#ficlets

The problem, of course, was that you’d always been adamant – and he’d always agreed – that pregnancy and parenthood were completely, totally, nonnegotiably off the table. You’d been on the pill your entire relationship and the two of you had always used condoms to boot, no matter his protests. Leaving you was an impossibility to him. You’re his and that’s not going to change.

Then you went off birth control right before the wedding because the hormones were wreaking havoc on you. You didn’t want to have acne and feel bloated on your big day. Of course, he’d been the ultra supportive fiance, only ever wanting the best for you. Swore up and down that he’d always wear condoms, that he’d keep Plan B at your place just in case, that nothing would change.

For Rafael, everything was about to change. It didn’t even take long for him to come up with a plan. He knows you’re so trusting when it comes to him. Too kind for your own good. It’s why he went after you in the first place; he always gets what he wants. Most of the time, he doesn’t even have to ask. You’re pretty and empty-headed but good at taking orders, the perfect assistant and now the perfect spouse.

He makes a whole show of it. You drive him to the doctor downtown, conveniently close to his office, which you think nothing of as you go to get brunch with your friends. During the ‘appointment,’ he slips into work to print up some discharge instructions. It had been surprisingly easy to tap one of his many doctor friends on the shoulder for a prescription for a week’s worth of painkillers. All he needed was a quick excuse about being busy and throwing his back out for the pills to show up at a nearby pharmacy right on cue. You’d never check to see if the name of the doctor matched. Why would you? You were oblivious to things like that and he found it cute, like getting to play with a kitten.

When you pick him up, he fusses and grimaces like a child, convincing you it’s rough but worth it to be with you bare once he’s all healed up. Giving him a sympathetic smile, you squeeze his thigh and half-tease, “You poor baby. Let’s get you home and I’ll make you some comfort food.”

What can he say? If he’s going to all this trouble, he might as well let you wait on him hand and foot for a day or two.

“You’re too good to me, nena.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you gently, throwing in a wince when he has to shift his weight. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

You beam at him and kiss him back, fingers going habitually to his lapels. “I love you so much.”

He coos sweetly as your noses touch, “Not as much as I love you, conejita.”

And he does love you. He really does; it’s just that he knows what’s best much better than you do. Before you, he hadn’t been sure if he was even capable of love. But now he’s certain. Since the moment you met, he’s been utterly obsessed. His mother calls it ‘smitten,’ but he knows it runs deeper than that. You consume his thoughts. Your body is tattooed on his eyelids, there for him every time he blinks. If that isn’t love, he really doesn’t know what is.

You rub his thigh so tenderly as you drive him home. Your touch is the one thing that can always center him. When you’re back inside the house he bought you as a wedding gift – far too much house for just two people, you both know, but he insisted it would be nice to have so many spare rooms – you kiss him again. When he pulls away from you just a moment, you bite your lower lip and ask tentatively, “How long before we can, ah, break in the vasectomy?”

He has to suppress the smirk that threatens to form. He knew that the idea of him being able to fuck you raw with no threat of pregnancy would drive you wild. Underneath all that 21st century brainwashing, he knows you want to be bred and be his homemaker. You love taking care of him and everyone else. You’ll love it all and he’s sure of that.

He’s timed it all perfectly, naturally, having been tracking your cycles closely the past few months as they’ve stabilized back to your regular balance. As he brushes your cheek with his thumb, studying your soft features, he replies, “About a week.”

Right when you’ll be ovulating. It’s important that he gets it right this first time; if it goes on for months, you’ll be too suspicious when it finally takes. It has to be soon after his little ‘procedure.’ For your own good, really. You’ll be so much happier if there’s no doubt. So much more pliable.

He spends the next week edging you, never letting you cum, keeping you on the precipice so you’ll be ravenous when it’s finally time. No doubts, no questions, just desire for him. When he finally has his way with you, he makes you cum twice before he finishes, working you into such a frenzy that you’re begging for him to cum inside of you. To make you his. To claim you. There’s a part of you, primal and core, that loves the way his cum coats you. The warmth left behind long after he pulls out, still worshipping your body, thanking you for trusting him.

That goes on for a week, an absolute marathon of sex whenever he can get his hands on you, always leaving you sticky with cum dripping out of you. You’ve been in the habit of bringing him lunch at work whenever you can and those mini dates turn into getting railed over his desk, on the couch, even on the floor on a day you wear something particularly tight that drives him wild. You make jokes about how insatiable he is and all he does in response is fuck you again, telling you over and over how gorgeous you are, how perfect, how much he loves being married to you.

