#THE EXPRESSIONS ARE EXACTLY WHAT I ASKED FOR……

[lay-z]

You have a question for your teammates.

cw: 18+ | fem!Reader; cussing; sexism; implied teammates to lovers; humor; suggestive

It’s loud on the makeshift base in the field, right in the middle of buttfuck Estonia. You’ve been stuck here on a training exercise for the past three days now, along with different squads from other branches and international armies.

Large tents are lining up the vast field, each one housing a number of soldiers. Naturally, Price put you with the men despite you being the only woman. Where’s the logic in putting you in a single bunk if that luxury doesn’t exist behind enemy lines in a bloody safe house?

“Hello!” you chirp as you approach the half-circle your squadmates are sitting outside the marquee.

They look up from their MRE’s. Kyle’s nose is scrunched up as he pokes around the flavourless rice, veggies and chicken while Johnny eats his dessert biscuit first, and Simon shovels spoonful of anything into his mouth without looking, balaclava tucked up over his nose.

“’ello, doll,” Johnny greets you first, wiping crumbs off his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Hi, princess,” Kyle follows, with Simon merely grunting with his mouth full.

Taking the empty seat in the circle, you sit down on hard ground and dry grass, criss-crossing your legs as you take out your water canteen.

“I have a question,” you announce.

“Awh, and ‘ere we go–” Simon rolls his eyes and you throw a pebble at him. “Hey, it’s important!”

Kyle chuckles. “What’s your question?” Johnny smacks his lips, reaches for his main meal after devouring the biscuit. “Aye, shoot.”

Once you’re sure that they’re all listening, you speak the question that has been burning on your tongue since seeking them out.

“What’s spit roasting?” you ask almost innocently.

Their reactions are immediate yet similar: Kyle sputters around the rim of his own canteen, water spilling as he caughs. Johnny’s bright blue eyes widen before he lets out a bark of laughter so loud, nearby soldiers turn around curiously. And Simon nearly chokes on his food, grabbing at his throat before smacking his own chest.

Needless to say, they’re all clearly shocked—and you still don’t know why.

It’s Johnny who catches his breath first: “Steamin’ Jesus, doll. Where’d ye hear that?”

Suddenly, you feel flustered, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you admit: “Some fellow officers asked me if I’ve ever gotten spit roasted by my teammates, and,” you shrug bashfully, “I assumed it means like... when someone insults you in a kinky and funny way?”

The three men share a glance that you can’t quite read before Kyle speaks up next:

“And what did you say, princess?”

There’s no backing down now, so you take a deep breath, bracing yourself for the humiliation before answering.

“I joked and said: yeah, every day, and that’s when they started laughing before telling me that that’s exactly what they thought.”

Johnny bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt not to laugh at your expense again, and Kyle just scoffs as he shakes his head. Meanwhile, Simon’s expression darkens at the audacity of those officers itself, his grip on his utensils tightening.

“Tha’s whot they said to ya?” Simon enquires gruffly, side-eyeing your appearance with a protective glint in his tawny eyes, clearly holding back a frown with the lower half of his face exposed.

Still oblivious, you nod. “Uh–huh, yeah.” Your eyes flit to look at each of their faces, gauging their reactions. “So, what does it really mean? Did I ever get spit roasted by any one of you?”

“Ugh, Ah wish.” Johnny smacks a hand over his face, groaning a curse into his palm and earning a kick with his boot to the shin from Kyle.

“Oi, stop that right now, Tav!” The older Sergeant chides, brows furrowing sternly while the Scot snorts and snickers behind his hand, rubbing his leg with the other.

Suddenly, Simon pats his spoon against your knee, grabbing your attention.

“If I tell you whot it means, you’ll be a good girl and show us those officers, right? Say yes.”

You nod obediently, flashing a little smile as you try to ignore the way your cunt flutters at the cooed pet name.

“Yes, sir.”

“Atta girl.” Simon grumbles before leaning in conspiratorially while Johnny and Kyle keep bickering in the background. Instinctively, you lean in as well, heart thudding faster in anticipation.

“Means two blokes are fuckin’ ya simultaneously. One in yer pretty mouth–” He points his spoon at your face, holding eye-contact. “The other fuckin’ yer sweet cunt.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and his black fatigues stretch taut over bulging muscle before he adds just as crudely: “Or arse.”

Your mouth is agape as you peer up at him, lips parted as your eyes have widened with every word from him. And then Simon smirks, nudges his spoon under your chin to close your mouth. It all makes so much more sense now.

“Bloody hell, Lt.” Kyle utters across from you.

Johnny nods in approval and continues to eat as if nothing happened, speaking with his mouth full.

“Couldnae ‘ave said it better m’self, sir.”

Kyle hums, then shrugs and nods in quiet agreement.

“Olright, then,” the Lieutenant grunts, straightening up and cracking his neck from left to right before tidying up his tray. If on cue, both Kyle and Johnny start wrapping up, too.

“Now show us those bloody bastards who think they can mess with our girl.” He says, pulling his balaclava back into place.

Based on my real life experiences and obliviousness heh 🙂

[texassmashmyass]

Desk Job

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: A late night at the Daily Planet turns heated when you steal Clark Kent’s glasses and discover just how rough he can be when he stops holding back.

Tags/warnings: smut, size kink, dom/sub undertones

The newsroom is silent except for the soft tap of rain against the windows and the steady click of your fingers on the keyboard. Clark sits across from you, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the muscles he usually keeps hidden, flexing as he flips through his notes. It is well past midnight, and with everyone else long gone, you should have called it a night, but something about the hush of the empty office and the way his eyes keep flicking to your lips makes you linger.

Clark is always so well-mannered, polite to a fault, the kind of man only a small town and old-fashioned parents could have raised. He rarely curses, always holds the door for you, and never fails to bring you coffee without asking. So when you stand, stretch, and snatch his glasses right off his face with a teasing grin, you don’t expect the way his expression changes or how quickly the mild-mannered reporter proves he is anything but.

He doesn’t reach for his glasses. He doesn’t even glance at them dangling from your fingers. Instead, his eyes, now unobstructed, sharp and impossibly blue, lock onto yours as if they can see right through every smug thought in your head. It takes everything in you not to shrink back as your burst of playful confidence quickly dissolves under his gaze.

“Give those back,” he says, his voice low and rougher than you’ve ever heard in all the time you’ve worked with him. It is a warning, not a request.

Unwilling to show how thrown you are by his reaction, you laugh and tilt your head as you slip the frames onto your nose. They are too big and slide down, but the way his jaw clenches sends a shock through you.

“Or what, Kent?” you tease, stepping back as he stands. The chair legs scrape across the floor, and with each slow, deliberate step he takes, you are forced to tilt your chin up to hold his gaze.

An undeniable heat sparks between you as he towers over you. His large hand closes around your wrist, pushing you back against his desk with ease. Your heart skips a beat as you realize exactly what you have started and that there is no way in hell you’re stopping now.

His grip tightens, enough to hold but not to cause pain. Your breath catches as you feel the desk press into your lower back. He crowds closer, leaning over, his free hand braced on the wood beside your hip. Clark is close enough that you feel heat radiating off his muscles, his hidden strength pressing into you in waves.

“You think teasing me is funny?” he murmurs, leaning in. Your body shudders involuntarily as his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

You open your mouth to answer, undecided whether to push back or push him further. The words die when his thumb drags along the inside of your wrist in slow, deliberate circles, as if testing how much you’re willing to give him.

You turn your head so you can hold eye contact, determined not to look away. You are both held in an imaginary standoff, waiting to see who breaks first. The corner of your mouth curves up a touch, and you rise on your toes to lean in. His eyelids flutter shut, and your lips are a hair's width away from his before you give a soft laugh and lean back.

“I think I like you like this,” you whisper.

The wood on the desk groans under the pressure he applies. His blue eyes narrow as he lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh. You know you’re not winning this game you started.

Before you can fully comprehend what is happening, you find yourself on top of the desk, his left hand still holding your wrist while his right grips your waist. Your legs spread open on the desk, and Clark places himself between them. A rush of heat pools in your stomach as you debate whether wearing a skirt today was a good idea.

His mouth trails down your throat, lips brushing against your pulse. “Say that again.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What?”

He huffs a laugh against your skin. “Tell me again that you like me like this. That you like how I am after you push and tease me every single day until I finally snap.”

Your words get stuck in your throat, a moan threatening to escape as you feel his lips press against your neck while his fingers knead your waist. Your mind fogs, and you feel yourself slipping, intoxicated by the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat pulsing off him.

Before you can answer, his teeth scrape lightly against your pulse point, making your breath hitch and your hips shift forward against him. The way he holds you makes it clear who is really in control now.

His lips move back up, stopping just below your ear. “Say it,” he murmurs again, chest rumbling. This is a demand, not a request. Who are you to refuse?

Your voice shakes and comes out softer than you’d like. “I like you like this.”

He hums against your skin, pleased with your compliance. You preen under his happiness, subconsciously enjoying how much your submission fuels your growing arousal. His lips move from your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jawline before crashing against yours, swallowing whatever smart remark you had left.

Your fingers grip his shirt tightly, pulling him down as you deepen the kiss. The cat-and-mouse game you’ve been playing with him for months finally reaches its peak. You manage to push the mild-mannered man you know until he breaks and takes control.

The hand holding your wrist lets go, and he cradles your face, pulling you in. His teeth gently nip at your bottom lip, and your gasp gives him complete access to your mouth. Your teeth and tongue clash in a fight for dominance. You know he will win; he already does the second he puts you on his desk, but you want him to work for it.

Your hips grind against him. Your breath hitches as he presses back, his low moan vibrating against your lips.

Clark breaks the kiss, his voice a low growl. “You’re done being in control, sweetheart.”

His words settle over you like a brand: final and certain. You feel your last shred of defiance melt under the weight of his body pressing you into the desk.

He drags his mouth back to yours, slower this time, savoring the way you part your lips for him. You want more. You try to move your hips again, craving to feel his growing erection against your soaked panties.

Clark holds you in place, his strength unwavering, making you want him all the more. He breaks the kiss, ignoring the whine that escapes you, and pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes scan your face before darkening with something that tightens your chest.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” His voice is low, sending a shiver down your spine. The hand cradling your head moves to lightly hold your chin. His thumb brushes over your swollen lower lip. “Do you know how difficult it’s been working with you after you push and push?” His eyes lock onto yours. “Have you been doing this so I’d be the first to snap?”

You manage a breathless laugh, defiant until the end. “Maybe.”

He grins in response, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His right hand moves down your waist to your hips, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric before his fingers trail to the hem of your skirt. Your body shivers as you yearn for him to move closer to the apex between your legs and give you relief.

“Then I’ll make sure to give you what you want,” he says, lips brushing your ear, punctuating every word.

His fingers skim along the hem of your skirt, teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh before slipping beneath the fabric. The rough pads of his fingertips drag up slowly, purposefully, until they find the edge of your panties. The needy sound you make is embarrassingly obvious, and his grin shows he hears every bit of it.

“Clark-” you start, but your protest dies on your tongue when he presses his forehead against yours.

“Say my name again.” His fingers find the edge of your panties, and the needy whimper that escapes you only eggs him on. “I want to hear how my name sounds when you beg.”

His fingers hover close, and you buck your hips, seeking more friction. Faster than you can process, his other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. He isn’t going to give you anything until you give in.

You pout up at him. “Clark, please.”

He hums, satisfied. He pushes the thin scrap of lace aside and drags his fingers over your slit, gathering the wetness he causes. “That’s more like it.”

A soft whine breaks free from your lips when his thumb circles your clit, the sudden contact sending a jolt of pleasure through your whole body. He kisses you again, swallowing your moan as his fingers work you slowly but relentlessly.

“You want to tease me?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath ragged now, too. “You want to push me until I snap?”

You nod, barely able to form words, clinging to the edge of the desk as if it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

“Then you’ll take every second of it,” he growls, pressing his thumb harder as two fingers slip inside you, filling you so perfectly your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth falls open in a soundless gasp.

Without Clark’s hand on your hips, you wouldn’t be able to stay up. He continues to rub his thumb over your clit, fingers fucking you at a steady pace. He isn’t giving you enough; each movement is deliberate. This is payback.

You reach your hand between your bodies, palming his dick through his slacks. His body jolts, and he grinds into your hand. Your fingers grip him, and you moan into his mouth, excitement and anticipation building.

Clark breaks the kiss, fingers leaving your pussy. You whine, walls clenching on nothing as he steps back, breaking all contact. You lean back, chest rising and falling rapidly, holding yourself up on his desk by your forearms. Clark can’t help but stare down at you, admiring the mess he has made. Your lips are swollen, your hair is mussed, your legs are open, panting like you just ran a marathon, all while you still wear his glasses.

His eyes slowly drag up and down your body, lingering on how your skirt is bunched high on your thighs. He can see the faint outline of your lips through your damp panties. When his eyes meet yours again, they are darker than you have ever seen: hungry, possessive, and dangerous.

“Look at you.” He steps forward again, large hands grabbing your knees before spreading your legs open and taking his place between them. “So desperate and pretty… All because you wanted to play your little game.”

Your breath hitches as you watch wide-eyed while he removes his hands from your legs and undoes his pants. Nothing could have prepared you for what you see- you know he is large from grabbing him, but you never expected the quiet, shy man you work with to be packing that much. A groan escapes his lips as he frees himself, dick standing at attention. He grips himself, lazily pumping while his eyes never leave you.

You watch in awe, mouth watering at the sight. A bead of precum appears on his tip. You know better than to touch yourself or him. The strength he displays leaves you sure you don’t stand a chance, and you are tired of him teasing you. Your thighs clench together, trying to gain friction as you watch him. “Clark, please!”

His smile is wicked as he raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “Please, what?”

You huff out, “Fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow, continuing to jerk himself off. “I don’t know. You tease me for months. It only seems fair to make you wait.”

Your bottom lip pouts out, and you raise your hips. “Dammit, Clark. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please fuck me, please. I need it. I need you.”

That is all the convincing he needs. Clark dips his head down to kiss you again, deep and claiming. His body pushes yours back until you are lying on the desk completely, hair sprawled over notes and paperwork.

His hand leaves his dick and grabs your skirt, pushing it up before pulling your panties down your legs in a quick movement. The cool air of the office hitting your slick pussy makes you shudder.

He quickly moves back between your legs, and you jump, feeling the warmth of his length against you. Clark grabs your hips and pulls you back so your ass hangs off the desk. He grinds himself against you, his dick sliding between your folds, his precum mixing with your wetness.

“You wanted this,” Clark growls. “You wanted to know what happens when I stop being polite.”

When he finally thrusts into you, it is without warning: one long, slow push that has you gasping, walls clenching desperately around him as he fills you to the hilt.

Your cry echoes through the empty newsroom, mixing with the low groan he lets out against your ear as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment. Your walls burn, unused to taking someone this large. Your eyes clench shut, and you breathe through your mouth. Clark savors how you clench around him, feeling perfect before his hips pull back and snap back into you.

Your hands grip his forearms as he hammers into you. His large hands hold your waist as he fucks into you, making you feel even smaller compared to him. Clark watches you through his eyelashes, jaw clenching before he reaches a hand down where your bodies meet. He spreads his palm over the bottom of your stomach, groaning at the feeling of his dick moving inside you. He holds you in place there, using your body as leverage before his thumb begins rubbing your clit.

Your eyes roll back as he fucks you without mercy. Your legs clench around his hips, trying to pull him closer. Each thrust is paired with his thumb circling your clit, making your mind go numb with pleasure. You didn’t just crave this all those months you teased him. You needed this.

The pleasure in your core coils as he pumps inside you. Your eyes roll back as you feel it tighten when he adjusts your bodies, pulling your hips off the desk so his dick hits all the right spots.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Clark moans, hearing your voice. His pace quickens as he feels your walls clench around him. You are close, and you barely notice before the wave of pleasure overtakes you, cascading you into oblivion.

Clark is not far behind. The way your pussy feels as you come with him inside is heaven, and he doesn’t want to leave. His hips stutter, faltering before he pushes his cum into you, pumping as much as he can, unwilling to let any escape.

He collapses over you, propping himself up so he doesn’t crush you. His head presses against yours as he holds you close, eyes searching yours while you both catch your breath.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, voice raw and honest.

A small smile crosses your lips. You press a kiss to his before letting yourself melt into him, knowing the game has changed forever.

[mishappeningss]

omg i need more driver!yn and the wags pleaseeeeeee 🤍🤍🤍🤍🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🧎‍♀️‍➡️

she loves her girls :( sometimes she'd wonder what it would be like to be a wag too!

more about driver!yn

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly.

But when the sun finally slipped under the São Paulo skyline and the noise of the paddock gave way to silence, YN felt… hollow.

She’d pushed hard. Harder than her car could handle, maybe. P5 felt like a cruel consolation prize — not because it was bad, but because she knew she could’ve had more.

If the strategy had worked.

If the pit stop hadn’t cost her two seconds.

If she’d been a little bit braver on that last overtake.

Now, she sat cross-legged on the floor of a marble hotel bathroom — yes, the floor — still in her fireproofs, surrounded by makeup bags, scattered lashes, and empty espresso cups. The hotel suite was chaos.

And so were her friends.

Rebecca sat on the edge of the tub, perfectly composed in a white robe, sipping something amber from a heavy glass. She looked like a woman who did not know what failure meant, only how to destroy it with a smile.

Kika was dancing barefoot in the living room with a speaker under her arm, singing songs at full volume and dragging Lily Zneimer into twirls.

Carmen was sitting on the bed, rolling bracelets onto her wrist, probably texting George something dangerous.

Alex was painting her nails by the window with one knee up, her expression dreamy, but her eyes sharp on YN

Lily He was curled up in a chair flipping through a fashion magazine, humming to herself and asking no one in particular whether anyone had a hair mask she could borrow.

And Kelly, barefoot but regal, knelt beside YN slowly, offering her a tiny tub of Chanel moisturizer.

They all escaped from their boyfriends, insisting that tonight should be girl’s night out of all nights.

“You’re staring into space like a tragic French film,” Kelly murmured with a smirk. “Put this on before you make your pores depressed.”

“I’m fine,” YN mumbled, eyes tired.

“No, darling. You’re not. And that’s fine too.”

Rebecca leaned back on her hands. “P5 isn’t failure. It’s pressure in a different dress.”

“But I should’ve been on the podium,” YN said. “I felt it. It was right there. And now everyone’s talking like I peaked last month.”

Alex spoke for the first time, soft and lilting. “If they think you peaked, they’ve only seen a glimpse. They have no idea how loud you can be.”

“They will,” Carmen added. “Because you’re gonna win. And when you do, we’ll be there. In matching sunglasses.”

YN scoffed. “Great. At least my funeral of a season will be color-coordinated.”

“You’re dramatic,” Kika said from across the suite, still swaying to the music. “But that’s why we adore you.”

Kelly took YN’s hand and squeezed it. “Everyone has races they don’t win. You know what makes you terrifying?”

YN looked up, guarded.

“You never let it be enough. That’s what makes you unstoppable.”

For a beat, no one spoke. The music slowed. Lily He set down her magazine. Alex’s nail polish brush hovered mid-air.

Then Lily Zneimer said, “Also, no offense, you still looked hot as hell crossing the finish line.”

Everyone agreed.

They were wrapped in blankets and sipping champagne from mismatched glasses. The city sparkled below them. The scent of perfume, moisturiser, and lip oil lingered in the air.

Alexandra leaned against the balcony railing. “What are we, anyway? Groupies? Girlfriends?”

“Threats,” Carmen answered.

“Icons,” said Kika.

Rebecca smiled, “Women.”

YN finally let herself laugh. A real one. Exhausted, quiet, but real.

“You guys are insane.”

Lily He leaned her head on YN’s shoulder. “And you’re ours.”

[jordiemeow]

jo!! if it feels too repetitive no worries but i’d loooove another version of your “current boyfriend” trend but with clark kent :)

Clark has always been easy to tease. It's not just his small-town earnestness or how his face lit up like a Christmas tree at the smallest of compliments—though both certainly help. No, it's deeper than that. He just has this constant, unshakeable sincerity about him. Like he means every word he says, like he genuinely believes you would never lie to him. It's adorable. But it also makes messing with him all the more tempting.

So when that TikTok trend surfaced, you knew your boyfriend would make the perfect victim. You've been waiting patiently all day, biding your time like a cat watching a bird feeder. And then, finally, when you hear him switch the tap off after brushing his teeth down the hall—

"Baaabe?" You call oh-so-sweetly from the living room.

There's a light whoosh from the hallway—not the superhero flying kind, just Clark moving a little faster than most people could. He appears in the doorway, glasses slightly askew from being put on so fast, scanning the room like he expects to find something broken.

"What’s wrong? Something happen?" He asks, concern evident in his voice. He looks adorably like this. Breath minty fresh, face clean and a pair of baby blue pyjamas clinging to his massive frame.

You lean against the sofa, smiling at him far too innocently. "Nope," you chirp, popping the ‘p.’ "Do you want to make a video with me?"

You can see his shoulders visually ease, but the concern on his face doesn't vanish entirely. His expression just shifts into that slight frown he wears when trying to decipher modern technology. "A video? Of what?"

"You’ll see. Just stand next to me for a second and smile. It’s for TikTok."

He rubs the back of his neck in classic I’m uneasy but I don’t want to hurt your feelings so I’ll do it anyways Clark fashion and steps closer to you, trying to wipe the uncertainty off his face. You can tell he's tempted to ask what TikTok has to do with anything, but he chooses to trust you without understanding. How cute.

"Okay… but why am I standing here, exactly?" He says, fixing the frames of his glasses when he catches a glimpse of how wonky they are in your phone camera.

"Because you're the star of the show, duh."

"That sounds dangerous. I'm not sure whether I should be trusted with that. You make a much better star," he replies earnestly.

You just laugh and hit record before he has a chance to second-guess himself (and butter you up with another smooth line to get out of it). It's all too easy to slide into the influencer voice you put on every night to do your skincare routine—which he secretly thinks is a little weird but indulges anyways—and speak like there's thousands of imaginary followers hanging on to your every word.

"Okay, guys, so here’s my current boyfriend."

You feel him stiffen beside you, his uncertain smile wavering ever so slightly. Biting your lip, you force yourself not to crack into a smile just yet. "His name is Clark. He's super sweet. And, like, ridiculously strong. You should see him when he’s working out. But anyways, yeah. My current boyfriend!"

The second one seems to get him, like he'd been convinced the first one was just some slip of the tongue. Now he blinks at you, confusion etched across every line of his stupidly handsome face.

"Current?"

"Uh-huh."

It's hard not to laugh when he's so thoroughly perplexed, his voice soft like he's genuinely worried about you. Or maybe himself, if he's really so current. "Why do you keep saying 'current?' I thought—I mean… did I do something? I'm sorry if I did. What changed? Because I—"

His concerned rambling is cut short when you dissolve into laughter.

"No, no. Of course not," you manage between breaths. "That’s the trend. You’re not being replaced."

His entire body sags with relief. His hands, which had been half-curled into defensive fists by his sides, relax. "Oh. I see." A pause. "Wait, so… we’re good? I’ll stay current forever?"

"Yeah, Smallville. You’re kind of irreplaceable."

You reach up on your toes to kiss his cheek, smiling to yourself when you feel the familiar warmth of a blush spread under your lips. Clark Kent, saviour of Metropolis, Superman himself… blushing at a simple peck to the cheek. It never gets old.

He smiles down at you sheepishly. "I still don’t get TikTok."

"That’s okay." You pat his broad chest patronisingly. "You’re pretty enough for the both of us."

An embarrassed little laugh spills out of him. "I can’t believe you filmed that," he says, cheeks still pink.

"Oh, I didn’t just film it. I’m posting it."

His horror is immediate. "But people are going to think we're breaking up!" (And he really doesn’t want to deal with Jimmy sending him texts about fumbling you.)

"Exactly. Then engagement rumours tomorrow."

He sighs—a deep, resigned sigh, like this is yet another part of human life he'll just never understand. "Next time… maybe warn me first?"

"But then it wouldn’t be funny. It has to be authentic."

Clark stares down at you for a long moment. Eventually, he just smiles softly in that way that tells you he's letting you win. Again.

"Fine," he relents. And then his voice drops lower into something a little more teasing. "But just remember… I can hear your heartbeat change when you’re planning these."

"What? You’ve known every time?" Your mouth falls open incredulously.

"Every time."

"… And you still fall for it?"

Clark's eyes crinkle at the corners. "I like hearing you laugh."

For the first time that evening, you have absolutely no comeback. He chuckles, leaning down to press a wet kiss to your forehead. And then he murmurs in your ear:

"How's that for authentic?"

—

taglist: @newrochellechallenger2019 @gibsongirrl @imperishablereverie @gracelynnx @ellaynaonsaturn @randomgurl2326 @idksammi @grimsonandclover @freddyfazblair @shahabaqsa0310 @peachyparkerr — (join here)

[crochetnerdsworld]

A Surprise Sighing (Alexia Putellas X Reader)

Y/N surprises her girlfriend, Alexia Putellas, by signing for Barcelona. She doesn't tell her until Y/N's first practice day. Alexia is ecstatic when the new signing is revealed to be Y/N. The team teases the heck out of their normally stoic captain for being so smiley around Y/N.

The summer heat in Barcelona was relentless, but nothing could dampen your excitement as you stood outside the Joan Gamper training center, official contract tucked safely in your bag. After months of secret negotiations, medical examinations, and paperwork, you were finally here—officially a Barcelona player. The only person who didn't know yet was the one person who mattered most.

It had all started four months ago when your agent had called with an opportunity that seemed too good to be true. Barcelona were interested, but they wanted to keep negotiations completely under wraps until everything was finalized. The secrecy was unusual, but when you learned it was because they wanted to make a statement signing that would surprise everyone—including their own players—you understood the intrigue.

The hardest part hadn't been the negotiations, the medical examinations, or even relocating your entire life. It had been lying to Alexia.

