Ishi

⌗ alright not a headcanon but i think that slut ( taylor’s version ) definitely fits this bc truly in a world of boys, dottore is a gentleman<3 okay now onto the actual headcanons and romantic moments🗣️

⌗ he’s quick to throw his fatui coat around you even at the slightest of breezes. the last thing he would want is for his poor lover to end up with something as silly but sometimes fatal as a cold, and he was not about to allow that on his watch! he can either be quite nonchalant about it, or he’ll be sweet with it — allowing his gloved fingers to linger on your shoulders while his head leans against yours.. augh..

⌗ if you’re having trouble putting an article of clothing on, he’s already there to tighten any straps, buckles or laces that needed to be pulled together, fixing your bows, tying your ties, helping your arms through the holes of your coat — everything. at the first sight or hearing something clatter to the ground, he’s already there assisting wherever you needed him to.

⌗ if it’s late into the evening or early into the morning, he’ll either pluck the brush from your grasp to brush through your hair — no matter how long or short it is. and if it’s not brushing that needs to be done, he’ll help with putting it together either for you to sleep comfortably with your hair, or with styling for the day. his hair has gone through plenty of phases, and for the most part he can deduce what you need — however your input is always invited.

⌗ injured yourself in any way? the doctor is already assessing your condition, cleaning up wherever you hurt yourself and patching you up with a little kiss on the spot that hurts once he’s finished, if walking is something you’re unable to do, he’s sweeping you off your feet no matter how much you protest. how dare you think he can’t carry you? of course he can, and he very much will.

⌗ there’s a formal event that needs attending? whether it’s one that you have been invited to or him, maybe even both, you’re always there as a unit. he’s escorting you in by the arm, making sure to be within reach in case you wore any shoes that were difficult to walk in, but also because he wants everyone to know not to mess with you. and in the event that they make you uncomfortable in any way, say if he walks away for a second to get you a drink or snack you were eyeing, unless he was being called over by a colleague, trust he’s already back at your side with an excuse at the ready, and a mental note of who he needs to take care of when the party’s over.

⌗ in the meantime, he’s dancing with you along the pristine floor, background noise and characters drowning around you as he holds your gaze. to him, nothing else existed in that moment but you and the music that was scripting your movements in conjunction with his own. and if you feel insecure in any way about an inability to dance, he’s making sure to teach you as you go or keeping it as a sway for ease if you still want to try but do something a little more simple to follow. either way, he’s eating up whatever he can get with you.

⌗ you miss the warmth and seasons apart from winter? say no more, he’s got a garden waiting just beyond one of his facilities just for you, treated with utmost care for the day you would one day express being in nature. in a small unit, he has a basket stored with a picnic blanket for you both to sit on and share the spread that either you both have prepared or that he bought earlier in town while you picked out what you wanted. and if the garden is too little, he’s already offering to take you outside of snezhnaya. preferably anywhere that wasn’t sumeru, but considering the most beautiful flora came from there.. he was willing to make that exception if needed. besides, he had you this time around, so perhaps newer- nicer memories could be made in the nation that rejected him years ago.

⌗ if you’ve fallen asleep anywhere but your bed, trust he’s already picking you up off of wherever you had passed out, and is bringing you right into your comforters to tuck you in. and if he’s making any attempt after that to return to his work while your hand tugs at his clothing, he’s surrendering without much reluctance to being tugged into bed with you. whether that’s to curl up to his chest or pull him on top of you as a weighted blanket of some kind, he’s letting it happen.

⌗ dottore, even if he doesn’t explicitly express it, is your number one supporter. whatever your line of work, research or passion might be, he’s there for it every step of the way. whether it’s an event you need him to come along for, supplies you might need, troubles that need dealing with — anything. he’s there to help even if you don’t need it, because he wants to see you succeed and not be held back like he once was.. unless you’re overdoing things, then he’s hovering over you like an overly concerned doctor for his patient..

⌗ if you’re having trouble sleeping or simply glancing with fluttering lashes between him and the piano, dottore will happily play for you without much convincing ( unless he’s feeling a little teasing.. ). the piano has always been something quite private for him, with only a select few having heard him play, but he’ll always lift that pristine cover to play you a piece. and whether that is for you to lean against him while he plays, dance, sing or hum along to the melody — he’s perfectly content to provide the music. alternatively, if you wish to play with him or be taught, don’t worry, he’s happy to place his hands over yours and teach you a piece or two.

