KRenee1drful

- Dating Din Djarin means slowly realizing that beneath the armor, the stoic voice, and the intimidating reputation is one of the most devoted men in the galaxy.

- He isn’t good with words at first and his compliments come out awkward and short.

- “You look nice.”

- “I always look nice.”

- “…You look nicer than usual.” That is the closest thing you’ll get to a grand romantic speech for the first few months.

- Physical affection becomes his love language long before verbal affection does.

- He always rests a hand on your back when you’re walking through crowded markets or busy settlements.

- When danger is nearby, you’ll feel his hand find yours instinctively. Not because he thinks you’re incapable. Because protecting you has become like second nature to him.

- Din is fiercely observant. He notices things you don’t even realize you’re doing when you’re tired, when you’re hungry, when you’re cold, when you’re pretending you’re fine.

- You’ll mention liking something exactly once, and somehow he’ll remember it six months later. He comes home from a bounty with a small trinket and simply hands it to you. “You said you liked these.” That’s it. No explanation. No fanfare. Just a rare gift given with quiet sincerity.

- The Razor Crest, or whatever ship he’s currently flying, starts feeling more like home than any planet ever could.

- You’ll spend nights sitting together in the cockpit watching hyperspace stretch endlessly beyond the viewport. Sometimes neither of you says anything for hours. Din learns that silence doesn’t have to be lonely when you’re there.

- He’s secretly obsessed with hearing you talk. Tell him about your day. Tell him random facts. Tell him stories from your childhood. He acts like he’s focused on cleaning weapons, but he’s listening to every word. Every single one.

- Din becomes very protective when you’re sick. It’s almost ridiculous. The most feared bounty hunter in the sector suddenly panics because you sneezed twice. He’ll contact medics, research treatments, check your temperature every hour, hover nearby pretending he isn’t worried. He worries…a lot.

In the early morning hours, just as sunlight filters through the blinds, you hear the patter of little feet, accompanied by hurried breathing.

Without opening your eyes, you groan and burrow into Din's shoulder, his skin warm from sleep and gloriously bare.

"Your son is awake," you mumbled.

Din grunts his acknowledgement.

A moment later, a pair of little green ears poke up at the edge of your mattress.

You peek one eye open, watching Grogu crawling into bed. His robe gives a suspicious crinkle.

"I spy with my little eye...a bedbug!" you say, scooping Grogu into your arms, squishing him between you and Din.

He squeals with laughter, snuggling into your embrace.

As you smother Grogu's face in kisses, you catch Din watching you, his hair rumpled from sleep, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Grogu makes a triumphant noise and pulls a package of cookies from his robe, handing one to Din.

"What have I told you about no cookies for breakfast, kid?" he rasps, his voice scratchy and low.

But he accepts the cookie anyway, and Grogu plops onto the pillows, munching away with content.

Despite the "no cookies for breakfast" rule, you still sneak some to Grogu behind Din's back.

Din knows this. But he never says anything because he's a softie.

Din and Grogu get into all kinds of trouble though, and you try to scold them.

But Din just thinks you're cute, and Grogu knows he can get away with anything.

"Don't tell your mother about this kid," Din says on more than one occasion. "We don't want her to worry, yeah?"

Grogu makes a skeptical noise.

"I never said I was scared of her," Din protested. "I'm a Mandalorian. A warrior. I'm not scared of anything."

There's a pause in the air as Grogu stares at Din, unblinking.

"Fine. She's mean when she's angry. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Grogu gurgles happily in response.

On more than one occasion, Din has walked in to find you and Grogu baking in the kitchen. While you're whisking eggs, Grogu is using the Force to levitate the remaining eggs throughout the kitchen.

When you catch him doing it, the eggs plop to the floor and he giggles.

"You naughty boy," you scold playfully, wagging your finger at him.

He just blows a raspberry in delight.

Grogu always gets to lick cookie batter off the spoon, every time.

Din often likes to hang back quietly and just watch the two of you.

He tries to commit all those little moments to memory.

Like when you tickle the bottom of Grogu's feet until he's breathless with laughter.

Or when Grogu curls up in your lap and falls asleep.

Din cherishes those moments because it's rare to get that kind of softness in his life when he's working.

