C𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑜 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you’re making out under his sheets, bodies tangled together in a frenzy of limbs. he’s massaging the globes of your ass with one hand, pulling and groping as the other pushes your back further into him, making you arch.

his tongue is wet and feral as he swirls circles around yours, moaning in your mouth like a dog in heat.

“mmfh… yeah, baby…”

he’s absolutely shameless, mouth sloppy woth saliva as he devours you unapologetically. bachira reluctantly pulls away, looking deep into your eyes for a split second before his gaze flits back to your wet, plump lips.

“stick your tongue out for me, please?” he pleads politely before running a hand up your shirt and cupping your chest.

his hands are rough as he squeezes, making you moan out. your brows are furrowed upwards, and you can’t help but oblige his request.

bachira’s eyes practically glow seeing you so obedient for him, and he doesn’t waste even a split-second before he dives righr back in, sucking in your tongue.

he can feel your vibrations in his mouth as you moan and whine and writhe against him, and you don’t know how he manages to do it but he giggles with your tongue inside him.

“you’re so cute, baby,” he says before realizing he’s let go of you. he furrows his brows, pouting before speaking up again, “stick your tongue out again!”

“so demanding…”

“please?” he says, eyes big and sparkly as he begs, his hands taking their time in memorizing every sculpt of your body.

“nghh—!” you moan out when he squeezes your curves particularly hard, and bachira can’t help but giggle once more before you stick your tongue out again.

bachira immediately goes back to playing with you, your tongues dancing under the wet caves of his mouth as he closes his eyes.

a sharp pain overtakes you before you pull away, tasting something metallic in your tongue.

“ah—! meguru, you bit me!”

“oh, no..! guess you gotta punish me, hm?” he says, wrapping his arms around you as he grinds his hard cock against the soft plush of your thighs.

you’re minding your business at the courtyard when a tan man with ombre hair approaches you.

“hey there, beautiful. my name’s ryusei.”

“shut the fuck up, i’m not here to make friends,” you say, flipping through another page in your book.

“oh yeah, i love ‘em feisty!” his pupils practically form into hearts as he takes a seat next to you, making you sigh heavily. “what are you in for, baby? hold on, lemme guess…” he holds up a finger as you stare at him, his eyes scanning you. “it can’t be an eating disorder ‘cause that ass is fat!” he points over at you, hooting like a maniac in an attempt to hype himself up.

“can you leave me alone, pink tips?” you scowl.

“oh, i got a pink tip for you, alright,” he smirks, nodding to himself proudly before you smack him with a book.

“nurse!” you yell out.

“you smacked me and you’re snitching?!” he says, looking at you with sad puppy dog eyes as the nurses pull you two apart.

ft. Isagi, Bachira, and Rin ᯓ★

Isagi:

You were at a cafe, walking towards the door—coffee in hand. Suddenly, you collide with somebody and spill your coffee all over them. You let out an audible gasp. “I’m so sorry oh my god-“ you stammer out, panicking before you look up. Isagi freezes when he sees your face, tensing up.

He pinched himself. How could you be real? You were so adorable—like an angel sent straight from heaven. He blushes like a schoolboy when you begin patting down his crotch area with napkins. “Y—y-you-you…” he sputters out. You look up, tilting your head cluelessly and blessing him with those angelic e/c eyes—and he nearly dies.

Towards the end of your interaction, he starts panicking. You were exactly his type. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass, or he’d never see you again. So he tried making an attempt at flirting, but all that comes out is a strained, loud, “GO OUT WITH ME.” His hands immediately fly to his face to hide his shame as you look up at him, caught off guard, yet chuckling at his forwardness.

He’s still muttering something like “sostupidyouresostupidsostupid-“ to himself when you ask him for his number—because in all honesty? He was adorable. And handsome too. His brain short circuits, as he fumbles with his phone awkwardly before handing it to you. Your fingers brush his, and oh. Oh. Oh, no. A literal whimper escapes his lips. Your eyes dart up to his as if to confirm what you had just heard. His skin goes completely pale, before blood rushes north and he coughs into his sleeve.

After that interaction, he literally has to get up, take a round, and do breathing techniques to calm himself down. Meanwhile, you walked off trying not to giggle at the sad excuse of a soccer star you had just met.

Bachira:

You were speedwalking on a sidewalk with your lemonade, stressed and rushing somewhere. Suddenly, you hit your head on someone’s chest, bumping into them and spilling your lemonade all over their black and yellow striped shirt. You look up immediately, only to be met with a pair of wide, golden eyes which appeared to be starstruck upon seeing your face. You immediately rush to apologize, as to which he interrupts you. “Woah. You’re pretty. Like, really ethereal!” He smirks, before adding, “monster says mine.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “M-monster?” You shake your head. “L-listen, I am so sorry about the lemonade-“ “lemonade’s my favorite. A wonderful choice, my monster thinks so too!” He grins sweetly. You blink, dazed. Now that you’re seeing his face, he was like…really adorable. “What were you in such a rush for, missy?” He asks slyly. Your face pales. You had completely forgotten about where you were supposed to be right now. You panic, “I’m so sorry sir, I’ve got to go right now!” You run off.

“Wait! I never got your name!” He hollers from across the street. “{y/n} {l/n}!” You shout back. “See you around!” He cheers.

Rin:

You were with your friends at the beach, sipping, tanning, and chatting. “It’s scorching out here, you guys. I want an iced tea.” You get up off your mat and head over to the drink stand. You secure your peppermint iced tea, walking back giddily. Your eyes were focused on nothing but how refreshing your drink looked—the little lemon slice on top? To die for. While you were busy ogling your drink, a soccer ball crashed into it abruptly, spilling the whole thing over yourself.

You stay frozen, eyes wide, still processing the cold liquid that had completely dampened your bikini. Rin stands there, looking as guilty as ever. He blinks, then walks over to pick up his ball—but he freezes instantly when he sees you. His breath doesn’t hitch, but his eyes widen for just a split second. A large crack in composure for somebody like Rin. He walks up to you, trying not to stare.

He clears his throat, visibly flustered. “Tch.” He clicks his tongue. “Sorry. ‘bout the stray ball.” He glances down at your tea-soaked figure, ears flushing a light pink. “And the drink.” He adds. You look up at him. He’s unfairly pretty. His usually composed and piercing gaze struggles to meet yours. “It’s…uh..alright.” You mumble back. The awkward silence stretches. Until…

“You know, peppermint tea is my favorite. How about I make it up to you?”

You tilt your head. “Huh?”

His throat goes dry at the sight. So adorable. So perfect.

“We can, uh..get it sometime. Together.” He mutters quietly, his voice hoarse.

“You don’t even know my name,” You chuckle.

His heart flutters at your laugh. “Huh? Oh, y-yeah. right. I’m Rin. Y-you?” He rubs his neck sheepishly, staring at the ground. So uncharacteristically hot and bothered for someone like Itoshi Rin.

He’s second guessing himself.

“I-I mean of course if you don’t want—” “{n/n}. Call me {n/n}.” You interrupt.

“I’d love to grab a drink with you sometime.” You smile, and his souls leaves his body right then and there.

a/n : Inspired by the World Cup (obviouslyyy) and also inspired by he fact I worked a month in a perfume shop and I became obsessed with smelling each perfume lmao x) I suck at describing football because I don't know anything about it lmao (shame on me). I had a really great time writing this and I really enjoyed myself, so I hope you like it! I did not proofread since I'm working and I don't have time, so I apologise if there's any grammar mistake or inconsistency! Also I didn't know how to end this so the end is a bit messyyyy

wc : 5.7k

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀★ likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 𖹭 ★˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Today’s shift has been a nightmare for you. The independent perfumery you were working for was desert. Not a soul in sight. You sighed, laying your hands on the cash register, silently hoping for someone to stop by. Sure, your location wasn’t ideal : in a small–but cute– pedestrian-only alley in the heart of the town. Almost nobody walked by here, since all the interesting things were on the opposite side of the city. It was a wonder this perfumery was still alive and well. Loyal–and wealthy– customers were probably the reason for it. You glanced at your watch, 3 more hours to go. The amount of sleep you got this night because you wouldn’t stop overthinking. You could do this. It’s not as if you already cleaned the floor thrice, reorganized the drawers and shelves twice and made sure you had stock for every perfume. 

If only you’d known that in a couple minutes the trajectory of your life would be changed forever, you’d have never believed it. It happened as you were checking a drawer for a click and collect. L’Eau d’Eclipse by Pierre-Marie Manoury. Not a bad choice, it smelled good : a mixture of fresh and floral with notes of vanilla and ylang-ylang. If you had to be perfectly honest, it was a perfume for rather old ladies. You’d never wear that, too scared of coming across as someone with old-fashioned tastes. 

You spiralled deeper into your thoughts about the fragrance when you heard the delicious echoing sound of the bell meaning someone had at last walked through the door. You straightened up, put on your best customer friendly smile and greeted the pink-haired guy. He looked familiar, though you couldn’t place a name on that face. The first thing that struck you was his teal eyes, deeply hypnotising. Then, how wealthy he appeared to be, that was always a good omen for the register. 

“Hello! Welcome to Velinora, how can I help you?” 

“Hello… I’m looking for perfume.” He replied flatly, glancing around at the very much empty shop, seemingly uninterested by you. 

“Really? Never would’ve guessed.” Your sarcasm seeping through, you noticed the unamused look he gave you. You cleared your throat. “I mean I can definitely help you with that.” 

You cringed internally, already thinking the approach to the customer was a flop. You sucked it up, it was just a bad moment to live through and then you would never be haunted by that tonight, wouldn’t you?

Seeing the guy wasn’t very willing to give more information on what he was looking for, you tried to get the goods out of him. 

“What kind of perfume, fragrances, are you looking for?” You questioned, already scanning the shelves with the precision of a sharp chef’s knife. 

“I don’t really know.” He replied bluntly, taking a tester in his hands and checking the bottle out before placing it back. 

“Great. Very helpful.” You ignored the side eye he gave you. “Is it for you or is it a gift?” 

“For me.” 

“Alright, it’ll be a bit easier then. Do you already wear perfume? Or do you have a brand, a scent you like? That would be a good indication.” 

He sighed, obviously annoyed. “Can’t you just… give me a random one? I don’t care about the brand or the scent. I just need one.” 

You frowned, tilting your head as you stepped back. Sure, you had some brands to value more than others and this was the perfect occasion to sell a particularly difficult and niche perfume : Terra di Luce by Strapponelli, it was an oaky, spicy, with hints of lava rock fragrance which almost no one liked, including you. But what he said offended you on a personal level. You would never let that slide, not when you spent hours learning the notes of perfumes, the slight differences and the magic that rested behind the scents. 