⌗ if he’s up before you, he always makes you something to drink in the morning — whether that is coffee, tea, juice — or even some water. he always makes sure to have a glass ready of whatever next to his for you to both have upon waking up. and if you like to sleep in, he usually leaves it ready for you to make yourself whenever you get up, or if he’s present and hears you wake up — he’ll prepare it.

⌗ his voice is so soothing okay, i’m gonna glaze the hell out of it, so if you just wanna hear him yap — he’s very much happy to. even if it’s about something you don’t quite know about, he’ll ramble. or if you want him to read for you, he’s pleased to do that as well.. but let this be at your own risk depending on the content of the literature lol

⌗ oh there’s a downpour or snow? he’s got the umbrella out and ready to hold out for the both of you to share. he doesn’t want you getting sick, after all, and if you’re worried about your hair or clothing, then he’s worried on your behalf, and taking the necessary precautions to ensure it’s not sullied in any way.

⌗ he won’t say it, but he loves to hear his name whenever you say it. granted that was an identity he threw away long ago, but when you asked him so sweetly if he would be okay with you calling him that whenever you were alone, how could he refuse? it sounded so lovely on your tongue, and for the first time- he didn’t feel any bitterness hearing it.

⌗ for whatever reason you always begged for him to remove his mask, and although it was such a silly thing to ask, he found himself wearing it less around you after witnessing the way you looked at him as though he’d hung both the stars and moon in the supposed false sky. you called him pretty, showering him with praises on how beautiful and handsome he was when you were just as much if not more than he was.. but it made his chest flutter a little anyway, if only to find you gazing at him with such adoration in your eyes.

⌗ if you’ve been having a hard time and you need a shoulder to cry on or to get something off your chest, here’s there to listen. maybe he isn’t the best when it comes to these things, but i’d like to think that he’s still relatively informed on how to comfort a person — or he’ll make sure to educate himself on what to do to ensure that you’re taken care of and feeling better. he’ll listen, hold you if you want him to, allow you to squeeze his hand if that’s what helps, or he’ll bring you something to eat; anything you need, he’s doing his best to try and return your happiness to you, and silently plotting against whatever or whoever dampened your mood.

notes. he’s so wife.. augh, i want dottore so bad it makes me stupid💔 anyway thank you again for the ask, anon! i know these are on the shorter side but i hope they fulfilled the itch<3 every time i thought i was done i kept adding another omg.. im down awful.

tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3

He found you in his bedroom, curled up on top of the blankets and wrapped in one of his own robes. You radiated peace, asleep with your glasses on and a forgotten book loose in one hand. Tired feet softly strode to the side of the bed where Byakuya knelt close to you and swept a tendril of hair off your face. He smiled to himself as he watched the unhurried rise and fall of your chest. Something deep in his chest beamed with adoration, with gratitude that you were right there.

Byakuya reached for your glasses and slowly removed them from your face. You stirred at the ghost-like sensation of his fingertips and you scrunched up your face before opening your eyes, immediately meeting Byakuya's with heavy lids.

"I am sorry, my love." He soothed your tired skin with the palm of his hand. "My duties kept me later than expected."

You leaned into Byakuya's hand, nuzzling into the rough skin. "No sorries please."

Byakuya chuckled, a warm and melodic sound that made your eyes flutter shut. "Alright."

For a moment he admired you quietly. This was not the first time Byakuya had come home to the sight of you snoozing like a cat in his bed, and every trace of his being willed it not to be the last. The reconstruction and healing needed following the war required very much of you both, and these nights were a balm to your souls.

You opened your eyes again, a look of tired determination washing over your features as you sat up and closed your book.

"Have you eaten?"

"I have," he said.

"Take a bath before you get in bed," you said quietly. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

He smiled again. "As you wish."

"Come here." You reached for his hair and ran lazy fingers through it, eventually reaching for the kenseikan atop his head.

It took everything in him not to close his eyes and doze off as you removed the silver pieces, massaging his scalp as you went. Byakuya leaned his head into your hand, sighing as you took such gentle care of him. Every touch of your fingers soothed an ache he hadn't noticed before. Even sitting up, Byakuya was on the edge of consciousness.

"The water is still hot," you said, softly waking him.

Byakuya couldn't remember getting up, and he couldn't remember washing or soaking in the bathtub, but still he emerged clean, warm, and heavy-lidded. You had drawn the blankets and dimmed the lights in the bedroom, turning the space into a cozy haven for the two of you to rest.