Your girlfriend had been complaining for weeks about the club's slow transfer activity, pacing around your shared apartment while gesturing dramatically at her phone. "We need more depth in midfield," she'd said just last night, completely oblivious to the fact that her girlfriend had already signed to provide exactly that. "The board keeps promising reinforcements, but where are they? Pre-season starts tomorrow and we're going in with the same squad as last year."

You'd bitten your tongue so many times over the past month that it was a miracle you hadn't drawn blood. Every time she mentioned the team's needs, every time she wondered aloud about potential signings, you'd had to physically restrain yourself from spilling the secret.

The worst had been three weeks ago when she'd found you on a video call with your agent, speaking in hushed tones. You'd quickly ended the call, claiming it was about "endorsement opportunities," but Alexia's curious expression had lingered. Since then, she'd been asking more questions about your future plans, your contract situation with your current club, whether you'd given any thought to playing in Spain.

"I just want us to be in the same country," she'd said one evening, curled up against you on the couch. "Long distance is hard enough without adding different time zones and flight schedules."

You'd kissed the top of her head, heart aching with the secret you couldn't share. "What if I told you I've been looking into opportunities in Spain?"

Her head had shot up, eyes bright with hope. "Really? You'd consider moving here?"

"For you? I'd consider moving anywhere."

She'd kissed you then, soft and grateful, whispering against your lips about how much she loved you. You'd nearly broken then, nearly told her everything, but somehow you'd managed to hold onto the surprise.

The hardest part had been turning down her invitation to join her morning runs around the city, claiming you needed to "sort out some career stuff"—which wasn't entirely a lie. While she was out jogging, you'd been sneaking off to the training ground for medical examinations and facility tours, meeting with coaching staff and getting fitted for training gear.

Two days ago, you'd had to feign food poisoning to avoid going to dinner with her and some of her teammates, because you were actually at the club signing your official contract and doing a secret photo shoot for the announcement materials.

"You've been so weird lately," she'd said yesterday morning, pressing her palm to your forehead to check for fever. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... distant."

The concern in her voice had nearly broken your resolve. "I'm fine, amor. Just some career stuff I'm working through. Nothing to worry about."

"You know you can tell me anything, right? We're a team."

"I know," you'd whispered, hating yourself for the worry lines creasing her forehead. "Soon, okay? I promise I'll explain everything soon."

Now, watching the players filter into the training ground for the first session of pre-season, your heart hammered against your ribs. You'd coordinated everything with Jonatan and the staff. They'd introduce you as the surprise signing after the warm-up, letting the team know they had a new teammate.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Alexia: Buenos días, amor. Missing you at training. Wish you were here to see whatever chaos awaits us today. Te amo ❤️

You smiled, typing back quickly: You might be surprised by today's chaos. Love you too.

Another text came through almost immediately: What are you up to today? Want to meet for lunch after training? I want to hear about this mysterious career stuff you've been dealing with.

Your chest tightened with guilt and excitement. Rain check on lunch? But I promise, everything will make sense very soon.

You're being very cryptic lately. Should I be worried?

Trust me, Ale. Just... trust me.

Always ❤️

You took a shaky breath, tucking your phone away. In just a few hours, all the secrecy and careful planning would be worth it. You could picture her face when she realized what was happening, and it made your stomach flutter with anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way to the staff entrance where Jonatan was waiting with a knowing grin.

"Ready to surprise your girlfriend?" he asked, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"As ready as I'll ever be. She's been so suspicious lately. I think she knows something is up."

"Well, she's certainly not expecting this," he chuckled. "I've coached Alexia for years, and I've never seen her as happy as she's been since you two got together. This is going to make her day. Her whole year, probably."

"No pressure," you laughed nervously.

"Don't worry. From what I've heard about your relationship, and from what I've seen of your playing, this is going to be perfect. Just wait until you see her face."

Inside the training facility, Alexia was going through her usual pre-training routine, but her mind kept wandering to you. She'd grown accustomed to having you around during the off-season, and your absence felt strange. Something had been different about you lately—secretive phone calls, mysterious meetings, an unusual reluctance to discuss your future plans.

The mysterious behavior had started about a month ago. You'd become evasive about your schedule, claiming meetings with your agent that seemed to happen at odd hours. When she'd asked about your contract situation with your current club, you'd given vague answers about "exploring options" and "waiting to see what develops."

Then there were the phone calls you'd take in the other room, speaking in hushed tones that would stop abruptly when she entered. The way your laptop screen would quickly close when she walked by. The fact that you'd suddenly become very interested in learning Spanish phrases related to football and contracts.

"Maybe I'm overthinking it," she muttered to herself, but the worry gnawed at her. Were you planning to sign somewhere else? Somewhere even further away? The thought made her stomach clench with anxiety.

"Capi, you're frowning at your boots like they've personally offended you," Mapi commented, dropping down beside her to lace up her cleats.

"Just thinking," Alexia mumbled, not wanting to voice her concerns about your recent behavior.

"About Y/N?" Ingrid asked knowingly, settling on Alexia's other side. "You've had that worried girlfriend look all morning."

"Is it that obvious?" Alexia sighed.

"You've been checking your phone every five minutes since you got here," Mapi observed. "And you have that little crease between your eyebrows that only shows up when you're stressed about something."

"She's been... different lately," Alexia admitted. "Secretive. I'm starting to wonder if she's planning to sign somewhere else and doesn't know how to tell me."

"Have you asked her about it?" Ingrid suggested gently.

"I've tried, but she just says she's 'working through some career stuff' and changes the subject. What if she's gotten an offer from another league? What if she's moving even further away?"

Before her teammates could respond, Patri bounded over with her usual energy. "Did someone say Y/N? When do we get to meet this mysterious girlfriend who's managed to make our captain go all soft?"

"I am not soft," Alexia protested, but her teammates' laughter suggested otherwise. Despite her worries, she couldn't help but smile a little when they talked about you.

"You literally smile at your phone every time she texts," Claudia pointed out, joining their little circle. "And you get this dopey expression—"

"It's not dopey," Alexia defended.

"Oh, it's definitely dopey," Aitana chimed in, sitting down to stretch. "Remember last week when she sent you that picture of her morning coffee and you stared at it for like ten minutes with this dreamy look on your face?"

"It was a very aesthetic coffee," Alexia mumbled, her cheeks warming.

"You saved it to your favorites folder," Mapi added with a grin. "Along with approximately 500 other photos of her doing completely mundane things."

"I like having pictures of my girlfriend," Alexia said defensively. "Sue me."

"We're not judging," Ingrid said kindly. "It's actually really sweet how much you love her. We just think it's funny how you pretend to be all tough and stoic, but the moment anyone mentions Y/N, you turn into a marshmallow."

"I do not turn into a marshmallow."

"Capi," Patri said solemnly, "you spent fifteen minutes at team dinner last week explaining the perfect way she makes her breakfast eggs. Fifteen. Minutes. About eggs."

"They're really good eggs," Alexia muttered, but she was fighting a smile now.

"And then there was the time you made us all look at that video of her juggling a football in her backyard," Claudia added. "Like, twenty times."

"She has excellent technique!"

"Or when you explained her entire tactical philosophy to us," Aitana joined in. "In detail. With diagrams."

"She's a brilliant player," Alexia said, her voice softening with pride. "You should see the way she reads the game, the way she can control the tempo of a match. She's incredible."

Her teammates exchanged knowing looks. There it was—that dreamy expression they'd been talking about.

"See?" Mapi said triumphantly. "Marshmallow."

Alexia rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny it. She was completely gone for you, and apparently, it was obvious to everyone. The thought made her chest warm, but it also reminded her of her current worry.

"I just... I hope she's okay," she said quietly. "Whatever she's dealing with, I wish she'd let me help."

"Have you told her that?" Ingrid asked.

"I've tried, but she keeps saying everything will make sense soon. What if 'soon' means she's leaving?"

"Hey," Patri said, her tone gentler now. "Y/N loves you. That much is obvious from the way you light up every time you talk to her. Whatever she's dealing with, I'm sure it's not about your relationship."

"Besides," Mapi added, "if she was planning to leave, would she really be learning Spanish football terminology? Because according to you, she's been asking about all sorts of specific phrases lately."

Alexia paused. That was true. Just last week, you'd asked her how to say "training ground" and "contract negotiation" in Spanish. At the time, she'd assumed you were just being curious, but now...

"That's... actually a good point," she said slowly.

"Maybe she's planning something good," Aitana suggested with a knowing smile that made Alexia look at her suspiciously.

"Do you know something I don't?"

"I know lots of things you don't," Aitana replied innocently, but there was definitely something mischievous in her expression.

Jonatan's whistle cut through the chatter, calling everyone to gather around. "Before we start today's session, I have an announcement. We've been working on a signing that we've managed to keep under wraps, and I'm excited to introduce you to your new teammate."

Alexia perked up with interest, her worries about you momentarily forgotten. A new signing that had been kept secret? That was unusual for the club, especially given how these things typically leaked to the press. She found herself genuinely curious about who they'd managed to sign without any media attention.

"Finally," she murmured to Mapi. "Maybe this will help with our midfield depth issues."

"Please welcome our new midfielder," Jonatan continued, gesturing toward the tunnel with barely contained excitement.

Alexia craned her neck to see past her teammates, genuinely intrigued. A secret signing was unusual enough, but Jonatan seemed particularly pleased about this one. There was something in his expression that suggested this was more than just a routine transfer.

And then you appeared, walking out in full Barcelona training gear, trying to look casual despite the fact that your heart was about to beat out of your chest.

The world seemed to slow down for Alexia. At first, her brain couldn't process what she was seeing. It was like looking at two separate realities that couldn't possibly exist simultaneously—you, her girlfriend who was supposed to be dealing with mysterious career stuff, and you, wearing Barcelona colors and being introduced as their new signing.

The reaction was immediate and varied. Several players started clapping and calling out welcomes, but Alexia went completely still, her mouth falling open in shock. She blinked hard, certain she was hallucinating, but you were still there, still real, still wearing the Barcelona crest on your chest.

"Surprise," you said, meeting her stunned gaze across the training pitch, your voice carrying just enough to reach her.

For a moment, nobody moved. Alexia's teammates were looking between her and you with growing understanding and delight, but Alexia herself seemed frozen in place, her mind racing to catch up with reality.

Then everything clicked at once—the secretive phone calls, the mysterious meetings, the Spanish football terminology, the way you'd been asking about her teammates and the training schedule. It all made perfect sense now.

"Oh my God," she whispered, and then she was running toward you, her face breaking into the biggest smile anyone had ever seen her wear. She practically launched herself into your arms, spinning you around right there in front of everyone, her usual composure completely forgotten.

"¡Dios mío! You're here! You're actually here!" she exclaimed, switching between Spanish and English in her excitement, her words tumbling over each other. "How did you—when did you—why didn't you tell me? This is what you've been doing? All those mysterious meetings?"

"I wanted to surprise you," you laughed, holding her tight, relief flooding through you at her reaction. "Surprise?"

"This is the best surprise ever," she said, pulling back to look at you with shining eyes, her hands cupping your face as if to make sure you were real. "I can't believe you're going to be my teammate. We're going to play together! Actually play together!"

She kissed you then, right there in front of everyone, too overwhelmed with joy to care about being professional. When she pulled away, her eyes were bright with unshed tears of happiness.

"I thought you were leaving," she admitted quietly, her forehead resting against yours. "I thought all the secrecy meant you were signing somewhere far away."

"The only place I'm going is right here," you assured her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "With you."

"Okay, this is disgustingly cute," Mapi called out, but she was grinning. "Capi, I've never seen you smile this much. Your face might break."

"She's practically glowing," Patri added with a theatrical gasp. "Our stoic captain has been replaced by a lovesick teenager!"

Alexia finally seemed to remember where she was, stepping back slightly but keeping her hands on your arms as if to make sure you were real. Her cheeks were pink, but her smile never wavered.

"Everyone, this is Y/N," she said, her voice filled with pride. "My girlfriend and apparently our new midfielder."

"The famous Y/N!" Ingrid exclaimed, coming over to give you a hug. "We've heard so much about you. Alexia talks about you constantly."

"She does not," Alexia protested weakly.

"She literally has a folder on her phone labeled 'Y/N photos' with like 500 pictures," Claudia announced, causing Alexia to turn an even deeper shade of red.

"That's perfectly normal," Alexia muttered, but her teammates were having none of it.

"Remember when she made us watch that video of you making breakfast like fifteen times because 'look how perfect she is'?" Aitana added, joining the growing circle of teasing teammates.

"Or when she spent an entire team dinner explaining your playing style and how brilliant you are," Mapi chimed in. "We thought she was scouting you for the team. Turns out she was just being a proud girlfriend."

You looked at Alexia with amusement. "You really talked about me that much?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted, unable to stop smiling. "Can you blame me? Look at you. You're perfect, and now you're here, and we get to play together, and—"

"And she's doing it again," Patri sang. "Look at that smile! Capi, you're practically glowing!"

"I've never seen her this happy," Jana observed with a grin. "It's actually kind of sweet."

"Sweet?" Mapi snorted. "It's nauseating. Good thing Y/N is here to play football and not just to make our captain go all dreamy-eyed."

Jonatan clapped his hands to get everyone's attention, though he was clearly enjoying the scene as much as everyone else. "Alright, alright. You can tease your captain later. Right now, let's get Y/N integrated into training. She'll be working with the midfield group today."

"Try not to stare too much, Capi," Mapi called out as the team began to disperse for warm-ups.

"I make no promises," Alexia called back, earning another round of laughter.

As the team spread out across the pitch, you found yourself surrounded by curious teammates eager to welcome you properly.

"So," Keira said with a grin, "how long have you two been planning this?"

"About four months," you admitted. "It was torture keeping it secret."

"Four months?" Patri exclaimed. "And Alexia had no idea?"

"None whatsoever. Though she definitely suspected something was up the last few weeks."

"She was driving us crazy with worry," Ingrid said fondly. "Kept thinking you were going to sign somewhere else and move even further away."

"The irony," you laughed, "is that I was actually moving closer."

"She's going to be insufferable now," Mapi observed, watching Alexia jog over to join your group with the biggest smile still plastered on her face. "Look at her. I don't think I've ever seen her this happy."

"Good," you said simply. "She deserves to be happy."

"Okay, everyone," Jonatan called out. "Let's start with some light running to warm up. Y/N, just follow along and get a feel for how we do things."

As the team began their warm-up laps, you fell into step beside Alexia, who seemed incapable of wiping the grin off her face.

"You know," she said quietly, "I was so worried this morning. I thought you were going to tell me you'd signed somewhere else."

"Never," you assured her. "Though I have to ask—did I really do that bad of a job keeping it secret? Your teammates seem to think I was pretty obvious."

"You were asking a lot of very specific questions about Spanish football," she laughed. "And you kept talking about wanting to play in Europe. Plus, you've been mysteriously unavailable at very convenient times."

"I can't believe you didn't figure it out."

"I think part of me didn't want to get my hopes up," she admitted. "This felt too good to be true."

"Well, you better get used to it," you said, bumping her shoulder playfully. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Behind you, Mapi was providing running commentary to the rest of the team.

"Look at them," she said loudly enough for you both to hear. "They're having a romantic moment during warm-up laps. This is our captain, everyone. Our fearless leader is completely whipped."

"I can hear you!" Alexia called back, but she was laughing.

"We know!" Patri replied cheerfully. "We're not being subtle!"

"I like your teammates," you told Alexia with a grin.

"They're terrible," she said fondly. "But they're going to love having you here. Almost as much as I do."

The warm-up continued with the team's playful commentary providing a constant soundtrack.

"Capi's running form has improved dramatically," Aitana observed. "Must be the extra spring in her step."

"She's practically floating," Jana agreed. "It's actually kind of impressive."

"Think she'll be able to concentrate during tactical discussions?" Claudia wondered aloud.

"Doubtful," Keira replied. "She's been staring at Y/N for the past ten minutes straight."

"I have not been staring," Alexia protested.

"You literally just ran into a cone because you were looking at her instead of where you were going," Mapi pointed out.

"That cone came out of nowhere," Alexia said with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn't much considering she was still beaming like a fool.

"Sure it did, Capi. Sure it did."

"Oi, lovebirds!" Mapi called out from across the pitch. "Save the heart-eyes for after training! We've got work to do!"

Alexia rolled her eyes but laughed, finally releasing your hand. "Come on, let me show you how we do things here."

As you jogged toward the rest of the team, you could hear the playful comments continuing behind you.

"She's still smiling," someone said in amazement.

"Think she'll be able to concentrate on training?"

"At this rate, she might float right off the pitch."

"Our captain is whipped," Patri declared dramatically. "Absolutely whipped."

You glanced over at Alexia, who was trying to look stern but failing completely as her smile kept breaking through.

"Don't listen to them," she said, though her tone was fond rather than annoyed.

"I don't know," you teased. "I kind of like seeing this side of you. My teammates always said I was too serious on the pitch. Maybe you can teach me how to smile more during training."

"I think you're going to fit in perfectly here," Alexia said, and from the way her teammates continued their good-natured ribbing throughout the entire session, you had a feeling she was right.

The best part was watching Alexia try to maintain her captain's composure while being completely unable to wipe the smile off her face every time she looked your way. By the end of training, even Jonatan was shaking his head with amusement.

"I've never seen her this happy," he commented to his assistant coach. "This is either going to be the best thing for team morale, or we're going to have to separate them during tactical discussions."

But as you and Alexia walked off the pitch together, her arm slung around your shoulders and both of you grinning like fools, it was clear that having you at Barcelona was going to be nothing but good news for everyone involved.

Even if it meant dealing with a love-struck captain who couldn't stop smiling.

[pitchsidestories]

What was left of summer (1) II Jana Fernández x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1866

summary: a summer of football, friendship, and the feelings they couldn’t outrun. requested

author's note: Hi, we really enjoyed writing this fanfic and hope you liked reading it. As always, we’d love to hear your thoughts, feel free to leave a comment or message us. <3

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

After training, the sun was dipping low behind the rooftops of Barcelona, casting everything in amber light. You and your two friends lay sprawled on the grass, the scent of warm earth and distant jasmine drifting on the breeze. Overhead, clouds drifted lazily across the sky, a painting in motion.

Years from now, you'd remember these evenings. The ones where summer felt endless, where the days stretched out like golden ribbons, and you kicked the ball around with your best mates until your legs ached and your cheeks burned from laughing.

“Do you think we'll always stay friends?”, Bruna asked, her voice soft, sudden.

You squeezed her hand: “Yes. No doubt about it.”

“Of course we will.”, Jana grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

The striker sat up, eyes gleaming: “And we’ll all play for the adult team soon.”

“Hopefully.”, you swallowed, you knew it wouldn’t be easy to make the women’s first team , not for someone like you.

Jana stood, brushed the grass from her legs, and stretched: “Come on. We should head home.”

“But it’s so nice out.”, Bruna said, waving her arms wide at the sky. She wasn’t wrong, the heat was beginning to lift, and the air carried that soft promise of nightfall.

You grabbed your bikes from the fence: “Let’s take the prettier, longer way home.”

Bruna’s eyes lit up: “Yes!”

“Yay! That means we can get ice cream,” she added, laughing, “if Jana doesn’t stop every five minutes to take another sunset photo.”

“Leave me alone, it’s pretty!” Jana defended herself.

Pretending to be annoyed, the youngest shrugged nonchalantly: “You took loads today. Most of them had y/n in them.”

“It’s fine. I love being Jana’s muse."you replied, grinning. “So stop complaining, Bruna. Let’s see who gets to the ice cream place first!”

The defender immediately protested: “Your muse?! Hey! I’ll beat you. Loser has to pay!”

A few minutes later, you reached your favourite ice cream spot, turning to her with a triumphant grin. “I won which means you’re paying.”

You were caught off guard as Jana suddenly smeared her ice cream across your face.

“Excuse me?!”, you mumbled, lips forming a pout. But why, you wondered, had your heart suddenly started beating faster?

A mischievous smirk played on the brunette’s face:“You deserved it.”

“You should have seen your face.”, Bruna chimed in, chuckling.

With a sigh, you shook your head, trying and failing to hold back a laugh: “Not funny.”

“It’s a bit funny,”, Jana countered.

“Maybe a little.“, you admitted, before dabbing the last bit of ice cream from your cone onto her nose.

Her expression was priceless, wide-eyed, mock-offended and something you'd always remember when you thought back to the summers you’d shared with her and Bruna.

One year later, the view was different but the sun still set right after training. Things felt normal and different all at once as you sat on the beach with your friends, pizza boxes spread out around you. Not the healthiest meal but exactly what warm summer night called for.

You took a bite of a slice and turned to Jana who was lying on her back, trying to pull the hot cheese off her pizza in a long string.

“So you fell in love, Jana? With who?”, you asked teasingly.

Bruna perked up: “Yes, we’re dying to know.”

Jana sat up slowly, chewing deliberately before smirking: “You girls would like him. He’s so sweet. We already kissed.”

You shouldn’t have been surprised about that piece of information but you were.

Raising an eyebrow, you asked: “When will we get to see him? So we can judge for ourselves?”

She shrugged nonchalantly but clearly enjoying the attention: “Maybe soon. He’s always busy, he plays football too, you know? He’s really good, he could go pro.”

You held back an eye-roll. That was what every dumb boy your age said to impress girls. You refused to believe that your best friend would fall for that bullshit.

“Typical boys, they all think they’re going to be the next Messi or Ronaldo.”, you muttered.

Jana clearly didn’t want to seem bothered by your comment but there was a certain sharpness in her voice when she replied: “Who knows? Maybe they will be.”

“But that isn’t fair. Like why does going pro look so much different for them than it does for us? We could be as good as them but no one would notice.”, you continued, heat rising your stomach.

Jana rolled her eyes, already too familiar with your rants: “Because we’re girls, y/n.”

“But that’s not right! Tell me, does your guy like that you play or…?”, you were about to ask but you didn’t get to finish.

“Stop it!” Jana snapped, cutting you off. “Just because you’re a fucking lesbian doesn’t mean you have to dump all your hate for men on me!”

The way she spat these words at you, made your stomach drop. Everything seemed to freeze and go quiet. You stared at her unblinking for a few seconds. Then you stood up and wordlessly walked away.

You couldn’t shake the disgusted look on her face when she said it.

From the distance, you heard her voice again, much softer this time: “Shit… y/n!”

“Wow... you really fucked up this time.”, Bruna said, letting out a low whistle of disapproval.

Jana, frustrated, avoided the younger player's gaze, her eyes fixed instead on her perfectly manicured hands:“I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that... she was just so cruel about it.”

“You were both out of line. Go and apologise.”, the striker answered firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Crickets chirped in the warm night air. It was nearly midnight when Jana tossed a handful of small stones at your bedroom window. “Y/N, I’m sorry!”, she called gently.

With a hiss, you opened the window: “Jana? Do you even know what time it is?”

“I know, but this couldn’t wait. I didn’t mean it,” the brunette explained, running her hands nervously through her loose hair. You climbed down slowly, careful not to speak too loudly in case you woke your family. When you finally reached her, the moon cast a soft glow over both your faces.

“Well, I meant what I said about the injustices. But not about your guy. I don’t even know him. And yet... Jana?” “What?”, the defender asked, folding her arms across her chest, her expression expectant.

You hesitated before saying quietly: “You should be honest with yourself. Good night.”

“Honest? Y/N, what do you mean?”, Jana questioned in a hushed voice.

Something about your words left her unsettled, confused. Why did it feel like her heart had cracked, just a little?

You were just friends.

And yet... the feelings between you had always felt more intense than what friends usually shared.

It was the kind of intensity she thought was only meant for lovers.

Did that mean..?

Could it be, that you were something more?

The day had come. the one none of you had wanted to arrive. One of you was leaving Barcelona behind to join a new club. It was you who would be heading to England.

Waiting at the airport for your flight to be called, you glanced at your beloved friend’s face, heart aching at the hurt her eyes. “Bruna, please don’t look so sad.”

“I’m trying not to,” the striker replied, her voice thick. “But you’ll be missed here.”

You pulled her into a hug:“Oh, I’ll miss you all too.”

“Promise you will?”, Bruna murmured against your shoulder.

“I promise.“, you responded softly. “And I’ll call and FaceTime you as often as I can.”

“Okay.“, she whispered, nodding.

You searched the crowd for the defender, but she was nowhere to be seen. The absence stung. “Jana didn’t want to say goodbye... did she?”

Bruna hesitated, glancing over her shoulder one last time before answering: “She said she would come…”

You frowned. Any hope that Jana might still show up vanished instantly. You should have known better.

But then suddenly, someone came running towards you. Her swinging ponytail gave her away before you even saw her face. Your heart skipped a beat.

Jana.

“Y/n, can we talk for a second?”, she asked, slightly out of breath as she stopped in front of you. With a quick glance toward Bruna, she added: “Alone.”

You nodded: “Sure. Sorry, Bruna.”

But the youngest of you three didn’t seem to mind. There was a small sparkle in her eyes when she said: “It’s okay.”

She turned to leave but you had a feeling that she wasn’t going far. Whatever Jana had to say, Bruna would find out soon enough anyway.

You looked at Jana, eyebrows raised: “So?”

“I thought about what to tell you before you go.”, Jana revealed. Her voice was steady and confident but her fingers kept fidgeting nervously with the hem for her tank top.

“Okay?”, you prompted when she didn’t continue.

“And…”, Jana began but trailed off again when her eyes locked on yours.

It was like she was lost in your gaze and couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

Again, you tried to get her to finish her sentence: “Yes?”

Your mind began to race. Was she going to yell at you? Tell you that she hated you? That you’d never be friends again?

But none of that happened.

She remained silent but quickly took a step forward, bridging the distance. You didn’t realise what was happening until her lips were on yours and she kissed you. It wasn’t a peck or anything, she kissed you like you’d imagined she had kissed her boyfriend.

You pulled back, out of breath and thoroughly confused: “What?”

Jana licked her lips nervously: “I thought about it. Like you said.”

“And you came to a conclusion?”, you asked, your voice low.

She nodded, turning the palms of her hands upwards like she was presenting the answer to you: “That was it.”

You didn’t know how to react. Leaving your home for a new chapter of your career was hard enough. But her showing up right before your flight to reveal that she had feelings for you was too much. You almost wished, she hadn’t shown up.