“Let me stop you right there.” You smiled politely, but you wanted to slap him. How could he say that?? If it was up to you and you didn’t have a business to run, the guy would already be kicked out. “You can’t just… pick a random one. Perfumes are personal.” You explained. “It has to be unique, it has to be you having an emotional link with it.” 

The guy scoffed, staring at you. He barely even raised an eyebrow. His arrogance was testing your last nerves.

“You think that’s ridiculous? It’s not. Every perfume has a story that led to its creation. I won’t go down that path or I’ll ramble for hours. So to make it short : no. I can’t pick one for you. You have to smell, and like the perfume. So tell me, why are you buying perfume today?” You asked, trying hard to stay polite. If your boss heard your stern voice, he'd actually have a heart attack : you should never talk to a client this way— you heard his voice ringing in your head. 

The teal eyed guy stared at you for a couple seconds, then resigned himself. He slid his hands in his pockets. “My manager told me it’ll be a good idea to have a recognizable scent. Marketing stunt. He gave me one but I don’t like it. Smells too sour.” 

“Now we have something.” You smiled faintly. “See? Wasn’t too hard.” You taunted. Seeing he was still not going with the flow, you went on immediately. “May I ask what job you do?” 

He stared at you, a hint of surprise flashing in his bright eyes. Then, he replied carefully, as if you were mocking him. “I’m a professional football player.” 

“Okay so you need perfume that sticks, not something light.” You replied immediately, your brain working quickly and not catching on what he just told you. You were about to grab a bottle when you realized who was really standing in your shop. Sae Itoshi. One of the most—if not the most—trendy football player of the season. You weren’t a fanatic of that sport, but he was famous enough that you heard of him even in your small perfumery world. 

You slowly turned to Sae Itoshi. You pointed at him and a playful smile appeared on your face. “I’m not giving you a discount of any type.” 

⋆˚࿔ you show off your bllk merch to your bf!

Featuring: Isagi yoichi, Michael kaiser, sae itoshi, bachira meguru, rin itoshi, alexis ness, hiori yo, ryusei shidou, ego jinpachi

Contents/warnings/tags: fluff, suggestive, probably ooc, aged up charas, not proofread

A/N: decided to start making SMAUs woohoo! I’ve been wanting to do some of these for a while, but it’ll probably take me a few tries to really nail characterising the boys well over text messages so please be patient w me 😭🫶 currently gonna write for my faves but open to writing any bllk charas so lmk what you think and send over scenario ideas or requests in my inbox and I’ll try and get to them! ❤︎

Isagi yoichi ˚. ᵎᵎ

Michael Kaiser ˚. ᵎᵎ

Sae Itoshi ˚. ᵎᵎ

Bachira Meguru ˚. ᵎᵎ

Rin Itoshi ˚. ᵎᵎ

Alexis Ness ˚. ᵎᵎ

Hiori Yo ˚. ᵎᵎ

Shidou Ryusei ˚. ᵎᵎ

Ego Jinpachi ˚. ᵎᵎ

˚. ᵎᵎ divider credits @/aesverse ⋆.𐙚 ̊

kaiser had been laying in bed for the past three hours.

he tossed and turned in his bed, fresh white sheets rumpling under his body. kaiser’s phone was on the hotel room counter, dirty with fingerprints.

he reached over, eyes locked onto the phone screen. it was a picture of you and him, both holding peace signs. your grin in the picture alone was enough to make kaiser melt.

kaiser unlocked his phone, almost instinctively tapping on the “call” app. he typed in your number, before he froze. you were probably taking your afternoon nap right now, across the globe.

he slid off the bed, pacing around. should he call you, relieve the knot in his chest, but risk waking you up, or should he just wait a few hours until you woke up and suffer alone?

kaiser groaned. “i’m so fucking pathetic…” how could he just let you control his life like this? for gods sake, he hasn’t seen you in a week. yet you still dominated every thought, and with every smile of yours he remembered, his heart felt like jumping out of his chest.

kaiser bit the inside of his cheek. self-control. but just when he was about to close the “call” app, his phone buzzed.

you were calling him!

within milliseconds, kaiser instantly picked up, forgetting every single bit of his earlier shame. “i thought you were asleep.” he said immediately, trying to bury his words with hostility, but he just sounded like a puppy.

“nope, couldn’t sleep. it’s too cold. it’s cute that you know i usually take my nap right now though.” you teased. kaiser felt blood rush to his cheeks.

“no, it’s because i always have to deal with your shit, so now i know your schedule.” he retorted. you rolled your eyes.

“sure.” a beat of silence. “i miss you, mihya. come back soon.”

keep talking like that, and kaiser might actually die of a heart attack.

kaiser could hear his own heart beating. “i can’t change the day of the match, idiot.” yet still, he found himself on safari, searching up the next flight back to germany. “coach is calling. bye.”

“it’s literally midnight for y—“ but kaiser had already hung up.

of course, his coach wasn’t really calling. but anymore of hearing your voice and not being able to touch you, and kaiser might genuinely die this time.

missing you was like missing a part of himself: his heart.

© 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐢.

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• donut by twice

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨 @/𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝-𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬!

Michael Kaiser x Lectora

Sinopsis: Bueno, escribí esto basándome en lo que dijo Kaneshiro sobre cómo Kaiser se ríe en momentos cotidianos, en cosas muy simples y espontáneas de la vida, como ver a un gato darse vuelta en la calle. Eso es básicamente todo c: 

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

La primera vez que pasó fue cuando los dos iban caminando a un café para una cita. No era nada realmente extravagante ni sofisticado, algo que Kaiser había cuestionado al principio, pero sorprendentemente no se opuso mucho.

Estabas hablando de las reseñas que habías escuchado sobre el café, a las que Kaiser solo prestaba atención a medias con una mirada distraída. No sabías que sus ojos se habían desviado en otra dirección, observando otra cosa. No estaba del todo concentrado, pero sin duda estaba prestando atención.

No fue hasta que una suave risa se le escapó de los labios; sin embargo, estabas segura de que no habías dicho nada gracioso, y no era esa risa burlona que solía soltar cuando se reía de alguien; era una genuina. Levantando una ceja, te diste la vuelta para mirarlo y luego seguiste su mirada hacia la calle.

Lo que había allí definitivamente no era lo que esperabas. Era un auto parado esperando a que el semáforo se pusiera en verde, con las ventanas abiertas, y ¿en el asiento trasero? Un perrito que asomaba la cabeza por la ventana, con la lengua afuera y una sonrisa, como si fuera el mejor día de su vida, o al menos el mejor momento de su día.

Feeling that something’s off about you so you ask

New gen 11 x reader, ft: Teddy knights, Michael Kaiser, Itoshi sae, Don Lorenzo, Vivian Hugo, Julian Loki, bunny Iglesias

﹏→ԵαցlísԵ : @eroticuntnectar , @sweet-cherub , @itoshisaexo , @cosmorainpuddle , @cloudthemallsiro , @anonymousfreakyperson , @dum-dummmmmmmm , @freakmonster690

summary ᧔࿔᧓ kaiser has been seeing things that is testing his patience. why is it that the sports world is being completely tainted with love and relationships? and why is it that all these soccer players are bringing it to reddit? kaiser needs some answers. check out his podcast; “The Blue Rose Blooms Again.” (+ smau bonus at the end)

content ᧔࿔᧓ smau/typed, crack crack crack, suggestive, cussing, manga spoilers, dark humour, inc*l behaviour, might be ooc, DEAD DOVE LEGIT DEAD DOVE, fem!reader

guest stars ᧔࿔᧓ YOU 👀, bunny iglesias, vivien hugo, julien loki, sae itoshi, teddy knight, + yoichi isagi, alexis ness

a/n: charles is my SON!!! i BIRTHED that boy!!!

the pxg team locker room was usually a chaotic battleground, but today, it felt more like a dysfunctional family living room and as the team manager, you had plenty to do.

schedules. equipment. keeping everyone alive? yeah sure

but somehow, your absolute favorite part of the job? mothering charles chevalier. sure, he was a football genius in the making but off the pitch?

he was just a cheeky 15-year-old who somehow had endless energy and an even bigger talent for causing trouble.

"look what i got, maman!"

charles practically bounced over before plopping down beside you with the biggest grin on his face. he held up an absurdly oversized designer hoodie like he'd just won the lottery.

"it matches my eyes, don't you think?"

"oh, it looks precious on you!" you cooed, instantly melting as you gently pat his head. "did you use the card i gave you?"

"of course!"

he smiled so innocently it immediately became suspicious. charles beamed, casting a smug, sidelong glance toward the doorway... standing right there, arms crossed and a deep scowl settling over his handsome face, was julien loki, your mans.

he hadn't even said anything yet, and he already looked tired. the kind of tired that only charles chevalier could cause.

"he is a parasite."

julien finally spoke, walking into the room before settling beside you, then he looks at you. "chérie, why are you enabling him?"

then back at charles.

"he has his own contract."

back to you again.

"he has his own money.....so why.. is he still spending mine?"

charles immediately shrunk back, putting on his best, most dramatic puppy-dog eyes and clutching your sleeve. "...mama-nager." he whispered dramatically. "lokincho is bullying me again."

you sighed.

"julien. stop terrorizing our son."

"excusez-moi...our what?" "our son."

you answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. charles nodded. "i've accepted this."

"i haven't," julien replied instantly.

"too late."

you smiled sweetly.

"we, yes we, and OUI. we already adopted him."

julien let out the biggest sigh imaginable as he wandered over, without thinking, he wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. his glare, however, remained fixed on the blondie before him.

"the child," he said flatly, "... is currently draining my bank account."

charles tilted his head.

"...well, yes."

"see?"

julien gestured toward him. "he's not even denying it."

"because you're rich."

"char."

"what?"

"that's not helping your case."

"i don't have one?"

you couldn't stop yourself from laughing. you leaned comfortably against julien's chest before reaching up to kiss his cheek.

"it's a little late to teach him financial responsibility."

"why?"

"because we spoil him."

"...no you spoil him."

"we spoil him."

"non."

"oui."

"non."

you turned toward charles and held your hand out.

"come on. let's go spend your dad's money." charles's face lit up.

"mcdonal?"

"a happy meal."

"large fries?"

"obviously."

"mcflurry?"

"whatever you want, baby."

the two of you started walking toward the door hand in hand, julien watched the scene unfold in complete disbelief. "...incroyable." he muttered. "Il t'a contaminée..." [he's infected you.]