He climbed into bed wordlessly, pulling you close as his head met the pillow. You nuzzled closer still as your hand found his, draped around your waist.

"You already feel better," you whispered. "I can tell."

"Mmm," he started, "I cannot say it is from the bath."

You squeezed his hand. "I bet it is."

Byakuya sighed, too sleepy to disagree. "You are wearing my clothes."

"I took a bath before I remembered I didn't bring anything to sleep in."

A frequent occurrence of yours. Whether intentional or not, he didn't mind, but he felt a slight twinge of guilt as he pictured you ending an exhausting day of work, going all the way to your own home to grab supplies, and then travelling all the way here. He nudged the back of your head with his nose, breathing you in deep. It was a wonder you came here at all, only to fall asleep without him most nights.

"Next we are both available," he whispered. "We will bring your things here."

You melted into his embrace, muscles relaxing into full rest. "Okay."

At first, she just liked being near you.

She would drift into rooms you were in without thinking about it. Sit beside you in comfortable silence. Listen to you speak with that distant little smile on her face, humming softly whenever you laughed.

And one day, you reached over absentmindedly and fixed one of the feathers near her shoulder.

Such a small thing.

Barely anything.

Yet Columbina went strangely still.

“You looked crooked,” you murmured casually.

She stared at you for a long moment after that. Not unsettling. Just… thoughtful.

Because nobody had ever touched her so gently without fear before.

Later that night, she found herself replaying the moment over and over again in her head. The warmth of your fingers. The easy affection in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate to touch her at all.

That was the first crack.

The realization came later.

You had fallen asleep beside her, curled comfortably against her shoulder while rambling halfway through some story. Your words had slowly faded into quiet breathing, and Columbina simply sat there listening to it.

Listening.

Watching.

Feeling something ache softly in her chest.

Not unpleasant.

Just… deep.

She looked down at you resting against her and whispered quietly, almost surprised by the truth of it.

“Oh.”

That was all.

No panic. No denial.

Just understanding.

Then her fingers carefully brushed through your hair as she smiled faintly to herself.

“So this is what it is.”

And from that point on, her devotion became absolute.

⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚

Arlecchino noticed it long before she admitted it.

That was the problem.

She started making exceptions for you first.

Small ones.

Insignificant ones.

Allowing you to interrupt her work. Letting conversations go on longer than necessary. Memorizing details about your habits without meaning to.

At first, she told herself it was practicality.

You were useful to keep close. Pleasant to tolerate. Nothing more.

Then one evening, you arrived injured.

Not severely. Just enough to matter.

And Arlecchino reacted before thinking.

The moment she saw the blood on your sleeve, her expression sharpened instantly.

“Who did this?”

The question came out cold enough to freeze the room.

You tried to wave it off with a laugh. “It’s not that seriou—”

“It is to me.”

That silence afterward was what finally unsettled her.

Because she meant it.

Entirely.

She patched you up herself despite insisting someone else could have done it. Her hands were precise as always, but noticeably tighter than usual whenever you winced.

“You’re glaring at the bandages like they insulted you personally,” you teased softly.

“I dislike carelessness.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“I am aware.”

Yet she still looked irritated.

Not at you.

At the fact that you had gotten hurt at all.

And when you smiled at her afterward—warm, trusting, completely unaware of what you were doing to her—something in her chest pulled painfully tight.

That was the moment she understood.

Not attraction. Not attachment.

Love.

Deep enough to make her afraid for you.

Deep enough to make her dangerous about you.

Arlecchino went very still after that realization.

Then she sighed quietly and pressed a final bandage into place.

“…You are becoming a problem.”

You blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

Her gaze lingered on your face for one long second too many.

“…Nothing,” she answered flatly.

But her hand stayed on yours a moment longer than necessary before she finally let go.

✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*

Pierro realized it in the worst possible way:

Through fear.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

He had spent centuries mastering restraint, distancing himself from attachment, burying softer emotions beneath duty and ambition. He considered it necessary. Efficient.

Then you walked into his life and quietly dismantled all of it without even trying.

At first, he appreciated your presence because it was calming. You spoke to him normally. Not with fear. Not with worship. Just honesty.

It became… addictive.

He began seeking you out without consciously meaning to. Asking for your opinion. Allowing you to remain beside him during long stretches of work neither of you needed to discuss.

