rest of the soldiers, you had become the mystery of the month.
The attempts to pry for information became more intrusive.
It was late evening. You were in the lounge, trying to mend a torn jacket. Your belly was noticeably in the way, and you winced occasionally as the little one staged a storm inside.
Floch Forster entered the room, accompanied by a few recruits. Floch had always been blunt, and lately, his behavior had become downright arrogant.
"Y/N," he stopped in front of your chair, hands on his hips. "The rumors are flying. And looking at you, they aren't rumors."
You didn't look up from your sewing. "It’s none of your business, Floch."
"Wrong. We’re one army. We have to trust each other," Floch smirked, leaning closer. "Who’s the lucky guy who managed to knock up the Survey Corps elite and doesn't even have the guts to admit it? Is it someone from leadership? Hiding behind your skirt?"
His words were intentionally provocative. He reached out his hand, intending either to pat your shoulder or—what would have been absolute madness—to touch your stomach.
But his hand never reached its goal.
His wrist was intercepted in mid-air with such monstrous force that Floch howled in pain, falling to his knees.
Mikasa appeared from the shadows of the corridor in total silence. No one had even noticed her enter. Now she stood over Floch, still crushing his wrist so hard the bones groaned.
Her face was terrifying. A void devoid of any compassion swirled in her grey eyes. She looked at Forster not as a comrade-in-arms, but as a Titan that needed to be exterminated. The black panther was ready to pounce, baring its fangs.
"One more time," Mikasa’s voice was unnaturally quiet, steady, vibrating with restrained rage. This tone was far more frightening than a scream. "One more time you come within three meters of her. One more time you look at her. One more time you mention a 'fictional father'..."
She twisted his wrist slightly harder, making Floch hiss and break into a sweat.
"...And I will personally rip out your tongue and feed it to the dogs. Then I’ll break every bone in your hands so you can never touch anyone again. Do you understand me?"
Floch, pale as death, nodded frantically, unable to speak. The recruits behind him backed away toward the door in terror.
Mikasa tossed his hand aside with disgust, as if she had touched filth.
"Get out. All of you."
She didn't have to say it twice. The lounge emptied in a second.
You were left alone. The silence pressed against your ears. Mikasa stood with her back to you. Her shoulders heaved; her chest was heaving. She was still in the grip of fury, adrenaline boiling in her blood.
You slowly, heavily rose from the chair, setting aside your sewing. You approached her from behind and gently, softly embraced her, resting your head between her shoulder blades. Your arms joined around her waist.
"Mikasa..." you called softly.
She flinched. All her aggression, all that terrifying, murderous aura vanished the moment she felt your warmth. She exhaled shakily, covering your hands with hers.
"Let’s go to our room," you whispered, kissing her back through the thick fabric of her jacket. "Please."
The moment the door to your private quarters closed, Mikasa broke.
She didn't cry out loud; she never did. But when she turned to you, her eyes were wet, and her lips were pressed thin and white. She sank to her knees before you on the wooden floor and pressed her face against your belly.
Her strong hands, capable of crushing stone, wrapped around your waist with incredible, trembling caution. She buried her face in the fabric of your shirt, breathing rapidly and shallowly.
"I can't do this anymore, Y/N," her whisper was barely audible. It held so much pain that your heart shattered. "I hate it. I hate it when they talk about you. I hate it when they look for a man who doesn't exist."
You placed your hands on her dark hair, gently running your fingers through the strands, stroking her head to calm her.
"I know, honey. I know," you whispered, feeling tears prick your eyes.
"This is my child," Mikasa looked up. A single, heavy tear rolled down her pale cheek. She looked at you with desperate, naked vulnerability. "There is nothing in me but you. My life, my soul, my purpose—it’s all you. And this child is proof that we exist. Proof of our love. And they... they’re trying to steal that from me. Trying to attribute it to someone else. I feel like I’m being erased from your life."
Those words hit you like a physical blow. You had always thought Mikasa preferred to hide your relationship for safety, for the sake of protocol. But you hadn't realized how much the pregnancy had changed everything for her. For a girl who had lost her family twice, gaining a new family was sacred. And the need to hide this treasure was killing her from within.
You knelt down beside her, despite the protesting ache in your lower back. You cupped her face in your palms, forcing her to look directly into your eyes. Your thumbs affectionately wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"Listen to me, Mikasa Ackerman," your voice was firm and full of absolute, unwavering love. "No one can ever erase you. This child only falls asleep when it hears your voice. I wake up every morning only because I feel your hands. You are my wife, in every way that matters. And you are the mother of this child."
Mikasa looked at you with wide eyes. Her lips trembled.
"I don’t want to hide anymore," you said firmly, making a final decision. Enough. You had earned the right to your happiness. "Tomorrow, we’re telling everyone. Jean, Connie, Armin. Everyone. Let them know. Let them be jealous. I don't care about protocol or what anyone says."
"Y/N... are you sure?" Mikasa swallowed hard. A tiny spark of hope lit up in her eyes. "It will cause a lot of questions. Judgment."
"Let them try to judge us," you smirked, leaning closer. "I have the most formidable, beautiful black panther in the Corps, who will rip the tongue out of anyone who looks at us the wrong way. Isn't that right?"
A faint but infinitely warm smile touched Mikasa’s lips. She leaned forward and captured your lips in a desperate, deep kiss. In this kiss was all her restrained longing, all her jealousy that was now dissolving, and all her vast, all-consuming love.
She kissed you as if swearing a new vow of loyalty. Her hands slid under your shirt, stroking the warm skin of your belly. The little one inside, as if feeling the calm of its second parent, gave a tiny kick right into her palm.
Mikasa pulled back, breathing heavily, and pressed her forehead against yours.
"I will protect you both. With every drop of my blood," she whispered, and there was no exaggeration in her words—only pure, absolute truth. "Tomorrow, they’ll know you belong to me. That you both belong to me."
You smiled happily, closing your eyes in her arms. The storm had subsided. Mikasa’s rage had been replaced by immovable confidence. Tomorrow, the Survey Corps would know the truth, and no soldier would ever dare ask who the father was again. Because this child had a protection far more terrifying and beautiful—the love of Mikasa Ackerman.