...

"fine."

he caught your wrist just long enough to kiss the side of your head. "but if either of you brings any fried potatoes into my car. the adoption is getting revoked, compris?" his eyes flicked toward charles.

"you can't revoke an invisible adoption." you say softly before kissing charles' forehead.

"...i can certainly try."

‘

‘

‘

Pairing: New Gen 11 x Female Reader

Summary: He returns home after being away for a few days to play an important game. But at home, something is happening that is far more important to him. "You know you're more important than a measly 90 minutes on the field."

Tag/Warnings: Fluff, taking care of his sick girlfriend/wife, domestic fluff, heartwarming, mention of vomiting, A/U where they actually feel human’s emotions and feelings such as empathy and compassion.

a/n: In memory of the first time I got sick while living on my own. Here 'Je suis malade' by Lara Fabian (Hugo). Here 'Je reviens te chercher' by Gilbert Bécaud (Loki).

ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ. .

Bunny ⋆˚꩜｡

Barça’s crushing victory over Sevilla in the Copa del Rey final made headlines.

In red, in big letters, on every TV channel. Even if you were bedridden, with a fever clinging to you like a sin, you knew everything—from every dribble to Iglesias’s hat trick.

You were proud of him.

Because no headache on earth could stop you from watching his games and feeling that pride. You’d brave a dry throat and dizziness just to see him celebrate his goal from afar.

Even if the flu meant dozing off unintentionally for a few minutes and waking up thinking you’d landed in paradise.

But no, that wasn’t the case yet—it was just Bunny standing at the foot of the bed.

Fatigue kept you from making out the expression on his face, but you knew him. He was probably studying you, a smile on his lips as he tried to guess whether you’d just woken up from a nap or were faking it.

"I called your name."

He broke the silence, his eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and relief at your presence. Priceless, starved for your mere company.

“I’m sorry,” a cough interrupted your sentence, and your runny nose compelled you to search for a pack of tissues among the pile on the bed. “I didn’t hear you. Did everything went well?”

Lying there like a mummy, wrapped in dozens of blankets and yet still feeling a chill in the air, he moved closer to you and handed you what you were looking for. A gentle expression etched on his face.

"What's wrong, cariño?"

So soft, his voice echoed through the room bathed in orange light—the only light your fragile eyes could bear—his hand finding yours. Pressing it gently with a tenderness that whispered to you that he was there now.

"I don't know," you sniffed again. But this time it was different—he could tell. It was a sniff that revealed an overwhelming urge to cry out of sheer exhaustion. "I think I'm sick."

Trembling, your faint voice reached his ears, tugging at his heartstrings.

"I think so too," he knelt down beside you, the cold of his hand contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from your forehead. "Very much indeed."

With a difficulty as great as not laughing when he missed a goal he had dedicated to you, you propped yourself up. And the world around you rocked like a boat caught in a raging sea.

A sea where every ship flies his flag.

"Easy there," he cooed, stroking your back, probably feeling how damp you were from having stayed in bed all day. "Why didn't you call?"

Slowly, sliding like a snake toward your chin, his thumb cupped your face, lifting it just enough to make out your tired eyes, ringed with dark circles.

"I didn't want to worry you," you blubbered, averting your gaze as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm such a burden."

You had this innate ability to make everything more romantic.

Even when you were sick as a dog, all he noticed was that your pajamas had his name on them.

He didn’t notice anything else—just the way you’d slept on his side of the bed. Or that the TV was playing highlights from his game.

He didn’t care about your sweat, your runny nose, or your hoarse voice. All he saw was how much of him shone through you. That even in pain and discomfort, you were still thinking of him.

"You know that's not true," Brief and gentle on your chapped lips, he pressed a soft kiss. The tips of his fingers drying away those tears he so despised on you. "You know you’re more important than 90 minutes on a pitch."

"Stop that, Bunny. You’ll get sick."

"That's the best gift you could ever give me," again, he planted another peck on them. "Wouldn't you like to be stuck in bed with me?"

Hugo ⋆˚꩜｡

"Ma choupette?"

The front door slammed shut, jolting you abruptly out of your daze.

Slumped over your desk, wearing a dressing gown that wasn’t yours, you struggled as best you could to remember your very name.

Your mind was still foggy, your eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh light, and your head was pounding in time with your heartbeat—or even faster. You couldn’t tell.

Even peeling the paper off your sweaty arm was a real ordeal. The pen wedged between your fingers a clue about what you were doing before you succumbed to exhaustion.

Desperately trapped in a kind of dream where you couldn’t tell if the voice echoing down the hallway was his.

"Bichette, where are you?"

A reply didn't even have to cross your lips; his inner compass naturally guided him to you.

Like a cat that always lands on its feet, he knew by heart that sense of peace that washed over him whenever he found you again.

Even if he turned blind, his legs alone would guide him to you. That was destiny.

"There you are," he breathed, relieved to find you in your usual spot. As if you would ever miss one of his comings home. "Were you working with your headphones on? What did I tell you about the risk of hearing loss?"

Hugo was very pragmatic; the kind of guy who would point out the doormat that was in the wrong place—the one you might have tripped over—before even kissing you hello.

"I’m sorry, I was sleeping."

Your revelation made him drop his bag from his shoulder, a puzzled look frozen on his face. It was almost as if you’d just told him something huge, really huge, and completely unbelievable.

"What do you mean, 'sleep'? On the desk, you mean? What about your lower back? Your neck? I’ve already told you that taking naps in the middle of the day messes up your sleep cycle."

You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise, the concern in his voice growing as the realization hit him.

"Are you sick?"

"I think I’m sick."

There it was—the question and the answer at the same time. He wasn’t slow on the uptake; he just took the time to consider all the facts before drawing a conclusion.

"I’ll be right back," he slipped away, and you heard the cabinets open, the faucet turn on, then his footsteps in the hallway. "Why didn’t you call me?"

The big question. The one that had been running through his head for what felt like agonizing seconds and had probably already rewritten his brain.

"It's just the flu," you clumsily grabbed the glass of water he handed you, his fingers wrapping around it to steady your hand. "And besides, I had to work."

"Working in these conditions? Seriously," his thumb rested on your chin, opening your mouth just enough to slip an ibuprofen tablet inside. "Look at yourself. You can barely sit up. Drink."

He was a jack-of-all-trades—scolding you while playing doctor and giving you orders. So quick-witted, all yours.

"I ended up falling asleep. Maybe I passed out or something like that," you admitted, gulping down the water he offered you. "I’m sick, that’s all. No need to make a big deal out of it."

He was a proxy hypochondriac, and using terms such as "passed out" may have been the last straw on his scale of what was acceptable to hear.

"Still…"

He wasn’t reassured by your words; you could tell by the way he took your hand. His other hand resting against your lower back, he guided you through the apartment, a labyrinth to a mind so foggy.

“I can’t even concentrate when I’m sick. The flu makes me feel stupid.”

“Lara Fabian sings a song about being sick,” he murmured, tucking you into a bed with rumpled sheets and planting a kiss on your forehead.

The you from this morning was far too preoccupied with his game rather than doing household chores.

"I think she’s talking about a broken heart, not catching a nasty virus," your tried to recall, far too somnolently.

"See? Being sick doesn’t take away from your insight, choupette."

Soon after, sleep carried you away once more while he was telling you about his day. But this time, under the watchful eye of a man who was looking out for you.

And when you woke up, he already seemed more at peace. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his blank book resting on his laps, he looked at you the way a tourist might look at the Eiffel Tower.

A look of wonder and that already irresistible urge to come back and visit her every night, as the “Iron Lady” sparkles with a thousand lights.

"Was it my destiny to get sick?

"I don’t think so. But it was my destiny to take care of you."

Loki ⋆˚꩜｡

He had come back to claim her—that trophy with rabbit ears that sealed the second star on the Parisian jersey.

The capital erupted, the streets overflowing with people celebrating the coronation of the rightful champion.

Their shouts of joy echoed until the early hours of the morning, until the realization of this exploit finally catches up with them.

As for you, you dazed off as the players lifted her, your eyes closing on that picture of him. A silly smile on his lips, your ears almost picking up that beautiful laugh of his.

Maybe the stress of being away from him got the better of you, giving way to something a little more wicked.

A vicious cold.

A cold that immediately put you in bed—no room for negotiation. Just like him when he'd remind you to go to sleep, saying you needed to get your 8 hours of rest.

A cold that made you sleep for 12 hours straight, that woke you up the day after the celebrations with regret that you hadn't called him to congratulate him, and a dry throat.

Not even a quick text, worse than any type of fever.

The first thing your mind jumped on, grabbing your phone with such difficulty that just pulling your arm out from under the comforter made you shiver.

There wasn't even time for your eyes to adjust to the light before they widened.

On your home screen, dozens of unread messages ranging from cute morning texts to immense concerns. Missed calls logged at all hours of the night, almost every minutes. He’d even sent emails.

A sort of descent into madness, made worse by your dismissive attitude. And a realization that only deepened your sadness; you’d probably ruined his evening.

Still a little groggy, your brain didn’t know what to do. He was probably still asleep at that hour, after undoubtedly celebrating late into the night, but his absence actually reassured you.

It bought you some time to get back on your feet. And you would have hated for him to get sick too.

"I was worried."

You’d spoken too soon.

Leaning against the bedroom door, arms crossed, he was observing you. Eyes tired, still wearing the sweatpants from the day before, he looked as if he had a restless, unrefreshing night.

And knowing his personality and habits, that was undoubtedly the case.

"Loki," you called out, the drowsiness finally leaving your limbs. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I didn't call you to celebrate your victory."

Gathering what little strength you had left, you waved him over; your headache still too severe for you to even consider getting up.

Quiet, obedient, he slipped by your side, dropping to his knees as to be at eyes level. For a few seconds, all you could discerne was how his eyes sparkled with the pride and determination of a newlywed.

A gaze that made your heart tighten, leaving your lungs unsure whether to inhale or exhale.

"It’s okay," he reassured, sweet. "Are you sick?"

You nodded, and your throat went dry at the sound of his soft voice. As if you had longed for it for too long, his touch tingly on your skin.

His kiss, as gentle as waves lapping at your ankles, grazing the back of your hand.

"Mon cœur, you should have called me."

Right away, you shook your head.

"Certainly not," you admitted, tightening your grip with what little strength you had left. "It’s not every day you become European champion by beating your friend."

He chuckled, his piercing eyes softening for a moment. A moment when he looked at you the way he looked at her yesterday.