He keeps an incredibly close eye on you from there. Two weeks pass and he holds his breath for a moment of success or failure. You’re too busy with work and school to notice that your period is late, distracted by the many demands of your life. But Rafael notices. And he lets you not notice. The more time goes by, the better. He showers you with love and affection in the meantime. Flowers appear in the house, your favorite meals are waiting for you after work and when you wake up in the morning, and sweet texts deluge your phone throughout the day. Rafael makes sure there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Ever.

Eventually, though, after about four weeks from your missed period, he gets antsy. The bubble of your obliviousness has to be popped. He knows it’s going to be a difficult conversation, one that challenges every fiber of your relationship that he’s so carefully woven together through the years, and he needs to get it over with. It’s time to fast-forward to the part where you’re glowing and he gets to show you off to the world. All he wants is to nest with you, build with you, create life by your side.

Thankfully, he’s always been a perfect partner about this particular topic, part of why you fell for him in the first place, so he has an excuse built in. He puts together his usual goodie bag for your period, full of all your favorite chocolates, scented candles, and bath bombs alongside the requisite painkillers and your hot water bottle with its gray bunny cover. You’re coming home from work as he arranges everything in a basket in your primary suite bathroom.

You pop in beside him, kiss his cheek, and say, “Look at you being such a doting husband.”

“Anything for you, Mrs. Barba,” he laughs, tugging you in for another kiss. “I’m sorry I forgot last month; it’s been so chaotic at the office.”

“That’s alright, love, I know it’s- Wait. Last month.” Your eyes widen and go frantic as you turn out of his grasp. Under your breath, you mutter, “I didn’t get my period last month.” You snatch your calendar from your nearby bag and start mentally running the numbers. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m, like, six weeks late. How did I not notice that? How the fuck did-?”

“Hey, nena, take a breath.” Rafael touches between your shoulders, bringing you back to earth, and reasons, “That can happen sometimes, right? You’ve been so stressed with exams coming up. And didn’t your OBGYN say it could take up to two years for your periods to regulate again after you stopped your birth control? No need to freak out yet.”

You nod and take a slow breath that he guides you through. “Right. You’re right. It’s probably nothing. Let’s- let’s eat dinner and I’ll try to calm down.”

“That sounds good. You need some protein.” Then he studies your features carefully and sighs lightly. Pretending like it’s your idea, he touches your cheek and offers, “You won’t be able to relax until you take a pregnancy test, will you?”

With pursed lips, you nod. “Sorry, I just need to make sure.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says easily. “How about you run down to the bodega and I’ll make something quick?”

You suck in a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He furrows his brow and squeezes your hand. “Would you rather I come with you? I don’t want you to be alone if-”

“No, I’m a grownup,” you force a laugh and wave your hand. “I’m all good. It’s no big deal; I’d rather have dinner waiting for me.”

He kisses you on the forehead and looks you in the eyes. Those beautiful green eyes of his, mesmerizing when they make contact with yours. He tilts your chin upward and reminds you, “Whatever happens, we’re in this together, right?”

You put on a brave face despite the anxiety bubbling up inside of you. “Always. I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” he purrs. “Go on. In an hour, there’ll be nothing to worry about anymore.”

That much is true. He’ll make certain of it. No matter what it holds, he’ll be able to set you on the right course within the hour. Like he always does. It’s rare that you really, truly know what you want. He knows how to steer you in the proper direction. The one he knows you need to take to be truly happy with your life. With him.

After dinner, the two of you go in the bathroom together with bated breath, two pregnancy tests sitting on the counter waiting. Rafael’s set a timer for three minutes and sits on the floor in front of you in the meantime. He kisses your knees and rubs your calves and whispers soft words of affirmation that you barely process. When the timer goes off, it startles you. You stand with heavy limbs and look down.

There’s not even a shade of doubt. Two bright lines, equally dark, completely confident.

“How is this possible?” Your voice is wobbly with tears of disbelief as your brain short-circuits to process. “You- you had a vasectomy.”

His voice is firm but full of enough emotion to make you think he's surprised, too. “We both knew there was still some risk, especially early on.”

“No, no, you said it was done." Tears spring up and you know you're being unfair as you cut back, "You said I didn’t have to worry. You promised.”

