Shameless x reader reblogs

*****

Ilya does know what autism is. There was a kid at camp this past summer, Harlow, who had autism. Ilya read up about it a bit at the time, and read through the camp intake forms from Harlow’s psychologist with his plan of action.

Ilya spent a lot of time with him at camp, sometimes practicing away from the other players to give Harlow some space. The other counsellors praised him for how naturally good Ilya was with him, especially considering he had no experience.

But Shane? Shane didn’t have autism. Did he?

But then. Then, Ilya is thinking about it.

Suddenly Ilya is remembering the reading he did on autism in the summer. And then he’s thinking about Shane.

Trouble making eye contact? Yeah, sometimes Shane avoids looking at him, and Ilya has to guide Shane’s eyes to his by grabbing his chin. But that didn’t mean anything?

Hyperfixations? Yes, Shane loved hockey. But doesn’t every NHL player love hockey? Maybe not to the extent of Shane, with his savant-like memory of stats and past players. But Shane was just smart?

Trouble reading cues in social situations? Yeah, sometimes Ilya had to ask Shane a question a few times before he understood what he meant. Or avoid using sarcasm. He generally tried to keep his words direct and to the point with Shane, which was natural for Ilya who didn’t always know the english words for things. But that didn’t mean Shane had autism?

But when Yuna says it, everything clicks for Ilya. It’s like he’s unlocked a closet of flashbacks in his head, and all of the memories are coming out dressed differently.

Shane has … autism?

*****

After wrapping his head around that, he asks Yuna some more questions about what he can do to support Shane when he’s like this.

His mom basically says to leave him and let him come out of it on his own, but of course Ilya is too stubborn and too much of a caretaker for that. So he takes whatever advice Yuna could give him and sets off to the family room.

First, he turns off the overhead lights in the room, and opens the curtains just a bit to let in some natural light. Then he gets to work in the kitchen, preparing Shane a snack (ants on a log) and filling up his water bottle. He had to hunt around the house for Shane’s bottle, because he only likes to drink out of this one brand (god he can’t believe he didn’t realize his boyfriend had autism).

Finally, he sets a blanket and Shane’s headphones in reach, in case he’d prefer them.

Then Ilya parks himself back on the love seat, book in hand. He plans to stay nearby Shane in case he needs him.

Ilya gets really enthralled by his book, and is able to disengage from his worry for a while. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally hears Shane’s voice.

“Ilya?” he sounds raspy, like he just woke up from a nap.

Ilya gets up immediately, blanket falling on the floor. He walks over to Shane, who has his arms extended out to embrace him.

Ilya, of course, goes willingly into Shane’s arms as the other man tugs him into his lap. Ilya rests one knee on the outside of each of Shane’s, and lets himself be pulled into his chest.

Shane holds him tightly, so Ilya mimics the gesture and wraps his arms firmly around Shane’s back and shoulders.

Shane presses a kiss and then a bite into Ilya’s shoulder, holding it for a moment. It’s not terribly hard, but it probably still leaves a bit of a mark after he removes his teeth from his skin a moment later.

Shane seems more alert now, so Ilya decides to start to talk, just a little.

“Better?” Ilya asks softly.

Shane nods into his shoulder. “Yeah, sorry. Haven’t gotten like that in a while.”

Ilya holds him silently a while longer before speaking again, working up the courage. “Your mom said you get like this because of your autism, yes?”

He feels Shane stiffen in his arms a bit, but doesn’t let go. All he gets in response is a small nod that he feels more than sees.

“Why did you not tell me you had autism?”

Shane shrugs. “It’s not something I advertise. Nobody in the NHL knows. I couldn’t exactly tell my arch rival,” Shane puts on a light teasing tone by the end, but Ilya can see right through it.

“Well sure, but we have been boyfriends for over a year now.”

Shane squirms in his hold, but doesn’t say anything.

“You know I do not care, right? You’re still My Shane no matter what,” Ilya reassures.

Shane sighs. “I know you don’t care. I thought about telling you when we had Harlow at camp this summer, but how was I supposed to say it? ‘Hey, I have that too!’”

“Well … yes?”

Shane pulls away from Ilya’s embrace so he can frown at him.

“It just got out of hand. The longer I put it off, the weirder it felt to mention it. I’m so used to not sharing the diagnosis with people because I don’t want them to treat me differently. Or make it seem like I’m a worse hockey player because of it.”

Shane had frustrated tears on his lower lash line now that Ilya wiped away. “I get why you do not tell everyone. But I love you and I want to know so I can support you and not make it worse.”

“You don’t!” Shane is adamant. “You, like, know me really well.” Shane tucks his face back into the side of Ilya’s neck. “Can we please stop talking about this now? I’m fine. Thank you for the water and the snack.”

Ilya smirks and rolls them over so Shane is underneath him, Ilya still straddling his hips.

“Yes, we can stop talking about it.” He presses a kiss into Shane’s neck, sucking a little. “For now. We are not done on this subject.”

Shane rolls his eyes but agrees.

“Good, now eat your ants on a log.”

*****

Later, in bed, Ilya is asking an unwilling Shane every single question that’s come to his head since his phone call with Yuna earlier.

“Is that why we have to eat the same meal at least two nights in a row?” “Probably, yeah.”

“Is that why you have earplugs you sometimes wear on the bench between shifts?” Shane nods.

“Is that why sometimes you won’t look at me when I’m sucking your dick?”

Shane turns bright red. “I don’t know Ilya! Maybe! Please can we stop—“

Corbeau

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 hesitated.

“Well, I saw a video on PokéTok…”

Instantly, Ivor perked up. “Yes. Good. Information. Teach me.”

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.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “That’s it. Don’t move.”

Ivor grinned behind you, delighted. “Feel better?”

“Much better,” you exhaled. “Don’t let go.”

His voice dropped, softer. “I won’t.”

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 turned.

Corbeau stood beside you, posture immaculate, expression deeply unimpressed.

“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?”

“A little,” you’d answered honestly. “But I’m okay.”

“Why?”

“Because the baby’s coming soon.”

Her whole face had exploded with joy. “Really?!”

“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.”

“I WILL,” Wallace said, already halfway reclining.

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.

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.”