Terribly in love, proud and reassured.

And without even breaking his gaze, he slipped a bouquet of flowers into your palm.

The ones you adored, the ones he gifted you on every occasion. The ones who soothed your heart and could have healed all your ills.

"Maybe you’re right," again, a kiss. "But it's not every day I get the chance to take care of my own bedridden girl."

Kaiser ⋆˚꩜｡

Even though Bayern Munich’s championship win wasn’t much of a surprise after their 35th title, it was still a reason to celebrate.

But not for you.

Confined to bed with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, you felt like you were dying every time you swallowed your saliva and choking when air wouldn’t get through your nostrils.

Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, you were losing your mind as the hours ticked by. Being sick didn’t suit you—it made you very dramatic and caused a lot of overthink.

Overthinking about everything. Like those unanswered messages you sent to Micheal.

Your mind, far too foggy for such an hour of the day, overflowed with morbid thoughts. When you closed your eyes, you saw his plane crashing. When you buried your face in his pillow, you imagined a fatal car accident.

Even staring at the ceiling turned into a manhunt: supposedly, his plane had already reported its landing. So no doubt that he was still alive and that your fever was making you anxious.

Wrapped in his blanket, you peered over the balcony to see if you could spot his car on the street. But nothing—every black cars oddly resembling his.

Every blond men sporting a jaded expression a hint of hope.

Leaning on the railing, you watched the passersby wearing Bayern jerseys, smiles lighting up their faces, and a sigh escaped your lips.

Your nerves were on the verge of snapping; exhaustion was starting to make you delirious, and at that moment, you wished for him to come back to you.

That he would gently scold you, tucking your feverish body in bed, still with that hint of arrogance dripping from every words.

That feigned nonchalance that hides something as big as his love for football.

"What’s exactly is wrong with you now?"

Cold and probing, that voice felt just as good as a fresh breeze when you suddenly felt like suffocating. Disdainful even over such a simple matter—you didn’t know it was possible to be that way.

And yet, as you clutched your comforter tighter, when you turned around, you were glad to see him.

Black tracksuit adorned with the club’s crest, perfect hair, and a bag at his fingertips.

There he was, annoyingly cute with that pout religiously stuck on his lips, a gleam of animosity sparkling in the blue of his eyes.

"Micheal, you’re back," you breathed softly, your fever and that anxiety subsiding with every step you took toward him.

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

“Because I was…” You stopped short, and a silence fell over the room as you realized there was actually no reason to worry.

"Get into bed," he snapped, his irritation already evident in his voice. But his rudeness was just as poorly feigned as the distant, anxious look that shone in his eyes. "I brought you some medicine."

You watched him, a raised eyebrow the only display of your confusion.

"Medicine? How did you know I was sick?"

"Go to bed."

Clearly not in the mood to explain, he just repeated himself. A slightly more serious look settled on his face to drive home his point, but it vanished when he tucked you in under the comforter.

Piling blankets on your lap, he even resigned himself to covering you with the one with little hearts—the one you’d given him as a joke and that he kept hidden from prying eyes. The very same one he used when you weren’t there.

He was silent, focused on his task, and brimming with caution.

And watching him open the bottles one by one, tear open the ibuprofen packets, and make trips back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom to take care of you—secretly—had a greater effect than his medicine.

"Open your mouth," he ordered and you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. In love. Completely charmed by his gentle behaviour. "Wider!"

You shouldn’t have pushed it—this was still Michael Kaiser, after all.

He made sure you swallowed it, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in your grimace at the bitter medicine before forcing you to lie down, a damp towel on your forehead.

He took care of you as if you had an incurable disease. An innate affliction he’d waited his whole life to cure through you—something he couldn’t even cure within himself.

"How did you know I was sick?"

"I just guessed."

"Liar."

You were sick, sure, but his lies didn’t go unnoticed.

"I saw it on the surveillance cameras," he confessed, his words barely a whisper, as if he were ashamed of keeping an eye on you even from across the country.

"Surveillance cameras?"

"Go to sleep."

He acted as if he hated having to take care of you, when deep down, far away, he was almost reveling in it.

"Since when do we have surveillance-"

"I said, sleep!"

Lorenzo ⋆˚꩜｡

You’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night, the winter fog still blanketing the streets outside.

Drenched in sweat, like a damp towel clinging to your body after a swim.

Head spinning, just like on those days when the sun strikes so hard you lose track of time.

And yet, none of that was the case right now. Far from the gentle summers spent away from everyone, tonight it was you who was far from him.

Your bedroom was still lit by the TV you’d left on last night, its blinding light splattering across the walls and bedding. Letting you come to your senses, steady your breathing in front of him.

Or at least, in front of the highlights of the Supercoppa—its final won by Lorenzo and his teammates barely a couple of hours ago.

His footwork and dribbles made your head spin even more, your palms oddly sweaty around the remote control to turn it off.

You couldn’t even remember how your evening had ended. Almost as if you’d collapsed into bed, clutching his pillow—still carrying his scent—to your body like a sin.

Just like the sin of envy, your mind unable to accept the fact he wasn’t by your side at this hour of the night.

All of that just to wake up feeling nauseous, alone in that bed, your whole body burning with the urge to throw up everything you’d swallowed.

As you dared to get up, your legs were so wobbly they threatened to give out, your vision blurry when you reached for the bathroom light switch.

Then suddenly, your stomach turned, and a sudden wave of heat surged through your chest, overwhelming your face.

You could still feel the acid burning in your throat, while your breathing quickened at the sight of a second reflection in the mirror.

Slender, tall, and carrying that weary look no amount of sleep by your side could cure. Lorenzo had come home at the worst possible moment.

"You weren’t answering your phone," he whispered, approaching you cautiously, as if afraid you might falter at the slightest sudden movement. "What’s wrong? Tell me."

You leaned against the sink when you realized that everything was going to be okay now, your racing mind finally quieted.

It must have been a painful sight to see—your trembling hands pushing him away, breaking his heart. Even more than your fleeting gaze.

"Sorry for worrying you," you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, securing it with the same confidence he’d shown when lifting the trophy. "It’ll pass, don’t worry. But stay away—I don’t want you to get sick."

You didn’t even dare look up, embarrassed that he’d see you in such a condition.

But that was underestimating him—his resolve was tenfold when the one he cherished was suffering. Because he knew perfectly well that he could help you feel better and never suffer the way he had.

So gently on your cheeks, he cupped your face so you’d look at him. Because even with your tired eyes, chapped lips, and sweaty face, you still shone with that way you had of wanting to protect him.

To shield him a little more from this cruel world.

"I'm calling the best doctor in town," he said, grabbing his phone while his other hand remained on your forehead. "What are your symptoms?"

"It's just the flu—it's no big deal," you reassured, with a confidence he could hardly believe.

Your body barely able to remain steady, swaying so much that even the edge of the sink looked like a wobbly pudding.

As if to prove you wrong, agree with him against your own will, your body sent you those unmistakable signals.

A knot in your stomach that tightened up as breathing alone became a conscious effort, a bead of sweat running down the nape of your neck sending a shill down to your fingertips.

And then, that sudden dryness in your mouth made you lean over the sink, Lorenzo grabbing your hair to keep it out of the way of what was about to happen.

"Is this nothing?" Another gag, his fingers brushing away a strand of hair, tucking it gently behind your ear. "Nothing this expensive doctor can't treat?"

"Money doesn't solve everything..." The faucet turned on; the water still bearing a strange taste in your mouth.

And yet, his words seemed to you like honey that healed all your ills. His mere presence the cure for your troubles.

"I guarantee that, as far as you're concerned, my money is the answer to all your problems."

Sae ⋆˚꩜｡

"Wake up."

In your dream, sporting an invisible smile, Sae had just won his fourth Champions League.

Content, maybe proud, he looked like a whole different man. That trophy a the tip of his fingers like a king being crowned after years of struggle.

"Wake up."

His white jersey as immaculate as the rebirth of a player who had lost all hope.

"Why are you smiling? Wake up."

Sudden, unwanted, your eyes flew open, gasping for air as if you had been emerged under water for too long.

Sweaty and exhausted despite your visible very, very extended nap, your body almost instantly reminded you of that night spent rummaging around the house for medecine that could make you sleep.

Like a ghost haunting the walls of an old building, your sore throat and dizziness didn’t magically disappeared after a restless twelve hour of 'nap.'

"Why are you sleeping on the couch?"

Startled once again, his figure looming over yours made you gasp.

He seemed carefree, with his bag slung over his shoulder like a teenager, yet he appeared worried. As if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Something that had to do with you.

"Sae, why are you here?"

You asked, trying to prop yourself up—at least having the decency to sit up straight so you wouldn't look like a slumped-over rag.

Without exchanging a word, he helped you, wrapping your shivering figure in that blanket that always carried your scent, your warmth never too far away in its fabric.

"What do you mean? I just got home."

A silence, your mind racing with thoughts of everything and nothing at once. Your memory failing you to even remember the last time you saw him.

"What about the final?"

"It was yesterday, and we won." He looked at you like you were some sort of alien, speaking gibberish. "I rushed back home because you weren’t answering."

His statement was laced with sarcasm, as if you were playing at his face—trying to fool him with one of your unfunny jokes.

"What’s the date?"

"It doesn’t matter," He took off his bag, his usual expression replaced by one that was even more indescribable—a mixture of worry and confusion. "What’s wrong with you? Sleeping on the couch, ignoring my calls, not answering my texts."

"I don’t know, I’m feeling dizzy and all."

"You’re sick," it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. In the sense he knew you so much that every of your actions had a meaning.

Ignoring him? Certainly napping.

Speaking nonsense in your sleep? Dreaming of him.

Sleeping on the couch? Watching one of his games.

A long sigh, exasperated, escaped from his lips as he watched you. Like two people waiting for the other to carry on the conversation.

More like, one man pretending not to be happy that you were sick.

He stubbornly pretended not to care about anything, but deep down, he longed for those moments of vulnerability when he felt he was needed.

When he didn’t have to settle for something less prestigious than his dream. When you were his dream, and no matter what happened, that dream would never change.

"Why didn’t you call? I could have send you a doctor."

"I didn’t even realised I was sick myself."