“I have to catch my flight.”, you said as calmly as possible.

Jana whispered: “I know.”

Without another word, you took your suitcase and walked down the airport to your gate. You didn’t glance back, determined to leave the past behind in Barcelona.

But if you had, you would have seen Bruna return to Janas side, pulling her into a tight hug and whispering soothingly: “Jana, don’t cry.”

She shook her head, hot tears streaming down her cheeks: “I was so stupid.”

Bruna carefully wiped one away: “I mean it was pretty obvious. But we are all still trying to figure things out and that’s okay.”

“Maybe it was obvious. But not to me. Not until now.”, Jana sobbed, her voice cracking.

It didn’t matter anymore, you were already boarding your plane.

image sources

[anon-188]

off the record

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 1.2k

- husband!clark x journalist!reader (light)

summary: married life with clark kent means soft words, warm baths, and problems that mysteriously take care of themselves.

warnings: strong language (brief), but that’s it!

a/n: i just love how soft and gentle this man is. i might write more husband!clark content soon!! <3

It all started at the Daily Planet. With you, a copy machine, and Clark Kent…

You were rush-printing, darting back and forth between your desk and the copy machine that seemed hell-bent on testing your patience. You swore it had a personal vendetta against you. Paper jam. Low toner. Random blinking light that meant absolutely nothing. You were mid-grumble, juggling half a stack of still-warm pages, when your body slammed into someone.

Someone solid. Tall. Unmoving. 

Clark.

You stumbled back hard, breath caught in your throat, but before gravity could finish the job, he caught you. One arm steady at your waist, the other bracing just in case.

And while apologies probably should’ve been the first exchange between you, they weren’t. Just soft “hi’s,” eyes locked like the world didn’t exist. Like you weren’t very much at work.

Jimmy had broken the spell, popping his head around the corner to complain about your copies clogging the machine. You’d muttered something and scurried off, face burning.

At the time, you were beyond embarrassed. Mortified, even. But now?

Now, you and Clark laugh about it like it’s your favorite inside joke.

That day felt like a lifetime ago. Before you knew what he could do. Before the cape. Before you ever imagined you’d marry a man who could stop a plane midair and still somehow burn toast.

You smiled at the thought, your head tipping back against Clark’s chest as you sank deeper into the warm bathwater. His arms were wrapped around you, strong and grounding—one of the few things that had made you feel at ease today.

The bath had been his idea. A quiet suggestion spoken against your temple. Something to help you relax.

You let out a sigh, one meant to soothe you—but all it did was remind you why you needed this in the first place.

Steve Lombard. 

The reason you were so worked up? He’d gotten—more like stolen—the byline you pitched. The one you’d outlined, sourced, and submitted three times. Steve hadn’t even touched the story until yesterday. And now? He was scheduled to run it in the next edition.

It wasn’t just wrong—it was complete bullshit. 

You felt yourself start to relive it all over again, the frustration rising in your chest—

But then Clark pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Stop thinking about it,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re supposed to be relaxing. That’s the whole point of this, remember?”

You narrowed your eyes without lifting your head. 

“Are you sure you can’t read minds?”

He chuckled, low and warm. “You know I can’t.”

Then, his breath brushed your ear as he added,“But I can hear your heartbeat. And that little huff you let out every time someone says Steve’s name…”

You sighed through your nose.

He smirked. “Like that.”

You rolled your eyes and shifted slightly, turning just enough to glance up at him. “It’s not fair, Clark. And I say that as someone whose literal job is to stay neutral.”

He smiled, soft and understanding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

You could feel it coming before he said it.

“But…”

“But what?” you asked, giving him a pointed look, already knowing exactly where this was headed.

“But,” he said, matching your expression—only his carried more warmth. “You already gave that trouble your whole day.” Clark’s voice dipped quieter, steadier. “You don’t owe it your night too.”

And there it was.

The voice of reason. That unshakable calm he carried like second nature. Clark’s tenderness threaded with Superman’s clarity—gentle where it mattered, resolute when it counted.

He always knew how to quiet the storm in your mind—sometimes before it even had the chance to fully form. Just like now.

You shifted a little more in his arms. “You’re getting a little too good at that,” you murmured, voice light but laced with affection.

He knew what you meant. Had already caught the shift in your breathing, the way your body eased ever so slightly. A sign you were listening. Letting it go.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth before he kissed you—lips meeting yours in a way that asked for nothing and promised everything. 

The kind of kiss that didn’t seek reassurance, just gave it.

You turned back around, settling against his chest again. This time, actually letting yourself relax.

No more thoughts of Steve. No more replaying what-ifs or what-should-have-beens.

All you focused on was the warmth of Clark's body against yours, and that steady, familiar peace of being with the one person who always knew how to bring you back home.

The next morning, everything at the Planet felt… normal again. The buzz of the newsroom, the hum of too many phones ringing at once, the distant shuffle of papers—it was all the same.

You were still agitated, the sting of yesterday’s injustice hadn’t completely left, but last night helped.

Clark helped.

Now you stood at the coffee station, watching the machine wheeze and cough out something that barely qualified as drinkable. The smell alone was enough to make you question your choices, but you needed it. 

Then you heard it—

There was a slight commotion a few desks over. Nothing major, but just loud enough to catch your attention—Perry’s voice, sharp and no-nonsense, and Steve’s not far behind, defensive and flustered.

You couldn’t make out every word, but the gist was clear: Steve couldn’t find a single note related to the byline he tried to claim. Something about missing files. A corrupted drive.

Perry didn’t bite.

“If you can’t produce it, you’re not running it. End of story.”

A pause.

Then—

“Ms. Y/L/N!” Perry’s voice carried clean across the bullpen. “You still want that byline?”

You turned, coffee cup halfway to your mouth, already biting back a grin. “Absolutely.”

“Then it’s yours. I want a draft by end of day.”

“Yes, sir,” you replied, already walking back to your desk, the first real bounce in your step all morning.

Across the room, Clark sat at his desk, posture straight, eyes fixed on his screen like it held the secrets of the universe. Stoic. Focused. Suspiciously dialed in for 8:47 a.m. Even for him.

Raising your mug to your lips, you watched him over the rim. His expression was calm, almost too calm. Like a man performing innocence a little too well.

You eyed him knowingly. “Clark,” you whispered under your breath.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. But you knew better. Knew he’d heard you the second you said it.

You tilted the mug a little higher, shielding your mouth as you spoke into the ceramic.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with Steve’s entire draft folder going missing overnight, right?”

Still nothing. No shift in his eyes, no tilt of the head. He kept typing, quiet and composed.

But then you saw it. Just barely.

The corner of his mouth twitched, the dimple in his cheek deepening. A restrained smirk tugged at the edge of his otherwise saintly face.

That was all the answer you needed.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: open!

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[cheftsunoda]

hey baby <3

so after reading the kimi one today, i was wondering if you could do one for a underweight reader since one of my biggest insecurities growing up has been how skinny and bony i am. if possible could you do a lando x magui x reader or js a lando x reader :) ilysm angel <33

💋💋

just the way you are — ln4 + magui

written blurbs

lando norris x reader x magui corceiro

some days, you don’t even notice it. other days, it feels like all you see—sharp collarbones, thin wrists, the way your jeans never quite fit right. you’ve always been skinny, but not the kind people envy. the kind that makes you feel like you’re missing something. like you’re unfinished.

lately, the mirror’s been cruel. you try to hide it, but magui always knows. and lando? he doesn’t ask questions—he just pulls you into his arms like that’s where you’ve always belonged.

they love you like you’re whole. and someday you will come to see yourself, exactly how they see you.

(a/n) : MY BABY IS HERE. MY PERFECT POOKIE PRINCESS IS IN MY INBOX AND I GOT ON THIS REQUEST AS SOON AS I SAW IT. i love you so so much and i hope you know that you are always so perfect and so beautiful to me. you are so strong and thank you for trusting me enough to share with me and i appreciate you and love you so so so so much. hope you enjoy beautiful angel!!

—

—

You loved days like this—sunlight spilling over the peach-colored rooftops of Monaco, Magui’s hand looped through yours, and Lando trailing just behind with a camera slung over his shoulder and a smile he seemed to save just for the two of you. It was a slow day, a quiet one, and the three of you had decided to wander the old streets and do a little shopping before lunch by the water.

It was all light and lovely until you stepped into the little boutique on Rue Grimaldi.

It was the kind of place that smelled like fresh linen and citrus, with racks of flowy dresses and cropped knits that looked effortless on the hanger. Magui was already glowing, holding up a silky green piece and laughing. She tossed it over her arm and nudged you toward the changing rooms.

“Try it on with this skirt, baby. You’d look so good,” she grinned, handing you a delicate white piece that tied at the waist.

You smiled back—small, unsure—but nodded and disappeared into the changing room with it.

It wasn’t immediate. You slipped into the top, adjusted the skirt. At first glance, it didn’t look bad. But the longer you stared, the more your eyes zeroed in on the way your collarbones jutted out too much, the way your ribs cast shadows under the lighting, how the waistband of the skirt seemed to hang more than hug. There was nothing wrong, but it didn’t feel right.

You shifted, looking at yourself from the side. Tugged at the top. Tried to smooth your hands down your arms, as if they’d suddenly gain softness or weight under your touch.

You didn’t hear the curtain open—Magui’s soft voice just floated in, warm and careful.

“Hey, you okay?”

You blinked quickly and nodded, but your throat was tight. You kept your arms crossed over your midsection.

“It doesn’t fit right,” you mumbled, eyes trained on your feet. “Everything just looks… wrong. I look like a hanger. I hate it.”

In a heartbeat, Magui was in the room with you, gentle fingers tucking your hair behind your ear as she met your eyes in the mirror

.

“Hey. Don’t do that,” she said softly, her brows drawing together. “You don’t look like a hanger. You look like you. And you are—god, you are so beautiful, just like this.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught. You didn’t want to cry. You hated crying in public places.

Then Lando’s voice joined, muffled slightly as he hovered near the curtain. “Can I come in?”

Magui glanced at you. You nodded.

He stepped in and saw you—really saw you—and his whole expression melted. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just came up behind you, warm arms looping gently around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Love,” he murmured, “you’re not made to fit clothes. Clothes are supposed to fit you. And if they don’t, screw the clothes.”

You laughed weakly, blinking against the sting in your eyes. Magui leaned in and kissed the top of your cheekbone, trailing a thumb under your eye to wipe away what threatened to fall.

“We love this you,” she whispered. “The you who feels things. The you who thinks her bones show too much. The you who tries things on and lets us love her anyway.”

Lando squeezed you closer from behind, his voice quieter now. “You don’t have to change for us to love you. You don’t have to look any different for us to stay.”

For a long moment, you just stood there—held between them, wrapped in the warmth of their words, their arms, their love. And slowly, your chest loosened. The ache in your heart didn’t vanish, but it didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

Eventually, Magui kissed your shoulder and said, “Let’s leave this place. We’ll get iced coffees and go down to the marina. There’s a vintage market. And I saw a linen set that would kill on you.”

Lando nodded, grinning against your neck. “And I’ll carry everything so you don’t have to.”

You smiled, small but real this time, and nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

—

The breeze at the marina was salt-sweet and soft on your skin, tugging gently at Magui’s hair and sending Lando’s cap sideways every few seconds. The three of you walked slowly past the white yachts and sun-drenched café umbrellas, iced coffees in hand, the earlier heaviness still lingering but quieter now—muted beneath the sound of waves and laughter in the distance.

You weren’t saying much. But you didn’t have to.

Lando’s hand brushed against yours every so often, pinkies tangling for a second at a time. Magui had tucked her arm around your waist, resting her cheek briefly against your shoulder when she thought you weren’t paying attention. You were always paying attention.

Every soft touch, every glance—they weren’t pitying. They were grounding. Steady. They were the kind of love that didn’t ask you to smile to be worthy of care.

You stopped by a little vintage stall set up near the edge of the boardwalk, rows of old sunglasses and linen shirts flapping gently in the wind. Magui wandered ahead to dig through a basket of scarves, and Lando lingered behind with you, finishing his drink.

“You feeling a bit better?” he asked gently, tilting his head to catch your eyes.

You nodded, chewing on the edge of your straw. “A little.”

He didn’t push. He just offered a tiny smile and reached up to brush his knuckles against your cheek.

“You don’t have to fake anything with us. Ever. Okay?”

Your throat tightened again—not like before. Not with shame. With love. Overwhelming, full to the brim love.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m too small to hold it all. The love. The attention. Like I’m not built for it.”

Lando’s face fell for a second before softening again, impossibly gentle.

“You don’t have to hold it,” he said. “Let us hold you. That’s the whole point.”

Magui came back over, looping a silk scarf through her belt loop with one hand and slipping her fingers into yours with the other.

“She’ll say something sweet and ruin me again, won’t she?” you teased, already smiling as you leaned into her side.

Magui raised a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But if I did, I might say that you’re the most beautiful person on this boardwalk—and Monaco doesn’t exactly make that easy.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing quietly, but the smile stayed this time. Lando kissed the top of your head and pulled you both into his side.

“Let’s stay here a little longer,” he murmured. “Just us. No mirrors. No clothes that don’t fit. Just sun, and sea, and two people who love you so much it physically hurts.”

And so you stayed.

Sitting on the dock with your legs dangling over the edge, Lando’s hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, Magui’s hand tracing lazy shapes into your thigh. Boats drifted by. The sky softened into pink. Your bones still showed—but they didn’t feel wrong. Not here. Not like this.

Not when you were surrounded by love that didn’t just see you—it chose you. Every version. Every time.

—

By the time you got home, the sky was navy and full of stars, the scent of the sea still clinging to your hair and clothes. The house was quiet—doors open to let the night breeze in, music playing low from the speaker in the kitchen. The kind of music you didn’t have to think about. Just soft piano and the occasional hum of a voice too far away to recognize.

You were curled on the couch in one of Lando’s hoodies, sleeves falling past your hands, bare legs tucked under you. Your cheek rested against a throw pillow, half-drowsy from sun and salt and the emotional hangover that always followed days like this. You weren’t sad. Just… soft. Fragile in a way that didn’t feel scary anymore.

Magui walked into the room with a cup of tea, her long hair pulled up in a messy bun, cheeks pink from her evening shower. She set the mug in front of you before sitting on the floor between your knees, her back leaning into the couch, head resting against your thigh.

“You doing okay now, amor?” she asked, glancing up at you.

You nodded, your fingers naturally reaching out for her. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Lando came in a moment later with a towel around his neck and damp curls pushed back from his forehead. He spotted you immediately—huddled into the couch, Magui tucked into your side—and his face softened in that way it always did around you.

He sat behind you on the couch, pulling you between his legs, arms wrapping around your waist. His chest was warm against your back, and you melted into him instinctively.

“Comfort sandwich,” Magui murmured with a grin, making you laugh for the first time in hours.

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “The best kind.”

The three of you stayed like that for a while—Magui humming softly as she traced lazy patterns on your knee, Lando’s thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your sides. Every touch was light, easy, grounding. No one tried to fix you. No one tried to change how you felt.

They just stayed.

After a while, Lando rested his chin on your shoulder and whispered, “You don’t have to be anything other than yourself with us, you know that, right?”

You nodded.

“And if your brain ever tries to lie to you again,” Magui added, looking up at you with that fiery, loyal expression she got when she loved you too hard to keep it quiet, “just come to us. We’ll remind you who the fuck you are.”

You smiled, blinking back tears that didn’t sting anymore. You didn’t feel broken. You just felt held.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Magui kissed your knee. Lando kissed your shoulder.

And later, when the tea had gone cold and the night grew quiet, you fell asleep wrapped between them in the bed you all shared—nothing mattered.

Not when love wrapped around you like a second skin.

Not when you finally, finally started to believe it was yours to keep.

—

You woke slowly, sun filtering through the gauzy curtains, the scent of something sweet wafting in from the kitchen—vanilla, maybe cinnamon, something warm and nostalgic. Your eyes fluttered open, face half-buried in Lando’s pillow, his arm still slung around your waist, legs tangled under the blanket.

Magui was already up, judging by the faint hum of her voice somewhere down the hall. You could hear her singing softly—off-key in a way that made you smile into the sheets.

You stretched lazily, body sore in that quiet, content way that came with a good night’s sleep and the softness of feeling truly loved. Lando groaned and shifted beside you, eyes still closed as he blindly reached for your hand.

“You’re not allowed to move yet,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

You laughed softly and kissed his temple. “Come on, sleepy. I smell pancakes.”

He perked up instantly. “Pancakes?”

You nodded. “And possibly—coffee.”

Lando sat up like a cartoon character, curls wild and eyes barely open. “Say less.”

You padded into the kitchen together, still in oversized tees and bare feet. Magui stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish, wearing one of your tank tops and a pair of Lando’s boxers. She looked over her shoulder and grinned.

“Perfect timing. Breakfast and a surprise.”

You blinked, confused but curious, while Lando moved behind you, hands resting gently on your hips.

Magui set a plate in front of you at the table—pancakes shaped like uneven hearts, a tiny mountain of strawberries and cream on top.

“Ta-da,” she said proudly. “And now…”

She disappeared into the hallway for a moment, then came back holding something wrapped in brown paper and tied with a velvet ribbon.

“Wait,” you said, furrowing your brow. “What is this?”

Magui gently placed it in front of you, and Lando leaned in, his chin on your shoulder again.

“Just open it,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck.

You untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper, revealing a hardcover scrapbook. The cover had a polaroid taped to it—one of you laughing in the sun, eyes squinting and hair windblown, clearly caught mid-moment.

You opened it slowly.

The first page had a note, handwritten in Magui’s neat script—

For when your mind forgets how we see you.

The pages that followed made your chest ache—in the best, most soul-filling way. Photos Lando had taken, sometimes without you realizing. You curled up on the balcony with a book. You dancing in the kitchen in your socks. You curled against Magui’s side, fast asleep. You smiling into the camera, mouth open mid-laugh, hair messy, face bare.

Each photo had little scribbles in the corners.

Caught her humming to herself again. I’ll never get over this face.

My favorite human being.

The most beautiful angel in the world.

Magui had filled in the spaces with memories, doodles, pressed flowers, ticket stubs, little heart stickers and glittery stars.

You ran your fingers over the pages like they were sacred.

“I—” Your voice caught. “You made this for me?”

Lando nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “She put it all together. I just… took the pictures. Couldn’t help it. You’re my favorite thing to photograph.”

Magui sat beside you and kissed your shoulder. “We just wanted you to have something to hold. On the hard days. Something that shows you what we see.”

You blinked back tears, looking down at the book like it was magic. Maybe it was.

You turned back to them, heart heavy in the most beautiful way.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Magui murmured.

Lando grinned. “But if you do, I’d like to suggest something like, ‘Wow, my two partners are actually geniuses and also outrageously hot.’”

You laughed, full and warm, and kissed him square on the mouth before turning to Magui and kissing her just as deeply.

“Thank you,” you whispered between kisses. “Thank you for loving me so well.”

They both pulled you in tighter, your breakfast forgotten, the scrapbook safely cradled in your lap like a lifeline.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like too little.

You felt full. Of love. Of warmth. Of exactly enough.

—

You hadn’t even finished your matcha when Magui leaned across the table and whispered, “Lando’s banned from today.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

She smirked, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “He said—and I quote—‘Magui, please distract our girl for a few hours, I’ve got something to do.’” She leaned back, looking smug. “So now I get you all to myself.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this why he made me wear something nice to go out? He was being suspiciously complimentary this morning.”

Magui just hummed as she pulled you down the sun-soaked street. “Shut up and look pretty.”

And so the two of you wandered—through art galleries tucked into old corners of the city, into bookstores with handwritten notes tucked into the pages of used novels, stopping for fresh fruit at the market stalls and splitting a croissant outside a florist that smelled like heaven. Magui had you laughing until your cheeks hurt, making up backstories for strangers you passed, trying on ridiculous sunglasses, and pulling you into every mirror you passed to kiss your cheek and whisper, “Mine.”

It felt easy. Safe. Not a single flicker of insecurity—just the sunshine on your skin, the taste of strawberry on your lips, and Magui’s fingers interlaced with yours like they were made to be there.

Around mid-afternoon, after picking out matching rings at a little boutique “just because they’re pretty,” she checked her phone and grinned.

“Alright,” she said, slipping her phone into her purse. “He’s ready for us.”

You blinked. “Ready for us?”

She looped her arm through yours again, steering you toward the coast.

“Oh, you thought this was just a girls’ day?” she teased. “Baby, I was the distraction. Lando’s the plan.”

You could only blink, heart starting to pound—not with nerves, but with a slow, warm thrill.

“What did he do?”

Magui smirked. “Not telling.”

—

The second you stepped into the apartment, something felt different. Not in a bad way. In that warm, belly-tingling, “someone’s been planning something” kind of way.

There was music playing softly in the background—your favorite, of course. Magui guided you gently through the foyer, shooting you the kind of smile that said, just wait. You looked at her with furrowed brows, your chest already fluttering.

“Lan?” you called, unsure of where he was.

“Bedroom,” his voice called out, a little breathless. “Come here.”

You turned the corner and stopped in the doorway—your breath caught. The entire bedroom had been transformed. A rolling rack stood near the window, golden hour sun spilling over rows of hanging garments—dresses, tops, trousers, soft knits, silk pieces in your favorite tones and textures. Everything looked perfectly tailored, not a single thing generic or off-the-rack. Delicate stitching. Impeccable fabrics.

And beside it, Lando stood with the widest, softest grin, his curls still damp from the shower, hands tucked sheepishly in his pockets.

“What… what is this?” you whispered, blinking slowly.

He stepped toward you and kissed your cheek. “This is your new wardrobe. Custom made. One of the best designers in the world owes me a favor. I figured… if clothes aren’t going to make you feel good, then maybe it’s because they weren’t made for you. So—now they are.”

You felt your throat tighten, tears already threatening to burn behind your eyes.

“You did this for me?”

He nodded. “Every single piece is made to your measurements. No pinching. No gaping. No pretending your body has to fit someone else’s mold.”

Magui grinned and stepped forward, pulling a soft dusty-blue set from the rack. “This one. Try this one. Please. It’s so you.”

You took it with trembling hands and disappeared into the bathroom to change. And when you stepped back out…

It fit. Perfectly. Like a second skin. Like it had been waiting its whole life for your body to fill it.

You turned to glance at the tag inside the top, half curious—and gasped softly.

On the inside seam was a small embroidered message—

made to hold the girl we love.

Your eyes burned again. You hadn’t even made it to the mirror yet.

“Go look,” Lando said behind you, voice quiet, reverent.

You turned slowly toward the full-length mirror across the room… and froze.

The glass was covered—not obscured, but surrounded—by dozens, maybe hundreds of tiny notes. Bright sticky notes, scraps of old receipts, torn pieces of notebook paper. They curled slightly at the edges, all handwritten in messy ink.

Magui’s familiar script. Lando’s all-caps scrawl.

If I could be reborn, I’d ask to orbit you.

There’s nothing you need to fix. Not a thing.

You’re my favorite shape.

You make space feel like home.

We love you. Just as you are. Always.

You stared at your reflection, surrounded by love in its rawest form. There were your bones. Your edges. Your lines. The parts you sometimes hated.

And around it all—wrapped in it—were their words.

Their truth.

You turned slowly, tears finally spilling over, and both of them were already there.

Magui cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs brushing under your eyes. “You don’t have to look like anyone else. You never did.”

Lando kissed your shoulder, his voice soft behind you. “You’re ours. Just like this. You’re enough. More than enough.”

You let yourself believe it. Just for a moment. You believed it. And in that mirror, framed by love, you smiled. Really smiled. Not for the clothes. Not for the notes. But for you.

—

[shotosjupiter]

BE YOUR IDOL — R. SUKUNA

pairing — ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (art by @/nikaness__)

summary — by day you're a world renowned singer, loved by all. by night you're a demon hunter, slashing and killing demons to protect every city you tour. your boydguard, sukuna, stays by your side through every performance. so, imagine your surprise when you come home bloodied from another mission only to find out that your bodyguard is a demon himself.

𖤐 word count — 4.5k

𖤐 genre/tags— angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff, happy ending! bodyguard sukuna, popstar/idol! reader. kpop demon hunter! au (ish) i tried LMAO, he patches up her bloodied wounds, mentions of blood, super yearner love confessions, reader is a mf bad ass.

𖤐 author's note — kpop demon hunters has been rotting in my brain so you guys get this <3

꒰masterlist꒱

THE CROWD screams your name so loud the lights tremble.

You keep your smile pinned on tight. Head high. Mic close. The choreography flows like second nature. You've done this a thousand times, your body is on autopilot, heart a thousand miles away.

But tonight, something feels wrong. Not the kind of wrong the audience can hear in your voice, or your managers can see in the timing of your spin. Not even something your fans on Twitter could screenshot and analyze at 2 AM. It’s something colder, quieter.

From the left wing of the stage, hidden behind scaffolding and shadows, Sukuna watches you.

His arms are crossed. Sunglasses on. One boot against the wall like he’s bored out of his mind, but his gaze never leaves you.

He’s too still. Too focused. His expression is unreadable, like always, but something in you flinches when your eyes meet his. You hold the final note for half a beat too long as you keep your eyes on his. You only stumble once during the song, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist. Because the truth is, you never mess up. Not here. Not on stage.

You don't miss steps unless something's chasing you.

You’ve known Sukuna for four years.

He came to you after a stalker incident left your last bodyguard hospitalized and your agency in panic mode. One phone call later, Sukuna Ryomen showed up outside your practice room, sunglasses, tattoos, and attitude in full effect.

He didn’t ask for your autograph. Didn’t pretend to be starstruck. He took one look at your bruised knees, your bandaged wrist, and said, “You either need less ambition or better security.”

You’d hated him immediately. But he never left. Not once. Not when obsessed fans were keen to follow you every place you appeared, or when you passed out from exhaustion in a van on the way back to your home. He stood outside every hotel door like a wolf in black, teeth bared for anyone who looked twice.

It took time, and more than a few shared convenience store meals at 2 AM, but eventually, you let him in. And now? You trust him more than anyone which is exactly why you're terrified.