He sighs and wraps his arms around you. He’s trying hard not to smile, not to reveal how much he wants this, not to bask in the glow of those two lines. “Accidents happen, nena.”

Clutching him tight, you suck in a sharp breath and offer up a grimace. “Well, at least it’s not too late to get an abortion. I guess I should, ah, should call a clinic or something. Maybe I can take a day off work next week or-”

“Slow down, baby,” Rafael says, all soothing and stern. Your heart begins to race, but he’s calm and steady. He steals one more look at the set of positive pregnancy tests and guides you back into the bedroom, sitting down on the bed next to you. “Let’s not make any hasty decisions here, okay?”

“Huh?” Your eyes search his face for answers. Nothing makes sense right now. “You don’t- you’re not seriously suggesting that I- that we-?” You get back to your feet and start pacing. Rafael stands, too, but doesn’t follow your steps. With your arms crossed over your chest, you huff, “It’s my choice.”

“It is,” he tells you gently, hesitant, slow. Like he’s talking to a stupid toddler. “But this isn’t some random clump of cells. It’s- it’s us, y’n. You and me. You can’t tell me you don’t feel at least a little bit of love. A spark of something.”

“I- I don’t know.” Your mind reels. Rafael’s always so much more rational than you, the grounded one when you’re spiraling. So you try to listen to him. To look inside of yourself. To imagine what it would be like to do this. But all you can find is fear. Biting your lower lip, you gaze up at him through tear-dampened eyelashes. “Do you think I’m being irrational?”

“I think you’re scared," he replies carefully. Softly. Lovingly. "And when you’re scared, you talk about things you don’t actually want. You don’t act like the person I married.”

Stepping back, your voice rises. “You’re not listening to me, Rafi. We both always said I’d have an abortion if this ever-”

“Say the word ‘abortion’ one more time and see what happens.” He grabs your wrist tightly, pulling you close. Yanking, really. The intensity of the gesture steals your breath. You’re not afraid of him, could never be afraid of him, but the heat in his voice and on his words makes you shiver. You’ve never seen him so serious. Weirdly, it calms you instead of frightening you. Rafael has always been so soft with you; seeing the exact opposite makes you realize how much this matters to him. “You’re mine. And so is this life inside of you.”

“I- I don’t-” You’re sniffling and shaking and unsure. You lean against the wall and he presses his hands against it on either side of your head. Finally, you look up at him and say, “I’m scared.”

He steps back, realizing he’s caging you in for the first time. He hates himself for losing control. For causing that look on your face. He’s going to fix this and get what he wants, but not like that. Looking wounded, he clarifies, “Of me? I’m sorry, darling, I can-”

You reach out and tug him back. You press your head to his chest, needing to rely on the foundation of him. “No, never. Just- I’m not-” You meet his green eyes and find nothing but calm in them. A port in a storm. “I’m so young, Rafi. And I have school and my career and-”

“Mi amor,” he murmurs, “none of that matters now.” He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear and hugs you close. “You’re scared today, but when you meet our baby – hold them for the first time, see them smile – you won’t be. It’ll all make sense.” His lips go to your neck, taking your attention as he traces your racing pulse. “Don’t you trust me to protect you?” He places his hand on your still-flat abdomen and you feel the complete adoration radiating off of it. Lower now, quieter, looking into your eyes, he adds, “Both of you?”

He feels you relax, just barely, against his body. That’s all the invitation he needs. Already, he knows he has you right where you need to be. When you let your walls down, even a crack, he can find his way in. Rubbing your back, he murmurs, “See, my love? There’s nothing to be scared of. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And then you nod.

Slowly. Barely. But he feels it. Your resistance cracks, your shoulders soften, and it’s just enough for him to take root. He takes the chance. Turns you around to face the floor-length mirror by the closet. Stands behind you, snakes his arms around you, underneath your shirt, fingers splayed across your stomach like there’s anything to feel. “It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? Even now, your body’s already changing. Making room for what we created together. That’s wonderful. It’s amazing.”

You shiver, breath catching. You drop your hand to cover his and try to see what he’s seeing in the mirror. “You really think so?”

“Your body knows you were made for this. That’s why you’re trembling, mi diosa.” His deep voice curls around you like a net. “Your body’s giving in, but your mind is still catching up. Fighting against what’s right for you.”