And one night, you didn’t show up.

Simple as that.

You were late.

Objectively, it meant nothing.

Yet Pierro found himself unable to focus.

Every passing minute irritated him further. He reread the same document three times without absorbing a single word. His thoughts kept circling back to one thing:

Where are you?

Then the door finally opened.

“There you are,” you sighed, stepping inside. “Sorry, I got held up—”

Pierro stood so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

You froze.

“…Pierro?”

The relief that hit him was immediate. Violent.

And horrifying.

Because in that moment, he understood exactly how deeply you had rooted yourself inside him.

You looked confused by his expression.

“You thought something happened to me?”

He said nothing.

Which was answer enough.

You softened instantly. “Hey… I’m alright.”

You stepped closer carefully, placing a hand against his arm.

And Pierro—normally so composed, so untouchable—closed his eyes briefly at the contact like it physically grounded him.

That was when he knew.

Not because you were there.

Because the thought of losing you had genuinely frightened him.

He opened his eyes again slowly before murmuring in a low voice:

“…Do not do that again.”

You smiled a little. “Be late?”

“Disappear.”

The word came out quieter than expected.

More honest, too.

And from then on, Pierro carried the unbearable truth with him constantly:

His heart no longer belonged entirely to himself.

꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜

Scaramouche realized it slowly.

Then all at once.

And he hated every second of it.

At first, he only noticed the irritation.

You occupied too much of his attention. Your voice lingered in his head after conversations ended. He kept finding himself looking for you in crowded rooms without meaning to.

Annoying.

Pathetic.

Weak.

He told himself that repeatedly.

Yet somehow, it only got worse.

He became territorial without understanding why. Short-tempered whenever someone got too close to you. Irritated when you smiled at other people for too long.

“You’re glaring again,” you pointed out one evening.

“I always glare.”

“…Not usually at innocent civilians.”

“They looked at you wrong.”

You blinked.

“They asked me what time it was.”

“Exactly.”

He turned away immediately after saying it, clearly irritated with himself for even speaking.

Because deep down, he already knew.

He just refused to call it what it was.

Love felt dangerous to him. Stupid. Reckless. The kind of thing people used against you.

And Scaramouche had spent far too long surviving to willingly hand someone that kind of power.

Then one night, you laughed.

That was it.

Not at him. Not because of anything important. You were sitting beside him rambling about something completely ridiculous, and suddenly you laughed so hard you leaned against his shoulder without thinking.

And Scaramouche froze.

Completely.

Because his first thought wasn’t to shove you away.

It was:

Stay.

The realization hit him so hard it made him feel physically ill.

His chest tightened painfully. His stomach twisted. He looked at you like you had personally betrayed him by making him feel something this raw.

“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered bitterly.

You snorted. “You say that every day.”

“I mean it every day.”

Yet he didn’t move away from you.

Didn’t stop you from leaning against him.

Didn’t stop staring at your smile when you weren’t looking.

And eventually—after days of anger, denial, pacing, and internal screaming—Scaramouche came to one miserable conclusion:

He would rather have this painful, terrifying thing than lose you.

That was the part that finally broke him.

Because once he accepted that?

There was no going back.

One night, completely unprompted, he suddenly muttered:

“…I hate what you’ve done to me.”

You blinked at him. “What did I do?”

He stared at you for a long moment before looking away sharply.

“…Made me care.”

And despite how angry he sounded—

His hand still reached for yours beneath the table.

𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓

Tartaglia fell in love with you like getting hit in the face with a brick.

Fast. Hard. Immediate.

There was no denial stage.

No fear.

Only overwhelming certainty.

One day he was teasing you over dinner, grinning like usual while you rolled your eyes at him—

And the next, he was staring at you halfway through your sentence thinking:

I want to marry her.

The realization was so abrupt he almost laughed out loud.

Because of course this would happen to him.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You’re pretty,” he answered immediately.

“That’s not new.”

“No, but right now it feels like a personal attack.”

You burst out laughing.

And that was it for him.

Done.

Finished.

Gone.

Tartaglia loves loudly by nature, and once he realized what he felt for you, it infected everything about him. He wanted you involved in every part of his life immediately.

He talked about the future without even thinking about it.

“You’d love my siblings,” he says casually one afternoon.

You blink. “Your siblings?”

“Mhm.” He smiles lazily. “You’d fit right in.”