Because Sukuna isn’t normal. He never was.

You’ve seen him shrug off a stab wound. Heal from burns that would’ve hospitalized a man twice his size. You’ve seen the glow in his eyes when he’s pissed off - a flaring red, faint, like embers that never quite die.

And more than that, you’ve seen the way demons react when he’s in the vicinity. They hesitate; flinch, run. Like they know what he is and fear it. The first time you really felt it was backstage after a fan meet.

You were changing into your outfit for the next set when you heard a noise. Not loud - just a breath, close to your ear. You spun around with a blade hidden in your sleeve and-

Nothing.

But the lights flickered.

And when you stepped outside, Sukuna was already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’d never moved, the picture of cool and collected.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Did you feel that?”

He blinked slowly. “Feel what?”

You paused. The temperature had dropped three degrees in less than a minute. You knew what that meant. But Sukuna just looked… calm. Too calm.

“Never mind,” you muttered. “Just nerves.”

He didn’t press. He never did.

That night, you found a charm nailed under your dressing room table, one that wasn’t yours. Old, frayed. Marked with a symbol only demons would recognize. You burned it. 

There were other moments. Small ones, like threads tugging loose from a sweater, easy to ignore until they start to unravel the whole thing. Once, in a hotel, you passed out after a show. Later, you woke up at 4 AM from a nightmare so vivid it had left you panting for breath and drenched in sweat. 

Somehow, you ended up knocking on his door that night, not a word said but he could see the exhaustion lined around your muscles and the tears in your eyes on the brink of falling. He didn’t say a word but opened the door further to let you in. He sat with you, let you rest your head on his shoulder while the dream clawed its way out of your lungs. He never asked what it was about. And you never told him that it hadn’t been a dream at all, it was a memory. A night when a hunt had gone wrong, when the demon had clawed at you so deeply you were certain it was your last night to live. 

He was just there - silent but there. Always close, always watching, but never reaching too far. Part of you wondered if it was his way of respecting boundaries, of never pushing it too far with someone who’s already so desperately sought after by the public.

But another part, the part that watched the way his hands curled into fists when mysterious disappearances and murders were mentioned on TV, started to wonder if he was hiding something, too.

Some nights, you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you were asleep. On the tour bus. In dressing rooms. In empty stadiums before the fans arrived. There was no hunger in his gaze, no threat. Just something old. Something mournful. Like he knew what it meant to be made of secrets, too. Like he saw something in you he recognized in himself.

Conversely, you’ve never told anyone what you are. Not your label. Not your stylists. Not your fellow coworkers in the company or the creative director who calls you a “once-in-a-generation star” like it’s supposed to explain why you don’t flinch when he yells. Not the fans who scream your name from barricades and rooftops, whose love fills stadiums but could never reach the place in you that still remembers the smell of blood in the dirt.

And definitely not Sukuna.

You’re a demon hunter - born into it, raised in it, marked before you had a choice. There’s a scar between your shoulder blades that never healed right from the botched demon hunt - it itches when you feel the cold cursed energy of demons seeping into the air, or when you settle in your lies for too long. 

You thought you could leave demon hunting behind when you became a trainee. That if you made yourself small enough, good enough, useful enough, you could be reborn. Someone with stage lights in their eyes. Someone who got her scars from dancing too hard, not surviving too much, too often. Someone who sang because she loved it, not because it made the demon’s presence quieter.  But the curse mark never stopped burning and the demons never stopped coming, so you made it work.

It was supposed to get easier once you debuted, or that’s what you had convinced yourself. That the money, the fame, the makeup artists and brand deals would carve out a softer space for you. Somewhere safe. But the creatures followed you into the spotlight.

They wait at the edge of stages. Crawl under bleachers. Hide in hotels and subway tunnels, drawn to your scent in particular, cursed blood dressed in sequins. They know what you are, even when the humans don’t. Especially when the humans don’t.

You’ve had to kill them in silence. In back alleys with borrowed knives. In green rooms with talismans pressed into your palms like rosaries. You carry it all with you, the secrets, the bruises, the ache. No one notices and no one's allowed to. Your manager chalks it up to stress. Your stylists cover the cuts. Your fans think your sleeplessness is aesthetic, that the shadows are sexy, your fatigue dreamy, the pain poetic.

And Sukuna, well he notices everything, but he never says a word. Sometimes you think he’s the only person in the world who looks at you and actually sees you. Which is exactly why it’s almost cruel, having him so close, and still not being able to tell him the truth.

You come home after a hunt, blood crusted to your ankle, and he doesn’t say anything. Just tosses you a towel. Asks, “Rough night?” like he’s asking about choreography, not combat. You lie. You always lie. And he lets you. Because that’s the game you’re both playing. Pretend. Protect. Repeat. Even if it’s killing you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The night it happens, it’s raining.

You’d slipped out after a rehearsal, trailing a big demon across rooftops in the heart of the city. It’s feeding - not yet, but close. A girl’s gone missing from this area already this week. It had taken you longer than you expected to corner it and by the time you did, it had sunk its claws into you. You manage to kill it but not before it gets to your leg; the gash runs from your inner thigh down to your knee and your jeans are soaked in crimson. You barely manage to limp your way to the apartment before the adrenaline wears off.

You stumble through the door blearily, the time somewhere close to two A.M. Opening the kitchen light, you find Sukuna waiting for you by the table, sunk deep into his seat. He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, arms folded, jaw clenched. His phone is in his hand, but his eyes are locked on you the second the door clicks shut, assessing if there is any injury on your body. Of course, there is, there’s no hiding the long cut running down your leg and his whole face changes when his gaze drops to your leg.

“What the fuck,” he says, voice cold and flat. “What the fuck is that.”

You try to walk past him, limping but still trying to feign nonchalance, “It’s nothing-”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He grabs your arm, not hard, but firm enough that you freeze. You try to step back, staggering, and he catches you before you hit the ground. Your blood smears across his sweatshirt and his permanently relaxed expression cracks.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, too quiet.

“Let go, Sukuna-”

“No.” His voice rises. “No, you don’t get to come home looking like you’ve been mauled and brush it off. What happened?”

You look away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have a choice.” His voice is shaking now, not with anger, but with fear. And that’s what does it. That’s what makes you crack.

You whisper it, “A demon.”

Sukuna goes still. Then, a scoff, “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He stares at you for a long, long moment. You can hear the rain outside hitting the windows. The city feels too quiet. Like it’s listening. Finally, Sukuna says, “You’re a hunter.”

You feel your blood still. There is only one way he knows what a hunter is, how easily he accepted your truth and reached that conclusion. You grasp his hand, “Yes.”

His hand falls away from your arm like it burns him, even if he accepted this truth, it still burns him. “For how long?”

“My whole life.”

He laughs but it’s empty, a hollow laugh, tinged with betrayal fully. “And you never thought to tell me?”

“I couldn’t-”

“I’ve been by your side for four goddamn years-”

“I couldn’t, Sukuna!”

The air vibrates with the force of your voice.

“If anyone found out, I’d be decommissioned. Blacklisted. They’d throw me into a pit and never let me out. I had to choose between this life and that one, and I thought- I thought I could keep both.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you. His expression is an odd one - something mixed with hurt, confusion, betrayal, but still somehow affection. You’re still panting, still bleeding, still trembling but you look up at him, clutching his hand tightly. 

“You were supposed to be the one person I didn’t have to lie to,” you whisper. “But I had to Sukuna.”

Then, quieter: “But you lied too, didn’t you?”

His jaw tightens and you see the full picture now. All of it. The way his eyes never quite reflect light right, the faint heat that comes off him when he’s mad, the way no demon ever came nearby when he was near.

“I know what you are,” you say tentatively, still slightly unsure. He looks at you, really looks, and nods once, resigned. There were no secrets between the two of you now, everything was laid out bare. But still you wanted him to say the truth fully, to have it come out of his mouth. So you stare at him, prodding him to continue. 

“I’m not human.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Demon?”

He tsks before looking away from you, “Half.”

Silence. “You gonna kill me now?” he asks, half a smirk curling at his mouth, resigned to his fate. He would let you, you realize. He would let you settle a blade within him, he was resigned to the destiny that fate had assigned the two of you. 

“No,” you say softly, refusing to look away from him. You want him to feel the utter sincerity in your words, in the way you’re willing to give yourself to him, to let go of this one thing in your life for him. 

“Why not?”

“Because you were the only thing in my life that felt safe.”

And then he really goes still.

“I should’ve told you,” he says, after a moment. “I just - being human around you, it felt good, it felt like the real thing. Like maybe I could be better.”

“You are.”

He huffs. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

You don’t respond to this, temporarily stunned. It’s true - you don’t know what he’s done. How he’s gotten here, but you do know the person he is now. You know how kind he is to the other staff alongside you while they prepare you for performances, how he brings you some comfort sweets and drinks after a long dance practice, how he treats your fans in a manner you would approve of. You know this version of him and you know the kindness and sincerity it is capable of. 

He carries you to the couch. It’s not a question. You protest, but it’s weak, you’re shaking too hard and the blood loss is catching up. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a first aid kit, and kneels down to assess your injury.

It’s not like you to let someone do this for you. You’ve been patching yourself up in silence since you were fifteen, bathroom lights flickering, blood on tile, half-cracked ribs and no one to notice but the mirror. You learned to set bones through practice and the aggravating (and rather slow) YouTube videos. You learned to flinch inward and laugh it off, to survive without letting anyone see you the slightest bit harmed.

But this time, you let him. He moves slowly, his hands aren’t exactly gentle, but they’re sure. Big and warm, fingertips calloused from years of god-knows-what. He’s not saying anything, but his brows are furrowed with concentration, his mouth set tight. The gauze unwinds in his hands like ribbon. You sit still on your leather couch, your pants rolled up to your thighs with bits of the fabric still clinging near the inflamed wound. He kneels in front of you, carefully blotting the gash at your ribs and the silence stretches - tense, but not cruel.

“I’ve seen you bleed before,” he mutters.

Your throat’s tight. “Not like this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just presses the antiseptic a little too hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him and when you do, his jaw is clenched.

“You came home half-conscious.”

You inhale. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“That’s not your job anymore,” he snaps, agitated but still trying to be gentle with the injury as he finishes cleaning it. 

It’s quiet again, you don’t know how to explain it, the instinct to hide, to protect him even as you bled yourself dry. You’ve always looked at him as someone to lose. And now that he knows what you are, you feel the gap yawning wider than ever.

“Sukuna-”

“Stop talking,” he says, voice rough. You flinch. But when you look down, his hand is shaking slightly. Just barely. And his voice,  when he speaks again, is quieter.

“I’m not mad that you’re a hunter.” A beat. “I’m mad because I wasn’t there.” His eyes finally meet yours, angry, but burning with something else beneath it. “You almost died. And I was sat here, thinking it was some late practice of yours, not even realizing you were out fighting for your life.”

“You couldn’t have known,” you whisper.

“That’s the point,” he growls. “You didn’t trust me to know.”

And that, that silences you. He starts wrapping the gauze around your leg, tenderly and ever more slowly this time. Careful, like every turn is a question he’s too afraid to ask out loud. You watch his hands, watch the way he threads the ends together, tapes the bandage down like it’s something so very delicate. Like you’re something sacred. And for the first time, you let yourself be.

“You know,” you say, almost lightly, “you’re surprisingly good at this.”

He snorts. “You think I never had to patch myself up before?”

“No,” you admit. “I just didn’t think you’d be the type to even remember where the medical kit was.”

He shoots you a look. “I memorize everything about you, I’d be damned if I didn’t know where you put your stupid med kit,” To seal his point he flourishes the stickers covered box in front of you. 

You blink at his confession and debate internally, taking the chance to push the conversation. You breathe in slowly. “Even when I lie to you?”

He nods, quiet. “Even then.”

You don’t realize your hand is still shaking, whether from the wound or the way all your confessions are slowly unraveling, until he reaches for it. His big roughened palm envelops yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, calloused and warm.

“I memorized the way you flinch when someone says your name too loud,” he says quietly. “The way you pretend you’re not exhausted after a rough practice. The way your smile is so bright when you’re on that stage performing. I memorized every damn thing, you’ve created a home in my heart and soul.”

Your heart stutters. “I noticed it all, sweetheart,” he says. You want to look away but he clutches your hand tighter, willing you to keep your eyes on him. Taking a deep breath you push yourself to take a chance too, “I’ve spent years trying not to love you,” you whisper.

He freezes and you notice but you plow on, refusing to take it back. You’ve dug your hole now, you might as well get it all out.  “I thought if you knew what I was, I’d risk your life too, maybe you’d look down on me and I just - I wanted to keep you safe.”

Sukuna leans in but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just rests his forehead against yours, eyes shut, like this is all he’s ever wanted, the warmth of you, the weight of the truth, the quiet between breaths.

“You aren’t the only one responsible to keep me safe,” he says. “I want to be by your side, to protect you, to be next to you, to keep you safe. You’re the reason I started thinking maybe I didn’t have to be a monster, that maybe there was more to it, to life.”

You close your eyes and let him wrap his arms around you. Cradling you softly in his lap, mindful of your injury. His tattooed arms snake around your waist gently as he brings you in closer to him, resting his chin gently on your shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to your nape.

You settle in his arms, nearly melting with exhaustion because this is what it means to be strong, too. Letting someone in, letting someone stay. Letting him stitch your wounds because they’ve become promises he’s determined to keep.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his shoulder. It’s not intentional - or maybe it is, somewhere in your sleep-heavy heart. The ache in your leg has dulled, your shirt changed, your hair pulled back with the kind of gentle care you haven’t let anyone offer in years.

Sukuna was laid beside you, one of his legs tangled with your uninjured one, and his arm still strewn across your waist. You shift a little, just enough to look up at him. His head is slowly falling, as he keeps nodding off but trying to keep himself upright and his arms are crossed in a form of protectiveness. When he feels you shift, one eye opens and watches you. Of course he never really slept.

“You drool,” he says, voice low and a little smug.

You try to glare, but it comes out soft. “And you’re heavy.”

His mouth twitches, just barely, refusing to let you win by giving you a full smile. There’s something different in the air now. Like something sharp has passed. Like the quiet between you isn’t a warning anymore, more so a question, an invitation.

You sit up slowly, careful of your leg and Sukuna shifts too, like he’s resisting the urge to help you and choosing instead to let you be. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Thank you for staying” you say, after a long moment, fiddling with the string of his hoodie, trying to avoid direct eye contact with him. He doesn’t look at you at first, just exhales through his nose.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.” He shrugs a little, like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just cracked open something impossible.

“I’ve followed you around the world, sweetheart. Every concert. Every city. Every exit door. I’ve taken punches and dodged blades and slept on cold floors. Not because it was my job. Well, not really because it was my job.”

You’re not breathing, refusing to move an inch lest he stop talking.

“I stayed,” he says quietly, “because you were the first thing that ever made me feel like I wasn’t made for violence.”

You stare at him and your hands ache in your lap, desperate to hold his face, to kiss him softly. “I hated you,” you whisper. “When I realized what you were, when I first started suspecting. I hated how much I wanted to be wrong. How much it hurt to think I’d have to lose you.”

His eyes finally meet yours. “You never would’ve lost me.”

“You’re a demon, Sukuna.”

He nods, almost looking bored. As if this fact just did not matter at all. 

“And I’m a hunter.”

“I’m aware.” He flicks a hand, like he’s telling you to get on to your point. 

“I should’ve walked away when I found out, when you told me,” you say. “But I couldn’t, you’re the one I trust to walk me back from the edge every night. Every time I came back bloodied, I wanted you to be the one who was waiting for me to come home.”

That brings his eyes back to you, sharp, wounded, reverent. He hadn’t expected the admission, some part of him didn’t dare hope you'd see him clearly and still stay. Slowly his eyes flicker to your lips before he leans in, waiting. He didn’t want to push it, despite your confessions. Despite the fact that you had admitted the depth of your feelings for him, he was still waiting for you to push him away. 

So this time, you take matters into your own hands and bring him closer to you until your lips press against each other. His kiss isn’t soft but it feels so sure. It tastes like everything unsaid, the years of silence, aching glances, bruises, and stitched-up promises. It tastes like the truth finally given shape, finally given a home.

You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you afloat, the only thing you’ve ever been sure of. He, in turn, is also kissing you like he’s never had the taste of you before and now he’s addicted to the feel of your lips on his. He kisses fervently and like he can’t have enough, with one hand on your hips and the placed on your collarbone, delicately holding you. 

He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against yours with his breath uneven. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he mutters.

“No,” you agree, “but it’s real.”

And that was more than enough for the both of you. You get every rough edge, every soft glance he swears he doesn’t mean, every way he curls himself around your body when he thinks you’re asleep. You get the fire in his voice when he says your name. You get the stillness in his chest when he watches you sing, not because of the stage lights or the sold-out arena, but because he thinks you are the only thing worth witnessing.

You get love that isn’t soft, but love that stays.

And maybe, after everything, that’s the only kind that ever mattered.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

The next concert, everything feels louder. The lights flash bright, the stage rumbles under your boots, and the bass pulses through your chest like a second heartbeat. You move through the choreography like muscle memory but your mind drifts.

Your body still aches in the quiet places no one can see. The bruises have faded, but your hands ache when you lace your mic into place. There’s a tremor beneath the confidence you wear with glitter and gloss.

But when you glance backstage mid-song, Sukuna is there. Same sunglasses, same stance, same quiet power. Same and yet there’s a slight shift to him now. Something you’re allowed to see now. There’s that quiet softness in the corner of his mouth when he looks at you. The way his hand lifts almost instinctively when your foot stutters during a spin, like he’d catch you even from twenty feet away. The tension in his jaw that only releases when you smile.

And when your eyes meet his, he smiles back. It’s small. Barely-there. One of those half-smiles he pretends not to mean, but it stays. And for the first time in years, you feel like maybe, maybe, you’re allowed to want this. Not just the applause, but him.

The demon who stood at your side in silence. The one who stitched your wounds and asked to fight beside you, to protect you and to stay. Maybe you’re allowed to have someone who sees all of you and chooses to stay anyway.

© shotosjupiter. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[sevikalvr]

— 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 —

summary! — bodygaurd!sevika x pr!reader > soft reset in chaos. flight back home, feelings being accepted, and the kind of trouble you don’t want to escape.

wc: 7.8k — cw: slightly suggestive makeouts, slight hair tugging, and most of all, fluff.

notes: finally typed up this chapter and it’s long awaited fluff! wanted some peace to enter in their lives before it gets a little messy again… happy reading! 🌸

part one! part two!

The hotel room is a little too quiet when you wake up.

For a second, you forget where you are—brain foggy, body heavy, skin still buzzing from every place she touched you. You blink up at the ceiling. Dim hotel light. Cold air against sweat-damp skin. Sunlight peeking through the curtains from the window. Sheets kicked halfway down your legs. Her arm slung lazily over your stomach.

At this point you were just setting yourself up. But are you going to complain? ...No, not really.

Sevika’s breathing is steady, low. She’s awake. Of course she is. Probably has been. Why the hell is she always awake before you? You don’t know how long she’s been staring at the ceiling too, but you’d bet money on it. Your heart kicks up when you realize that she chose to even stay the night. No quick exit. No slipping out before sunrise. As if this was more than some mistake you two kept making.

Her thumb brushes idle circles against your hip. Barely there, but enough to make you ache all over again.

You shift, letting out a breath. “We’re idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sevika says, voice low and rough from sleep. Or from you. You’re not sure which. Her tone’s unreadable. Teasing, but there’s something under it. Something heavier.

You glance at the clock. 8:12 AM. Your phone is mercifully quiet— for now. No new media storms. No sponsor threats. The statement you dropped last night seems to be doing its job. You know the label is thankful for it. Like it’s said before, the backbone of this band. 

The sisters are laying low. The headlines are smoothing over. The fans are back to obsessing over cryptic lyrics and reunion theories instead of implosions. Everything should be fine. Except you’re still here. In her arms. And honestly? You could go for another round. You tilt your head slightly to look at her. Sevika’s got that same calm expression she always does—cool, collected, dangerous if you poke too hard. Her hair’s messy, falling over one eye. Her lips are still slightly parted from where they kissed down your neck hours ago.

And she’s watching you. Like she’s wondering if you’re going to run.

You clear your throat. “So, what— this is just gonna be a thing now? We hook up between press disasters?”

Sevika’s mouth twitches, almost a smirk. “That what you think this is?”

You narrow your eyes. “You tell me.”

Her gaze drops to your lips, just for a second. “I think you’re still tense.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

She laughs, quiet but real. Warm, low, like gravel under velvet. You hate that it makes your stomach flip.

Her fingers trace absentminded patterns against your skin, like she’s not even thinking about it. Like you’re just another weapon she’s keeping sharp. And you should stop this. You should pull away. You should get dressed, check your phone, start prepping for the next leg of the tour. Instead, you stay exactly where you are. Breathing in her cologne and heat and the chaos you let happen.

Three weeks until the next show. Three weeks of headlines staying calm, fans obsessing, the sisters trying to salvage what’s left of their relationship.

And you?

You’re stuck here, thinking about how you’ve already lost the plot. Because Sevika is still tracing circles on your hip. And you haven’t asked her to stop.

“Still in denial?” she murmured quietly, her arm tugging at your waist to be closer to her. Her lips are barely brushing against your temple.

“...Still haven’t told me what this is” you replied, almost scared as if she’ll say it is something casual. Because you really, really, don’t want it to be.

Sevika’s hand stills for just a second against your hip, like she’s weighing whether to answer at all.

Then, quietly, without looking away,  she says, “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Her voice is steady. No smirk, no sarcasm. Just blunt honesty wrapped in that calm tone that always knocks the wind out of you. Before you can respond, her thumb moves again— slow, lazy strokes against your skin, but there’s nothing casual about the way she’s watching you now.

“But if you’re asking if I’m done?” she adds, her mouth brushing close to your ear. “I’m not.”

You swallow hard, throat tight.

Sevika’s still got that unreadable look in her eyes, but there’s no game in her voice when she mutters, “I don’t stick around for ‘casual.’”

Then she goes right back to tracing circles on your skin, like she didn’t just drop a live wire in your chest and leave it there buzzing. Your throat tightens. For a second, you don’t say anything. You just stare at her. Really stare at her. And it hits you harder than it should.

Because you believe her. And that scares the shit out of you.

Because no one’s said something like that to you in… how long? Long enough that you forgot what it feels like to not be the one doing all the holding together. Long enough that you stopped expecting anyone to stay. And yet—she did.

She’s still here. Thumb still tracing your hip. Breathing steady, gaze heavy, like she’s ready to let you bolt but isn’t about to push you away. Something snaps quietly inside your chest. Your hand moves before your brain can stop it, fingers sliding into the mess of her hair, tugging gently to tilt her face toward yours.

Her eyes darken, sharp, locked onto yours, but she doesn’t flinch. You lean in, lips barely brushing hers at first. Testing it. Breathing her in. Feeling your pulse stutter.

Then you kiss her. Slow. Deep. No hiding this time.

Her hand slides from your hip to your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Her mouth parts against yours, and it’s not rushed— not like last night. It’s steady. Intentional. Like she knows exactly what this means.

When you finally pull back for air, your forehead rests against hers.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself, “I hate that you make me feel something again.”

Sevika exhales a quiet breath, her lips still close enough to brush yours when she says, “Yeah?” 

Her tone’s soft, but there’s a smile under it, “Good.”

Your lips find hers again, this time slower—no hunger, no desperation like the night before. Just heat and weight and the kind of kiss that says stay. Sevika’s mouth moves against yours like she has all the time in the world. Lazy. Confident. The kind of kiss that lingers just to feel you breathe. Her palm slides up under your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, steadying you like she’s keeping you right there.

You let her.

Your fingers trace along her neck, slow circles over warm skin. Her hair’s fallen messily across your face, strands of it tickling your lips between kisses. You could move it— you don’t. You like the way it feels. Like something soft between the sharp edges.

Her lips part just enough to catch your bottom lip, pulling a soft sound out of you before letting go. Her breath is warm against your mouth when she murmurs, “Still tense?” but she’s not teasing this time. Her voice is low, almost fond.

You shake your head. Barely.

Her fingers trail down, skimming your ribs, careful but firm, grounding you to the mattress. Her other hand rests at the small of your back, keeping you close—like she’s making sure you won’t drift off, won’t overthink, won’t spiral back into the chaos waiting outside the hotel walls. Your lips meet hers again, slower this time, sinking into the kind of rhythm that feels like forgetting.

There’s no rush. No trying to win. Just breathing each other in, lips pressed together in quiet, steady pulls until the rest of the world doesn’t matter. 

Eventually, you pull back—barely. Your lips hover over hers, breath mingling. Her eyes are still half-lidded, watching you like she already knows you’re about to ruin the moment.

“I’m gonna—” you start, voice rough from all of it. You clear your throat. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sevika hums, low in her chest. Her hand stays right where it is, palm heavy at your hip, thumb tracing the same circle it has been all morning. You try to sit up, but she doesn’t move.

“You always run after kissing me?” she asks, voice dry but soft at the edges. There’s no real accusation there, just observation.

“I’m not running,” you mutter, even though you kind of are. You swing one leg off the bed, toes hitting cold hotel carpet. “I’m just— going to take a shower.”

“Right.” Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk. “Important hygiene routine, of course.”

You side-eye her, but you’re already reaching for your phone on the nightstand, checking it for… something. Distraction. Control. The screen is still mercifully empty of chaos. For now. Sevika shifts behind you, the mattress dipping as she leans back onto her elbows, watching you with that same unreadable calm. Like she’s not worried. Like she knows you’ll be back.

You stand, stretching just enough to shake off the weight of the moment—but not really. Your body’s still humming. Your lips are still swollen. Her cologne is still on your skin. You start toward the bathroom, but halfway there, you glance over your shoulder.

Sevika’s still sprawled on the bed, one arm behind her head, the other lazily resting where you used to be. Hair messy, lips parted just a little, watching you like she’s got all the time in the world. You try to sound casual. You fail.

“You’re not gonna join me?”