You should pull away. Say something. Argue with him. But his hand drops lower, possessive, cradling you like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever touched. And you find yourself giving into him, to his guidance, his strength, his confidence.

He goes on, every single word breaking you open a little more. “You were already perfect before,” he breathes, reverant now, “but like this? Carrying a piece of me?” He presses a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re divine. You’re heavenly. You’re everything.”

As his hands rove apart, one slipping beneath the hem of your shorts and the other going up toward your chest, you reply, “When you say things like that, I- I start forgetting everything else.”

“That’s good,” he assures. “That means you’re giving into your instincts. To what you know instead of what you think. All I want you to focus on is your body. What it’s telling you.” He slides his hands along your waist and ribs, over your ass, up your arms, everywhere he can reach with your clothes still on. “Doesn’t this feel right?” He’s whispering, kissing the skin just below your ear, his breath ghosting over your neck. “Doesn’t it feel like home to be with me?”

“It does,” you whine, honest, true. “But I’m- Fuck, Rafi, I can’t think when you touch me.”

“So stop thinking,” he murmurs, firm and sweet. “Don’t you remember the way you moaned when I filled you?” He breathes against your ear, hot and heady, and your eyes roll shut. His hands roam upward and cup your breasts, thumbs rolling in circles around your nipples. “It was like you needed me to stay inside. Like you wanted me to leave something behind.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw and then down your neck. “And now look at what we made. You wanted me to cum inside of you. Begged for it. Right, baby? Remember how you begged? You wanted me to fill you up and make you mine, over and over again.” You feel his cock growing hard against your ass now and you can’t help leaning back against him, a breathy moan spilling out. He bites gently on your shoulder and up the crook of your neck until you’re sighing out, relaxing, wanting.“You’re pregnant because of that. This is what you wanted all along, love, isn’t it?”

By the time he stops talking, you’re dizzy with arousal and confusion and love. You turn around to look at him and find yourself breathless.

His dark eyes level you. “Say it. Be honest with me. Admit that you wanted me to get you pregnant and that’s why you were begging for me to cum inside of you.”

“It wasn’t- I didn’t mean to-” Your voice and breaths break and you’re sobbing. He’s right. He’s always right. Your gut twists and guilt is a tight fist around your throat. “I’m sorry, Rafi, I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to make this harder on you. I know you didn't want this and now- now I’m making you- Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Rafael brings you back on the bed and helps you lay down against his chest. “Shh, shh. Don’t cry, my love, I’m not mad at you, okay?”

You tremble and clutch his shirt. Your tears are turning it dark. “Promise? I can’t do this without you. I- I won’t.”

“You’ll never have to be without me,” he tells you, low and dark and honest. “I’m choosing you. I’m choosing this. I’ll never walk away from you. From our family. I swear.”

“You forgive me?”

He soothes, “Of course I do. All I want is to protect you. To give you the best life, even when you aren’t sure what that looks like.” His fingers dip once again below the hem of your pajamas. “Come on, love, just imagine me holding our little baby, keeping her safe, making sure the two of you have every single thing you could ever dream of. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

You close your eyes and sink into it. There’s no way to argue with him when you can see it so clearly all of a sudden. He’s given you so much already. This house, this lifestyle, this endless sea of adoration. When you're on his arm, you know exactly who you are. So you spread your legs for him. In a moment of striking clarity, you breathe out, “I’m yours. Take me.”

“Mmm.” He kisses you tenderly as his middle two fingers slip between your folds. “There’s my perfect angel.”

You roll your hips to encourage him and he doesn’t miss a beat, finally satisfied that the worst is over. That you’re going to behave from now on. You grip his hair and beg, “Say it again. Tell me I’m good.”

It's the only thing you want. His approval. His praise.

“Oh, my love.” He shifts his weight so he’s on top of you, free hand stripping your shirt off so he can drop his mouth to your breasts. After he lavishes over your nipples, still circling your clit intently, he rumbles, “Mírate. Estás hecha para llevar lo que es mío. Estás tan jodidamente hermosa con mi hijo dentro de ti.”

Needy and desperate, unable to translate fully with arousal clouding your head, you plead, “English, Rafi, please.”

“I said you’re made to carry what’s mine. That you’re so fucking beautiful with my baby inside of you,” he growls against your ear. The vibration makes you moan and suddenly you’re scrambling to get him out of his sweats, too. Maybe it’s the hormones or maybe it’s just the hold he has over you, but you’re dripping with want for him. He kicks out of his pants and gives his heavy cock a few quick pumps. “Is this what you want? Tell me.”