A glance that said it all was offered to you. And today, it seemed like even your puppy eyes won’t be enough to save you from his gentle scolding.

synopsis: bllk boys in the USA for the World Cup!

based on this request!

cast: isagi, bachira, rin, sae, nagi, reo, chigiri, shidou, ness, kaiser

gn!reader, lots of crack lolol, established relationship

Yoichi Isagi

Meguru Bachira

Rin Itoshi

Sae Itoshi

Seishiro Nagi

Reo Mikage

Hyoma Chigiri

Ryusei Shidou

Michael Kaiser

Alexis Ness

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a/n: long awaited request that took me the longest to dooo but i like this sm hehe i have recovered from yesterday's fevers so i am well now! gonna try to do pt.2 to this ASAP

blue lock boys x fem!reader

featuring. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, barou shouei, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei

warnings. established relationships, fluff, slightly suggestive teasing in shidou’s section ♡

the pet names they give you, and the quiet moments that make each one feel like something meant only for the two of you.

── .✦ ISAGI YOICHI — “HONEY”

Isagi does not remember when honey first became yours.

There was no dramatic pause after the word left his mouth, no startled silence in which both of you realized something in the relationship had shifted. It simply slipped into his vocabulary somewhere between late-night calls, hurried mornings, and the countless hours you spent beside him while match footage played across his laptop. By the time you noticed, Isagi had already begun saying it with the easy familiarity of someone who had forgotten there had ever been another way to address you.

“Honey, have you seen my phone?”

You glance up from the edge of his bed. He is standing in front of you with one shoe on, his hair still damp from the shower and his brows drawn together as though the missing device is a tactical problem demanding immediate analysis.

“It’s charging beside you.”

His eyes move toward the nightstand.

“Oh.”

He reaches for it, then pauses when he notices the smile tugging at your mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me strangely.”

“Am I, honey?”

Understanding flashes across his face. Color follows almost immediately, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears before he can turn away and pretend to be interested in his notifications.

“I call you that all the time.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you making it weird?”

You laugh, and Isagi mutters something under his breath about you being impossible. The embarrassment never lasts, though. The moment his attention drifts elsewhere, the word returns as naturally as breathing.

He says it when he leans over your shoulder to show you a goal on his screen, his chest warm against your back as he points out a gap in the opposing team’s defense.

He says it when he finds you asleep on the couch and gently touches your cheek, worry already gathering in his eyes because your neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle.

He says it when he realizes he has been talking about football for almost an hour without asking about your day.

“Sorry, honey. I got carried away.”

You always tell him that you do not mind. The way his entire expression brightens when he talks about the field is one of the things you love most about him.

Still, your favorite version of the name appears when he is worried. Then honey loses its absent domestic ease and becomes something quieter, shaped by the tenderness he rarely notices in himself.

“You okay, honey?”

His hands are already on you before you answer, one resting against your arm while his blue eyes search your face with such focused concern that lying becomes impossible.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

You nod and lace your fingers with his. The tension in his shoulders eases, though he continues watching you for another moment, as if he needs to confirm for himself that nothing is wrong.

“You know,” you murmur, “you sound like someone’s husband when you call me that.”

Isagi nearly chokes.

His horrified expression makes you burst into laughter, and he pulls you against his chest, apparently deciding that hiding his burning face in your hair is easier than responding.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Love you too, honey.”

His arms tighten around you. For a second, he says nothing.

Then his lips brush the top of your head.

“Love you too.”

── .✦

ITOSHI SAE — “MI AMOR”

The first time Sae calls you mi amor, you think you have misheard him.

Not because the words are unclear, but because he says them without the smallest hesitation. There is no warning in his expression, no pause that suggests he is about to say anything remotely affectionate. Sae remains seated on the couch, one ankle resting over his knee, his attention fixed on his phone as though the pet name is no more remarkable than the weather.

“Come here, mi amor.”

You stop in the doorway.

Sae scrolls once more before lifting his eyes to you. His face is calm, almost bored, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth tells you he has already noticed your reaction.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Unfortunately, you had.

The phrase must have followed him home from Spain, one of the many pieces of language that became natural after years spent abroad. Yet it never sounds borrowed when he uses it for you. In Sae’s voice, mi amor is assured and effortless, less like a nickname he selected and more like a fact he sees no reason to explain.

He uses it while handing you the bag you nearly forgot on the way out.

“Your things, mi amor.”

He says it when you insist you are not tired even though your head has already fallen against his shoulder twice.

“You fell asleep sitting up.”

“For five seconds.”

“Bed.”

“You’re bossy.”

“And you’re still arguing, mi amor.”

The worst part is that he knows exactly what the name does to you. Sae notices everything: the pause in your breathing, the way your fingers still, the warmth that rises into your face before you can stop it. He never points any of this out. He simply watches with that unreadable teal gaze, allowing the smallest hint of amusement to settle over his features.

“You do that on purpose,” you accuse one afternoon.

He is sitting beside you in a quiet café, one arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair.

“Do what?”

“You know.”

“Very specific.”

You narrow your eyes. Sae reaches forward, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Messy, mi amor.”

Your breath catches.

His expression does not change.

“You’re horrible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Yet the name becomes different when no one else is around. It softens in dark rooms and tired silences, stripped of the teasing edge he uses when he knows you are watching. Those are the moments when it feels most intimate —not because Sae whispers it like a secret— but because he says it as though loving you is the simplest thing he has ever understood.

One night, you wake to the sensation of his fingers moving gently through your hair. Pale light slips between the curtains, outlining his face in silver.

“You’re awake,” you mumble.

“So are you.”

“Not by choice.”

His thumb brushes your temple.

“Go back to sleep, mi amor.”

You turn your face into his palm and press a kiss there. Sae becomes still for the briefest moment, the only sign that the gesture has reached somewhere beneath his composure.

“Goodnight,” you whisper.

His hand remains against your cheek.

“Goodnight, mi amor.”

Perhaps that is why the words affect you so deeply.

To you, they sound like a confession.

To Sae, they are simply your name.

── .✦

ITOSHI RIN — “DEAR”

Rin does not seem like someone who should call his partner dear.

The word is too gentle for the sharpness of him, too domestic for someone who can make a simple good morning sound like an accusation. You would expect something clipped, perhaps even insulting—a nickname hidden beneath irritation so that he could deny the affection behind it.

Instead, one evening, while you are standing directly in his way, he places a hand at your waist and says, “Move, dear.”

You freeze.

Rin walks past you as though nothing happened.

For several seconds, you remain in the middle of the hallway, staring after him while your mind replays the word. Then you turn.

“Excuse me?”

His shoulders tense before he looks back. The movement is small, but you know him well enough to recognize guilt when you see it.

“What?”

“What did you call me?”

“Nothing.”

“You called me dear.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Rin’s expression becomes perfectly blank. “You’re imagining things.”

He leaves before you can argue, which might have worked if he had never used it again.

But once you notice the name, you begin hearing it everywhere. It slips into his speech without emphasis, softened by habit rather than intention.

“It’s cold, dear.”

He says it while holding out his jacket, already irritated because you apparently failed to predict the evening temperature.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll complain in ten minutes. Put it on.”

You take the jacket, smiling when his fingers linger near your collar as he pulls it closed.

“Thank you.”

“Stubborn, dear.”

Then he walks ahead, leaving you to follow with your heart beating far too quickly beneath his clothes.

There is something almost unfair about how naturally he says it. Rin never lowers his voice to make the word sound romantic. He never waits afterward to admire your reaction. Dear simply appears between the rest of his sentences, carrying the same unconscious tenderness as the hand he places at your back in crowded places or the way he always checks that you have eaten before asking about anything else.

The first time another person hears it, Isagi falls silent mid-sentence.

You are waiting near the training field while Rin gathers his things. Fatigue has begun to blur the edges of your vision, and when you rub your eyes, Rin notices immediately.

“You’re tired.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re barely awake.” He nods toward a nearby bench. “Go sit down, dear.”

Silence settles over the three of you.

Isagi looks at Rin.

Then at you.

Rin frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Isagi says quickly, with the careful tone of someone who values his life.

Later, you catch Rin by the sleeve before he can leave.

“You called me dear in front of him.”

“And?”

The genuine confusion in his face makes warmth bloom beneath your ribs. Somewhere along the way, the nickname has become so completely attached to you in his mind that he no longer notices himself using it.

You step closer, smiling sweetly. “Nothing, dear.”

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You call me that.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

You laugh and lean into him. Rin exhales through his nose, but his arm settles around your waist anyway, pulling you closer with quiet certainty.

“Annoying,” he mutters.

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

His eyes close for half a second, and when he lowers his forehead to yours, the tips of his ears are red.

“...dear.”

The word is barely audible.

Your smile becomes impossible to hide.

Rin knows he has lost.

── .✦

BAROU SHOUEI — “MY QUEEN”

Barou does not call you my queen as a joke.

You can call him Your Majesty whenever you please, can bow theatrically when he enters a room or announce the King’s arrival loudly enough to make him glare at you from across the hall. Your teasing has never bothered you, mostly because his reactions are far too entertaining to surrender.

But Barou treats the title he gives you with surprising seriousness.

It begins after someone refers to you as his queen during a conversation. You expect him to scoff, to correct them, perhaps to launch into a speech about how no one stands beside the King.

Instead, he says nothing.

You notice, of course.

Later, while he cooks dinner, you lean against the counter and watch the precise rhythm of his knife against the cutting board.

“So, Your Majesty.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I know that tone.”

You smile. “Your queen is hungry.”

The knife stops.

Barou turns his head slowly, red eyes narrowing.

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s not very respectful.”

“You’re lucky I’m cooking for you.”

“I thought kings were supposed to spoil their queens.”

“You thought wrong.”

You leave him alone after that, though your smile returns when he places a plate in front of you twenty minutes later. Your portion is larger than his, arranged with the same care he pretends not to offer.

Barou catches you looking.

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

You pick up your fork. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Eat.”

For a while, the title remains yours to tease him with and his to avoid. Then, after a match, it changes.

Barou has won, but victory has never protected him from dissatisfaction. He stands beside you in a quiet corridor, replaying every imperfect moment aloud: the pass that arrived a second too late, the chance he should have converted, the goal that was good but could have been cleaner.

You listen until his frustration begins to burn itself out.

“You were incredible,” you tell him.

“I could’ve done better.”

“You always think that.”

“Because I can.”

There is so much certainty in his voice that you cannot help smiling. You reach up and brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead.

“You’re still my King.”

The words begin as a tease, but something in your tone makes his expression shift. Barou catches your wrist, keeping your palm pressed against his cheek.

“And you’re my queen.”

The corridor goes silent.

Your smile disappears beneath the sudden weight of your heartbeat.

Barou seems to realize what he said only after the words have settled between you, but he does not take them back. He merely looks away, a faint trace of color rising along his cheekbones.

“Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That stupid one.”

“You called me your queen.”

“I know what I said.”

You step closer. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Shouei.”

“No.”

You wrap your arms around his waist before he can escape. Barou complains immediately, muttering about you being clingy, but his hands settle against your back with practiced ease.

After that, my queen remains rare. He uses it when pride softens his voice, when he pulls you against his side after a difficult day, or when he thinks you are already asleep against his chest.

“My queen,” he murmurs into your hair.

You never answer those times.

Barou prefers believing the tenderness goes unnoticed.

You prefer letting him believe it.

── .✦

BACHIRA MEGURU — “SUNSHINE”

The first time Bachira calls you sunshine, you are in a terrible mood.

Your train was late, coffee stained the sleeve of your favorite shirt, and a stranger nearly knocked your phone from your hand without apologizing. By the time you reach the training facility, frustration clings to you like static, sharp enough that one more inconvenience might send you over the edge.

Bachira takes one look at your face and beams.

“Hi, sunshine!”

You stop in front of him.

“Don’t.”

His smile widens. “Don’t what?”

“I am not sunshine right now.”

He tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. The playful brightness in his eyes softens, though it never disappears completely.

“Mm. You still are.”

“Meguru.”

“What?”

“Why do you even call me that?”

For once, Bachira pauses. His answers rarely follow a straight line, so you prepare yourself for something strange—perhaps you remind him of the color yellow, or your hair looked bright beneath a lamp one afternoon, or his monster decided the name suited you.

Instead, he reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours.

“Because you’re warm.”

You blink.

“Not temperature warm,” he adds, then considers it. “Well, sometimes you are.”

“Meguru.”

He laughs softly, swinging your joined hands between you. “Everything feels brighter when you’re there.”

The frustration leaves you so quickly it is almost embarrassing.

Bachira notices at once. “See?”

“See what?”

“Sunshine!”

You shove his shoulder. He only laughs and pulls you into a hug, squeezing until the last of your irritation dissolves against him.

After that, the nickname follows you everywhere.

It echoes across crowded hallways whenever Bachira spots you waiting after practice. It appears in messages sent at unreasonable hours, usually accompanied by too many exclamation marks and a sun emoji.

sunshineeee

You squint at your phone.

meguru it is three in the morning

The typing bubble appears immediately.

yeah :)

why are you awake

A pause.

thinking about you

Then, before you can recover:

sunshine ☀️

You call him because pretending the message did not affect you would be pointless. Bachira answers on the first ring, smiling sleepily into the camera as though he had known you would.

The name is brightest when he is playful, but your favorite version comes after matches, once the energy inside him finally begins to settle. Bachira talks quickly at first, his hands moving as he recounts every idea that carried him across the field. When you two are together, you listen until his words gradually lose their hurried rhythm and his body begins to sink against yours.

His head drops onto your shoulder.

“You falling asleep?”

“No.”

The lie is muffled against your neck.

You run your fingers through his hair. Bachira relaxes immediately, the weight of him growing heavier against you.

“Sunshine,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Stay warm.”

You pause. “What does that mean?”

No answer.

“Meguru?”

His breathing has already evened out.

You look down at him, at the peaceful curve of his mouth and the way his hand remains loosely wrapped around yours.

Maybe the nickname was never about happiness. Bachira does not need you to shine every second of the day.

To him, sunshine is simply what makes the world feel warmer when it arrives.

── .✦

NAGI SEISHIRO — “PRETTY”

Nagi calls you pretty with the same calm certainty he might use to describe the sky as blue.

There is no teasing edge in his voice and no smug satisfaction when the word leaves you flustered. He does not seem particularly interested in making you react, which somehow makes each quiet use of the name far more dangerous.

The first time it happens, you are trying to wake him for training.

“Nagi.”

He remains buried beneath the blankets.

“Seishiro.”

A muffled groan disappears into the pillow.

“You have to get up.”

“Cancel it.”

“You cannot cancel training.”

“Sounds troublesome.”

You sigh and poke his cheek. One gray eye slowly opens, unfocused with sleep. Nagi looks at you for several long seconds, his gaze drifting over your face as though he is waiting for his thoughts to catch up with the morning.

Then he murmurs, “Hi, pretty.”

Your entire mind goes blank.

Nagi closes his eye again.

You stay beside the bed, staring at him.

“Seishiro.”

“Hm?”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You called me pretty.”

His eye opens once more. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Confusion settles over his sleepy features.

“Because you’re pretty.”

He rolls over, apparently satisfied that the matter has been explained.

You spend the rest of the morning trying not to think about it.

The name remains after that, appearing whenever affection slips through Nagi’s usual laziness. He says it from the couch while lifting one arm to make room for you, though you both know that once you sit down he will drape himself over you until moving becomes impossible.

“C’mere, pretty.”

He murmurs it when you meet him after an away match, his arms curling around your waist as his full weight settles against you.

“Missed you, pretty.”

And when your smile feels forced or your voice grows quieter than usual, his eyes sharpen with an attentiveness he rarely offers the rest of the world.

“You okay, pretty?”

One afternoon, you finally ask him about it. You are lying against his chest while he scrolls through his phone, his free hand tracing slow, absent patterns over your back.

“Seishiro?”

“Mm?”

“You barely use my actual name anymore.”

His thumb pauses. “Really?”

“You call me pretty all the time.”

“Mm.”

You wait for him to elaborate.

He does not.

Lifting your head, you find him watching you with the same calm expression.

“Why pretty?”

Nagi thinks about it. You can almost see the effort moving slowly behind his eyes.

“Don’t know.”

You sigh.

His phone lowers. Nagi cups your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and studies you with a focus that makes your breath catch.

“I look at you,” he says eventually, “and think pretty.”

Your heart stumbles.

“So I say pretty.”

The explanation is simple, offered with complete honesty. To Nagi, there is apparently nothing remarkable about telling you exactly what he sees.

You lower your face to his chest before he can notice the heat spreading through your cheeks.

“Why’re you hiding?”

“Shut up.”

His arm curls more securely around you. A moment later, you feel his lips brush your hair.

“Cute, pretty.”

Your face grows warmer.

Nagi’s quiet laugh vibrates beneath your cheek.

Perhaps he knows what he is doing after all.

── .✦

SHIDOU RYUSEI — “DOLL”

Shidou decides to call you doll without asking whether you approve.

This does not surprise you. Ryusei has never been particularly interested in permission when it comes to introducing chaos into your life, and apparently choosing your pet name is no exception.

It begins one evening when you catch him staring.

Not subtly, either. Shidou sits across from you with his chin resting against one hand, his pink eyes moving lazily over your face while you try to finish a message. You ignore him for as long as possible, but his attention is almost physical, warm and unwavering against your skin.

Finally, you lower your phone.

“What?”

His grin appears at once. “Nothing, doll.”

Your fingers still against the screen.

“Doll?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Shidou laughs, delighted by the immediate rejection. “What d’you mean, no?”

“You’re not calling me that.”

“Sure thing, doll.”

“Ryusei.”

His grin widens.

From that moment on, your actual name becomes optional.

“There she is. Hi, doll.”

“Move over, doll.”

“C’mere, doll.”

The word itself is not the problem. The way Shidou says it is.

He possesses an infuriating talent for taking something harmless and coating it in enough suggestion to send warmth crawling along your neck. Sometimes he draws the syllable out while leaning too close, his eyes glittering because he knows precisely what his voice does to you.

“Stop saying it like that.”

“Like what, doll?”

“Exactly like that.”

He leans closer, his mouth curving. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah.”

At least he is honest.

You assume the nickname exists because your annoyance entertains him. Then he begins using it when he is not teasing, and the word becomes much harder to dismiss.

You are waiting after one of his matches when the doors to the players’ corridor finally open. Shidou steps through with his hair still damp and his body carrying the restless remains of adrenaline. He looks exhausted in the peculiar way only he can—still bright, still sharp, but quieter beneath the surface.

His gaze searches the hallway.

Then it finds you.

Something in his expression loosens.

“There she is.”

You smile as he approaches. “Hi.”

Shidou does not answer. His arms close around your waist and pull you firmly against him, making you stumble into his chest. Before you can complain, his face disappears into the curve of your neck.

“Missed you, doll.”

The words are quiet. There is no suggestive tone, no laughter waiting beneath them.

Only affection, stripped of performance.

“You saw me this morning.”

“Long time.”

“It’s been eight hours.”

“Exactly.”

You laugh and wrap your arms around him. Shidou exhales against your skin, his grip tightening as the last of the match leaves his body.

That is when you understand there are two versions of the name.

There is the doll he says with a filthy grin, deliberately watching your face because provoking you is one of his favorite pastimes.

Then there is this one—the soft doll that means there you are, the one he murmurs when he is tired enough to want comfort and honest enough not to disguise it.

You kiss his temple.

Shidou lifts his head. “What?”

“Nothing.” Your fingers smooth his hair away from his forehead. “I was thinking I don’t hate the nickname anymore.”

For one dangerous second, he is silent.

Then his grin returns.

“Oh, yeah, doll?”

You immediately regret speaking.

“Don’t.”

“My gorgeous little—”

You cover his mouth with your hand.

Shidou goes still.

Then he licks your palm.

You recoil with a shout while his laughter echoes through the corridor.

The tenderness vanishes as quickly as it appeared, but when he catches up to you, his fingers slip between yours.

“C’mon, doll.”

You let him pull you along.

This time, you do not complain.

the apartment just smelled like rain and whatever candle was burning on the counter. outside, the sky was a completely washed-out gray, making the couch feel like the only warm spot left on earth.

nagi moved, burying his face deeper into the giant knitted blanket until only his eyes were showing. he didn't say anything, just let out a long, heavy sigh before slumping sideways, dumping his entire head onto your shoulder. his white hair was a total mess, tickling your neck every time he breathed.

"nagi, your phone's gonna slip," you whispered, looking down at the screen sliding off his knee.

"mnn, let it," he mumbled, his voice totally muffled by the wool. "don't care. my hands are freezing anyway."

he didn’t even ask, just slipped his fingers right into yours. his hand was a little cold against yours, but he held on tight anyway, giving you a slow, warm squeeze and completely melting into the couch the second you squeezed back.

you shifted a bit so he could get more comfortable against your side, reaching over with your free hand to grab a piece of candy from the bowl on the coffee table.

hearing the wrapper crinkle, he peeked one eye open, looking up at you sleepily. "feed me?"

you popped it into his mouth. he chewed slowly, letting out a soft, happy hum that you could feel right against your shoulder.

the living room was getting darker, that soft, blue evening light settling over everything. there were no unread texts to worry about, no soccer practice to run to—just completely empty, quiet time. even the chores could wait.