Her eyes narrow just slightly. There’s a glint of something sharp behind the calm. “Oh?” she says, voice low, smooth. “I thought you were running.”

Your stomach flips. Your skin’s already too hot.

“I said shower,” you shoot back, sassier than you mean to. “Didn’t say alone.”

Sevika’s eyes drag slow over your body, stopping just long enough to make you shiver. Then she sits up, legs swinging over the side of the bed, her smirk barely there but dangerous anyway.

“Guess I can help you wash off,” she says, voice gravel and heat. “Not like I didn’t put it there.”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you disappear into the bathroom. “You’re such an asshole,” you call over your shoulder, still grinning, still flushed.

The water’s already running when you catch your reflection in the mirror, lips red, neck marked, eyes bright in a way you don’t recognize anymore. Not stressed, not panicked. Just… lit up. And you hate it. And you love it. You reach for the faucet to adjust the heat when—

The door closes behind you.

You barely have time to register it before Sevika’s behind you, hands on your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Sevika—”

She doesn’t let you finish.

In one smooth motion, she spins you, crowding you against the bathroom counter. The marble presses cool against your back as her mouth finds yours again—this time deeper, rougher, like she’s got something to prove. You squeal into the kiss, a half-laugh breaking in your throat before it melts into something hungrier. Your hands fly up, arms wrapping around her neck, pulling her closer like you didn’t invite this but you’re not stopping it either.

“Could’ve just asked me to hurry,” she mutters against your lips, smirking even as she kisses you harder.

Your breath’s already shaky, your back arching off the counter, “Shut up,” you whisper, but you’re smiling. You’re still smiling.

                                    ──────────

The café is small, tucked away from the main strip— exactly the kind of place you’d pick when you’re trying not to be noticed. You’re sitting by the window, sipping a coffee you barely tasted, pretending to scroll your phone like you’re not hyper-aware of Sevika’s thigh brushing yours under the table.

Her cup’s almost empty already. Black coffee, no cream, no sugar—of course. Not surprising.

You glance at her over the rim of your cup. She’s scrolling her phone too, probably reading something bleak and impersonal. Probably pretending not to notice the way you keep stealing glances.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

Sevika’s eyes flick to yours, lazy but sharp. “So are you.”

“I’m letting you have your ‘brooding in public’ moment.”

That earns the smallest smirk. But then she leans back in her chair, gaze steady. “I don’t brood.”

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan. “You glower. Very different.”

She huffs a low laugh, but doesn’t argue.

Your phone buzzes on the table—some band-related notification you ignore for now. You glance out the window. The world feels normal out there. Coffee, people walking dogs, someone reading on a bench. Normal. But your chest is tight anyway.

You clear your throat, eyes still on the street. “How long are you staying?”

Her head tilts, just enough to let you know she caught the shift in tone. “What, at the coffee shop?”

You give her a look. “You know what I mean.”

She sets her phone down, fingers drumming once on the side of her cup. Her posture’s still relaxed, but there’s something unreadable behind her eyes now.

“Contract’s for the tour,” she says finally. “Rest of the dates. End of the year.”

You blink, trying not to react. “So… you’re around.”

“Looks like it.”

Your throat feels dry. You take another sip of coffee just to stall. “And after that?”

Sevika shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly—like she’s measuring how much to give you. “Depends.”

“Right,” you say softly. “Classic.”

She studies you for a beat too long. Then, as casually as if you’d asked her to pass the sugar, she adds, “Why? You trying to get rid of me already?”

Her voice is cool, but there’s bite under it. Not mocking, but testing.

You meet her eyes. “No,” you admit, before you can think better of it. “That’s the problem.”

Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smirk but doesn’t quite win.Her gaze lingers on you for a second too long— heavy, knowing. The smirk fades into something subtler. Quieter.

“Well,” she says, tapping the side of her cup, “then I guess we’ve got a problem.”

Your chest tightens, but your mouth moves anyway. “Glad you’re finally catching up.”

She leans in a fraction—not enough for anyone else in the café to notice, but enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath near your jaw. “Thought you liked problems.”

“I like fixing them,” you shoot back, voice low. “You’re just… inconvenient.”

Sevika smiles, sharp and soft all at once. “That supposed to hurt my feelings?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s supposed to make me feel better about letting you stay.”

Her hand brushes your knee under the table, casual but deliberate. “How’s that working out for you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your pulse jumps is answer enough.

Her phone buzzes on the table this time. She ignores it. Her eyes stay locked on yours. You clear your throat, try to reroute the conversation before you spiral into another hotel situation. 

“So what, you and your team stick around for all the shows? Just bodyguard stuff?”

She nods once. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes I cover PR disasters too,” she deadpans.

You glare. “That’s my job.”

“Looks like you needed backup.”

“Sevika.”

Her eyes don’t waver. “Yeah?”

You try to summon the same sass as before, but your throat’s dry again. “What happens if this gets messy?”

Her lips curl just slightly. “If?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She leans back, finishing the last sip of her coffee, then sets the cup down like it’s a period to the whole conversation. “It’s gonna get messy. You already knew that.”

You look away, out the window again. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “I know.”

Her fingers tap the table once, knuckles brushing yours. “Hey.”

You glance back at her.

“I’m still here.”

Three simple words. Blunt, no softness in the tone. But they settle in your chest anyway, heavier than they should.

Before you can say anything back, the café door jingles. A figure approaches your table— a girl in her twenties, hoodie pulled up, wide eyes flicking between the two of you.

“No pictures,” Sevika says, before the girl can open her mouth.

“I—uh, no. I wasn’t gonna—” the fan lifts her hands, backing off slightly. “I just wanted to say…” She looks at you, a nervous smile twitching onto her face. “Thanks for not quitting.”

You blink, caught off guard. Sure most fans know you’re the band's PR manager. Mainly Jinx’s fault because she posts so many photos of you, especially when you’re mad.  The girl pulls at the hem of her sweatshirt— a Faultine tour hoodie, except someone’s scribbled extra Sharpie writing on it in messy handwriting.

You squint.

It says; “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret.”

Your stomach flips. Sevika’s lips twitch at the corner, but she says nothing. Just watches you handle it.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say to the girl, voice softer now. “Seriously.”

The fan smiles like she just won the lottery and practically skips back to the door.

When she’s gone, Sevika mutters, “Real subtle.”

“Shut up.”

She leans back, eyes glinting. “You worried?”

“A little,” you admit, staring at the Sharpie words burned into your brain.

Sevika’s voice drops, just for you. “Hey.”

You meet her eyes again.

“If pictures ever get leaked,” you say, half joking, half dead serious, “just don’t leave me.”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

Sevika looks at you, unblinking. “Didn’t plan on it.”

Then she gets up from the table—cool, casual, like she didn’t just say something that makes your throat tight.

“Come on,” she murmurs, tossing a tip on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

Eventually, the two of you are just walking. No agenda, no bodyguard formations, no frantic phone calls. Just the low hum of the city waking up around the block near the hotel. It feels dangerous, letting it be this easy. Letting your shoulders actually relax. Sevika walks next to you, hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted toward the sidewalk like she’s only half paying attention to where you’re going. Her strides are slower than usual— like she’s pacing herself for you.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, expecting disaster. Instead, it’s your assistant.

[9:52] “Booked your ticket back to NYC. You leave tonight.” “You need the break.”

Your throat tightens. The idea of “home” feels weird now. What does that even mean? Going back to your apartment and pretending you’re not thinking about her?

Sevika glances sideways at you, like she knows the text changed something in your face. “Let me guess,” she says. “More chaos?”

You shake your head. “No. Just… my assistant being smarter than me, apparently.”

Her eyebrow lifts slightly. “Is that new?”

You elbow her gently, but your chest stays tight. You shove your phone back in your pocket and look ahead at the sidewalk.

“I fly out tonight.”

“Hmm.” That’s all Sevika says. Nonchalant. Like you just told her the weather. But her jaw ticks once. Just barely.

You keep walking, both of you too stubborn to ask the real question; What the hell happens now?

Then suddenly, words slip out before you can stop them.

“Come with me.”

Sevika slows her steps. One boot scuffs the pavement, just barely, but she catches herself. Her eyes cut toward you, sharp but unreadable.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck. “I—I didn’t mean that,” you start, but you kinda did. Actually, you really did.

Her mouth curves into the smallest smirk. “Yeah you did.”

Your stomach knots. “It was just—”

“Impulse?” she finishes for you, still walking, like the conversation weighs nothing.

You don’t answer. You just keep moving, matching her stride again. But your heart is racing.

After a beat, Sevika exhales slow, like she’s rolling something over in her head. “Honestly,” she mutters, eyes on the street ahead, “it’s tempting.”

That makes you blink. “Tempting?”

“Mm.” Her hands stay deep in her pockets. “But you’d regret it.”

You scoff, half defensive, half desperate. “What, you think you’re doing me a favor now?”

“No.” She finally looks at you again. Her stare is steady. A little too steady. “I think if I come with you, this stops being something you can compartmentalize.”

Your throat goes dry. Because she’s right. That’s exactly what you’re trying to do.

Sevika smirks again, but there’s no meanness in it. Just that same blunt honesty that always cuts through your bullshit.

“Finish the tour,” she says quietly. “Then ask me again.”

“Finish the tour?” you repeat, eyebrows lifting. “What— you really think I’m waiting that long?”

She huffs out a quiet laugh through her nose, like you’re amusing her again. Like she already knows where this is headed. You shove your hands in your pockets, eyes narrowing. 

“Besides, it’s just a few weeks back at my apartment. Not like we’ve got a red carpet to attend.”

Sevika’s gaze flicks toward you, steady as ever. “Few weeks?” she repeats, voice low, teasing but with an edge. “You’re sure that’s all it is?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. You’re the one inviting me home.”

Your stomach flips. God, why does she always do this? Always so calm, while you’re the one spiraling under the surface.

“Look,” you mutter, trying to keep your cool, “I’m just saying— you’re already stuck babysitting me between shows, right? Might as well do it somewhere with decent coffee.”

Sevika hums, considering. Her eyes narrow just a little, like she’s sizing you up. But then she shrugs. “Hm. You make a decent argument.”

You stop at the crosswalk, heart racing for no good reason. “So that’s a yes?”

Her lips twitch— half-smirk, half-dare. “I’ll think about it.”

You scoff. “Sevika.”

“Relax.” She nudges your arm with her elbow, subtle. “I’m not gonna leave you unsupervised in New York. You’d probably start spiraling being left alone like that.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

She smiles, but barely. Just enough for it to sting and soothe at the same time. The crosswalk light turns green. You both keep walking, side by side, like the whole conversation didn’t just shift something between you. Because it did. You both know it did. As you both round the corner back toward the hotel, you pull out your phone—thumb hovering for half a second before you type back to your assistant;

[10:02] “book one more ticket pls. seat next to mine”

You don’t add a name. You don’t need to. Your assistant’s smart enough to connect the dots. When you slip your phone back into your pocket, Sevika glances sideways at you but doesn’t ask. Just lets you have the silence.

                                      ──────────

The terminal’s loud, crowded, and fluorescent as hell. Your phone is already at 54%, your assistant already texted a thumbs-up about the extra ticket, and you haven’t thought too hard about what happens after this flight. You’re pretending it’s just logistics.

Sevika’s sitting across from you, arms crossed, one boot kicked out like she owns the damn terminal. Her carry-on is small—black, worn, no bullshit. What really isn’t mysterious about her. She didn’t ask questions when you sent her the ticket either. Just raised an eyebrow like, Really? but stayed silent anyway.

You pretend not to watch her.

She catches you, of course. “You good?” Her tone is flat but knowing. Like she’s halfway daring you to admit you’re spiraling.

You smirk, trying to cover the fact you are spiraling. “Yeah, just thinking about how I’ve officially lost my mind.”

“Little late for that.”

She stretches, hoodie riding up slightly— just enough to be distracting. Damn she looks good in a hoodie too. “What’s the plan, princess?”

Her voice is low, cool. Like this is all just part of the job. Like flying across the country together is normal. And you’re acting like you didn't just get butterflies from her calling you that.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “Plan is, we get back to my apartment, I order something unhealthy, you sit there acting like you’re not staying the night, and we both keep pretending this is a bad idea.”

Sevika gives a slow blink. “Sounds about right.”

The boarding call comes over the speakers. You stand up first, wiping your palms against your jeans.

“C’mon, Sev,” you mutter as you grab your bag. She’s right behind you, close enough that you feel it but not enough for anyone else to notice. As you hand over your boarding pass, you hear her say it under her breath, quiet, just for you,

“Too late to back out now.”

And yeah— you know she’s not talking about the flight. But you knew the risks. And honestly? You’re willing to take them. 

Sevika doesn’t say shit when you both settle into business class. She just slides into the window seat like it’s routine, arms crossed briefly before she settles in. Her eyes flick toward you, like she’s clocking the upgrade but choosing not to say anything.

The flight attendant offers champagne. You wave it off. So does she. You sit back, trying to relax—but you know how this goes. Every flight, same ritual. Your heart knots up, not from fear, but from… something else. Memory, maybe. That old habit you can’t shake.

When you were younger, your mom used to hold your hand for takeoffs. Not because you were scared—because she knew the air felt less heavy when someone was there. Since she’s been gone, you’ve just… held your own. Quietly. Subtly. Thumb rubbing over your knuckles like a reflex you don’t talk about.

The engines start to roar louder. Wheels rumble underfoot. You feel your shoulders tense. And without thinking—really, without giving yourself the time to think—you reach across the armrest and grab Sevika’s hand.

And you grab it tight.

Her palm is rough, fingers calloused. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even look surprised. She just lets you hold on. You keep your eyes straight ahead, staring at the seat in front of you. Embarrassed for half a second. Then the plane lifts off, and you feel her thumb press once against your wrist.

Not a rub. Not a squeeze. Just… acknowledgment. Solid and present. Neither of you says a word. And you don’t let go. 

Time passes by and the seatbelt sign dings off somewhere over Pennsylvania. You realize you’re still holding her hand. Fingers tangled together, your grip loosened now but not fully gone.

You glance over. Sevika’s eyes are half-lidded, like she’s almost asleep— or pretending to be. But there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Barely there. Like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Are you gonna clown me for that?” you mutter under your breath, voice low so no one else hears.

Her eyes open just enough to meet yours.

“No,” she says, simple. Then: “But I will if you start crying.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Please. I’m not that soft.”

Her gaze drops to your joined hands. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You try to pull back, just out of instinct. But she holds on. Loosely, but still there. Her thumb brushes against your knuckles like she’s drawing idle circles. No teasing this time. Just steady.

“I’m not scared of flying,” you say, defensive, even though she never asked.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“…Then why’re you looking at me like that?”

She shifts, lets out a breath through her nose— almost a laugh but not quite. “Because you’re acting like this is the first time someone stayed.”

Your stomach flips at that. Heat crawls up your neck. You don’t know if it’s irritation or the fact that she’s right. Man why the hell is she always right. She’s got to be observing your every move.

You glance away, looking out the window at nothing. “Whatever.”

Sevika lets you have that. No pushback. Just leans her head against the seat, closes her eyes again—but her hand stays on yours comfortably. Like this isn’t a big deal. Even though it kind of is.. to you anyways. Having someone staying in.. god knows how long. It makes you feel content with yourself. Almost in a way that's too good to be true. 

Somewhere mid-flight, the world outside the window fades to black. Clouds gone, lights dimmed, engines humming like white noise. The cabin lights dim halfway through the flight. Business class is quiet, full of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of glassware. But in your little pocket of space, it’s just the two of you.

You’re reclined halfway, blanket over your lap, hand still tangled in Sevika’s.

You’re not sure who’s holding who at this point. Her thumb strokes lazy circles over your wrist—barely there, like muscle memory.

Neither of you speaks. Your head tips back against the seat, eyes heavy but not fully closed. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sevika turning. Her gaze drops to your hand in hers.

Then you feel it. Soft and intentional. The faintest press of her lips against your knuckles.

She doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t look at you after. Just rests your joined hands back down on the armrest between you like it never happened.

But it did.

Your throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of your neck. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around hers, not enough to call attention to it, just enough to say; 

Yeah. I felt that.

The engine hums beneath your feet. The world 35,000 feet below spins on. But up here, you’re suspended in this—whatever this is. Minutes later, you let yourself drift off. Hand still in hers.

Somewhere before sleep fully embraced you, you felt Sevika shift in her seat slightly. Your eyes barely cracked open to see what she’s doing. She's watching the TV screen. Whatever, you were comfortable. It wasn’t long till you were fully succumbed to sleep. And soon Sevika was asleep as well.

When you do wake up, you wake up to the low hum of the cabin and the soft shifting of someone next to you. Eyes still half-lidded, you glance sideways. Sevika’s awake. Her arm’s still resting close—hand casually draped on the armrest like you didn’t fall asleep practically glued together hours ago. But there’s a flicker of something in her eyes when she catches you looking.

“Sleep good?” she murmurs, voice low, still rough from the nap.

You stretch, fingers flexing in your lap. “Would’ve been better if I didn’t drool.”

Sevika smirks, slow and lazy. “Yeah. Noticed.”

Your eyes narrow. “And you let me?”

Her mouth twitches. “What, you wanted me to wipe your chin mid-flight?”

“Maybe.” You side-eye her. “Would’ve been the decent thing to do.”

Sevika leans back, eyes half-lidded. “I’m not decent.”

You scoff, kicking her foot lightly under the seat. “You’re the worst.”

“Hmm,” she hums, eyes flicking to the seat-back screen. “Wanna make it worse?”

You follow her gaze. There’s a poker game pulled up—digital cards waiting. Of course. Classic.

“Oh, you wanna lose to me twice in one weekend?”

Her lips curl into something dangerous. “I never lose.”

You tap the screen anyway, pulling the game up. “Fine. Let’s bet.”

Her brow lifts. “On what?”

You think for a second, heart already speeding up. “Winner gets to call the shots tonight.”

Sevika’s gaze sharpens, amused but interested. “And the loser?”

You grin, sharp and knowing. “Has to keep their hands to themselves. No touching.”

Her jaw shifts slightly, tongue pressing to the inside of her cheek like she’s considering it.

“…You’re not gonna win that,” she says, deadpan.

“Oh? So you’re admitting you’re gonna fold first?”

“I’m saying I don’t play games I can’t rig.”

You laugh, leaning into her space just enough to make it dangerous. “Then deal the cards, Sev.”

The screen flickers as the game begins—both of you pretending this is about poker. When it’s really not.The game gets quiet. Serious even. Cards shuffle digitally on the little seat-back screen. You and Sevika are both locked in, no smirks now. Just narrowed eyes, tense lips, and competitive silence.

At some point, you even reached over and slid the privacy divider up between you, not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t trust her not to glance at your hand.

Sevika side-eyes you as the plastic clicks into place. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” You don’t even look at her. “You’re shady.”

Her lips twitch, but she says nothing. She just taps Call on her screen. Your pulse kicks up.

It’s ridiculous, honestly. Two adults in business class, locked in an in-flight poker death match over a bet you both know neither of you can actually handle. The stakes are stupidly high for something that should be casual. But that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?

Sevika plays her next move, eyes sharp. “You nervous?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you slide one leg across the armrest divider, just enough to brush her knee under the tray table. Not cheating technically— just a reminder of what’s on the line.

“No,” you murmur, tapping Raise.

Her eyes darken. “Hm.”

You catch her jaw flex as she clicks Call again, matching your bet. Her boot nudges back under your calf. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

Five minutes in, it stops feeling like poker and starts feeling like foreplay.

You look at her through the corner of your eye. “So? You gonna fold or what?”

Sevika shifts in her seat, cracking her knuckles once—slow and deliberate. “Thought you wanted me to keep my hands to myself.”

“Yeah, if you lose.”

Her mouth quirks slightly. “Guess I’ll have to win then.”

You slide another chip in-game and whisper, “Please. You’ve been bluffing since the second hand.”

“Oh yeah?”

The divider makes it so you can’t fully see her face now—but you feel her smirk.

“You sure about that?” she murmurs, voice a little lower.

Your throat goes dry. You know you should focus on the game. On the cards. On winning. But right now, all you can think about is what happens if you don’t. And the way Sevika’s foot is still resting against yours under the seat isn’t helping. 

Yet, the final hand flips on the screen. You both stare.

You win.

Sevika blinks once. Her jaw shifts, subtle but noticeable— like she’s recalculating reality. You on the other hand, slowly slide the divider back, stifling a chuckle.

“No fucking way,” she mutters, eyes narrowing at the display like the poker game personally betrayed her.

You grin slow, dragging it out. “Oh, I’m sorry, was that my royal flush?”

Her gaze snaps to you. You catch the flicker of disbelief before she schools her face back into neutral. Then, without a word, she reaches over and slides the little divider panel between your seats all the way back— again. Like that somehow rewrites the outcome.

“Oh, okay. Wow.” You laugh, leaning back smug. “We’re just closing the divider now? Is that the ‘I lost’ protocol?”

Sevika exhales through her nose, cool as ever. “No,” she deadpans. “Your screen’s glitchy. Couldn’t have been legit.”

“Oh, you’re full of shit.” You nudge her knee under the tray table, as your hand drags back the divider open  again. “Admit it. I won.”

She looks at you sideways, lips twitching like she’s fighting a grin but refusing to lose face.

“Fine,” she says, voice low. “But you’re not a graceful winner.”

You rest your head against the seat, still smirking. “Nope. Never claimed to be.”

She exhales, shaking her head once, then mutters just loud enough for you to hear,

“Fucking PR people.”

But she’s smiling this time too. That smile.

God, that fucking smile.

It’s rare. Almost dangerous. Like watching something wild and sharp let its guard down for just a second. Most people don’t even get to see it, not really. They see the smirk, the cocky tilt of her mouth when she’s winning, the cold half-grin when she’s baiting someone into doing something stupid. But this?

This real, soft thing? It’s different.

 Without thinking, you blurt it out—soft, under your breath but loud enough.

“I love your smile.”

The second the words are out, your eyes snap forward, locking on the seat in front of you like it just became the most interesting object in the universe. 

Sevika stills.

You can feel her looking at you, but you don’t dare meet her eyes. Your face heats, heart pounding like you just accidentally leaked a press release early. Oh damn you hate that feeling.

“Didn’t say anything,” you mumble quickly, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. “Flight noise. Must’ve misheard.”

Sevika lets the silence stretch, lets you stew. Then, quiet, almost smug, you hear her shift beside you, voice low enough to curl around your pulse.

“Yeah?” she says. “Well. Say it again when you mean it.”

You bite your lip hard, but your stomach flips anyway. You steal a glance out of the corner of your eye. She’s still looking at you. Still smiling. Not wide, not showy—just this subtle, private thing like you’re in on some secret no one else gets.

And for a second you think, Oh. That’s why people risk it. That’s why they get too close. Because Sevika’s smile feels like being trusted with something fragile. Like she’s giving you the sharp end of the knife and daring you not to cut yourself. And for some reason, seeing that soft smile on her face just makes your chest warm.

Wow. Is this how it feels when someone's having a crush? Please make it stop. (Please don’t).

                                     ──────────

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you into the quiet of your apartment. It’s familiar, but tonight it feels…different. The usual hum of New York floats through the windows: distant horns, sirens three blocks over, someone yelling about nothing. Home. And maybe because Sevika’s standing in the middle of your living room, boots still on, jacket half off, eyes scanning the space like she’s casing the joint.

She’s stood there, eyeing your place like she’s scanning for sniper points. You roll your eyes. "Relax, Sev. No one's gonna jump us in my one-bedroom."

Her lips twitch like she might smirk, but she doesn’t. Just steps inside fully, boots heavy on your floor.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, tossing your keys onto the counter. “But, you know— hands to yourself.”

Her eyes cut to yours, sharp, playful. “That was your bet, remember?”

“Yeah, and I won.”

Sevika snorts. “Barely.”

“Oh, I barely kicked your ass at poker?” You flash a grin, toeing off your shoes. “That what you’re going with?”

She shrugs off her jacket, folds it over the back of the chair like she’s got all the time in the world. “I let you win.”

“Uh huh.” You cross your arms, raising a brow. “Right, because you’re so good at losing.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she steps deeper into your apartment, eyes flicking to the couch, the walls, the takeout menus magnetized to your fridge.

“You hungry?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying not to think about how close she is. How warm her hands were on the plane. How your bed is right there.

“Starving,” she says, voice low, like the word has more than one meaning.

You swallow. Ignore it. Pick up your phone.

“Okay,” you say, pretending to scroll, “what’s the move? Thai? Sushi? Something that doesn’t involve us cooking because, I don’t know about you, but my stove is basically a storage unit.”

Sevika’s eyes narrow like she’s deciding something, but all she says is, “Thai.”

You nod, tapping the screen. “Good. We can’t violate the bet if we’re stuffing our faces.”

Her lips twitch again. “You keep telling yourself that.”

And you do. Even as your stomach flips, and you scroll through the menu like your hands aren’t itching to break your own rule. Biting a smile back knowing neither of you will last.

Yeah so, the food’s long gone. Takeout boxes sit empty on the table, two sets of chopsticks resting at odd angles like fallen swords. You’re both stretched out on the couch now— half-lounging, half-sinking, Netflix asking for the third time if you’re still watching. Neither of you bother to answer.

The bet was supposed to keep things light. Keep things distant. You should’ve known better.

Sevika’s thigh presses against yours, solid and warm, her arm casually slung over the back of the couch like she’s not three seconds away from breaking your no-contact rule. Or maybe you are. It’s hard to tell whose self-control is worse at this point.

You tilt your head toward her, eyes half-lidded. “You realize we’re basically asking for it right now.”

Her gaze slides over to you, lazy. “Asking for what?”

You scoff, elbow nudging her side. “Oh yeah, play dumb now.”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t move away. Her fingers stay exactly where they are, draped behind your shoulder like it’s no big deal. Like she’s not running her thumb in small, idle circles along the couch cushion just close enough.

The silence stretches long. Heavy. But comfortable, somehow.

Your eyes flick to her mouth. You’re full, tired, wrecked from the last few days—but you still want her. In that slow, sticky, addictive way that sinks deeper when everything else gets quiet.