You can’t believe how needy your voice sounds as you cry, “Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours.”

With a devilish smile, he shoves your legs back and slides his cock slowly into you, savoring every moment. “That’s the y/n I love so much. You’re so good for me. Me perteneces. Eres lo único que quiero.”

Wrapping your legs around his hips, you tighten your fingers in his hair to hold him close. “English.”

“You belong to me,” he repeats. His nails dig into your ass and he’s so deep inside of you that it aches. “You’re the only thing I want.”

You nod into his shoulder and his thumb is on your clit, rubbing up and down, and you’re losing your mind with lust. His words have always done even more for you than his expert motions. As you nuzzle him, tasting his sweat and breathing in his musk, you beg, “More. More, Rafi, please.”

“I know, honey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re enough. You’re the only one who can give this to me,” he grunts, bearing down on you, fucking you hard, not fast, just right, your legs pressed back so he can penetrate you fully, “and the only one I’d ever want it with. I love you.”

You’re right at the edge as you gasp back, “I love you. God, I love you so much. Thank you. Thank you.”

He grins. “For what?”

You’re writhing. Squirming. Needing. “For making me- for-”

You’re babbling and moaning and incoherent but he doesn’t let up, keeping his thumb still on your clit, not letting you go over the cusp. “Come on, say it. I need to hear you say it.”

With sweat breaking on your forehead, you whimper, “Por dejarme convertirte en papá.”

He teases, slowing his hips, keeping you agonizingly close, “English.”

“Thank you for- for giving me this.” You thrust your hips up, begging him to move, to finish you off. When the words spill over, he finally does. “Thank you for letting me make you a dad. For trusting me. For choosing me.”

“You’re welcome, baby." He kisses you with a tenderness that makes you weak and presses your foreheads together as he speeds up again. “Now cum with me,” he growls – and you have no choice.

Rafael spreads his cum inside of you as you spasm around him and it rewires your brain. There’s an entire new life knitting together in your shared orgasm. Nothing matters anymore but the ways you can give yourself to Rafael. To what he wants for you.

He fucks his seed further into you with his softening cock, smiling down at the sight. “How could anything that comes from this – the two of us – be wrong?” He kisses up your neck as he sighs and pulls out slowly. You miss the feel of him immediately. “Eres mía. Toda mía. Siempre.”

Exhaustion overtakes you the moment your orgasm subsides, all of the emotional chemicals finally dissipating and letting you rest. A true release. Rafael slides off of you and returns with a washcloth to help clean you up. As he works you over, cooling you down and loving your body, you breathe, “This…this feels right to me. For us to be a family. You were right, Rafi.”

SNeo

He pinched your cheek with a smirk.

You were talking, ranting about something. And he was listening.

... Not really. Whatever you were talking about was a tad bit too boring for his taste at that moment. But you had to hand it to him, he was polite—he feigned interest, and it got you going just fine. Though, this chivalry ran short with time.

So he pinched you. Because he was bored, and because he could.

You flinch at the slight twinge of pain. It's not enough to hurt, but it snaps you out of your sentence. His eyes are narrowed from the wide smirky grin on his face, the joy he's getting from your stunned response obvious. And he's anticipating more—perhaps a glare, a push... Maybe a funny scowl?

But you do the unexpected. Your hands reach to where his hand still holds your cheek, and they wrap around his. Gently bringing them down, then interlocking fingers in a light yet firm grip. Your thumb strokes the concaves of his hand softly, smoothly. Lovingly.

You stare where hands meet with a tender look in your eyes, and he stares at you. The cocky smirk gone.

He sees no traces of retaliation in your gaze. It's just soft. Yielding. And the near ticklish touches you brush along his fingers, to his nails—then underneath to the skin of his fingerpads... It's... Something else.

He finally gets his eyes back to yours, realizing he's been staring at your touches with a noticeable silence. Startled eyes meet knowing ones.

He seems almost unsettled. Like your response rattled him to his core.

Then he closes them shut with a deep sigh, lips forming a thin, wavery line. And he angles his head away, peaking his eyes just slightly to leer at nothing in particular.

"... I don't get you. Weoncito."

But his hand goes slack in your hold. Any remaining tension forgone as he lets you caress him. For as long as you want.

