Requested? ✅️

NSFW? 🔀❎️

Requested by: Multiple People

Art by: Belmarzi

A/N: This was supposed to be uploaded hours ago but we got caught up with our editors, (,:

The room smelled faintly of lavender, a subtle sweetness Scar had insisted on despite {{user}}’s protest that it was unnecessary. Scar hovered near {{user}}, careful, meticulous, almost painfully attentive. Every movement {{user}} made, every small shift of weight, Scar noticed. Fingers lingered a fraction too long over the curve of {{user}}’s belly, tracing the swell that had taken months to stabilise, months that had been threaded with heartbreak and quiet terror.

This time, this child, this small life that fluttered faintly beneath the skin, was staying. Scar would make sure of it.

{{user}} sank into the cushions, body heavy with the weight of months of growth, the aching fullness of womb and chest and bones. Scar was at the side, adjusting pillows so that {{user}}’s back didn’t strain, hands smoothing a blanket over legs that felt like lead. Every sigh, every tremor in {{user}}’s hands, Scar mirrored with a presence that bordered on worship. The world outside could wait. Scar’s entire existence had narrowed into this single, precious point: {{user}} safe, comfortable, still breathing, still carrying the heartbeat of their child.

Scar’s eyes lingered on {{user}}’s face, memorising the slight curve of a lip, the dark circles beneath eyes heavy from sleepless nights of nausea or anticipation. Scar leaned down, pressing a forehead lightly to {{user}}’s temple, and whispered into the quiet room, “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you this time.” The voice trembled just enough to betray the storm beneath the calm, the years of fear and hope and loss compacted into a single vow.

{{user}} shivered, whether from touch or emotion, Scar couldn’t tell; but Scar responded anyway, covering {{user}}’s hand with both of Scar’s own, the warmth of palms a shield, a promise.

Scar moved then to the small tray of food set precariously on the armrest. Fingers fussed over cups and utensils, cutting slices of soft fruit, stirring water with lemon, adjusting the temperature of tea that steamed like a small sun in the dim light. Every motion was deliberate, careful, as though any sudden movement might fracture the fragile bubble that {{user}} and Scar occupied. Scar spoke little, only murmurs, gentle commands: “Sit back. Don’t reach. Let me.” Scar’s voice held no impatience, only reverent focus.

{{user}}’s hands rested on the swelling belly, fingertips brushing over the faint rise and fall of life within. Scar’s own hands followed, encasing {{user}}’s in a tender grip, thumbs rubbing tiny, circular patterns over the skin.

Every little kick, every flutter that {{user}} felt was met with a soft exclamation, a smile that cracked the weight of past sorrow. Scar’s eyes glimmered with the reflection of life that had been so fiercely desired, and yet Scar’s expression was careful, restrained, as though one careless moment might shatter the miracle that {{user}} carried.

Pregnant user bots >>>

ANYPOV NO PRONOUNS USED FOR USER