“Fuck the bet,” you murmur, almost to yourself. Because honestly? Who could ever last with a bet like this. You just set yourself up.

Sevika hums like she didn’t hear you—but then her hand slides from the couch cushion to your jaw. Calloused fingers brushing your skin. Your pulse kicks up immediately.

You shift closer, barely breathing. She leans in, close enough that her breath hits your lips.

“You sure?” she murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t know you were such a sore winner.”

“Shut up,” you whisper—but your mouth is already parting for hers.

The kiss starts slow. Barely there. Just lips brushing, testing, teasing. But it doesn’t stay soft for long.

Her hand tilts your chin just right, deepening the kiss until you melt against her. Her other hand grips your thigh, anchoring you in place. You sigh into her mouth, letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders as your body slumps against hers, finally giving in.

No press disaster. No band drama. No headlines waiting. Just this. Just her. And the stupid, reckless fact that you don’t even care anymore.

Although, the kiss heats up faster than you expected.

Her hand slides from your jaw down to your waist, gripping tighter, pulling you onto her lap like it’s second nature. Your thighs straddle hers, hips pressing down. It’s too much but also not enough— your body’s moving before your brain can catch up. As if your body had other plans, craving her touch.

Sevika’s mouth is hot against yours, rougher now, her teeth just grazing your bottom lip before she captures it again. Her hands settle on your hips before it slides down your grope your ass, her fingers flexing like she’s reminding herself not to squeeze harder. Or maybe she’s not reminding herself at all. 

You gasp softly into her mouth, threading your fingers into her hair, tugging just enough to feel her groan against your lips. 

Her voice is low, wrecked, right against your ear. “Thought you wanted to keep it light.”

“Changed my mind,” you breathe, hips shifting slightly over hers, chasing more friction without even thinking.

Her lips find your neck, messy, slow kisses along your pulse, teeth scraping just to make you shiver. You can feel how much she wants this. You can feel how much you do. Fuck you loved when she kissed your neck. But then your stomach knots—not from nerves. From sheer exhaustion. The kind that creeps up in the middle of good things, reminding you that you’re human, and you haven’t slept right in days.

Sevika pulls back slightly, breath shallow. Her forehead rests against yours, both of you just… breathing.

“You’re tired,” she mutters, voice still low but softer now.

“So are you.”

Her lips curl into a half smirk. “Didn’t stop us last night.”

“Yeah, and now my body hates me for it.”

You both laugh. Quiet but real. The kind that shakes your shoulders, forehead still pressed to hers. You shift off her lap reluctantly, collapsing back onto the couch, both of you sprawled now, chests rising and falling in sync.

“Let’s not be stupid tonight,” you mutter, wiping a hand over your face, still grinning.

Sevika leans her head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed, breath steady. “We’ll just have to save that for tomorrow.”

You let out another small laugh, scooting closer, her arm naturally coming to rest around you again—no tension now, just warmth. The room is quiet except for your shared breathing. Just as you’re about to close your eyes, your phone buzzes softly on the coffee table. You reach over, groggy but curious, and pick it up.

A notification from the sisters’ group chat. You open it, expecting more drama or demands— because that’s been the rhythm lately.

But instead, there’s a photo.

Jinx and Vi, side by side, sitting at a bustling seafood pop-up stall. Their smiles are wide, unguarded, the kind of happiness you haven’t seen on them in weeks. Seriously. 

The sunlight filters through the canopy above, highlighting the spice-covered shrimp and buttery corn on their plates. Vi’s arm is draped casually over Jinx’s shoulder, and Jinx’s eyes are sparkling like she’s just told a joke. No chaos or tension. Just peace. For once. 

You stare at the image, your chest tightening a little—hope flaring quietly somewhere deep inside. As you hearted the photo, Sevika’s arm tightens around your waist. You don’t need to say anything. She leans her head against yours, her warmth steady and sure. Domestic even.

For a moment, everything feels like it might be okay. And then you finally let your eyes close. Letting sleep win, again. While Sevika on the other hand just.. admires you for a moment. Even though she screwed up last time with the Medarda’s. Fucked up even. Got feelings in the way of her job. 

For some reason she can't seem to pull herself from you. 

Even though her job is full of risks, and every second demands sharp focus and cold precision, here, right now, she’s letting the chaos fade. Because maybe, just maybe, this mess of feelings isn’t a weakness, but something worth holding onto. Something real. Something— no. Someone worth fighting for.

And in that quiet, she knows, no matter how hard she tries, she’s not walking away. Not tonight. Not ever. Not from you.

[yukadollie]

parenthood ౨ৎ tokyo debunker

SFW // Drabble Fluff HCs

content., fluff, all the ghouls! reader is a mom/afab, she/her used! called mama + papa + daddy + by kids, established marriage relationship though not explicitly stated, not a-star parenting, some of these are more focused on the ghouls than the reader. this takes place after darkwick graduation so everyones 30ish! Pneumonia story in Yuri’s that includes taking medicine, not proofread, maybe ooc tried my best! y/n = your name, reader is burnt out in Towa’s story, Leo is literally a menace to your guy’s kid

will get reworked!

the types of parent the ghouls are, as well as their kids! they’re not exactly the greatest parents, but they do love their kids

Jin—

- Jin spoils you and your 11 year old son Ryota in every way he can, either with time and affection or a multitude of gifts when busy with work, he will always prefers spending time with the two of you though.

- He enjoys the littler moments, where all three of you are sat on the couch, doing any sort of family activity. Board games, movie nights, anything.

- Bigger social events with your whole family are quite common though with your status as the Kamurai family, which Ryota often objects to as he tends to be on the shyer side. Jin always drags him along though.

- Ryota tends to stick by your side as much as possible while Jin reluctantly has to socialize, the two of you awkwardly standing in the corner of any sort of event.

“… I wanna go home.” Ryota mutters to you from behind his masquerade mask.

“Just a bit longer. Why don’t you try some food?” You nudge him towards the refreshments table.

Ryota eyes a platter of thinly sliced translucent white meat, “What’s that?”

“Um… that must be some type of fowl.” You answer unsure, lifting your champagne glass to your lips.

“…I want salmon.” Ryota crosses his arms, “Why don’t we go home and have chef make some?”

“We have to be here to support Jin.” You reply, placing a hand on Ryota’s shoulder, “If you want seafood, I believe there’s crab legs on that table over there.”

Ryota clicks his tongue, the same expression of annoyance Jin has, “Tch.”

“It won’t be long until your father is done, Ryota.” You say, “Find something to snack on and we can have salmon when we get home.”

Ryota sighs, taking a plate from the table next to you and placing two mini meat tarts on it. He moves the plate towards you, watching as you try it first.

“It’s good, Ryota.” You confirm.

Ryota searches your eyes for any hint of displeasure or dishonesty before taking a small bite out of the tart, “… It’s okay.”

The two of you finish your small snack just as Jin approaches you, looking completely annoyed. Ryota immediately takes it as a sign to leave, placing the plate down and taking a step towards his father.

“Let’s go.” Jin mutters, taking your arm in his and spinning on his heel towards the exit.

- Ryota hurriedly follows behind. And yes, Ryota does get his salmon that night.

Tohma—

- Tohma is the definition of gentle parenting when with your guy’s 6 year old daughter, Asuka. She’s young, and she’s curious, always asking questions about everything she sees.

“what kind of bug is that?”

“That is a ladybug.”

“.. what kind of bug is that?”

“That is my monocle.”

- Treats your daughter like a princess. Buys her dresses, snacks, toys. Anything. Always opens the car door for her, acting like her chauffeur.

“After you, m’lady.”

- Her jaw absolutely drops when Tohma takes her around high-society, especially when she met Uncle Jin for the first time. You thought Tohma spoiled Asuka? Jin doubles it.

- Her room is so lavish compared to the rest of the home, it almost looks like it’d belong to another house, and Asuka is incredibly proud of her collection of gifts! She loves showing them off to you and Tohma every night before bed.

“Now, look at this mama!” Asuka pulls out a velvet jewelry box, opening it to reveal what looks like an incredibly expensive sapphire necklace with encrusted diamonds around the edge.

“My, my.” Tohma crosses his arms, “Did your uncle get you that?”

Asuka nods, putting it back on her shelf.

“Looks like we’ll have to step up our present game.” Tohma says.

“I don’t know about that—“ You reply, looking around the room at the multitude of gift boxes.

“Did you say ‘thank you’?” Tohma asks as Asuka moves through her toy chest.

“Yes!! And I made Uncle Jin a drawing of him and his super cool sword.” Asuka grins, pulling out her favorite stuffed toy— a white rabbit with navy blue ears.

“I’m surprised you still sleep with that one.” You comment, “You’ve got so many new ones.”

“This one’s my favorite!! It’s the first one you and papa got me!” Asuka explains, getting into bed.

You kiss Asuka’s head, shutting off the lamp, “Aww. Goodnight Asuka. I love you.”

“Love you too mama!!”

Kaito—

- Kaito and your young teenage daughter, Miu, are like best friends. They tell each other almost everything, do everything together, and you can hardly spot them apart from each other.

- A dance dad. Attended all of Miu’s dance recitals and practices, always cheering her on from the sidelines.

- Your family has a small tradition the three of you started when Miu was in elementary school, getting crepes together every weekend. You all come by so often, the workers have your order memorized. Two fresh strawberry crepes for you and Kaito, and one chocolate spread crepe for Miu.

- Miu seems to have grown a knack for mischief and adventures though, dragging Kaito along with her so they can make memories. Though reluctant, he always seems to give in to her persuasion every time.

“shit, shit, okay! Don’t tell your mom, she’ll kill me!!”

- home in time for dinner (somehow), both of them trying not to act suspicious. Though, it’s obvious to you the way Kaito is sweating and dodging conversation during dinner that something happened.

- it all comes flooding out as the two of you are getting ready for bed in your shared bedroom, everything about how he and Miu had went ghost hunting and actually ran into a low-level anomaly. As soon as he notices your brows furrowing, he’s apologizing over and over again, reassuring you the anomaly only took one hit from his bow and arrow before perishing.

“aggh, I’m sorry!! I won’t do it again!” Kaito groans, stuffing his face into the pillow.

you bop him on the head lightly, causing him to whine, “I know.. I know.. sorry y/n..”

- though there will certainly be another time the two get up to mischief, kaito always keeps her away from anything even a whiff of dangerous, for your sake. (and his own)

Lucas—

- you two have the absolute sweetest 8 year old girl, Minami, who the two of you love to bits! Somehow, the two of you won the jackpot with how kind and determined she is, a real mirror to her father!

- sword training together, because of course. Minami saw him use his special artifact once, and now she’s obsessed with sword fights. took a lot of convincing and help with a good word from you to get Luca to start training with wooden swords.

- Minami gushes to you everyday about how dad said she was getting so much better as Lyca watches from the doorway, smiling. Insists that she’s going to keep working hard everyday!

- Minami is big on amusement parks and all the rides! Luca always wins her a new huge stuffed animal for her bedroom’s collection.

Minami stops walking, tugging at your hand, “Look!”

You spin around, looking at the 3-foot tall raspberry pink bear hung up on a hook as the grand prize of a throwing darts game.

“Oh, do you want that bear?” Lucas eyes the game watching a multitude of parents try and win their kids a prize.

Minami nods.

“Hm.. it looks like one of those carnival scams.. no one’s even won one of the smaller prizes yet.” You mumble to Luca.

Your daughter looks up at the both of you with watery eyes, pouting, “So we can’t get it?”

“That’s not true!” Luca breaks immediately, “I’ll win you it, I promise.”

Luca has forked over half the cash in his wallet over the course of twenty minutes, absolutely determined on winning that prize! When he finally throws the last dart onto the board, Minami cheers. The game attendant seems surprised, but hands over the pink bear to Luca without reluctance after how much money he spent on the game.

- happily tucks in Minami with her brand new friend who she named ‘Berry’ because it sounded like ‘beary’ before coming to bed with you.

Alan—

- you both love your 6 year old daughter, Chihiro. though Alan doesn’t explicitly shower her in gifts or affection, you and your daughter both know how much he loves his family.

- he’ll silently sit there as Chihiro plasters sparkly cat stickers across Alan’s face and arms, not even flinching when she has to peel them off before bed.

- personally headcanon that he works as a police officer, so he gets cursed and spit at all the time. but threatening his family? That crosses the line. He won’t beat them up, but he’ll certainly shut them up with a punch.

- his favorite part of the day is coming home to the two of you and having a homecooked meal, everyone sharing what they had done that day.

Alan shuts the front door, the smell of sautéed meat and seasoning wafting from the kitchen. He sets his shoes by the door, walking into the kitchen to see you helping Chihiro whisk miso paste into a boiling pot of water.

“Making dinner?” Alan gently wraps himself around your waist.

“Yeah. Almost done.”

Alan buries his face into the crook of your neck as Chihiro jumps down from her stool, “Daddy! Look! We made hambagu steak!”

Chihiro pulls Alan away to the dining table, showing him the plate of hamburger steak and steamed vegetables.

“Oh, looks good.” Alan comments, sitting down.

“And— look! Look!” Chihiro grabs a drawing from the counter, showing Alan the crayon portraits of your family and house.

“Very nice.” Alan smiles, hands clasped together on the table.

“Dinner’s ready.” You announce, placing the pot of soup in the middle of the table.

Chihiro hastily sits down, scooping rice into the side of her plate. You ladle a small portion of miso soup into a small bowl for Chihiro, placing it next to her plate.

“Dadd! What’d you do at work today?” Chihiro turns to face Alan.

Alan holds his steak steady with a fork, cutting off a chunk, “Hm. Easy day, we checked out a disturbance at a karaoke bar but there wasn’t any issue.”

“I think I’m gonna be a police officer too, so then I can protect everyone!!” Chihiro takes a large bite of her steak.

The three of you continue to talk throughout dinner, sharing a meal as well as laughter. It’s a simple thing, and yet, it will always be the highlight of Alan’s day.

Sho—

- Your 8 year old son, Daichi, is incredibly shy and artistic, sharing new drawings to you and your husband, Sho. The first ever drawing Daichi drew for the two of you was all three of you outside of Sho’s restaurant alongside your family’s sheepdog, Sho praising his artistic skill and pinning it behind the counter at his restaurant.

- Daichi is the type of kid to work at his parent’s restaurant after school though since he’s so shy, he doesn’t work the register and prefers working with Sho in the back of the kitchen, helping keep shelves stocked and marking expiration dates on boxes of produce.

- Sho always brings home dinner after work so you don’t have to cook, different types of dishes each night. Katsu curry, barbecue skewers, teriyaki chicken with sides of steamed broccoli, pulled pork sandwiches, anything he has extra of that day. Sho always makes sure to bring home three servings of whatever meal so the whole family can eat together.

Daichi spoons curry over the breaded pieces of chicken katsu before sliding a new drawing across the table towards you. You look over it, it’s a well-done picture of Sho riding his motorcycle, colored and shaded with color pencils, “Very nice!”

Daichi smiles, Sho leaning over to get a look, “Let me see.”

You hand Sho the drawing, watching as he nods in approval, “I’ll have to pin this one up too. Good job Daichi.”

Daichi quietly mumbles out a thanks as Sho hands the drawing back to him, taking a bite of curry.

- Sho puts the drawing right next to the first one Daichi ever made, beaming whenever a customer inquires about the drawing behind the register, “My son drew it.”

Leo—

- oh, your daughter Hiyoko has a bit of a rebellious streak despite only being 8 years old. At least according to Leo. He has a sharp tongue and is quick to fireback at her when she pushes back though.

“I don’t want to go to school!”

“Kids like you need to!”

“You went to school and look how you turned out!”

“Seriously!? Where are you learning these things!?l

- Gets annoyed when Hiyoko listens to everything you tell her to do, complaining about how she hardly even listens to Leo. You tell him they’re comparable, he’s just gotta be patient with Hiyoko too.

- Shows his affection in other ways. New box of gum on her desk, her favorite dinner wrapped on the kitchen table, or her room completely cleaned— and Hiyoko knows her father is behind it. So she slowly becomes nicer and nicer, listening to Leo just a bit more.

- They actually become incredibly close, like best friends, growing their old bickering into a type of inside joke, making fun of each other but simple and trivial things. They’re no. 1 gossiping duo

“Sayuki’s mom was surprised when you picked me up.” Hiyoko says, holding Leo’s hand as they walked home from school, “She probably thought you were another kid.”

“The hell? I’m not even that short.” Leo’s face sours, “I’m taller than your mother. You’re making that up.”

Hiyoko giggles mischievously, not answering Leo’s accusation, swinging her arm back and forth as they round the corner to your guy’s home.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Leo says, reaching into his pocket for the house key.

“Thought? I didn’t know you could think.”

Leo is about to respond but stops when he sees you at the door, greeting them.

“Mom!” Hiyoko drops her backpack on the floor, running up to you and hugging you.

“We gotta get rid of this kid. She’s evil.” Leo pretends to whisper to you, though purposefully makes his voice loud enough for Hiyoko to hear.

“Good luck with that! Mom loves me waaay more than you.” Hiyoko sticks her tongue out at Leo.

“Yeah. As if. Good luck getting someone to love you.” Leo pats the top of Hiyoko’s head.

You hit Leo with your elbow shooting him a look to knock it off, though Hiyoko giggles.

- you may not get their relationship, but you certainly do know they love each other.

Haru—

- you’ve got two sweet girls! mira, who’s 4, and kyoko who’s a bit older at 6! Haru works hard for them, and for you— he’s got a picture of you guys on his desk at work. you really are his motivation honestly!

- brings home treats for the girls after work— gummy bears, caramel chews, and more. after he comes home from work, mira and kyoko run up to him and pester him for candy.

“Did you get the sour gummies I wanted, pa!?” Kyoko is already rummaging through Haru’s belongings.

“Yep!” Haru reaches over her head and pulls the gummies out of his bag.

- The girls absolutely love Peekaboo, chasing him around the house so they can ‘play’ with him. Either you or Haru always have to come to Peekaboo’s rescue once the girls catch him.

- The girls figured out that their favorite thing to do ever is playing makeover with their parents. More specifically Haru. Kyoko and Mira haphazardly rub blue eyeshadow over your lids before moving over to Haru and covering his eyes with the thickest eyeliner wing you’ve ever seen.

“What—? Do I have to put on the dress too..?” Haru sighs, already knowing the answer as Kyoko pulls the hot pink dress over his shirt.

“Yeah!! Then you and mama will both be super pretty!” Mira smiles, grabbing a deep red lipstick.

“Whaa—!?” Haru’s jaw dropped, “I’m already pretty!! I don’t need anymore makeup! You barely put any on your mama!”

“Whoahoa, don’t lump me in, Haru!” You crossed your arms.

“Yeah, that’s cause mama doesn’t need it!” Kyoko laughs mischievously.

“Ouch! So young.. but so mean..” Haru mumbles to himself, staying still as the kids patted white powder over his face.

“Are you ready for your date with mama?” Mira holds a mirror up to Haru’s face.

He gawks at his appearance, drawn on eyelashes with eyeliner, rosy pink circles on his cheeks, and a ring of bright red lipstick lining more than just his mouth. Haru says nothing, stunned into silence.

“Okay! Now kiss mama!” Kyoko pulled Haru closer to you.

“Wait!— wait! Let me clean up a bit—“

- You have to help him clean off the makeup after the girls have went to bed. He thanks you profusely as soon as it’s off, collapsing into bed with you.

Ren—

- you guys have two boys! arata and ichiro, and they’re certainly a handful. and extremely messy, always tracking in mud from the yard and stomping on the rug. ren chases after them with a towel, desperate to get them to stop spreading mud around the house.

“ugh… arata! ichiro!! get back here!”

- complains when he has to bathe them because they always splash water on him in the bath, absolutely drenching him in water by the time he’s done. thought he had cracked the code when he got them rubber ducks and bath toys.. just for them to throw the toys at him. despite always complaining, he’ll still do it every time you tell him to!

- takes them to the park on saturdays and “watches” from a bench. Watches in quotes as he’s on his phone most of the time, yelling at them to ‘play nice’.

“oi! ichiro! let arata play on the firetruck first.”

- drags them back home when they keep on arguing over the slide, scolding them all the way about learning to share and take turns.

“we’re not going back to the playground ‘til the two of start behaving better!”

(takes them back next Saturday regardless)

- there’s a moment of peace in your home as everyone unwinds for the night. when ren has wrestled arata and ichiro into their pajamas, sitting in the middle of their bedroom with action figures. ren smiles— a genuine one— as he plays along with them.

“Kaaapooom!!” Arata slaps the robot figure Ren is holding out of his hand.

Ren picks it back up, clashing it against Arata’s superhero figure, the two plastic toys battling it out.

“Oi! Let’s team up and take dad down!” Ichiro grips his soldier figurine in his hand.

“Huh? That’s not fair.” Ren says, frowning.

Ren’s words fall on deaf ears as Arata and Ichiro hit Ren’s figure with their own, knocking it right out of his hand. The two keep hitting it, making loud and animatic sounds.

“Hey! Hey!! You got me!” Ren cries out, pulling his figure away, “Stop it!”

Arata and Ichiro laugh, “Let’s play tomorrow!”

“If you guys behave, yeah.”

- returns to your guy’s bedroom, absolutely exhausted. falls into your arms and complains about how exhausted he is. Insists you’ll be taking care of the kids by yourself from now on! (you know he doesn’t mean it)

Towa—

- you swear Towa is almost as childish as your 8 year old son, Haruki, the two bickering like children whenever Towa can’t get Haruki to do something simple like put on his shoes.

“You have to put on your shoes before we go out!” Towa shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna!!” Haruki cries.

“Well, your mama would want you to! So you have to!”

- oh so overprotective of the two of you. another kid makes Yasuhiro cry at school? suddenly the kid is no longer showing up, transferring to a school in a completely different town. Towa simply smiles at you when you ask what he did, completely ignoring your question.

- absolute menace of a duo, both are incredibly clumsy resulting in trouble if you leave them alone together too long.

you shut the front door of the house, calling out to Towa and Haruki. You get a yell back from the kitchen, following the noise to see the two on the floor covered in so much flour they look like piles of snow.

“mama!” Haruki exclaims, kicking up flour from the floor as he runs to hug you.

“what happened!?” You look over at Towa.

Towa giggles in response, wiping flour from his face.

“Me and daddy tried to bake cake so we could have it after dinner!” Haruki explains, caking your clothes in flour as he hugs you.

You pat his head before trying to wipe the flour off of you with your hand, sighing from the exhaustion from work. Towa seems to notice though, his smile faltering and that stoic, thoughtful expression of him coming out.

“How about you take a quick bath, Haruki?” You suggest, “I’ll wash yours and daddy’s clothes.”

Haruki runs across the house to find his bath toys, leaving you alone with Towa. You take a rag from the counter, wiping Towa’s face off.

“You look tired, dandelion.” Towa comments.

“Work sucks.” You sigh.

Towa tilts his head, looking around the kitchen at the mess he and Haruki made, “I can clean up and make dinner while you help bathe Haruki.”

You feel surprised at the sudden level of responsibility Towa has grown, though you’re certainly not going to complain.

“Thank you Towa, you’re a real help.”

Towa smiles at the praise, “Hehe, love you dandelion.”

- spoons you that night, peppering kisses all along your face and head as you fall asleep.

Romeo—

- Romeo will only allow the best for your guy’s 10 year old daughter, Tsukuyo! She’s in the most elite school an elementary schooler can be in, high-end clothes only, and has all the most expensive toys, Romeo makes sure of it.

- Tsukuyo takes after her father a lot with her natural leadership and thirst for perfection. She knows you guys have put her through the best life possible, so she studies hard, making sure to get the top marks in her class.

- Every time she returns home with that red ‘100’ on the top of her tests, Romeo grins.

“That’s my girl!”

- He’s incredibly proud of Tsukuyo, taping every single test to the fridge and bragging to his friends about his SSC! (Super smart cookie)

- As a business man, Romeo often teaches Tsukuyo the ropes, and with how similar they are she catches on fast! She’s ordering around everyone in the office, and by the end of the day, she’s being called Ms. FICO.

“Haha, fantastic work Tsukuyo!” Romeo exclaims at the end of the work day.

Tsukuyo beams proudly, “I wanna tell mom when we get home!”

Romeo nods, starting the car, “She’ll surely be proud.”

A man, one of Romeo’s employees knocks frantically on Tsukuyo’s side of the car window, holding up the kids size light pink briefcase she had brought into the office. Romeo rolls down the window for her as she reaches out for her bag.

“Now leave!” Romeo and Tsukuyo order at the same time.

The man apologizes before scrambling away. Romeo turns to Tsukuyo, “You’ll make an excellent businesswoman.”

She rests the bag into her lap, as Romeo backs out of the parking lot, speeding home like they were escaping the scene of a crime, which could be considered true as they certainly are each other’s partner in crime.

Taiga—

- you don’t think you’ve ever seen Taiga been this gentle with anything before— the way he treats your guy’s 8 year old son, Tsukasa, you think he’s transformed into an entirely different person.

- Whenever Tsukasa messes up or gets hurt while playing too roughly, Taiga is always there, squatting next to him and patting Tsukasa’s head, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a bruise.”

- Teaches Tsukasa different card games— poker, rummy, blackjack, baccarat— all of it. No gambling included of course, it’s their way of bonding over one of Taiga’s hobbies.

Taiga blinks, staring at the table as Tsukasa places down his last cards— three Aces. He laughs, throwing down his cards and ruffling Tsukasa’s hair, “Nice job, kiddo.”

“You’re not teaching him to gamble, are you?” You raise your brows at Taiga as you enter the kitchen.

“No, no, we’re just playing Rummy.” Taiga pulls the cards back into the deck, “Dinner soon?”

“Yeah, meat’s thawed.” You turn from the sink to Taiga and Tsukasa at the dining table, “Do you want steak or something else, Tsukasa?”

“I want steak!” Tsukasa answers as Taiga deals out another hand of cards, “Can we have dessert after?”

“I don’t think we have anything sweet.” You answer

“Aw.” The disappointment in Tsukasa’s voice is apparent and it causes Taiga to look up at him.

“I can take Tsutsu for ice cream after dinner.”