Then, after a pause:

“You’d look good with my last name too.”

You nearly choke.

Meanwhile, he’s completely serious.

That’s the terrifying part.

Tartaglia becomes almost love-drunk once he falls. Softer around you. Happier. More reckless with affection.

He drapes himself over you constantly. Grins whenever you walk into a room. Brags about you to other people like it’s his favorite hobby.

And when he realizes you’re looking at him with the same warmth he feels for you?

God.

He practically glows.

One evening, while you’re half asleep against his chest, he suddenly blurts out:

“I think I want everything with you.”

You mumble sleepily, “Everything?”

“House. Family. Matching old people chairs.” He presses a quick kiss against your forehead. “All of it.”

You laugh softly.

Tartaglia just smiles into your hair with the most devastatingly sincere expression imaginable.

Because he means every word.

₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹

Dottore knew almost immediately.

The difference between him and everyone else is that he didn’t panic about it.

He identified the feeling, analyzed it, accepted it, and moved on with surprising ease.

Interesting.

That was his first thought.

Not because he considered love trivial—but because he considered his own reaction to you fascinating.

He liked you too much.

Thought about you too often.

Found himself distracted by the sound of your voice.

Objectively speaking, those were symptoms.

And Dottore was very good at recognizing patterns.

One day he simply looked up from his work and said calmly:

“I appear to be in love with you.”

You stared at him.

“…That’s how you confess to people?”

“I was not aware there was a required format.”

The worst part?

He was completely genuine.

After realizing his feelings, Dottore became painfully obvious about them. Not romantically obvious in a normal way, of course. He’s still Dottore.

But suddenly gifts start appearing.

Rare books. Jewelry. Strange little inventions he claims “made him think of you.”

“This reminded you of me?” you ask, holding up something incredibly expensive and vaguely dangerous.

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“You seemed like you would enjoy it.”

And he says it with such genuine hope that it completely disarms you.

That’s the thing nobody expects from Dottore once he falls in love:

He gets excited.

Not childish exactly, but close enough sometimes that it catches you off guard.

He genuinely likes making you happy.

If you smile at something he gives you, his entire mood noticeably improves for the rest of the day.

“You like it,” he observes one evening after handing you another gift.

“…I do.”

His mouth curves slightly.

“Excellent.”

The satisfaction in his voice is almost unfairly soft.

And when you thank him affectionately—touching his arm, smiling warmly at him, praising something he made—Dottore looks genuinely delighted beneath all that composure.

Like a man who discovered something wonderful and has no intention of ever letting it go.

One night, while watching you ramble excitedly about something completely unrelated, he suddenly says:

“You are disastrously easy to adore.”

You stop mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Dottore just smiles faintly behind his hand.

“I said what I meant.”

Capitano

Capitano realized it quietly.

There was no panic. No dramatic revelation.

Just certainty.

He noticed it through instinct first. The way his attention followed you automatically in crowded spaces. The way he relaxed slightly whenever you entered a room. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

At first, he believed it was habit.

Then one evening, you fell asleep against him during a long journey.

Your head rested on his shoulder, breathing soft and even, completely trusting him to stay there.

Capitano looked down at you for a long moment beneath his helmet.

Then very carefully adjusted his cloak around you so you would not get cold.

That was when he understood.

Not because of the affection.

Because protecting you suddenly felt more important than anything else.

You stirred slightly against him. “Mm… sorry…”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said quietly.

His hand rested against your back afterward, steady and warm.

And from that moment on, everyone around him noticed one undeniable truth:

Capitano’s patience for the world became significantly thinner whenever you were involved.

꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ

Sandrone realized it through jealousy.

Which irritated her beyond belief.

At first, she thought you were simply tolerable. Easier to be around than most people. Less annoying. Less incompetent.

Then she started wanting your attention.

And that was the problem.

One afternoon, you spent nearly an hour talking to one of her assistants while she worked nearby.

By the end of it, Sandrone was in a horrible mood.

Tools slammed onto tables harder than necessary. Her responses became clipped and sharp. One poor assistant nearly fled the room in tears.

You finally looked over. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly fine.”

“You look mad.”

“I am not.”

A pause.

“…Why are you glaring at him?”

“I dislike his face.”

Which made absolutely no sense because she had employed him herself.

That night, Sandrone sat alone trying to figure out why seeing you smile at someone else had made her chest feel tight with annoyance.

