ashie's tumblr phase

Sitting in the labor room, you held the red scarlet-eyed baby in your arms, stroking the infant's tuft of blue hair every now and then. Segment 8, or "Little Doctor" as you like to call him, leaned over the side to look at the newborn, an innocent sort of curiosity brimming in his very own pair of red eyes.

Your baby was born healthy, looking just like a mix of both you and Zandik. He'd helped deliver it himself, muttering about how he trusted no one but him to take the task upon himself.

Well, technically, it was just Segment 25 who helped with the main task; the others volunteered themselves with other stuff, such as weighing the baby, stitching your tears up, cleaning the blood, storing your placenta and umbilical cord for research purposes, etc.

All the segments insisted on helping out, even Little Doctor, who unfortunately had to sit outside for most of the labor but was eventually allowed in to see the baby and check on you. Everyone's main goal was to ensure the mother and newborn were both safe and healthy.

Now that everything was successfully executed, you and the newborn were both taking a small, well-earned nap. All the adult segments turned to look at one another with suspicion.

Who the fuck was the baby's real father?

They all had slept with you, came inside of you, so the possibility that one of them was the father was 20%.

Except they were all Zandiks.

They all had the same DNA, the same blood. They might as well all be identical twins, if identical twins were all the segment of a man who died a century ago.

"Well? What were we all even expecting? That the baby would be born, and we could take a DNA test to verify the paternity? We all share the same blood dipshits. Ever thought of that?" Segment 18 spat out, looking at the other older segments after they'd all stepped out.

Segment 25 merely took off his mask and gloves, opting to let the other Segments deal with the guy instead.

"We were hoping to keep the peace until the baby was born to keep our Lady's pregnancy smooth. You know she gets troubled when we all get into unnecessary fights." Segment 65 explained, stepping closer to your door to make sure it was locked in case their argument woke you up. "A miscarriage would've been tragic. Besides, we all had our own goals to accomplish during this period. I doubt Omega is going to let you have a share of the placenta."

Omega, or Segment 35, who snuck off to the side to keep your placenta in a freezer, shot them all a dirty look. "How rude! Preserving the placenta has it's benefits-"

"We never said it didn't. But must you be so greedy as to keep it for yourself?" Segment 45 cuts off.

"-because I am the most research-oriented out of all of us, one who shall produce the most fulfilling results. In case of a genetic disease or a tumor, it will prove to be very useful." He preened

"You talk as if you're the real father." scoffs Segment 18.

"Well, of course I am. Who else but I could produce such brilliant progeny."

The comment riled up Segment 18, who walked up to Omega's face, his sharp teeth bare, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, old man? You sure your sperm can even swim that far? Your cock get that hard? Well, getting erect would be no problem for such a beauty; however, I bet her fallopian tubes shriveled the moment you got in you son of a-"

"Alright, alright. There's no need to stir up a ruckus right here," said Segment 25, wiping his hands dry on a towel, clearly the most tired of them all.

Unlike the other Segments, he had to be on-call and close to you that day, and hence had stayed by you till the moment you had pushed the baby out. "She's still inside, sleeping, taking a well-earned nap before one of us has to wake her from her blissful slumber in two hours to take her vitals again. Not to mention, we will need to attend to my newborn as well. For now, we could all take a moment, Segment 8 will alert us should anything happen-"

"What do you mean, 'my newborn'?" Segment 45 butts in, "You didn't even try to debate whether the child is yours or not."

"Well, of course, because it is mine. Only fools fight over what's not theirs-"

"Get a load of this asshole-"

"Can we all take this somewhere else, the baby might wake up-"

"Dottore!" a voice booms from down the hall, along with the sound of multiple footsteps.

All Segments turned around to see The Regrator, Pantalone, along with a few Fatui agents carrying many boxes and bags with them.

"I believe congratulations are in order? How is the missus and the baby?" asked Pantalone.

"Who let this guy know about her labor? I thought we were to keep this information from the other Harbingers," sneered Segment 25.

"And you certainly did, I assure you. No one other than me knows about this little joy of yours. I only happened to find out about this because the 8-year-old segment seemed quite anxious about not being let into the operating room. Seeing as you did not hesitate to let him watch the dissection of the original Zandik, my only conclusion about not allowing him in the operating room was that your wife was giving birth. That, and the fact I hadn't seen her for quite some time. Seemed easy to deduce." The Regrator stated, shrugging and rustling his fur coat.

"And what if it was a surgery like, say, an appendectomy? What use are the gifts then?" Segment 18 pointed out.

"Then I believe that you must get started on producing a progeny, no? Anyway, I've brought a few tokens of goodwill. I hope you'll accept them from a friend."