- He grumbles whenever you bring up how he’s turned gentle ever since Tsukasa came along, scratching the back of his neck and ignoring your comment.

Ritsu—

- Your daughter and son, Kirika and Meguru, are both 12-year old twins. They’re big mom and dad kids, the four of you an extremely close-knit family.

- Though Ritsu works on weekdays as a lawyer, weekends are all spent with his family. You all often go on family trips to the mall, racking up a tab quickly on different sorts of goods and matching outfits. Yes, your family wears matching outfits.

- Besides just shopping, weekends are spent playing board games and Jenga. This is not something you can escape and these games are taken extremely seriously by your family. /hj

There’s beads of sweat running down Ritsu’s forehead as he reaches for a Jenga piece stuck stiffly in the middle of the structure. He pokes it, grimacing when it doesn’t come out easily. With bated breath, Ritsu pushes it through. The family stares at the tower for a second before watching it collapse on the table. Ritsu groans, “Perhaps there is a different solution to this.”

“You can only take out the middle or the two side pieces.” Kirika says, helping you rebuild the tower.

“I’ll try that next time.” Ritsu shoves a few Jenga pieces towards the two of you.

“Can’t we play something else?” Meguru groans, “I wanna play Uno.”

You glance around at the faces of your family, “Uno?”

Kirika shrugs, “Sure.”

Ritsu rifles the cards into two stacks before letting them cascade down upon each other.

“Dad, can you teach me how to shuffle?” Meguru asks, head on his hand.

“Right after this game.” Ritsu answers, dishing out seven cards to everyone.

“Where’d you learn how to shuffle?” Kirika asks.

“My old house at Darkwick ran a casino.” Ritsu says, picking up his cards.

“You used to gamble!?” Meguru exclaims, slamming his hands down on the table.

“Heavens, no.” Ritsu cocked a brow, “I simply found that it would be a useful skill.”

- Your kids never let that go, always teasing Ritsu about how he helped support an illegal gambling ring. Ritsu always clambers to his defense, insisting that gambling is legal on Darkwick property.

Subaru—

- Your 10 year old son, Takashi, is the happiest kid on Earth, Subaru makes sure of it. If there’s anything Takashi wants to do, Subaru is his number one supporter! Maybe one week he wants to join his school’s gardening club, the next wrestling. Either way, Subaru will always cheer him on.

- Though, Takashi’s biggest passion is definitely baking! He’s always making a new treat for you and Subaru after school, lemon bars, cheesecake, pudding, fluffy cakes— all of it! You guys are his taste testers. His birthday and Christmas list are full of baking supplies, and of course, Subaru gets him all of it!

- Your family often bonds over going out to watch musicals on the weekends, with Takashi writing his own stories when the three of you get home, performing his own musicals for you and Subaru after dinner.

- Subaru goes all out for birthdays making sure it’s perfect for Takashi. For every birthday, Takashi insists that you help him bake his birthday cake instead of ordering one from a bakery. The two of you make his favorite— strawberry shortcake!

“Ready to blow out your candles?” Subaru smiles, holding up his phone camera.

Takashi nods as the two of you begin singing ‘happy birthday’ as Subaru records, clapping as Takashi blows out the candles on his face.

Subaru cuts the camera, moving next to his son to help slice the cake.

“Takashi!” You push a large wrapped box, reaching down and using all your strength to pull the present onto the table, “Here, open your present!”

Takashi peels the wrapping away, his eyes widening as he sees the picture of a stand mixer printed on the box, “Is this—?”

Subaru smiles, “Yes, do you like it?”

Takashi jumps from his seat, wrapping his arms as tight as he can around Subaru, “Thank you, papa! Thank you mommy!”

“Let me get a photo!” You hold up Subaru’s phone, trying to take a landscape photo of the two of them.

- That photo of Takashi and Subaru is framed right in the living room right between two bookshelves, and you often see Subaru stop and gaze at it for a moment as he walks by, reaching out to touch it and relive the memory once again.

Haku—

- You’ve got just one daughter, 11-year old Kanae, who’s incredibly sweet. She absolutely loves the two of you, going out of her way to make at-home gifts of drawings, beaded bracelets, and all sorts of crafts. All her drawings are held up by magnets on the fridge, Haku regularly commenting on how much he loves Kanae’s drawings.

- Type of dad to help his daughter tie her shoes and take her on walks throughout the nearby parks. Together they photograph the different blooming flowers around the park, Kanae picking a few and crafting a flower crown to bring home to you.

- Haku likes arranging family photoshoots so he can send out postcards to his parents and extended family for the seasons, and they’re always themed.

“How many photos do we have to take?” Kanae whines halfway through the photoshoot, sweating under her floral print dress.

“Almost done!” Haku answers, changing his pose, “I want to get a few more to hang up in the living room, okay?”

Kanae groans as the photographer instructs her on how to pose.

“How about this?” Haku kneels down next to her, “We can go get ice cream, yeah?”

Your daughter thinks on it for a moment before nodding, “Okay, but I want double scoops!”

- As soon as the photoshoot is over, Kanae is dragging the both of you to the nearest ice cream shop, ordering herself the biggest sundae possible, triple scoop despite what she had said earlier, extra chocolate sauce with little toffee bits mixed in. And when Haku tries to get a lick, she pulls it away, devouring it whole.

Zenji—

- The absolute biggest girl dad of all time. Absolutely adores your guy’s 8 year old daughter, Oriko, and they get along fantastically, always together.

- Plays his biwa in the living room while Oriko watches, singing along with her own lyrics. Zenji absolutely influenced her to get into the arts, applauding her every time she shared a new poem or song she had made.

- Will do anything to help! Oriko can’t find something around the house? Zenji is dropping everything and helping her find it. Oriko needs help coming up with a new line for her poem? Zenji will spend hours helping her come up with the perfect stanza.

- Oriko jumps up and down as she proposes a new idea to Zenji, a performance for mom! The two spend the whole day creating a song on Zenji’s biwa, Oriko creating her own dance to go along with it.

“Your moves are the cat’s pajamas!” Zenji exclaims as the two takes their place in the living room..

Right on cue, the front door opens as you get home from work.

“Mama! Come to the living room!” Oriko calls out.

You slide off your shoes, dropping your keys and purse as you follow the side of Oriko’s voice. Oriko is wearing her best dress, an ornate hairpin tied up in her bun. Zenji sits next to her, biwa held up against his chest.

“What’s this?” You ask, confused.

Zenji strums his biwa as Oriko takes a step forward, “We made a song for you! Sit down.”

As you take a seat on the couch, Zenji begins playing his biwa, yodeling as Oriko dances along to the melody.

Though not the most graceful performance, you still find emotions muddling up inside you. You’re not sure what it is but you feel your eyes watering as Oriko spins one last time and bows. You applaud the two, “I loved it!”

- You treasure that song deeply, one of your favorite memories with your family. It’s a simple gesture but one that you will never forget.

Ed—

- Ed is always dropping random, cryptic life lessons to your guy’s 8 year old daughter, Sayaka, always just to be met with an annoyed groan and a whine about how weird her dad is. Ed feigns a hurt expression, “How could my own daughter be so cruel?”

- sits with Sayaka while she watches YouTube toy reviews and neon color-saturated kid videos, begging her to put a movie or something else on so he can watch too. (she’s not switching it)

- gets you to convince her to have a family movie night so he can watch something else on the TV for once.

- huuuge family cuddle bundle while watching movies! It’s actually become somewhat of a tradition every Sunday. Sayaka helps pick out a movie, hugging her stuffed animals as she moves through the Netflix catalog, while Edward hugs you close to his body on the couch.

“How about Ponyo?” Sayaka looks back at the two of you on the couch.

You nod, “Aw, yeah. That one looks good.”

She crawls up onto the couch next to the two of you after the starting credits play, “Can we have popcorn?”

“If your mom makes it.” Ed says, practically melting into you and the couch.

“Why can’t you make it?” Sayaka speaks over the movie, “I thought mama said you were the strongest vampire ever!!”

“With age comes weakness.” Ed sighs dramatically.

“We have some caramel popcorn in the pantry.” You cut through their conversation.

Sayaka races to the kitchen to find the popcorn before something interesting happens, dragging the whole bag with her to the couch.

Ed holds his hand out, beckoning her to give him some.

“Did you get the popcorn?” Sayaka sticks her tongue out.

Ed closes his eyes, pretending to faint, “My only daughter… hates me…”

(she gives him a handful but refuses to give anymore after)

Rui—

- you guys have one 5 year old daughter— Akane— who absolutely loves the two of you but at the same time hates the two of you together. Rui is a huuge lovebug, always peppering kisses all over you and hugging you from behind. it’s his little reminder to akane that she shouldn’t settle for a man that doesn’t practically worship the ground she walks on.

- Though, when Akane mentions how she has a boy ‘best friend’ at school, Rui loses it.

“Huh!? Is he treating you nice!? Guys these days are mean!”

- Complains to you over and over again that Akane could be getting played by some gangster playboy who runs the playground at school! You have to reassure him over and over that they’re just friends— and that you’ve seen the kid. He’s just some short boy who doesn’t have a ton of friends.

- spoils her with desserts like crazy, always bringing home chocolate or a slice of cake for her to have after dinner.

- Rui has a natural talent with parenting Akane, somehow always getting her to do those annoying chores you can’t seem to get her to do. (he’s bribing her with more cake)

- Akane is a huge fan of bring-your-child to work day. She absolutely loves coming down to the office Rui works, somewhat of a micro-celebrity in the company.

“Akane! I got you cake from the cafeteria!” A group of ladies surround Akane, handing her different treats and gifts.

“Man, I wish I had a kid.. my boyfriend is a deadbeat though..” One of the ladies sighs.

Rui pulls her away from everyone, taking her to his desk, “Aw, Akane! You’re almost as popular as me.”.

Akane wanders off as Rui works, bored watching him fill out spreadsheets and calculate company expenses, and returns to the group of office ladies, sparkling as they shower her with compliments.

“Wow! Hopefully you’re doing well in school, Akane!” An older lady gushes, pinching her cheek.

“Wow.. her hair is so soft! It’s like those conditioner ads I see on TV!” A younger worker comments, braiding a strand.

Akane grins, “Just like my mommy! My dad says I have my mom’s hair and his eyes!”

“Y/N Mizuki!” A senior manager exclaims, “Oooh, Mizuki is always talking about her, isn’t he?”

At the end of the work day, Rui finds Akane sitting on a table in the break room, hair braided with an assortment of different treats and gifts surrounded around her.

Rui sighs.

“At least help me carry all of this to the car.”

Lyca—

- You’re new parents to a baby boy, Kai, who’s a bit over a year old. It’s still new to the both of you but you’re both trying your best and love him very much!

- Lyca grumbles whenever Kai spits up baby food, trying to tell him that, yes, he has to eat the mushed peas, they’re good for him!

- He’s confused about a lot of things he’s doing, asking you questions on how to do everything— though you don’t fully know what you’re doing either. The two of you figure it out together!

- It’s stressful raising a baby, and when preparing to move Kai into his own room, you find things more stressful than usual, the two of you clumsily building furniture.

“… I don’t think that’s the right piece.” You comment.

Lyca is attempting to connect two pieces of the crib together, grumbling out of frustration, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“The pieces of furniture have numbered stickers on them.” You explain, cradling Kai in your arms.

Lyca checks the instruction manual scrawled out on the floor again before reaching for a different part of the crib. You set Kai down in his baby walker before seating yourself next to Lyca, helping him hammer the crib together. Lyca purses his lips in concentration, “I think it’s coming together.”

You step back for a moment, the shell of the crib coming together. The two of you fit the mattress in before moving Kai from his walker to the crib. Kai babbles happily in the crib staring up at you and Lyca, reaching his hands out to grab at yours. You lower your hand into the crib, smiling when Kai grips your finger around his hand.

“He’s pretty mighty for a baby.” Lyca says, staring down at Kai in his crib.

You laugh at his comment, “Yeah. Just like his dad.”

Yuri—

- incredibly boastful about his feats to your guy’s 6 year old daughter, Aoi. he loves the sparkle in her eyes as he tells her about how he runs the darkwick hospital and saves lives everyday with his groundbreaking inventions in medicine.

- astoundingly happy when Aoi says she wants to be a doctor too, and save lives just like her daddy! hands her a pile of incredibly thick textbooks on medicine, biology, and anatomy, ignoring the fact that she can hardly read or understand any of the words in the book.

“if you want to be a doctor, you need to get a headstart!”

- incredibly overprotective over your daughter’s health. Face looking a little red? Temperature check! Headache? She should come down for a CT scan! She has a cold!? Dr. Yuri Isami wil personally write her a doctor’s note, excusing her from school so she can rest for the week!

- although he’s busy with work a lot, he always makes time for the both of you on weekends, the three of you going to the park and watching Aoi play. When Yuri’s really busy in the hospital though, uncle Jiro comes over to play with Aoi or babysit when you and Yuri have a date night.

- Though, when Aoi falls ill with pneumonia, Yuri takes as much time as he can get off of work, taking care of her with you by his side like the days from when you were still students.

“hm.. y/n, where’s her medicine?” Yuri turns to you, swiveling on his stool.

“oh!— uhm..” You quickly hand the bottle to him, watching him shake a pill out onto his hand.

“wahh.. do I hafta take that?..” Aoi groans quietly from the bed.

You hand her a tall glass of water as Yuri crosses his legs, “Of course! This is a vital part of your recovery!”

Aoi whines but swallows the antibiotics after you encourage her with a smile.

“Now, remember to take these regularly! Your mother will help you to take them everyday.” Yuri wraps an arm around you as you stand next to him.

“I don’t wanna take medicine!!” Aoi cries, “It’s stupid!”

“Didn’t you say you want to be a doctor!?” Yuri purses his lips, “How could you switch sides so quickly!?”

You can’t help but giggle at the altercation, Yuri marveling about the inventions through regular and anomalous medicine. You pat Yuri on the back, “Maybe you can invent a cure-all drug so no one ever gets sick.”

Yuri shoots you a look, but it’s too late, Aoi’s eyes sparkling, “Really!? Is that possible!? Papa you have to do that!”

He sighs, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jiro—

- your daughter is a sweet and reserved 7 year old girl, Ayano, who seems to follow you and Jiro around the house all day long. Asks and comments on everything the two of you do.

“What are you doing?”

“Work.” Jiro replies, writing something down in the contents of a file.

- although quiet and not outwardly affectionate, Jiro is constantly doing things for your daughter. Tying her shoes for her, buying her candy, and silly little games of puppet.

- the two of them sometimes walk to the corner store after dinner, Ayano picking out a new candy to try, usually chocolaye flavored in some way. Insists that Jiro tries something too but he always just gets a strawberry milk if anything.

- Ayano loves playing dollhouse with all three of you, though she doesn’t have traditional tastes, preferring to play warriors.

“aagghh!” Ayano cries out, hitting Jiro’s knight doll with her own.

“aah.” Jiro says flatly, dropping the doll, “You got me.”

Ayano huffs, “Say it with more emotion!”

“… aaahh.” He blinks.

“Mama!! Get him to play right!” Ayano turns to you.

You look at Jiro, trying not to laugh, “Play right.”

Jiro’s brows raise a slight centimeter and he opens his mouth a bit wider, “aah!”

You laugh, doubling over as Ayano lectures Jiro on proper ‘dollhouse playing etiquette’.

Jiro’s laugh is like a whisper, barely loud enough to hear, “Sorry. Let’s try again.”

- you tease him later that night as the two of you are going to bed, telling him to ‘say it with more emotion’ when he says “I love you”.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

© yukadollie creator ♡ 2025, do not repost, copy, steal, etc!

a/n; there may be typos as this isn’t proofread, made this on my phone, sorry!

[oneshotwonderz]

Jealous of my muscles? Manon/Female!Reader (7th member)

pairing: manon x fem!reader (secret relationship)

genre: fluff, thirst chaos, jealousy, possessive energy, secret relationship, suggestive ending

CW: makeout , suggestive ending

Bio: fans thought you were soft. then you went live from the gym. now they're obsessed and your girlfriend is feeling possessive

They called you the soft one.

The bunny vibe, the oversized hoodies, the bright eyes and sleepy giggles, the one always cradling a plushie in Katseye behind the scenes clips. If anyone had asked the fans to guess who would go gym rat mode first, it wouldn’t have been you.

Which is exactly why today’s livestream hit the fandom like a punch to the jaw.

You weren’t even trying to go viral.

You just wanted to share your new fitness journey. Management had finally stopped being weird about it, let you do actual strength training, not just Pilates and light resistance. You’d fallen in love with the process. Deadlifts. Pull-ups. Protein. Pure muscle.

So now here you were, hair up, sports bra on, form-checked, glowing with sweat as you tapped “Live” in your gym’s private mirror room.

“Hi, Eyekons,” you said, grinning at your phone propped up on a dumbbell rack. “Ready to watch me struggle through upper body day?”

And then you picked up the barbell.

================================================

@user12: SINCE WHEN DID THE SOFT BUNNY BECOME A GYM BUNNY @user23: HER BICEPS???? @User55: RAW. @user89: the cut of her shoulders is biblical @user41: I actually need her rn, im being fr. @user66: pls ma’am ur abs are casting shadows i’m scared

================================================

You giggled at the screen, wiping your forehead. “You guys didn’t think I just woke up like this, right?”

You went back to your workout, shoulder presses, cable pulls, a flex here and there when the comments got too insane not to acknowledge. Your abs becoming more defined every time you adjusted your posture.

You had no idea Megan was screen recording. Or that Manon was lurking in silence from the dorm she shared with you.

She’d clicked the notification absentmindedly, expecting to see you giggling on your yoga mat like usual.

What she got instead: thirst trap olympics.

Manon wasn’t the jealous type.

She swore she wasn’t.

She trusted you, she really did. But this? Watching you curl weights while some random user named “shoulderpillows77” commented “i just barked at the screen”?? While the chat filled with raw thirst and unhinged fantasy?

Manon’s phone was heating up in her hand. So was her face.

===============================================

@user90: oh i’m so sorry megan i mean manon i mean whoever’s dating her @user42: she could throw me through drywall and i’d say thank u @user33: we’ve been lied to. She’s not cute and soft, she's a hot shredded menace.

================================================

Manon left your stream with a single tap and started her own.

No intro. No warning. Just her, curled up in your bed, hoodie draped over her frame (yours, obviously), legs crossed, expression unreadable.

================================================

@user22: wait manon is LIVE 😭

@user9: SHE’S WEARING Y/N’S HOODIE I’M GONNA SCREAM

@user34: she looks like she saw the rapture and was not on the guest list

@user12: did we do something??? are we in trouble???

================================================

She didn’t say a word at first. Just sipped from a mug of tea, gaze unreadable, silence absolute.

Then- “Did you guys enjoy Y/N’s little workout stream?” Her voice was sweet. Too sweet. Head tilted, like a cat about to pounce.

The chat detonated.

================================================

@user81: SHE KNOWSSSS

@user44: not her reading us like that 😭

@user67: i was normal (i was NOT)

@user56: respectful? no. regretful? also no.

================================================

Manon leaned closer to the camera, the screen catching the exact moment her eyes sharpened like a blade.

“You know…” she murmured, low and dangerous, “just because someone shows you muscle… doesn’t mean you get to touch it.”

A pause. Then a smile, slow, wide, and absolutely feral.

Ten minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open.

“Manon?” Your voice floated in, towel slung over your shoulder, cheeks still pink from the walk back. You stepped into the room, and stopped dead.

Because there she was. Manon. Sitting in your bed. Still live but watching you.

“Someone’s home,” she purred to the camera.

================================================

@user3: OH MY GOD IT’S HER

@user6: MUSCLES HAS ENTERED THE CHAT

@user15: IS THIS A CONFESSION???

@user99: ARE THEY STARING AT EACH OTHER IN HD RN??

@user20: THE TENSION IS TENSIONING

================================================

You blinked. “You’re live?”

She nodded, lazy and amused. “Was just telling everyone how adorable you looked… lifting.”

You flushed. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” She patted the mattress beside her. “Come say hi.”

You hesitated, but only for a second. A smile tugged at your lips as you climbed up beside her. Sat shoulder to shoulder.

The phone was still rolling. The comments were feral.

================================================

@user51: NOT THE BODIES TOUCHING

@user4: god if you give me one kiss i’ll be good forever

@user28: Guys are they dating?? Im new here

================================================

You glanced over, playful. “So… jealous of my biceps?”

Her gaze darkened instantly.

She reached up. Brushed a strand of sweat-dried hair from your cheek, fingers lingering. Sliding down to your arm. Her thumb traced the curve of your muscle, slow and possessive.

“Turn the live off,” she whispered.

You blinked. “What?”

Her voice was gentler now. But firmer. “Now.”

You smirked. Reached for the phone.

The screen went black and the silence was electric.

You barely had time to put the phone down before she was on you.

One hand tangled in your damp hair, the other sliding down your back as she kissed you hard. No hesitation. No holding back. It wasn’t soft, or sweet. It was molten. Raw. Territorial. A kiss that said mine in a language only your body understood.

You gasped into her mouth, the heat of her hoodie-clad form pressing you into the bed, the faint taste of peppermint tea on her lips, the quiet growl vibrating in her throat when your hand tugged her closer.

“You wanna show off?” she muttered against your skin, voice rough with desire. “Fine. But I get to enjoy it first.”

Her palm glided over your bicep again, fingers curling possessively around it. Her thumb brushed the peak, like she was memorizing every inch.

You shivered.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “I love this new you.”

Your heart thundered. “You said I looked cute this morning. Where was this reaction, huh?”

“I must’ve been out of my mind.” Her eyes flicked over you, hungry. “You look like a fantasy. And I had to sit through a livestream of the entire internet drooling over what’s mine.”

Her mouth found your jaw, trailing slow, burning kisses down to your pulse point. You whimpered, just a little. Just enough.

She smirked. “That sound?” she whispered, lips brushing your neck. “Not for public consumption.”

Your voice came out breathless. “Getting a little possessive, babe?”

Instead of answering, she slid your tank top up, revealing the cut of your abs and the glisten of sweat still clinging to your skin. Her fingers danced along the V of your hips with devastating care.

She swore under her breath. “Fuck… look at you.”

You opened your mouth to tease her, but then her lips were on your stomach, kissing lower. Hands sliding up to pin your wrists above your head, her grip gentle but firm.

Air left your lungs in a rush, “Manon-”

“Shh,” she hushed, her voice dark silk. “You did your flexing for the fans. Now it’s my turn to appreciate everything they didn’t get to see.”

Her tongue flicked against your skin, slow and possessive.

Then her eyes met yours, smoky, unreadable, burning. “You know what the best part of dating you is?” she whispered.

You swallowed. “What?”

She smirked. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

Her hand slid lower. Hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows as she eased between your thighs, duvet dragged over your legs like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

“And baby,” her voice dropped, thick with promise, “I’m not done proving it.”

Your head fell back.

The next sound in the dorm was the rustle of fabric.

Then a sharp inhale.

Then, her name. Whispered. Breathless.

[neeeooon]

ouu haii can u do the child covered in mud with kaiser and other character that u haven't done, tqq:)

yes! pt 1 here

when your child is covered in mud pt 2

husband/father bllk x gn!reader. crack, fluff

michael kaiser

-> stares at your son, who is standing in the doorway about to walk into the house covered in grass and mud. your son stares back

-> “don’t. even. think about i—“ your son dashes into the house, tracking mud all over the floor and screaming with laughter when you both chase after him. “not the carpet!”

-> you managed to corner him, and kaiser picked the wiggling boy up as he squealed, “no bath!”

-> he calms down once you add the blue bath bubbles, utterly enamored with making shapes in the soap

alexis ness

-> you gaped at the ness before you, shoes hanging from your fingertips after a long day on your feet, threatening to drop at the sight

-> the bathtub. one of your favorite places in the house. was filled to the brim with muddy water, glitter, and a mix of plastic and foam dinosaur toys

-> when ness heard you enter, he spun around, and your daughter looked up. they wore matching, wide-eyed expressions, lips slightly parted and cheeks flushed in shame. “it’s… probably exactly what it looks like.”

-> apparently, ness found a picture book of spells, and your daughter wanted to try one. it didn’t end well, and his attempt to clean her wasn’t going much better. you kissed their heads and pushed your husband aside as you drained the tub and ran a shower. “maybe we skip outside-time tomorrow, okay?”

karasu tabito

-> “i can’t believe this.” “i know.” “we told her to stay out of the flower bed!” “i know.” “i have an appointment in ten minutes. can you handle this?” “i kn—wait, what?”

-> you and karasu stared down at your daughter from the other side of the sliding glass door. she had her forehead and hands pressed against it, eyes angry in betrayal after getting herself locked outside

-> “what if she tries to throw mud at me again?!” karasu whined as he trailed after you like a puppy. “can you reschedule?” “baby. i believe in you. you got this!” and you were gone (through the side door, of course)

yukimiya kenyu

-> you made the mistake of taking your eye off your son and dog after letting them outside to play. when they appeared in front of you, covered head to toe in mud, you were ready to book a one-way ticket to france

-> “oh..! ken, honey!” “yes, sweetheart?” “can you come out here for a second?” and when yukimiya saw the two, he was ready to book a seat right next to you

-> yukimiya plugged the hose into the sprinkler, since you figured it’d be easier than trying to get your son to stand still. he saw it as a game and ran through the water, the dog following, and cleaned themselves off fairly well without your intervention

-> “their feet are still dirty… game plan. you run a bath, i’ll grab the boy, you come back for the dog. deal?” yukimiya set his glasses. “deal.”

otoya eita

-> “ooh, child, things are gonna get easier—AH!”

-> you gazed down at the mess on your kitchen tiles, mouth agape. at first you thought maybe your husband and child had attempted to make a chocolate cake. then you saw the chucks of grass on the floor and nearly wept

-> “i’ve got it!” you heard otoya yell from the bathroom, probably in response to your scream. “playtime with the neighbors got a little intense…” “a little?!” “they brought the water balloons! it’s not my fault they can’t handle a bit of otoya family teamwork.”