You have your fair share of precious moments when you see your husband and your son together.

"What are you two doing?"

You're standing on the porch of Din's modest little scrubby homestead, shielding your eyes from the bright sunlight, with one hand propped on your hip.

Din and Grogu are crouched at the edge of the property with their backs facing you, so you can't tell what they're doing.

"Nothing," Din calls back.

Which heightens your suspicions even more.

"You're not a very convincing liar, Din Djarin," you called back. "Don't make me come over there," you add in your stern Mom voice.

They don't respond.

So you march over. They whisper urgently to each other as you approach.

"Shh. Hide it. She's coming."

They whirl around to face you, with Din stuffing something behind his back.

"Are you two causing trouble?" you demand.

"No ma'am," Din replied immediately.

You squint at him and tilt your head, skeptical.

"Then show me what you're hiding behind your back."

"Can't do that," Din replies. "It's a surprise."

"It better not be frogs," you warn. "Not again. The last time you surprised me with a bucket of frogs, it took a week to find them all when they escaped in the house."

"No frogs," Din swears, shaking his head. "But it's not ready yet."

Grogu mimics Din, shaking his head so hard that his ears flop.

You step closer to Din, peering at him, but he's wearing his helmet, so you can't see his expression.

You hook a finger under his helmet's rim and tilt it up just enough to reveal his mouth. You give him a quick peck on the lips.

"You boys behave yourselves," you say. You still don't trust whatever it is they're doing.

That evening, you get your answer.

Din and Grogu made dinner, with a vase of wildflowers at the center of the table that they'd been picking earlier. They went to market and got fresh fruits and vegetables, making a homecooked meal for you.

It's a little burned around the edges - Din isn't used to cooking since he's usually on the move, living off whatever quick packaged thing he can grab.

And the bread has little Grogu-sized handprints in it.

But they're so proud to take care of you and to provide for you. And your heart is overflowing with love for them.

There are times when you find Din sitting on the porch, watching Grogu play.

And Din takes your hand, or curves his palm around the back of your thigh, pulling you toward him.

He settles you on his lap, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your chest with a sigh like he's releasing everything he ever carried until now.

He's usually somewhat tense, watching the horizon for unwelcome visitors, checking the locks on the doors at night.

But in moments like this, you finally feel him fully relax. That tension melts away when he holds you, when Grogu is happy and playful.

When it seems like time stands still. Just for a minute or two, when he gets to be with his family.

“You have my sword… and my heart.”

:First Meeting:

❖: He was brought to you by Aragorn, barely clinging to life. You were a friend of Aragorn and one of the best healers he knew, if there is anyone he trusts with his friends life than it is you.

Soft golden light filtered through the cottage window, dancing gently across the stone floor and over the bed where Boromir lay. The scent of chamomile and crushed mint lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of a nearby fire.Somewhere close, a kettle whistled gently, and over it came the sound of soft, aimless humming.

Boromir stirred, brow furrowing as he blinked up at the ceiling beams above. His chest ached, his limbs heavy as stone. A dull throb pulsed through his side, but it was no longer sharp—only the echo of pain. The last thing he remembered was the chaos of Parth Galen… the arrows… the pain… Aragorn's voice calling to him through a haze of blood.

And now—rabbits?

He turned his head slowly, vision still a little blurred.

Yes. Rabbits.

At least four of them were hopping lazily across the stone floor. One—fluffy, round, and far too comfortable—was sprawled out on its side near the hearth. Another tugged at a stray herb sprig hanging from a low table. They seemed utterly at ease. As if this were their home.

And then he saw you.

A woman that sat at the edge of the room, humming softly to yourself as you worked a bundle of dried leaves into neat strips. You moved with a healer’s ease, gentle and efficient, sunlight catching the soft waves of your hair. Your dress was simple, your sleeves rolled up, your apron stained faintly with herbs and poultice residue.

Boromir watched you for a long moment, wondering if he’d died and wandered into some strange, gentle afterlife.

You turned slightly, catching the motion from the corner of your eye. Your humming faltered as you looked up—then brightened into a warm smile.

“You’re awake,” you said, rising with quiet urgency and crossing the room to his side. “Don’t move too quickly. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Boromir blinked slowly, voice hoarse. “The rabbits… are they real?”