"this is the best," nagi muttered, his voice dropping into a heavy, relaxed yawn. he nuzzled a little closer, burying his face right into the crook of your neck to hide from the remaining light. "hmm... don't move."

"i'm right here," you sigh, resting your chin on his messy white hair.

outside, the rain just kept tapping softly against the glass, but tangled up under the heavy blanket like this, you were the only part of the world he cared about.

© 1ix1n 2026 ⸝⸝ pls do not copy or feed my work into ai, ty .ᐟ

Pairing: New Gen 11 x Female Reader

Summary: He returns home after being away for a few days to play an important game. But at home, something is happening that is far more important to him. "You know you're more important than a measly 90 minutes on the field."

Tag/Warnings: Fluff, taking care of his sick girlfriend/wife, domestic fluff, heartwarming, mention of vomiting, A/U where they actually feel human’s emotions and feelings such as empathy and compassion.

a/n: In memory of the first time I got sick while living on my own. Here 'Je suis malade' by Lara Fabian (Hugo). Here 'Je reviens te chercher' by Gilbert Bécaud (Loki).

ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ. .

Bunny ⋆˚꩜｡

Barça’s crushing victory over Sevilla in the Copa del Rey final made headlines.

In red, in big letters, on every TV channel. Even if you were bedridden, with a fever clinging to you like a sin, you knew everything—from every dribble to Iglesias’s hat trick.

You were proud of him.

Because no headache on earth could stop you from watching his games and feeling that pride. You’d brave a dry throat and dizziness just to see him celebrate his goal from afar.

Even if the flu meant dozing off unintentionally for a few minutes and waking up thinking you’d landed in paradise.

But no, that wasn’t the case yet—it was just Bunny standing at the foot of the bed.

Fatigue kept you from making out the expression on his face, but you knew him. He was probably studying you, a smile on his lips as he tried to guess whether you’d just woken up from a nap or were faking it.

"I called your name."

He broke the silence, his eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and relief at your presence. Priceless, starved for your mere company.

“I’m sorry,” a cough interrupted your sentence, and your runny nose compelled you to search for a pack of tissues among the pile on the bed. “I didn’t hear you. Did everything went well?”

Lying there like a mummy, wrapped in dozens of blankets and yet still feeling a chill in the air, he moved closer to you and handed you what you were looking for. A gentle expression etched on his face.

"What's wrong, cariño?"

So soft, his voice echoed through the room bathed in orange light—the only light your fragile eyes could bear—his hand finding yours. Pressing it gently with a tenderness that whispered to you that he was there now.

"I don't know," you sniffed again. But this time it was different—he could tell. It was a sniff that revealed an overwhelming urge to cry out of sheer exhaustion. "I think I'm sick."

Trembling, your faint voice reached his ears, tugging at his heartstrings.

"I think so too," he knelt down beside you, the cold of his hand contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from your forehead. "Very much indeed."

With a difficulty as great as not laughing when he missed a goal he had dedicated to you, you propped yourself up. And the world around you rocked like a boat caught in a raging sea.

A sea where every ship flies his flag.

"Easy there," he cooed, stroking your back, probably feeling how damp you were from having stayed in bed all day. "Why didn't you call?"

Slowly, sliding like a snake toward your chin, his thumb cupped your face, lifting it just enough to make out your tired eyes, ringed with dark circles.

"I didn't want to worry you," you blubbered, averting your gaze as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm such a burden."

You had this innate ability to make everything more romantic.

Even when you were sick as a dog, all he noticed was that your pajamas had his name on them.

He didn’t notice anything else—just the way you’d slept on his side of the bed. Or that the TV was playing highlights from his game.

He didn’t care about your sweat, your runny nose, or your hoarse voice. All he saw was how much of him shone through you. That even in pain and discomfort, you were still thinking of him.

"You know that's not true," Brief and gentle on your chapped lips, he pressed a soft kiss. The tips of his fingers drying away those tears he so despised on you. "You know you’re more important than 90 minutes on a pitch."

"Stop that, Bunny. You’ll get sick."

"That's the best gift you could ever give me," again, he planted another peck on them. "Wouldn't you like to be stuck in bed with me?"

Hugo ⋆˚꩜｡

"Ma choupette?"

The front door slammed shut, jolting you abruptly out of your daze.

Slumped over your desk, wearing a dressing gown that wasn’t yours, you struggled as best you could to remember your very name.

Your mind was still foggy, your eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh light, and your head was pounding in time with your heartbeat—or even faster. You couldn’t tell.

Even peeling the paper off your sweaty arm was a real ordeal. The pen wedged between your fingers a clue about what you were doing before you succumbed to exhaustion.

Desperately trapped in a kind of dream where you couldn’t tell if the voice echoing down the hallway was his.

"Bichette, where are you?"

A reply didn't even have to cross your lips; his inner compass naturally guided him to you.

Like a cat that always lands on its feet, he knew by heart that sense of peace that washed over him whenever he found you again.

Even if he turned blind, his legs alone would guide him to you. That was destiny.

"There you are," he breathed, relieved to find you in your usual spot. As if you would ever miss one of his comings home. "Were you working with your headphones on? What did I tell you about the risk of hearing loss?"

Hugo was very pragmatic; the kind of guy who would point out the doormat that was in the wrong place—the one you might have tripped over—before even kissing you hello.

"I’m sorry, I was sleeping."

Your revelation made him drop his bag from his shoulder, a puzzled look frozen on his face. It was almost as if you’d just told him something huge, really huge, and completely unbelievable.

"What do you mean, 'sleep'? On the desk, you mean? What about your lower back? Your neck? I’ve already told you that taking naps in the middle of the day messes up your sleep cycle."

You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise, the concern in his voice growing as the realization hit him.

"Are you sick?"

"I think I’m sick."

There it was—the question and the answer at the same time. He wasn’t slow on the uptake; he just took the time to consider all the facts before drawing a conclusion.

"I’ll be right back," he slipped away, and you heard the cabinets open, the faucet turn on, then his footsteps in the hallway. "Why didn’t you call me?"

The big question. The one that had been running through his head for what felt like agonizing seconds and had probably already rewritten his brain.

"It's just the flu," you clumsily grabbed the glass of water he handed you, his fingers wrapping around it to steady your hand. "And besides, I had to work."

"Working in these conditions? Seriously," his thumb rested on your chin, opening your mouth just enough to slip an ibuprofen tablet inside. "Look at yourself. You can barely sit up. Drink."

He was a jack-of-all-trades—scolding you while playing doctor and giving you orders. So quick-witted, all yours.

"I ended up falling asleep. Maybe I passed out or something like that," you admitted, gulping down the water he offered you. "I’m sick, that’s all. No need to make a big deal out of it."

He was a proxy hypochondriac, and using terms such as "passed out" may have been the last straw on his scale of what was acceptable to hear.

"Still…"

He wasn’t reassured by your words; you could tell by the way he took your hand. His other hand resting against your lower back, he guided you through the apartment, a labyrinth to a mind so foggy.

“I can’t even concentrate when I’m sick. The flu makes me feel stupid.”

“Lara Fabian sings a song about being sick,” he murmured, tucking you into a bed with rumpled sheets and planting a kiss on your forehead.

The you from this morning was far too preoccupied with his game rather than doing household chores.

"I think she’s talking about a broken heart, not catching a nasty virus," your tried to recall, far too somnolently.

"See? Being sick doesn’t take away from your insight, choupette."

Soon after, sleep carried you away once more while he was telling you about his day. But this time, under the watchful eye of a man who was looking out for you.

And when you woke up, he already seemed more at peace. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his blank book resting on his laps, he looked at you the way a tourist might look at the Eiffel Tower.

A look of wonder and that already irresistible urge to come back and visit her every night, as the “Iron Lady” sparkles with a thousand lights.

"Was it my destiny to get sick?

"I don’t think so. But it was my destiny to take care of you."

Loki ⋆˚꩜｡

He had come back to claim her—that trophy with rabbit ears that sealed the second star on the Parisian jersey.

The capital erupted, the streets overflowing with people celebrating the coronation of the rightful champion.

Their shouts of joy echoed until the early hours of the morning, until the realization of this exploit finally catches up with them.

As for you, you dazed off as the players lifted her, your eyes closing on that picture of him. A silly smile on his lips, your ears almost picking up that beautiful laugh of his.

Maybe the stress of being away from him got the better of you, giving way to something a little more wicked.

A vicious cold.

A cold that immediately put you in bed—no room for negotiation. Just like him when he'd remind you to go to sleep, saying you needed to get your 8 hours of rest.

A cold that made you sleep for 12 hours straight, that woke you up the day after the celebrations with regret that you hadn't called him to congratulate him, and a dry throat.

Not even a quick text, worse than any type of fever.

The first thing your mind jumped on, grabbing your phone with such difficulty that just pulling your arm out from under the comforter made you shiver.

There wasn't even time for your eyes to adjust to the light before they widened.

On your home screen, dozens of unread messages ranging from cute morning texts to immense concerns. Missed calls logged at all hours of the night, almost every minutes. He’d even sent emails.

A sort of descent into madness, made worse by your dismissive attitude. And a realization that only deepened your sadness; you’d probably ruined his evening.

Still a little groggy, your brain didn’t know what to do. He was probably still asleep at that hour, after undoubtedly celebrating late into the night, but his absence actually reassured you.

It bought you some time to get back on your feet. And you would have hated for him to get sick too.

"I was worried."

You’d spoken too soon.

Leaning against the bedroom door, arms crossed, he was observing you. Eyes tired, still wearing the sweatpants from the day before, he looked as if he had a restless, unrefreshing night.

And knowing his personality and habits, that was undoubtedly the case.

"Loki," you called out, the drowsiness finally leaving your limbs. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I didn't call you to celebrate your victory."

Gathering what little strength you had left, you waved him over; your headache still too severe for you to even consider getting up.

Quiet, obedient, he slipped by your side, dropping to his knees as to be at eyes level. For a few seconds, all you could discerne was how his eyes sparkled with the pride and determination of a newlywed.

A gaze that made your heart tighten, leaving your lungs unsure whether to inhale or exhale.

"It’s okay," he reassured, sweet. "Are you sick?"

You nodded, and your throat went dry at the sound of his soft voice. As if you had longed for it for too long, his touch tingly on your skin.

His kiss, as gentle as waves lapping at your ankles, grazing the back of your hand.

"Mon cœur, you should have called me."