"Leave them out here. She's sleeping, and we'd rather not disturb her or the baby." Segment 65 said, pointing towards a table for the gifts to be kept. "We'll let her know of them as soon as she's able to concern herself with things other than herself and the baby. I hope you understand she's not in the condition to receive guests at the moment."

"That's alright." The Regrator signed his agents to keep the presents on the table and take their leave.

"Speaking of not disturbing the baby, though, what were all of you arguing about? Well, it's not rare to see each of you in disagreement with the other. Rather, it happens pretty often to be rare. But an opportunity that brings all of you together to have such a conflict......."

"We were discussing who the real father of the baby is," said Segment 18.

Pantalone nodded in understanding.

"I'd hardly call that a discussion. But does it truly matter? All of you are the same person, and hence, similar at your core. I'm sure the child would benefit from having multiple parental figures. I wouldn't call it a major issue."

"It is." Said all the Zandiks there in unison.

"Dear Feofan, it seems you still don't understand us all, even when you are a dear friend of ours. We all may be derived of the same Zandik, but as Dottore, we're all different," Omega explained, "Our values, our approach to research, our research, and our view of this world, they all differ due to the number of memories we carry. Determining the true father is determining whose legacy will be carried on. It isn't as simple as 'raising a child'."

".......so it has to do with your ego," Pantalone cheeked.

"How rude, I have genuine affection towards my wife and my child," said Omega.

"There he goes again," Segment 45 groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Oh my god, it's MY baby you twat," argued Segment 18.

"Well, you're certainly not raising my child with that mouth of yours," said Segment 65 calmly.

"Gents, gents," Pantalone raised his hands, trying to mitigate and calm down all the Dottores before it would escalate, lest they end up dissecting another one of them again.

"I have a solution. How about you solve this the way you know best? You're all intelligent and highly educated individuals; surely you can come to a conclusion amongst yourselves."

All the Zandiks looked at each other, as if they had never considered that idea.

"Determining the father of the baby through research. We can't do a DNA test, but....." mused Segment 45.

"Surely, only DNA can't be the only factor to determine the paternity," suggested Segment 18.

"If we can't find a way to find a match with blood, tissue, or DNA, we could always narrow down the possibility of one of us being the father by calculating the fertility factor of our sperm, the time between conception and delivery, and the general condition of the mother and the baby during pregnancy," Segment 35 muttered.

Pantalone sighed, seemingly relieved that he had managed to prevent another Zandik from being dissected today.

"I must, however, object to executing this plan right now," said Segment 25, "her postpartum period is to last for at the very least 2 months, and we have a newborn to care for as well."

"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.

"Then," smirked Omega, "we shall have a time limit of 2 months to conduct our research. Whosoever manages to bring concrete proof along with the timeline and convinces everyone that the baby is theirs shall get to claim the progeny and raise them. Do we all agree?"

"Yes," said all the Segments.

"Then shall I volunteer as a referee? You know, as a neutral party, to keep things nice and fair?" asked Pantalone.

"Of course, friend. You're more than welcome to invite yourself to my research discussions. You are, after all, the one funding all of our experiments," said Omega gleefully.

Pantalone watched with interest as all of the Segments dismissed themselves, some going to rest after what he assumed was a long day of being in the delivery room, others sprinting to their assigned labs to get a head start on their research, while the rest stayed to be available for you.

'Ah,' Pantalone thought to himself, stepping outside and pulling out a cigarette, 'this whole ordeal shall be quite entertaining.'

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـ

Part 2??? (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

a/n: hello hello everynyan |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ I wrote this at 3 am in a fever dream lol. Fun fact: kids of identical twins are genetic half-siblings. SO if you have an identical twin and have a baby, the baby is also half of your twin lol. It gave me the idea about what if multiple people shared the same DNA and boom that's how I wrote this fic in 2 hours when I have like 12 other drafts that have been collecting dust ehe (ᵕ—ᗜ—) I might make a few edits here and there so pls excuse any grammatical errors lol I don't know english well ≽^•⩊•^≼ anyway enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

What I find considerably more baffling than loving her, however, is the realization that she appears to love me in return.

Not the Harbinger.

Not the reputation.

Me.

An utterly absurd development.

Prior to her involvement in my life, self-preservation occupied a rather insignificant position among my concerns.

Food was forgettable.

Sleep was inefficient.

Physical safety remained largely negotiable.If an experiment endangered me, so be it. If a mission carried lethal risk, irrelevant. Segments existed for a reason. Replacement had already been solved as a concept long ago.

I saw little value in preserving a body that merely housed a mind.

Then she arrived and began treating my continued existence as though it mattered.

Deeply.

Annoyingly deeply.

The first major disruption manifested in my eating habits.

Or rather—the lack thereof.

Apparently, consuming nothing except tea and the occasional nutrient supplement for multiple days is considered “unacceptable.”

I learned this after she discovered I had skipped breakfast and dinner consecutively.

