Fia🌱

The nesting takes over before you can blink or think twice.

What started as rearranging his studio pillows escalated into full-blown architectural redesign. You came home one day to find him floating mid-air (thanks to his water manipulation), attempting to suspend an entire coral reef from the ceiling.

“It’s for ambiance," he sniffed, as if this were completely normal.

Your lover had very strong feelings about names.

“I’m absolutely not naming them after constellations," he declared. “Do you want them to get bullied by seagulls?"

This, after he was the one who painted your favorite stars on the ceiling. Instead, he insisted on Lemurian names that were “dignified yet menacing." You vetoed “Lord Tempest of the Abyss" pretty quickly.

When Rafayel first started to show, he almost refused to believe he was getting any bigger. At first, he refused to acknowledge the changes at all.

"This is just bloating. From stress. And your terrible cooking."

He kept squeezing into his usual skintight turtlenecks and high-waisted trousers, glaring at you if you so much as glanced at the way the fabric strained across his middle.

One day, a button pinged off his pants mid-rant about the price of paints. He froze, horrified, before declaring: “This fabric was defective. I demand compensation."

He begrudgingly switched to draped, flowy tunics. traditional Lemurian maternity wear, obviously, but insisted they were “artistic flow enhancement garments" and not because his belly was getting harder to ignore.

He started wearing his paint-splattered scarves extra loose, draping them strategically over his midsection like a very bad magic trick. “If you can’t see it, it’s not happening."

You came home to find him sulking in what could only be described as a silk kimono, the sash tied just above the curve of his stomach. “Thomas ordered this ‘for my dignity,” he muttered, “Which implies I had any to begin with."

He did, however, become weirdly obsessed with the way his scales glittered more prominently now, stretching the fabric taut over his belly just to watch the light catch them. “At least this part is aesthetically pleasing."

Eventually he fully embraced luxe loose silhouettes. It included billowy sleeves, open-front robes, and a lot of iridescent shawls that made him look like a Prince.

The afternoon sunlight spilled through the studio windows, casting shimmering reflections off the ocean outside but none of it compared to the way Rafayel glowed.

Draped in a loose white silk blouse, the fabric slipping slightly off one shoulder, he looked almost ethereal. The translucent material clung faintly to the curve of his belly, revealing the faintest shimmer of iridescent scales beneath. Lemurian biology making itself known in the most delicate way. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, smudged with streaks of cerulean and gold paint, his ashy purple hair tied half-up in a messy knot.

He was seated on a nest of plush cushions you’d arranged for him after you chastised him: “You are absolutely not climbing ladders anymore," you’d declared, to his exaggerated groaning. His bare feet tucked beneath him as he worked on a small canvas balanced carefully on his knees.

And then, softly, almost unconsciously, he began to hum.

A slow, lilting Lemurian lullaby, one you’d never heard before. His free hand drifted to rest on his stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns over the silk as he murmured between hums.

“Yes, yes, I know. The coral pigment is too bright for your tastes. Clearly, you take after your other parent’s questionable color sense.

His voice was warm, teasing, but his expression was impossibly tender. The way he tilted his head slightly, as if listening to a response only he could hear.

And then he caught you staring.

His cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t stop humming. Instead, he lifted his chin with faux haughtiness, paintbrush gesturing toward you.

“You’re distracting my muse," he accused, but his scales lit up for a brief moment along his cheekbone.

You didn’t point it out. You just smiled, walking over to kneel beside him, pressing a kiss to his temple as his humming softened into contented silence.

The ocean murmured outside. The studio smelled of salt and paint.

And Rafayel, artist, warrior, soon-to-be parent, looked more beautiful than any masterpiece he’d ever created.

Rafayel may have been the one physically carrying your child, but his Lemurian pheromones had other plans for you. Rafayel wasn’t the only one waking up at 3 AM craving grilled eel with mango salsa, you did too. The difference? He got to blame pregnancy. You got a smug, sleep-deprived artist smirking at you from the nest of blankets saying, “Oh? So now you finally understand my suffering?"

The nesting instincts also began to drift to you as well.

If Rafayel was building coral-themed bassinets out of driftwood, you were suddenly reorganizing the entire house. Twice.

Closets weren’t safe. Neither were kitchen cabinets. At one point, Tara walked in on you color-coding Rafayel’s paint tubes by “emotional resonance" while he cheered you on from the couch.

“Burn the cool-toned ones! They’re treasonous!”

Since Rafayel’s pheromones were subtly rewiring your biology, your body responded by amping up your own Evol abilities, like your reflexes sharpening to “overprotective-mother" levels. The first time a seagull swooped too close to Rafayel at the beach, you accidentally vaporized a sandcastle in your haste to shield him. He laughed for twenty minutes straight.

Lemurian pheromones are potent under normal circumstances, but pregnant Rafayel? Oh no.

The moment his scent shifted, warm sea salt and sweetly addictive, you’d find yourself glued to his side, nuzzling into his neck like some kind of overgrown, possessive remora fish. He reveled in it.