SNulla

He was quiet when you found him.

Just sitting on one of the chairs in this memory, he was hunched over on the table. Arms bent and flat on the surface, cushioning his downcast head.

You make your steps silent as you approach him. Without warning, you pull back the seat next to his and take the spot. The act produced a grating sound, piercing the quiet and eliciting a flinch out of him. It seemed like he might lift his head up to face you, but he doesn't. The only sign of acknowledgement is the way a lone finger makes a single tap on the table. Then another. And another. And he continues, settling into a slow yet consistent rhythm.

... It seems like he isn't in his best state.

More so than usual.

...

You reach for his hand—the one making the taps—and you blanket it with your own, stopping his hand from creating anymore sound on surface. The touch is feather-light and slow as not to alarm him with the sudden contact.

Under your palm, you feel his hands tense. Yet he doesn't look up.

So you begin tracing the lines on the back of his hand, feeling along bone and the dips between them. It's like you're trying to paint his hand with the way your fingers glide along every inch of skin they can reach. Heat conducts along these trails, sharing a warmth that spreads and consoles.

... He still has his head burrowed.

But now he moves his hand.

He tilts it, making his palm face up to meet your own. Then he bends his fingers, slotting them between yours and clasping down to hold you like a snare. He does it quick, in one fluid motion without hesitation, it's doubtless. No—it's desperate. The act may be wordless, but the way he clenches tighter, digging crescent-shaped indents into the back of your hand—it speaks volumes on just how much this sliver of comfort was needed.

You look at him.

He's a mess. His hair wild despite the gelled efforts. His arched shoulders holding a rigidity that have persisted since the start of this debacle. And you can even make out the crumpled lines of his clothes in this proximity, defining an exhausted condition not so far off from its wearer.

But that's just the exterior, isn't it?

You truly look at him.

... And you see a broken mess. One that feigns to be unmendable despite craving a mending. A mess that's been left to rot for far too long, it has since lost much of what it was before—neglect tarnishing it into something woefully unrecognizable.

Your heart twists. It aches. For him. Call it compassion or pity, something truer or something less, but it aches.

For him.

... You let him hold your hand and ignore the building pressure around his grip.

This is the least you could do for him.

Q: How would they respond to you isolating yourself when you're sad?

SNeo

He notices, spends just a second to assess the situation, then goes straight to your side. He would crowd you, acting nonchalant as he says something like,

"What are you doing here? All alone?"

In a tone too casual to seem caring, at least superficially so.

But you know him by now.

You pick up the genuinity in his voice. The subtle sternness in it, steadier and clearer. His eyes are serious too, locked onto you with something intense—with a need to know.

What's got you so sad? Tell him.

And he will make it all better.

With a scoff and a groan perhaps.

But he'll make it better.

SNulla

He notices, spends a long moment pondering how exactly to approach you, then creeps up to your side. He would give you space, let you breathe before he asks,

"... Do you want to talk about it?"

The words are spoken slow with uncertainty. But his voice drips care and worry, eyes searching yours as if he's trying to find the roots of your distress in them.

He fears of overstepping, of you rejecting. So he tries to contain his reactions, but it doesn't work, every corner of him is telling enough.

He hopes you would want to share your sorrows with him.

Because he's here.

He can't promise that he'll make it better.

But he'll be here for you.

===

Gah damn another big one. Ahahahdhsjsjd

I enjoyed writing this one, especially SNulla's section. It almost became sort of a character study? I dunno, something a little deeper. And as one can tell, the second question has a shorter response for each. This was because I was tired lmao.

❥ Leona Kingscholar

It was hard not to notice when you seemed to be on the brink of exploding. How you’d stare at awe in Leona’s presence, as you should. But your eyes would always wander to his ears, teeth, tail, nails. It got to a point that he felt like you were mentally dissecting him. It was his downfall to growl out a short “what”, as you started to pile on questions to the beastman prince. “Are your nails sharper than a humans?”, “How much better can you hear?”, “Does your tail help you balance?” All Leona could do was stare at you with boredom. Who knew his herbivore was a nerd? He supposes he could humor you for a little bit. Press his sharp nails lightly into your skin, a teasing smile as he asks if you’d like a test. Perhaps a nibble to show you how well his canines work? It all goes awry when you start taking interest in other beastmen, who cares about the cheetah or leopard bestmen when you have a lion prince right here?