“You didn’t eat again.”

“I was occupied.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is a perfectly sufficient answer.”

“It’s a stupid answer.”

I recall blinking at her briefly after that statement.

Not because of the insult itself. Others have called me considerably worse things.

No—the surprising part was the genuine frustration in her voice.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Concern.

For me.

“You cannot continue functioning this way,” she had continued, hands planted firmly on her hips. “You’re a person, Zandik, not a machine.”

Debatable.

Regardless, from that point onward, she apparently appointed herself guardian of my physical well-being.

Every morning, breakfast appeared.

Every afternoon, lunch was forcibly inserted into my schedule.

Every evening, she personally verified whether I had eaten dinner.

Disturbingly thorough behavior.

At first, I attempted avoidance.I failed quickly.

She began appearing at the laboratory unexpectedly.

One moment I would be working peacefully, the next—

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“I know you’re in there.”

“I am busy.”

“And I brought your lunch.”

Silence.

Then, inevitably, the sound of the door unlocking.

Humiliating.

Even worse, the entire laboratory became aware of this dynamic.

The segments, traitorous by nature, immediately began assisting her.

“She asked whether you ate.”

“You should answer honestly.”

“You skipped breakfast again.”

“Disappointing performance.”

I considered dismantling several of them for insubordination.

I did not.

Mostly because she would become upset.

An increasingly influential factor in my decision-making process.

The truly irritating part is that her efforts have been objectively successful.

I possess more energy.

My concentration has improved.

Several chronic headaches disappeared entirely.

Embarrassingly enough, I suspect I may have gained weight.

When I mentioned this observation aloud, she looked up from her book and smiled instead of reacting with appropriate concern.

“That’s good.”

“It is unnecessary.”

“You were basically a corpse six months ago.”

“A dramatic exaggeration.”

“You fell asleep sitting upright in a chair.”

“In fairness, the chair was comfortable.”

“It was a wooden stool.”

A pause.

“…A moderately comfortable stool.”

She laughed for nearly two full minutes.

An excessive reaction.

The sleep issue proved considerably more difficult to resolve.

For most of my life, sleep served little purpose beyond temporary maintenance.

Two or three hours was sufficient.

Anything more felt wasteful.

She disagreed immediately.

Violently.

At approximately ten each evening, she begins searching for me.

The location is irrelevant.

Laboratory.

Office.

Workshop.

She always finds me.

And despite my repeated objections, the outcome remains identical every time.

“I am in the middle of something important.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Because I was.”

“And you still are today somehow?”

“Yes.”

“Bed.”

“I refuse.”

Then she kisses me.

An underhanded tactic.

Entirely unfair.

Worse, it works with humiliating consistency.

The moment her hands slide up beneath my mask and her mouth brushes mine, coherent resistance becomes significantly more difficult to maintain.

Manipulative creature.

Afterward, she removes my mask herself.

Carefully.

Then the coat.

The gloves.

By the time she finishes dismantling my work attire piece by piece, I find myself substantially less interested in returning to the laboratory.

Another deeply concerning development.

Once she gets me into bed, escape becomes nearly impossible.

Not because she physically restrains me.

Because she curls herself around me with such casual affection that leaving feels…Unpleasant.

I remain uncertain when exactly I became accustomed to sleeping beside another person.

Or when I began sleeping through entire nights instead of brief unconscious intervals.

Yet now, whenever I wake during the early hours and find her pressed against my chest, still breathing softly against my throat, I discover I no longer possess any desire to leave.

Objectively speaking, the effects have been beneficial.

My cognitive processing has improved noticeably with proper rest.

Memory retention has sharpened.

Problem-solving efficiency increased by nearly eighteen percent.

When I informed her of this discovery, she looked unbearably smug.

“Wow,” she said. “It’s almost like humans need sleep.”

I disliked her tone immensely.

Primarily because she was correct.

Again.

An unfortunate pattern.

Still…When she sleepily reaches for me each night without waking fully—fingers curling instinctively into my shirt as though ensuring I remain there—I experience something deeply irrational in my chest.

Something warm.

Dangerous.

Human.

And despite every logical instinct warning otherwise, I find myself allowing it to stay.

----

Obsession is a fascinating thing.

I spent years studying it in others.

The scholars obsessed with forbidden knowledge.

The researchers obsessed with recognition.

The gods obsessed with control.

I understood the phenomenon academically long before I experienced it personally.

I simply failed to anticipate how pleasant it would feel.

Because yes—I am obsessed with her.

The admission should disturb me more than it does.

Instead I find myself almost amused by the severity of it.

She occupies my thoughts with alarming consistency. During meetings. During experiments. During surgery. I will pause midway through calculations only to realize my mind has wandered toward entirely irrelevant things.

The sound of her laugh.

The softness of her hands.

