Disclaimer: Wow, another new series that I don't own…

Author's Note: Hello to you, Kenshin readers! This is my first attempt at a Kenshin fic, so please be gentle in your reviews— as all of you writers know, it's hard getting used to new characters. Still, I sincerely hope you enjoy this piece of pointless fluff!

Also, a quick question: does anyone know of/can suggest a good Kaoru pregnancy fic? The KarouxKenshin fan in me is craving one, but because I don't know this fandom very well… anyway, any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!

Thanks so much!







Her hands had become softer with the passing of the months.

It was a fact that annoyed his wife— she made that no secret. She hated to see the calluses fading, the taut tendons grow lax, the flesh's violet bruises fade into a healthy shade of ivory-rose. Weak with neglect, she'd grumble, flexing the fingers that itched for a shinai. I hate this.

They both knew she didn't really mean it. Regardless, he would smile in understanding, kiss her softly on the cheek, and try to find some other avenue for her energy. Such irritation was to be expected; she was restless, she was frustrated, she was very, very pregnant.

Still, he thought—both in amusement and slight concern— as he watched her 'discipline' Yahiko with what looked like a shovel, if this is weak, this one would hate to see 'strong.'




It was a funny thing, she knew, to be so obsessed over her husband's hands. After all, he was an incredibly handsome man— it seemed foolish that her love of his fingers nearly overpowered that of his beautiful face. But really, she mused, taking his right hand in both of hers and caressing it with her eyes, it's not so much the hands themselves as it is… what they represent…

His pale white hands, barely any larger than her own, which had long since been stained scarlet with old blood… strong and nimble, the skin callused and scarred from the harshness of life, the winds of change, the flow of time. His grip powerful— his hold mighty— his strength almost unnatural…

And yet, he was so careful with her. So caring, so protective. So tender when his fingers would ghost over her body, each movement deliberate— precise; so much so that she could feel every whorl and dip carved onto his flesh as his touches traveled lower and lower...

She blushed just thinking about it, and he—watching her expressions change as he rested his head against her thigh— smiled faintly, as if to say he knew her thoughts.

With a gentleness that outsiders would not think possible of a man who'd once been a hitokiri, he skimmed his fingertips across the expanse of his wife's face, then brought her hand down to his lips so he could breathe a kiss upon its back.




Nights were their favorites.

When Yahiko had gone home, the other students had departed, and they were left alone— blissfully alone in each other's company. It was a cathartic time, as he and she (when it came to open affection, anyway), were both somewhat shy. A smile was all right, the grazing of fingers while doing the dishes was fine, but the thought of hugging or kissing with others in the general vicinity tended to make the couple flush.

It was nice to be free of that, if only for a few hours a day.


The whisper was soft, heated—nearly husky—as it reverberated in her ear, followed by a ginger touch that traced from her temple to her belly. His fingers lingered there for a moment, showering feathered caresses of wonder and awe across their unborn child. She smiled as he did this, having grown used to the nightly ritual. Still, her heart swelled with affection upon seeing the familiar glow of gratitude and adoration in his jewel-bright eyes.


As if to answer his touch with one of her own, she allowed her hands to slide up his arms, sensing each coiled muscle, every poised nerve, as she wandered over them— stopping only when her fingertips had found and traced his infamous scar, the one that tied him to his past. Subconsciously, she mimicked the cross-shaped movement upon her own cheek, as if marking herself as his match.

This gesture made his lips twitch in amusement. Regardless, he placed his hand over her own, stopping the motion— then pressed her palm to his cheek as he shook his head.

It is a crime to even pretend to mar such a beautiful face with such an ugly scar, that it is.

She turned magenta at the words… then with a flurry of unexpected movements, pointedly pressed her lips to the center of his aged wound.

It is not ugly…she protested, her mouth lingering—hot and moist—against the injured flesh. I love your scar.

He sucked in a silent breath.

For a moment he simply held it… then exhaled with a hummed chuckle. As he did so, she pulled away enough to see the softness of his eyes; the color of his cheeks had taken on a slightly pinker hue, and not just from holding his breath. His hands moved to cover her own, which were cupping his face with a conviction and love that to this day he was sure he did not deserve. And yet…

I love you, Kaoru, he murmured, his voice hoarse with sincerity and passion.

In reply, his wife beamed, skimming a butterfly kiss against his lashes.

I love you, too…

And so the night continued, as many others had, with their lips forming words of devotion and ardor as their bodies curled closer and closer; their hair tangling and breath mingling as they drifted off to sleep, holding tightly to the other's hand.