-> you found them in front of the sink, scrubbing mud off of their legs and feet. “yep,” you sighed after kissing your child’s head. “otoya family teamwork. you two got this. i’m going to take a nap.”

bachira meguru

-> you were surprised to find your husband and daughter sitting in the garden after coming home from work. in bathing suits. with the hose on

-> “honey?” you asked nervously when you drew nearer, cringing when you found them sitting in a diy mud puddle. “what’s going on?”

-> bachira looked up at you with dirt streaking his face. your daughter laughed as she smacked more mud into his hair. “if you can’t stop them, join them.” “i…” “if i don’t return in five minutes, assume i have been sacrificed to the mud monsters.”

[ackermanrage]

hello there! i came across your page and saw that you write for jjk too?! i already love the way you write Levi so i know i’m in the right place 🙂‍↕️ may i request a Megumi x fem!reader where the reader has the same personality as Megumi, but when she’s around him she softens up? i was thinking reader and Megumi know each other through Gojo since they used to train together and ever since then Megumi has always had a crush on her. Yuuji & Nobara find out about this by meeting reader and seeing how flustered Megumi is around her presence. So they try a bunch of (failed) set ups to get them together but Megumi is just too awkward 😭 so Gojo decides to step in since he’s their number 1 shipper by sending them on a mission together where it requires them to kiss?

ᴏɴʟʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ

megumi fushiguro x fem!reader warnings: none :) an: im sorry this took so long to come out, i hope you like it! :)

Megumi was quiet, sharp, logical—and generally unimpressed by most things. That’s why it drove Yuuji and Nobara crazy when he acted completely out of character the second you walked into a room.

“Wait—wait, that’s her?” Nobara whispered, elbowing Yuuji hard in the ribs when you strolled into the common room. You wore your uniform a little neater than usual, eyes cool and unreadable, not unlike Megumi’s own expression.

You greeted Gojo casually and nodded toward the other first-years, only letting the faintest ghost of a smile curl on your lips when your eyes met Megumi’s.

Megumi, for his part, looked like he forgot how to breathe.

Yuuji’s eyebrows shot up. “Yo…he’s red. Like, actual tomato red.”

“Didn’t think Fushiguro had it in him,” Nobara whispered.

He tried to play it cool, returning your greeting with a quiet “Hey,” but his voice cracked. Nobara had to bite down on her knuckle to keep from laughing.

You were like Megumi in a lot of ways: calm, serious, a little standoffish—but around him, you softened just enough to make him question everything.

Like when the group walked home and you slowed your pace to match his without saying anything, or when you handed him a can of his favorite drink on a hot day with a shrug and a muttered, “Figured you’d want it.”

He liked that you didn’t expect him to be someone he wasn’t. And maybe that’s why he’d had a quiet crush on you for—what, years? Since training under Gojo together, since the day you’d bruised his ribs during sparring and then helped him up like you hadn’t just tried to murder him?

But of course, being Megumi, he never said anything.

Which was exactly why Yuuji and Nobara made it their mission to fix that.

---

Attempt #1: The Shared Umbrella Incident

It had been pouring after class. Nobara ‘accidentally’ snatched the last umbrella from the rack, and Yuuji declared loudly, “Oh no! Guess [Name] and Megumi will have to share!” before running off with Nobara under the dry safety of their umbrella.

Megumi stared blankly after them.

“…They’re the worst,” he muttered.

You shrugged and opened your umbrella, tilting it slightly toward him. “Get under, loser.”

His heart skipped a beat, but he complied without protest. The two of you walked quietly, shoulders brushing, raindrops tapping gently above your heads. You didn’t speak until halfway back to the dorms.

“…You always get like this when you’re around me?” you asked.

Megumi blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You go all…” You glanced at him, amused. “...weird.”

He turned away. “I’m not weird.”

“You’re weirder than usual.”

He muttered something about you being annoying, and you smiled.

Attempt #2: The Sparring Match from Hell

Yuuji and Nobara had set up “team bonding sparring,” which turned into a 2-on-2 match—you and Megumi against them.

“Look at that chemistry,” Yuuji whispered, circling around you with a grin.

“Too bad they’re both emotionally constipated,” Nobara added.

Megumi kept stealing glances at you, especially when you moved beside him in sync. You didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Every time his fingers brushed yours or you ducked behind him mid-defense, he tensed.

You took the win with a swift, coordinated combo move that floored Yuuji, and then offered Megumi your hand to pull him to his feet.

He took it carefully. Like you were delicate, like you might slip away.

You smiled softly. “Good match.”

He said nothing. But he looked at your hand longer than he probably should have.

Attempt #3: Nobara’s Fake Confession Scheme

“Okay,” Nobara told Yuuji, “we’ll tell [Name] that Megumi’s in love with someone else. That’ll make her admit her feelings first.”

“That’s evil,” Yuuji said. “Let’s do it.”

You were halfway through your lunch when Nobara sat beside you and said way too casually, “So did you hear? Megumi has a crush on someone.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah, like...bad. Hopelessly in love.”

Yuuji joined in. “He told me last night. It’s been going on for years.”

You blinked. “...It’s me, isn’t it?”

Both of them froze. You took another bite of your food.

Nobara hissed. “Why aren’t you blushing?!”

You shrugged. “I’ve known.”

“WHAT?”

“Why do you think I only hang out with him?”

---

Gojo watched all this unfold like it was a season finale. Eventually, he grew tired of the slow burn.

“I’m sending them on a mission,” he announced one morning. “Just them. High-risk. High-stakes. Barrier requires intimacy. I’m calling it Operation: Make-Out or Die.”

“Please stop naming these things,” Shoko muttered.

Later that evening he called Megumi in to explain the mission.

“God, it’s painful watching you two,” he said, slapping a mission file into Megumi’s hands. “You like her. She likes you. I’m bored. Fix it.”

“I’m not doing anything weird,” Megumi said.

Gojo grinned. “Who said you’d be the one doing something? You’re just going on a mission together. That happens to require…a couple. Don’t look at me like that—it’s a curse seal. Seals respond to intent. You’ll need to fake a bond to pass the barrier.”

Megumi blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“I never joke,” Gojo lied through his teeth. “Now go be in love or whatever.”

---

It was a lower-ranked curse sealed inside a domain, but the tricky part? Entry required "proven romantic connection."

“I’m going to kill him,” Megumi muttered.

You stood beside him in front of the shimmering barrier, reading the old runes.

“It says only those with visible ‘affectional bonds’ may enter,” you said, tone unreadable. “Which means…”

Megumi sighed. “Holding hands?”

You offered your hand without hesitation. “C’mon, Captain Awkward.”

He took it, gently, like it might burn him.

The barrier shimmered but didn’t budge.

“Not enough, I guess.”

Your lips quirked. “We could try kissing.”

Megumi paused. “You’re okay with that?”

You glanced at him. “Are you?”

“…Yeah. I’ve been wanting to.”

Your eyes softened. “Me too.”

You leaned in—and Megumi met you halfway. It was tentative, warm, and careful. Just a brush of lips—but it sent heat up both your spines.

The barrier pulsed—and shattered open.

“…Well, damn,” you murmured.

Megumi looked dazed. “That worked.”

The curse was laughably easy to exorcise after that, but neither of you said a word about what happened until the train ride back.

Even then, the silence between you felt charged. Gentle.

Safe.

---

You both walked through the gates of Jujutsu Tech in silence—until you heard a scream.

“THEY’RE BACK!!” Nobara shrieked.

“Oh my god, did you guys kiss?” Yuuji called. “No, don’t tell me. Wait, yes, tell me—did you kiss?”

“Did the barrier open?!” Nobara demanded.

Megumi stared at them, utterly expressionless.

You answered for him. “We handled it.”

“THAT’S A YES,” Nobara howled. “YOU OWE ME 500 YEN, YUUJI.”

Gojo strolled into the courtyard, sunglasses glinting. “How was it, lovebirds?”

Megumi ignored him. “I’m never listening to you again.”

Gojo gasped. “Thats rude.”

Later that night, when the teasing died down and the sun dipped behind the dorm roofs, you found Megumi sitting under a tree, reading.

You plopped beside him and nudged his knee with yours.

“…Hey.”

He looked up, softer now. “Hey.”

You hesitated. “So…was that kiss real, or for the mission?”

He set the book down.

“…It was real. For me.”

You gave a small smile. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Megumi looked at you, flushed but steady.

“…Wanna try it again? Without a curse this time?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just leaned in.

This time, the world didn’t shimmer. But it didn’t have to.

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[idkyetxoxo]

Four | Flicker Beneath | Little Shadow

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.4k

Warnings - Very slight angst

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

6 months later

"Are you sure we should bring Kalel?" I asked for what was probably the third time, smoothing down the soft folds of my dress as I tried not to fidget. 

The fabric clung to my figure in the right places, but my nerves still made me tug at it again. "I don't want to ruin the night for everyone. Babies at dinner... it's not exactly relaxing."

Azriel, lounging effortlessly on the edge of our bed, bounced Kalel lightly on his knee. 

Their shadows danced playfully together, Kalel's wispy, clumsy tendrils flickering with excitement, chasing after the more composed, almost amused ones that flowed from Azriel like breath.

"Why would we not do that?" he asked, mock-offended as Kalel giggled from a gentle tickle to his belly.

"I mean it," I continued, slipping into my shoes. "What if he starts crying halfway through? What if he throws food? What if—"

"Darling," Azriel interrupted, rising and crossing the room in two easy steps. He brushed a knuckle beneath my chin, tipping my gaze up to meet his. "I can assure you, everyone is far more excited to see Kalel than they are to see either of us."

His expression softened, full of warmth and something else, something so tender it made the hesitation inside me wither just a little.

"If you insist..." I murmured, letting him lace his fingers through mine.

With Kalel giggling between us, his tiny hands wrapped around Azriel, we launched into the sky flying toward the House of Wind as the golden light of early evening streaked across the horizon.

The moment we touched the balcony stone, Cassian was already storming through the doors like a hurricane of brute affection.

"There's my favourite little warrior!" he bellowed, plucking Kalel from my arms before I could even blink.

I blinked anyway. "Hi to you, too."

Kalel squealed, wriggling in Cassian's arms with such delight it was hard not to smile. And then without warning he sneezed directly into Cassian's face. A dramatic, wet, baby sneeze.

Cassian froze. "Was that—did he just—"

"Bless you," I said sweetly. "I did try to warn you."

Mor howled with laughter, sweeping in like a storm and stealing Kalel from Cassian's arms. "Come here, my precious boy. Let's get you away from the brute who calls himself your uncle."

Cassian grumbled something about betrayal as he wiped his face with his sleeve.

I chuckled and made my way to Rhys, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Good luck. They are obsessed."

"Aren't we all," Rhysand said with an exaggerated sigh, lifting Kalel into his arms. "You'd think none of them had ever seen a baby before."

We gathered around the long dining table, bathed in the warm glow of faelight chandeliers, the smell of roasted meat and cinnamon-sweet wine wafting through the air. 

Kalel was nestled comfortably in Rhys's arms, surprisingly calm. 

Dinner bloomed with laughter and clinking glasses, the kind of chaos that came only from deep love and too much familiarity.

Everything was perfect until Kalel let out a delicate little burp... and promptly spit up all over Rhysand's impeccably tailored shirt.

The table fell silent.

Azriel choked on his wine. I stifled a gasp, standing to retrieve Kalel, but Rhys held up a hand, utterly unbothered.

"It's fine," he said smoothly, already wiping at the stain as it vanished with a flash of magic. "Just some regurgitated milk. I've seen worse."

"He says this while wearing the remnants of dinner," Mor teased, sipping her wine without a care in the world.

As I gently wiped Kalel's mouth and cradled him against my chest, Azriel leaned back, smiling like the proudest father in all of Prythian. "Can you believe my mate wanted to stay back with Kalel tonight?"

The table turned to me in unison, as if I'd admitted to sacrificing puppies for pleasure.

"She didn't want to put us out," Azriel added, brushing a shadow across the back of my hand with something like pride.

Cassian's fork clattered to his plate. "Why would you ever think that?"

I glared at Azriel playfully, mouthing "traitor."

"As if," Mor scoffed, flicking a golden curl over her shoulder. She reached across the table to tickle Kalel's foot. "Kalel is the best male at this table, and I say that with full awareness of who I'm sitting next to."

Cassian clutched his heart in mock injury while Rhys snorted into his glass.

I leaned into Azriel's side, heart full and cheeks flushed, and whispered, "Okay... fine. Maybe I was wrong."

Azriel pressed a kiss to my temple. "It's alright to be wrong sometimes. Especially when the result is Kalel stealing the spotlight."

Kalel let out a gurgling laugh as if he agreed and the rest of the room followed suit, echoing with warmth and joy that wrapped around us like a soft blanket.

For the first time in months, I didn't feel like a new parent desperately trying to keep up.

I felt like a mother.

A mother with a place at the table, a family around her, and a little boy who somehow made every room brighter just by being in it.

Dessert was served in the comfort of the sitting room, pillows and soft throws scattered across the sunken couches, firelight crackling lazily in the fireplace. 

The rich scent of cinnamon-sugar pastries mingled with chocolate and wine, creating a warmth that soaked into the bones.

I'd slipped away to feed Kalel in one of the bedrooms, thinking it would make everyone else more comfortable—not that anyone had asked me to. 

I'd barely made it back when Rhys threw his arms wide in theatrical exasperation, declaring that I was "absolutely not allowed to miss a single moment of the fun."

Before I could even protest, Mor had already seized my hand, tugging me down beside her and shoving a crystal glass into it like I'd committed a crime by leaving in the first place.

Kalel, content and drowsy from his feeding, was nestled on Azriel's lap, one chubby hand fisted into his father's shirt as if anchoring himself there. He let out a sleepy sigh that made Azriel smile down at him with a gentleness I would never tire of witnessing.

And then, of course, Amren decided to participate in her own uniquely disarming way.

Without ceremony, she stepped forward and extended a small gleaming object toward Kalel, some kind of jewel-encrusted trinket I knew had once resided in her extensive hoard of collectables. She held it out like it might detonate.

"I was told babies like shiny things," she muttered, almost defensively.

Kalel's eyes widened, fixating on the sparkling object with intense fascination. Then like any true baby he promptly tried to eat it.

Amren recoiled ever so slightly, her nose wrinkling. "I take it back," she said flatly, retrieving her gift with two fingers like it was now a contaminated relic.

Laughter erupted from the room, and Mor leaned into my shoulder, giggling behind her glass. "He takes after Az," she whispered with a wink.

A little while later, Rhysand, ever the dramatist, conjured up a trail of softly glowing shadow creatures—tiny, drifting figures with playful, exaggerated features and comically large eyes. 

They danced in a gentle swirl just above the carpet, flitting between cushions and tickling Kalel's tiny feet.

Kalel shrieked with joy.

His wings fluttered, twitched and then beat once, twice. A gust of magic pulsed outward, small but potent, and suddenly he was flying. Just an inch or two off Azriel's lap, little legs kicking excitedly.

The room went still with surprise, not in fear, but wonder.

And then he dropped back down with a tiny oof, his face lighting with triumph and curiosity. 

Shadows swirled instinctively around him, not just from Azriel, but from himself. They curled, stronger than they had ever been, brushing against the dancing illusions Rhys had conjured, absorbing them playfully. 

Kalel giggled again, as if the power meant nothing more to him than the thrill of a game.

"Well," Rhys said, raising a brow as he sipped his wine. "He's going to be terrifying."

Laughter rippled through the group again. Cassian toasted to that with a grin. Mor declared him a prodigy. Amren nodded solemnly, as if the baby's ascension into chaos had been preordained.

But amid the amusement, my gaze found Azriel.

He was smiling, yes, but it didn't reach his eyes. His arm had curled more tightly around Kalel's small frame. 

His shadows, usually so fluid, had gone tense, coiling protectively as if to cage the smaller tendrils radiating from his son. His jaw flexed subtly. I saw the shift of restraint, of worry, settle across his face like a storm cloud just beginning to gather.

And then, as if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

For a heartbeat, his eyes met mine. Shadowed, conflicted. I offered a small smile. Soft. Steady.

He's okay, I tried to tell him with my eyes. You're doing everything right.

Azriel blinked, then looked back down at Kalel, who had now begun chewing serenely on one of his fingers, completely unaware that his magic had just made the room pause.

Azriel's shoulders eased slightly. He pressed a kiss to the crown of our son's dark curls and whispered something I couldn't hear.

But I saw the change in him. That tiny exhale of tension.

That constant, quiet fear he carried, that Kalel's power would make him dangerous, would isolate him the way shadows once isolated his father was still there, flickering. 

But so was the love. The devotion. The choice to stay, to guide, to be what his own childhood had never given him.

Azriel adjusted Kalel gently against his chest, and this time, the smile he gave me, small, but real was enough to make my heart ache.

Dinner had long since ended, the noise and laughter of the evening fading into memory. 

The house was quiet now, the kind of sacred hush that only came after a full day and a well-loved baby had been tucked safely into bed.

A gentle fire crackled in the fireplace, its golden light casting soft shadows that danced along the stone walls. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but inside, there was only warmth.

Azriel sat on the couch with me sprawled across it, my legs stretched over his lap. He absently traced slow, thoughtful circles along my calf, his touch more contemplative than soothing. 

His eyes weren't on me though they were fixed on the fire, the amber flames flickering across his beautiful face.

I watched him for a long moment. I could feel it—the heaviness in the air, the way his mind worked through something unspoken.

"What's the matter?" I asked softly, already suspecting the answer.

He didn't respond right away. His fingers stilled against my skin. Then, with a slow exhale, he murmured, "Kalel is... powerful."

He said it almost reverently. Almost.

But there was something else beneath his voice, a tightness, a quiet thread of fear woven into the pride.

I sat up slowly and turned, shifting into his lap so I could straddle him. My hands found the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as his gaze flicked up to meet mine. 

His wings, which had been drawn tight and guarded, slowly relaxed around me, the tension bleeding away under my touch. His shadows coiled around us instinctively, wrapping us in a cocoon of darkness and safety.

He leaned into my touch like it grounded him.

"I am proud," he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. "But also... terrified."

My heart ached at the admission.

"I keep thinking... what if I pass my darkness onto him?" he said, looking away again. "What if my—my broken pieces—become his burden? What if I've already doomed him to live in a world that fears what he is?"

I gently took his face between my hands again, turning it back toward me. My thumbs traced slow, loving lines along the curve of his jaw.

"Azriel," I whispered, "you didn't give him darkness."

His throat bobbed with a swallow.

"You gave him you," I said, voice steady. "You gave him a father who loves without limits. A protector, a teacher, a home."

His shadows moved softly over my back, winding between my fingers as I raked my hand through his tousled hair. The way he leaned into me now, it was quieter than any sob, but I could feel the storm inside him beginning to settle.

"You see shadows, but I see light," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I see the light you try to hide behind that quiet strength. That devotion. That soft, stubborn heart you pretend you don't have."

He let out a sound, half laugh, half sigh and I felt the smallest shift in him. The uncoiling of something ancient and tender.

"Kalel isn't your darkness," I said, leaning closer, brushing my nose against his cheek. "He's your light. Our light. Born of love and healed things. Not ruined ones."

He didn't answer right away, he just wrapped his arms tightly around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath against my skin.

And then, quietly, almost too soft to hear he whispered. "Thank you."

I pulled back just enough to meet his gaze again. "You don't have to thank me. Just promise you'll never hide from me. Not your fears, not your shadows. Not anything."

His eyes, molten gold in the firelight, held mine. "I swear it."

A beat passed. Then his lips brushed against mine, tentative at first, then deeper, more certain.

The kiss was soft at first, slow, unhurried but it deepened with every passing breath, his hands curling around my waist like he couldn't bear to let me go. 

It wasn't just desire, it was a silent conversation. A promise. A plea. A thousand unspoken words exchanged in the press of lips and the pause between heartbeats.

When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

"Well," I murmured with a sly smile, "since you're already holding me, might be a shame not to take full advantage of the moment."

His golden eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that so?"

I brushed a fingertip along the edge of one of his scars. "I think the father of my child deserves a little... reward."

The grin that broke across his face was rare and boyish and beautiful. "Say no more."

In one fluid motion, he rose from the couch with me still wrapped around him, his wings arching wide behind us like a shield. I laughed softly, arms around his neck, the tension between us melting into something warmer, sweeter.

Just as we crossed the threshold of our room, I glimpsed one of his shadows curling off quietly, drifting back toward the nursery.

Ever watchful. Ever vigilant.

Even in the hush of night, even in the gentleness of this stolen moment—Azriel guarded our world with love as fierce and endless as the sky.

A/n - More baby chaos and Inner Circle love :)

My favourite part is definitely Amren pretending she doesn't have a soft spot for Kalel while offering him a piece from her collection like it's no big deal x

And of course, I couldn't resist adding a sprinkle of angst because let's be honest, it wouldn't be an Azriel fic if there wasn't at least one internal emotional spiral. He's our worry worm!!

Thank you so much for reading <3

Little Shadow tag list - @queenoffeysand @scatteredstardustt @thisfireheart @serena-capella @anon1227 @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @moonlitlavenders @tele86 @whump-loverz @hyruledemigod20

[violetpony11]

Pudding's Scare

(Story below)

"You never spend time with us anymore!"

Pudding Pop's ears twitched as she heard her mother's voice echoing the castle halls where she played

"Well, I'M sorry, Pinkie, that I get caught up with all of these new Princess duties since Celestia asked me to keep in touch with the leaders of the Changelings, Griffins, and the Dragons, I had forgotten about some simple baking lesson!

Pudding's expression saddened as she snuck towards the voices, growing wide eyes as she watched her parents from the corner of the door.

"It wasn't a lesson, it was baking with our daughter! You promised you'd come by the kitchen and make cupcakes and cookies with us!"

Twilight groaned.

"Why do you always get like this!? It's just baking, we can do it tomorrow!

"That's not the reason and you know it!"

Pudding's eyes welled up with tears.

Her moms had never fought before, and she feared only the worst. Unable to say anything or announce her presence, Pudding backed away from the screaming mares and ran out of her Twilight's castle. --------------------------------------------------------------

"Wait, so, what happened, exactly?" Marmalade asked a teary-eyed Pudding.

"C'mon, sis, let her catch her breath first," Burst Rush added.

After a few seconds, Pudding wiped away some stray tears from her eyes and calmed herself down. She had ran over to visit her best friends in Sweet Apple Arcers, foals that she knew she could talk with about anything.

"I...I saw my moms yelling at each other. They were fighting a-and it sounded bad."

"Wait-You ran all this way here-"

"-Because you saw your parents fighting?"

"Yes?"

The twins looked at each other briefly before uproaring into a fit of laughter. Pudding couldn't believe her eyes.

"Hey-c'mon, guys, this isn't funny!" She yelled, the tears wearing up in her eyes once more.

Burst Rush calmed himself down in order to tend to his friend, but Marmalade still might need a minute.

"Sorry Pudding, but, I'm sure it was no big deal," The colt said, placing a hoof around his friend in comfort.

"How could it not be a big deal? They've never fought before."

"Maybe in front of you, but mom says that every parent out there fights."

"Ooooh, yeah, especially our moms," Marmalade chimed in with a chuckle. 

Pudding looked confused.

"But, aunt Dash and aunt AJ always look so happy."

"And they are happy, but that doesn't mean they don't fight."

Burst nodded.

"And it doesn't mean they love each other, or us, any less."

Marmalade rolled her eyes with a smile.

"Yeah, they tell us that every time we see them fight. It's gotten annoying at this point."

Pudding couldn't help but crack a small smile herself.

-------------------------------------------------------------- As Pudding walked back inside the castle, she heard her parents continuing to yell, but this was a different kind of yelling than before.

"You're sure you checked every room!?"

"Yes! She's nowhere in the castle! Oh, where could she have gone-she's never run off like this before-she always tells us where she's going before she leaves-"

"-I know, Twi, but it's okay. We'll find her, I promise."

Pudding walked further inside the castle, noticing her parents comforting each other in their room, and it didn't look like it took them much time to notice her.

"PUDDING!"

Both mares rushed over to their daughter, wrapping her up in a loving hug, Twilight wrapping her wings around the both of them.

"Where were you? We were worried sick!" Pinkie stated.

"Why didn't you tell us where you were going? What happened!?"

Pudding felt her tears welling up again as she spoke softly.

"I...I saw you two fighting earlier, and I...I got scared and went to aunt AJ's farm to see my friends...please don't be mad."

Pinkie and Twilight both exchanged shocked and worried looks before turning back to their filly with concerned faces.

Twilight wrapped her wings around her wife and her daughter as she spoke.

"Oh, Pudding, we're so sorry you had to see that. We always try to take our arguments elsewhere so you don't have to see, but I guess we didn't do a very good job this time."

"Your mom and I do fight, sweetie, but it doesn't mean we love each other or you any less," Pinkie stated.

Pudding sniffed, wiping away some of her tears.

"So...parents really do fight all the time, then?"

Twilight shrugged with a small smile.

"Some more than others, but it doesn't mean we can't talk things out and work through our problems."

"Yeah, even though we can drive each other crazy sometimes, Twi and I could like, be apart for more than a week without going through withdrawal!"

"A week?" Twilight asked with a raised eyebrow. "C'mon, give us more credit than that."

"I dunno, you were awfully invested in writing me letters every day while I spent the week in Yakyakistan last year," Pinkie stated with a smug smile.

Pudding giggled as her purple mother blushed.

"Okay, okay, fine, you got me there."

Pudding's smile lessened slightly as she thought back to the conversation at hoof.

"So, even though you fight, you don't ever...hate each other?"

The mares laughed at the statement.

"No, Pudding, I could never hate your mother," Twilight stated as she pulled Pinkie closer to her with her wing. Pinkie snuggled up against her wife.

"Yeah, even though we can get on each other's nerves, we always talk to each other about them, and always feel better in the end."

Pudding's smile grew back, placing herself in between her parents and hugging them tightly, Pinkie and Twilight, of course, returning the embrace.

After a few seconds of silence, the hug was released and Twilight spoke with a softness in her voice.

"Now let's head over to the kitchen, I owe some very special ponies a baking session."