The way she squints slightly while reading.

The little pleased hum she makes when tasting something sweet.

Utterly useless information.

I remember all of it anyway.

At night, when sleep finally claims me beside her, I dream of her often enough that the distinction between memory and fantasy occasionally blurs by morning. My subconscious appears just as compromised as the rest of me.

Pathetic.

And yet—I have never felt more alive.

That is perhaps the cruelest part.

Before her, existence was… flat. Efficient. Purposeful, certainly, but lacking texture. There was ambition, curiosity, progress. But joy? Anticipation? Warmth?

No.

Then she arrived and suddenly every day became structured around one simple desire:

Return to her.

I finish missions faster.

End meetings earlier.

Abandon experiments midway through observation because she mentioned wanting dinner together hours beforehand.

I once left a negotiation involving diplomatic catastrophe because one of the segments informed me she had fallen asleep waiting for me on the couch.

The diplomat was deeply offended.

I did not care.

Because she had fallen asleep waiting for me.

Even now, the thought settles strangely beneath my ribs.

There are moments when I watch her moving through our home—half-dressed and sleepy in the mornings, humming quietly to herself while preparing tea—and I experience something dangerously close to awe.

How did something so gentle choose me?

More importantly—How long until she realizes her mistake?

There it is.

The rot beneath everything else.

Fear.

A thoroughly unpleasant emotion.

I did not recognize it initially because it manifests differently than expected. Not sudden panic. Not immediate terror.

No.

It lingers.

Quiet.

Persistent.

What if she gets hurt?

The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist unpleasantly.

What if someone targets her because of me?Because they will.

Eventually.

I am not naive enough to believe otherwise.

I have enemies. Many of them. Intelligent enemies. Vindictive enemies.

People willing to carve out my organs slowly if given sufficient opportunity.

And she—She is soft in all the ways I never allowed myself to be.

The idea of someone touching that softness with cruel intent makes something vicious rise inside me instantly.

Then comes the worse thought.

The unbearable one.

What if she dies?

I cannot linger on that possibility for long.

The few times I have attempted to imagine it fully, I found myself physically ill afterward. Genuine nausea. Tremors in my hands. An inability to focus for hours.

Curious.

The human body reacts quite violently to grief even before grief technically occurs.

And then, of course, comes the final fear.

The one I never voice aloud.

What if she leaves?

What if one morning she finally sees me clearly?

Not the softened version she kisses half-asleep. Not the man who cooks beside her or lets her drag him to bed or folds himself around her at night like something starved for affection.

But the real thing beneath it all.

The monster.

The scientist.

The Harbinger.

What if she eventually decides love cannot survive that reality?

The possibility infects my thoughts more often than I care to admit.

Particularly after arguments.

We do not fight frequently, but when we do, I find myself unraveling internally with humiliating speed.

She becomes quiet.

Distant.

And suddenly my mind begins generating catastrophic conclusions immediately.

She is reconsidering.

She regrets this.

She will leave.

Absurd behavior.

Especially because I always apologize afterward.

Not because I enjoy admitting fault.

Because I cannot tolerate the sight of genuine hurt in her expression.

The first time I apologized sincerely, she stared at me as though I had grown another head.

“You’re apologizing?”

“Yes.”

“…Voluntarily?”

“You are becoming irritating.”

She laughed then kissed me immediately afterward, and the relief I experienced in that moment was so overwhelming it nearly angered me.

Now I have become embarrassingly attentive to maintaining her happiness.

I kiss her constantly.

Touch her constantly.

Praise her constantly.

I learn every sound she makes, every reaction, every tiny thing that pleases her.

I devote myself to her pleasure with the same intensity I once reserved solely for research because watching her come apart beneath my hands is one of the few experiences powerful enough to quiet my mind entirely.

When she clings to me afterward, trembling and breathless and trusting, I feel complete in ways I cannot rationally explain.

Surely that is enough.

Surely she would not leave a man who worships her this thoroughly.

No.

She loves me.

I know she does.

Still…On particularly bad nights, when paranoia crawls beneath my skin and refuses to leave, darker thoughts emerge.

Dangerous thoughts.

If she ever attempted to leave, I do not know if I could permit it.

An alarming realization.

I imagine her walking away and immediately feel something primal and ugly tighten around my lungs.

No.

Unacceptable.

She belongs with me.

With me.

The thought should horrify me more than it does.

Instead I find myself rationalizing it with frightening ease.

I keep her safe.

I care for her.

I would give her anything she desires.

I would destroy entire nations for her without hesitation.

Surely remaining with me is the preferable outcome.

And if she cried? If she pleaded? If she hated me briefly for it?

The discomfort would pass eventually.

I could be patient.

The realization settles over me slowly.

Calmly

.Like poison entering blood.

Ah.

So this is what love does to men like me.

-----