But near the end of the pregnancy, Rafayel’s typical bratty behavior became more docile.

Rafayel moved across the studio at a glacial pace, each step a laborious shuffle, his usual effortless grace abandoned somewhere in the third trimester. His swollen feet, which he'd insisted were just “slightly puffy, not swollen, don't exaggerate" barely fit into the silk slippers he'd stubbornly refused to give up, their delicate embroidery straining at the seams.

His back was aching, his scales tender where they stretched over the curve of his belly. His once-lithe movements were reduced to slow, cautious shifts, his free hand bracing against furniture, walls, whatever he could reach as he groaned under his breath.

You looked up from your book just in time to see him pause mid-step, his entire body tensing as a sharp discomfort shot through him. His face crumpled, just for a second, before he bit his lip, letting out a tiny, wounded whimper.

It was so uncharacteristically vulnerable that you were on your feet in an instant.

"Raf—"

"Don't,” he grumbled, holding up a hand. His voice was thin, strained, his usual bratty bravado stripped away by sheer exhaustion. He tried to wave you off, but even that seemed to take too much effort. Instead, he sagged against the nearest table, eyes squeezed shut.

"...It's just my stupid tailbone,” he muttered, his pride clearly warring with his need to not collapse on the floor. “And my feet feel like they’ve been replaced with coral chunks. And—" He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, hands curling protectively around his stomach as the baby kicked. Hard.

You were already there, slipping an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the nest of cushions he’d (very reluctantly) admitted helped. He didn’t protest. That, more than anything, told you how bad it was.

As he sank into the pillows with a shuddering sigh, you caught the way his fingers trembled, just slightly, before he tucked them against his belly, his breath finally steadying.

"...This is your fault.”

Your fingers tremble as you gently press your palm against the taut curve of his belly, warmth radiating through the thin silk of his blouse. Beneath your touch, you feel the subtle shift, a tiny foot pushing back, the restless roll of life growing inside him.

Rafayel exhales sharply at the contact, his breath hitching just once before he melts into your touch, his shoulders sagging with relief.

You wish you could take the pain for him.

It’s a fierce, aching thought. One that claws at your ribs every time you see him wince, every time he muffles a groan into the crook of his arm.

You’d imagined this so differently, always assumed you’d be the one carrying your child, that your body would bear the weight, the aches, the late-night fears.

But biology had other plans.

And now? Watching him—your proud, stubborn, impossible artist-battle through each wave of discomfort with gritted teeth and trembling hands?

It breaks you in ways you never expected.

Your thumb traces a slow circle over his stomach, feeling the flutter of movement beneath.

“Tell me what you need, my love." you murmur into his hair.

Rafayel blinks up at you, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion but for once, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t tease. His fingers curl around your wrist, holding your hand against him like an anchor.

"...Just this," he admits quietly, and the rawness in his voice sends a pang through your chest.

You press your forehead to his, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

You’d do anything. Trade places, shoulder the pain, rewrite the stars themselves, if it meant easing even a fraction of his burden.

But for now? You stay.

And that, for him, is enough.

The birth was someone you both had tried to plan down to the second.

Rafayel had been adamant. “No hospitals, no humans fussing over me like some fragile artifact."

And so, preparations were made: the massive sunken tub in his studio was filled with seawater warmed by his own Evol, infused with soothing salts and luminescent algae that pulsed gently in the dim light.

When labor began, he shifted fully into his Lemurian form, his body elongating, sleek muscle and sinew expanding beneath shimmering scales as his tailfin emerged in a cascade of indigo and blues. The tub barely contained him; his tail spilled over the edge, twitching restlessly as contractions wracked his powerful frame.

His aunt Talia, a formidable Lemurian midwife with purple hair and eyes like storm-worn seaglass, moved through the studio with haste. She braided Rafayel’s now waist-length hair back with kelp ribbons, her voice a steady hum of ancient lullabies as she monitored his pulse at the gills.

“Breathe, nephew,” she chided when he snarled, claws digging into the tub’s edge. “This pain is older than the tides, you will not drown in it."

You knelt beside him, wiping his brow with a damp cloth as he panted, his usually razor-sharp wit reduced to gasped curses and breathless pleas.

“I take it back! I hate this!” he seethed, tail thrashing before Talia pinned it with a firm hand.

For male Lemurians, childbirth was an intricate dance of biology and magic both beautiful and intensely visceral. Unlike human anatomy, Lemurians carry their young within a protective internal chamber located at the base of their tail, just above where the fin begins to flare.

When labor reaches its peak, a vertical slit parts along the underside of the tail. It is smooth and seamless, like the opening of a pearl, revealing a glistening, translucent membrane. Inside, the infant is curled in a fluid-filled sac, nourished by a mix of saltwater and Luminescent Plasm (a unique Lemurian nutrient-rich substance).

Rafayel’s body had arched in the water, his tail thrashing as his muscles clenched rhythmically. Talia’s hands were steady, guiding him through each surge, her voice an anchor.