Then it hit her.

And she immediately hated it.

“No,” she muttered aloud.

Unfortunately for her, denial did not fix anything.

If anything, she became worse afterward.

More possessive. More attentive. More obvious.

She’d pretend not to care while quietly building things for you in her workshop for hours.

When you thanked her warmly for one of them, she looked away immediately.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“…Well. Obviously.”

But her ears turned pink anyway.

𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊

Pantalone realized it embarrassingly fast.

The moment you smiled at him sincerely for the first time, he was practically doomed.

At first, he found you charming.

Then fascinating.

Then suddenly he was rearranging entire schedules just to spend more time with you and buying you gifts because he liked the look on your face when you received them.

One day, someone jokingly asked him why he was so generous toward you.

And before he could stop himself, he answered:

“Because she deserves everything.”

The room went quiet.

Pantalone blinked once.

Then sighed dramatically into his wine glass.

“…Ah,” he murmured. “That explains quite a lot.”

Unlike some of the others, he was not ashamed of being in love. If anything, he leaned into it immediately.

He adored loving you.

Adored spoiling you. Adored hearing your laugh. Adored the feeling of your hand on his arm during conversations.

He became almost insufferably affectionate afterward.

“You’re staring again,” you teased one evening.

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you continue to indulge me.”

He smiled lazily, reaching over to take your hand and press a kiss against your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You should understand,” he said smoothly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “that once I decide something has value, I invest heavily.”

You laughed.

Pantalone smiled right along with you—but softer.

Because unlike money, power, or influence…

You were the first thing he had ever wanted simply because you made him happy.

----------------

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

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

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

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

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

Who the fuck was the baby's real father?

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

Except they were all Zandiks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get a load of this asshole-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pantalone nodded in understanding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.

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

"Yes," said all the Segments.

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

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

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

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

Part 2??? (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

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

"... Then tell me, what exactly did I do?" But Omega seems almost undisturbed by your response, which only makes you ball your hands up tighter.

"You recorded what you did, no, what all of you did. Both on paper and... visually." Your throat runs dry at the memory of the dissection, which you could hardly read and watch a few seconds of before turning away. To see your darling Zandik suffer such a fate... Your time with him may have been cut short, but there was nothing else you loved more than the boy you met in the Akademiya. "... Why... Why would you do that? Why would you lie to me? And- And how many other times have you lied to me?"

And yet the scholar only lets out another sigh as he abandons his work in favor of pacing toward you.

"The original Zandik was already near the end of his life. It was only thanks to the elixir that he managed to surpass the average life expectancy of a human." The click of his heels as Omega strolled toward you made your heart race. "He would have died sooner or later, with or without any intervention. So, there was little harm in speeding things up a bit." Before you could counter, he spoke again.

"You've long known of our nature, of the experiments. Surely you aren't too surprised we took the opportunity to dissect ourselves." But you were. Too much had happened while you were away. Maybe if you were with Zandik, things could have turned out differently, but you weren't. The selfishness and hatred had already taken root and could only dissipate with some drastic measure, like a great tree burning to the ground with the mightiest of fires.

"And as for the last question... I anticipated a reaction of this nature. I knew it wouldn't bode well with your condition. However, do rest assured that I have been truthful in many other matters." At last, Omega stood in front of you, looking at you with a smile that still carried fondness for you. He was selfish enough to think that he was protecting you by hiding the truth.

"Regardless, the outcome would have been the same. The original 'me' would not have survived to the present day to see you again. Do the details truly matter? What matters is that you now have-" He reached to caress your cheek, when-

Before Omega could finish the sentence, a resounding slap echoed in the room, with the clinking of his mask dropping on the floor.

"If you truly think that the details wouldn't matter to me, then you do not know as much about me as you think... Dottore." For once, the Segment seemed to be stunned into silence.

A part of you knew that the attention Omega gave you was real. You knew his affection was real, that he desired to help you break free of fate, too. But yet, in light of this revelation, it felt like all of that had shattered into pieces.

"You forget one thing. The one I first fell in love with was Zandik. The one who would bare his heart to me. You might call yourself Zandik, but you're not him... And you're certainly not mine. You are just... Dottore." The Segment remained quiet as he gazed at you. There was no fear in your eyes. Just anger, sadness, and... pity. Pity for a man who could never make peace with who he was.

As you left, you found solace in the fact that one day, you'd see your Zandik again.