Right away, you shook your head.

"Certainly not," you admitted, tightening your grip with what little strength you had left. "It’s not every day you become European champion by beating your friend."

He chuckled, his piercing eyes softening for a moment. A moment when he looked at you the way he looked at her yesterday.

Terribly in love, proud and reassured.

And without even breaking his gaze, he slipped a bouquet of flowers into your palm.

The ones you adored, the ones he gifted you on every occasion. The ones who soothed your heart and could have healed all your ills.

"Maybe you’re right," again, a kiss. "But it's not every day I get the chance to take care of my own bedridden girl."

Kaiser ⋆˚꩜｡

Even though Bayern Munich’s championship win wasn’t much of a surprise after their 35th title, it was still a reason to celebrate.

But not for you.

Confined to bed with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, you felt like you were dying every time you swallowed your saliva and choking when air wouldn’t get through your nostrils.

Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, you were losing your mind as the hours ticked by. Being sick didn’t suit you—it made you very dramatic and caused a lot of overthink.

Overthinking about everything. Like those unanswered messages you sent to Micheal.

Your mind, far too foggy for such an hour of the day, overflowed with morbid thoughts. When you closed your eyes, you saw his plane crashing. When you buried your face in his pillow, you imagined a fatal car accident.

Even staring at the ceiling turned into a manhunt: supposedly, his plane had already reported its landing. So no doubt that he was still alive and that your fever was making you anxious.

Wrapped in his blanket, you peered over the balcony to see if you could spot his car on the street. But nothing—every black cars oddly resembling his.

Every blond men sporting a jaded expression a hint of hope.

Leaning on the railing, you watched the passersby wearing Bayern jerseys, smiles lighting up their faces, and a sigh escaped your lips.

Your nerves were on the verge of snapping; exhaustion was starting to make you delirious, and at that moment, you wished for him to come back to you.

That he would gently scold you, tucking your feverish body in bed, still with that hint of arrogance dripping from every words.

That feigned nonchalance that hides something as big as his love for football.

"What’s exactly is wrong with you now?"

Cold and probing, that voice felt just as good as a fresh breeze when you suddenly felt like suffocating. Disdainful even over such a simple matter—you didn’t know it was possible to be that way.

And yet, as you clutched your comforter tighter, when you turned around, you were glad to see him.

Black tracksuit adorned with the club’s crest, perfect hair, and a bag at his fingertips.

There he was, annoyingly cute with that pout religiously stuck on his lips, a gleam of animosity sparkling in the blue of his eyes.

"Micheal, you’re back," you breathed softly, your fever and that anxiety subsiding with every step you took toward him.

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

“Because I was…” You stopped short, and a silence fell over the room as you realized there was actually no reason to worry.

"Get into bed," he snapped, his irritation already evident in his voice. But his rudeness was just as poorly feigned as the distant, anxious look that shone in his eyes. "I brought you some medicine."

You watched him, a raised eyebrow the only display of your confusion.

"Medicine? How did you know I was sick?"

"Go to bed."

Clearly not in the mood to explain, he just repeated himself. A slightly more serious look settled on his face to drive home his point, but it vanished when he tucked you in under the comforter.

Piling blankets on your lap, he even resigned himself to covering you with the one with little hearts—the one you’d given him as a joke and that he kept hidden from prying eyes. The very same one he used when you weren’t there.

He was silent, focused on his task, and brimming with caution.

And watching him open the bottles one by one, tear open the ibuprofen packets, and make trips back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom to take care of you—secretly—had a greater effect than his medicine.

"Open your mouth," he ordered and you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. In love. Completely charmed by his gentle behaviour. "Wider!"

You shouldn’t have pushed it—this was still Michael Kaiser, after all.

He made sure you swallowed it, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in your grimace at the bitter medicine before forcing you to lie down, a damp towel on your forehead.

He took care of you as if you had an incurable disease. An innate affliction he’d waited his whole life to cure through you—something he couldn’t even cure within himself.

"How did you know I was sick?"

"I just guessed."

"Liar."

You were sick, sure, but his lies didn’t go unnoticed.

"I saw it on the surveillance cameras," he confessed, his words barely a whisper, as if he were ashamed of keeping an eye on you even from across the country.

"Surveillance cameras?"

"Go to sleep."

He acted as if he hated having to take care of you, when deep down, far away, he was almost reveling in it.

"Since when do we have surveillance-"

"I said, sleep!"

Lorenzo ⋆˚꩜｡

You’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night, the winter fog still blanketing the streets outside.

Drenched in sweat, like a damp towel clinging to your body after a swim.

Head spinning, just like on those days when the sun strikes so hard you lose track of time.

And yet, none of that was the case right now. Far from the gentle summers spent away from everyone, tonight it was you who was far from him.

Your bedroom was still lit by the TV you’d left on last night, its blinding light splattering across the walls and bedding. Letting you come to your senses, steady your breathing in front of him.

Or at least, in front of the highlights of the Supercoppa—its final won by Lorenzo and his teammates barely a couple of hours ago.

His footwork and dribbles made your head spin even more, your palms oddly sweaty around the remote control to turn it off.

You couldn’t even remember how your evening had ended. Almost as if you’d collapsed into bed, clutching his pillow—still carrying his scent—to your body like a sin.

Just like the sin of envy, your mind unable to accept the fact he wasn’t by your side at this hour of the night.

All of that just to wake up feeling nauseous, alone in that bed, your whole body burning with the urge to throw up everything you’d swallowed.

As you dared to get up, your legs were so wobbly they threatened to give out, your vision blurry when you reached for the bathroom light switch.

Then suddenly, your stomach turned, and a sudden wave of heat surged through your chest, overwhelming your face.

You could still feel the acid burning in your throat, while your breathing quickened at the sight of a second reflection in the mirror.

Slender, tall, and carrying that weary look no amount of sleep by your side could cure. Lorenzo had come home at the worst possible moment.

"You weren’t answering your phone," he whispered, approaching you cautiously, as if afraid you might falter at the slightest sudden movement. "What’s wrong? Tell me."

You leaned against the sink when you realized that everything was going to be okay now, your racing mind finally quieted.

It must have been a painful sight to see—your trembling hands pushing him away, breaking his heart. Even more than your fleeting gaze.

"Sorry for worrying you," you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, securing it with the same confidence he’d shown when lifting the trophy. "It’ll pass, don’t worry. But stay away—I don’t want you to get sick."

You didn’t even dare look up, embarrassed that he’d see you in such a condition.

But that was underestimating him—his resolve was tenfold when the one he cherished was suffering. Because he knew perfectly well that he could help you feel better and never suffer the way he had.

So gently on your cheeks, he cupped your face so you’d look at him. Because even with your tired eyes, chapped lips, and sweaty face, you still shone with that way you had of wanting to protect him.

To shield him a little more from this cruel world.

"I'm calling the best doctor in town," he said, grabbing his phone while his other hand remained on your forehead. "What are your symptoms?"

"It's just the flu—it's no big deal," you reassured, with a confidence he could hardly believe.

Your body barely able to remain steady, swaying so much that even the edge of the sink looked like a wobbly pudding.

As if to prove you wrong, agree with him against your own will, your body sent you those unmistakable signals.

A knot in your stomach that tightened up as breathing alone became a conscious effort, a bead of sweat running down the nape of your neck sending a shill down to your fingertips.

And then, that sudden dryness in your mouth made you lean over the sink, Lorenzo grabbing your hair to keep it out of the way of what was about to happen.

"Is this nothing?" Another gag, his fingers brushing away a strand of hair, tucking it gently behind your ear. "Nothing this expensive doctor can't treat?"

"Money doesn't solve everything..." The faucet turned on; the water still bearing a strange taste in your mouth.

And yet, his words seemed to you like honey that healed all your ills. His mere presence the cure for your troubles.

"I guarantee that, as far as you're concerned, my money is the answer to all your problems."

Sae ⋆˚꩜｡

"Wake up."

In your dream, sporting an invisible smile, Sae had just won his fourth Champions League.

Content, maybe proud, he looked like a whole different man. That trophy a the tip of his fingers like a king being crowned after years of struggle.

"Wake up."

His white jersey as immaculate as the rebirth of a player who had lost all hope.

"Why are you smiling? Wake up."

Sudden, unwanted, your eyes flew open, gasping for air as if you had been emerged under water for too long.

Sweaty and exhausted despite your visible very, very extended nap, your body almost instantly reminded you of that night spent rummaging around the house for medecine that could make you sleep.

Like a ghost haunting the walls of an old building, your sore throat and dizziness didn’t magically disappeared after a restless twelve hour of 'nap.'

"Why are you sleeping on the couch?"

Startled once again, his figure looming over yours made you gasp.

He seemed carefree, with his bag slung over his shoulder like a teenager, yet he appeared worried. As if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Something that had to do with you.

"Sae, why are you here?"

You asked, trying to prop yourself up—at least having the decency to sit up straight so you wouldn't look like a slumped-over rag.

Without exchanging a word, he helped you, wrapping your shivering figure in that blanket that always carried your scent, your warmth never too far away in its fabric.

"What do you mean? I just got home."

A silence, your mind racing with thoughts of everything and nothing at once. Your memory failing you to even remember the last time you saw him.

"What about the final?"

"It was yesterday, and we won." He looked at you like you were some sort of alien, speaking gibberish. "I rushed back home because you weren’t answering."

His statement was laced with sarcasm, as if you were playing at his face—trying to fool him with one of your unfunny jokes.

"What’s the date?"

"It doesn’t matter," He took off his bag, his usual expression replaced by one that was even more indescribable—a mixture of worry and confusion. "What’s wrong with you? Sleeping on the couch, ignoring my calls, not answering my texts."

"I don’t know, I’m feeling dizzy and all."

"You’re sick," it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. In the sense he knew you so much that every of your actions had a meaning.

Ignoring him? Certainly napping.

Speaking nonsense in your sleep? Dreaming of him.

Sleeping on the couch? Watching one of his games.

A long sigh, exasperated, escaped from his lips as he watched you. Like two people waiting for the other to carry on the conversation.

More like, one man pretending not to be happy that you were sick.

He stubbornly pretended not to care about anything, but deep down, he longed for those moments of vulnerability when he felt he was needed.

When he didn’t have to settle for something less prestigious than his dream. When you were his dream, and no matter what happened, that dream would never change.

"Why didn’t you call? I could have send you a doctor."

"I didn’t even realised I was sick myself."

A glance that said it all was offered to you. And today, it seemed like even your puppy eyes won’t be enough to save you from his gentle scolding.