“Push with the waves, not against them," she commanded, pressing a hand below his gills where Lemurian energy gathered.

Just like that, the slit parted.

At first, it was just a shimmer, a flicker of iridescent light as the membrane stretched thin. Then, slowly, the sac emerged, pulsing with soft bioluminescence.

Rafayel’s breath hitched, his claws scraping against the tub as he bore down. Talia’s fingers dipped into the water, carefully supporting the emerging sac, your first child, as it slid free in a rush of silvery fluid.

The infant within stirred. Tiny webbed fingers pressing against the membrane before Talia gently tore it open with her claws.

A cry.

High and clear, like the first note of a sea hymn.

Rafayel slumped back, trembling, his gills flaring as he gulped air but his eyes never left the tiny form now cradled in Talia’s hands.

A perfect blend of both worlds, your child.

Delicate fins, a dusting of pearlescent scales along their shoulders and eyes that shimmered, just like Rafayel’s, with galaxies yet unseen.

Talia lifted the newborn, still shimmering with traces of birth-fluid and with reverence, placed them against Rafayel’s heaving chest. The baby curled instinctively, tiny fingers grasping at his scales as they let out another hiccuping cry.

A sob tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, as you pressed your forehead to Rafayel’s shoulder, your hands trembling where they clutched his arm.

“You did so good. So, so good.” You choked out, voice breaking between kisses pressed to his temple, his damp hair, the corner of his parted lips.

He was still panting, his gills fluttering erratically, but his arms had tightened around the baby. His baby, your baby. Like he’d never let go.

Rafayel turned his face into your touch, his exhaustion-glazed eyes meeting yours. There were no quips, no dramatic complaints. Just a shaky exhale, a soft fluctuation in his expression as he whispered…

"...They have your nose."

You laughed, or maybe it was another sob, your thumbs brushing away the tears streaking his cheeks.

Talia smirked from the edge of the tub, cleaning off her hands. “And your theatrics," she added dryly.

But Rafayel didn’t even protest.

He just leaned into you, his tail curling up in the tub as the ocean outside sang its endless, patient song.

Your hands trembled as you carefully gathered your firstborn against your chest, their tiny body warm and wriggling as they let out a soft whimper. Rafayel’s breath hitched sharply, then fractured into a gasp as another contraction seized him. His claws dug into the rim of the tub, his tail thrashing in the water as his body tensed, gills flaring wide.

Talia was already moving, her hands pressing firmly against his abdomen. “Twins," she confirmed, her voice steady but eyes darting across Rafayel’s form. “The second is coming now."

Rafel’s head fell back against the tub’s edge, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He reached blindly for you, his fingers slick with water and birth-fluid, gripping your wrist with startling strength.

“Don’t look so scared," he gritted out, his usual arrogance frayed at the edges but still clinging on. “I’m—ah!—not finished impressing you yet."

You clutched your firstborn closer, kissing their forehead as Rafayel’s body arched again. His tail lifting partially out of the water as the second birth-slit parted. This time, it was quicker. A rush of silver-blue fluid, another glowing sac sliding into Talia’s waiting hands.

She tore the membrane with ease, revealing a second child. They were smaller than the first, but with the same luminous eyes, their tiny fins on the side of their face fluttering like fragile lace as they drew their first breath.

Talia wasted no time. She placed the second babe against Rafayel’s chest, their sibling instinctively nuzzling close as if they’d known each other all along.

Rafayel’s arms encircled them both, his exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by something awed and reverent. You helped his adjust both of your children against him. He looked up at you, his mate, his love, his voice barely raising above a whisper.

"...We made these."

And as you knelt beside him, both babes cooing in his arms, you knew no greater masterpiece existed.

The tub looked like a battleground. Water sloshed over the edges, luminescent birth-fluid glimmering in stray puddles, crushed herbs and kelp strewn about where Talia had worked her ancient midwife magic. Rafayel slumped against the tub, utterly spent, his tail half-submerged and limp, the proud arch of his fins now drooping like a windless sail.

But his arms, his arms never loosened.

Both babes lay curled against his chest, their tiny tails flickering instinctively, seeking warmth. Their scales caught the dim light—soft hues of seafoam and pearl, just like their father’s, but with traces of you in the slope of their brows, the shape of their tiny hands.

You helped clean the sweat from his face, pressing a kiss to his damp temple. “You were incredible," you whispered to him, thumb brushing away a stray tear or maybe seawater. He’d swear it was seawater later.

Rafayel let out a shaky little laugh, both babies whimpered at the sudden movement. “Obviously." He looked down at the hues of purple with streaks of your own hair on his little guppies. "...They’re alive because of you, too."

Talia snorted from where she was cleaning up her supplies. “And me. But by all means, forget the elder who delivered them."

Rafayel shot her a withering look but he shook it off with a small laugh. Not when his children were here. Not when his world had just grown larger.

Outside, the tide rolled in. It was like a quiet, endless applause.

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