❥ Azul Ashengrotto

Azul never thought twice about where he’s come from. He’s seen many kinds of merpeople, many kinds of fish or crustaceans or sharks. But he knew land dwellers didn’t have that, which is why he has the giant aquarium in his lounge. He got used to the awed expressions as well, more focused on swindling the poor souls. So when your jaw dropped and how you clearly restrained yourself from running up to the giant aquarium, Azul felt giddy. He could offer you something most couldn’t. He’d watch as you’d point out a fish or ray that you saw and explain how much you loved the color or how magnificent it looked. When you brought up how smart you thought octopi are, it was over. His heart couldn’t take it. You know he was an octopus merperson right? You were basically complimenting him without realizing it. He couldn’t get over how you stared in wonder at the blue ringed octopus that was waving back at you. And oh sevens you were giggling at it? He wasn’t getting jealous over another octopus, no way…

❥ Jamil Viper

Jamil noticed the excited look in your eyes when you learned his last name was Viper, but nothing had happened at the time. It wasn’t until Kalim had you rambling about animals did Jamil realize just how much you seemed to love snakes. How you named your favorite in a heartbeat to how you scrutinized the ones you looked into as pets. It wasn’t until Kalim started to offer to buy you all those snakes and more did he have to step in. Yet Jamil felt flustered when your gaze landed on him, your eyes that had been filled with fondness while rambling about snakes had only seemed to get brighter when looking at him. Reluctantly, Jamil let you drag him to a reptile show, something Kalim had pushed him to do. For his own sanity, Jamil ignored the giant pouch of money Kalim tried to stealthily hand you, instead, focusing on your awed expression at the variety of animals. He couldn’t help but watch the snakes in awe with you, and when you asked him if he wanted to help you set up an enclosure for one…who was he to say no?

❥ Vil Schoenheit

Vil is a busy man. With photo and movie shoots to interviews to taking care of himself, there isn’t much time to stop and smell the roses. But with you, he tries to make time, and it's like a breath of fresh air every time. It was nice to sit outside and bask in the sun (with sunscreen of course) and talk with you. Something had clearly caught your eye when you dropped from the bench to scoop something off the ground. Vil thought he knew you well enough…apparently not. He hadn’t expected to see you shove a rolly polly, pill bug, potato bug, whatever you want to call them into his face…okay maybe he’s exaggerating. You held the little thing far enough away that it wasn’t all too startling. He swore he never saw you so excited about something, or how you rambled that they weren’t bugs, but crustaceans that live on land. The way you gently held the critter to how fondly you looked at the curled up thing made Vil’s heart flutter. You always seemed to find beauty in things most would shudder at. How odd.

❥ Idia Shroud

Idia had no idea how you managed, but you had convinced him to get a plant. You had called it a zz plant, and thought it would be perfect to liven his room up as it didn’t need direct sunlight. He watched the plant as it sat next to a grow light, it needed something since he didn’t have any windows. The dark purple leaves were pretty, you were right. As much as he tried to keep up with watering, he would forget, but Ortho seemed to have it covered. When little leaves started sprouting, Idia felt proud, a weird feeling he wasn’t used to. When you came over and saw how well it was doing you beamed. That stupid fluttery feeling filled him as you praised him, not to mention it mixing with feeling proud. Not a good combo, as now he was thinking of asking you if there’s any other plant you may recommend, just to get you rambling once more about different plants that could thrive in his little cave of a room.

❥ Malleus Draconia

Although Malleus loves to hear your voice, you always seem content to hear him ramble. The way your eyes watched intently, trying to find what he was pointing out on a gargoyle, or how you’d ask questions about the differences of a gargoyle and grotesque. At first, he was concerned when you gasped, had you gotten hurt somehow? Yet he found you excitedly pointing out a house gecko that stood near the gargoyle he was talking about. He watched you in awe as your eyes glittered, and how you were basically jumping up and down. Then you started going on about geckos, reptiles, and all sorts of odd things people keep as pets. The way you basically swooned at the thought of owning a crested gecko or a crocodile skink, Malleus was ready to hand you all the money you needed. He is the best and worst, as he’ll never tell you no and fund your hobby till your heart’s content. Just make sure to pay attention to him too, yeah? Unlike skinks or tarantula’s, he likes your affection. Plus, he’s the best reptile of them all, no? He’d gladly show you his dragon form.