You laughed, the sound like the chime of soft bells. “Very. That one’s named Clover,” you said, nodding toward the nearest rabbit. “He’s decided the foot of your bed is the warmest spot in the house.”

Boromir exhaled a slow, dry chuckle, shifting slightly. “I’ve woken in stranger places.”

“Hopefully never from graver wounds,” you murmured as you checked the bindings around his ribs. Your touch was gentle but sure. “Aragorn brought you to me. Said you were too stubborn to die, but not smart enough to stop trying.”

Boromir smiled faintly, the pain easing beneath your care. “That sounds like him.”

“He's gone to help the others,” You said softly. “But he made me promise to bring you back in one piece.”

Boromir’s gaze drifted toward the window where sunlight glowed through linen curtains. He took a breath, slower this time, and let it out with something between a sigh and a laugh.

“Rabbits....I never expected to be in the company of rabbits."

You grinned, brushing a lock of hair from his brow. “They are very gentle.”

You returned to your chair as Boromir closed his eyes again, the steady sound of your humming guiding him back into gentle sleep—surrounded by warmth, healing… and an army of softly thumping paws.

❖:He is ashamed when he fully recovers, burdened by the guilt of almost losing himself to the Ring’s temptation. You shut that down with a fierce look and a quiet: “You still chose to protect them. That is the man I see.” And That is the moment Boromir starts to fall in love.

:Courtship and Marriage:

❖:He’s awkward at first, trying to be noble and chivalrous, but he stumbles over his words every time he’s near you.

❖:You tease him about it, gently, and he blushes like a boy at court.

❖:When he finally confesses his feelings, it’s after a skirmish—you were nearly hurt, and it terrified him. He kisses you before you can speak, a little desperate, like he can’t believe you’re real.

❖:You marry in Gondor after the war, and the people adore you—not just as Boromir’s wife, but as the woman who saved their Captain-General.

❖: He lets Faramir rule, thinking his brother is the best choice and returns with you to your little cottage home, everything is perfect.

:Boromir as a girl dad:

❖:Boromir adores his daughters. He holds each one in awe the moment they’re born, whispering their names with reverence like they’re sacred.

❖:His firstborn wraps him around her tiny finger before she can even walk. She has his eyes—and your fire.

❖:The second is quieter but clever, always watching. Boromir swears she’s already planning to outwit the entire council of Gondor.

❖:If you have a third daughter, Boromir jokes that the Valar must be punishing him for every poor decision he made—but it’s said with a smile as he cradles her close to his chest.

❖:Braids. Boromir learns to braid. Messy at first, but he eventually becomes the go-to “hair master” when you’re busy.

❖:He tells them bedtime stories about brave shieldmaidens, not just warriors. He wants them to know strength doesn’t belong to one kind of hero.

❖:He teaches them to swordfight in secret, swearing the tutors to silence when the council protests. “They are of my blood. They will know how to defend themselves.”

❖:He takes them riding through the White Mountains, letting them sit in front of him in the saddle as he points out the old ruins and tells stories of valor.

❖:He is absolutely helpless when they cry. Your daughters know this. They weaponize it.

❖:Boromir is fiercely protective, but he’s not overbearing. He encourages your daughters to be bold, to speak their minds, and to be better than him.

❖:When your eldest falls and scrapes her knee, he carries her all the way home even though she insists she’s fine.

❖:When your youngest is scared of storms, she curls up in his arms while he hums a Gondorian lullaby.

❖:Your girls are his world. And Boromir never forgets how close he came to not having this life, this family. Every night he kisses you softly and murmurs, “Thank you—for saving me. For giving me all of this

❖:Chases his daughters through the fields, has gotten used to them braiding flowers and things in his hair.

The sun dipped low over the hills, casting golden light across the wildflowers that bloomed freely around the cottage. Laughter rang through the warm air—high, bright, and innocent—as Boromir sat cross-legged in the grass, a look of patient resignation on his face.

Two little girls danced around him, wreaths of daisies and cornflowers in their small hands.

“Hold still, papa!” his eldest scolded, standing on tiptoe to tuck a daisy behind his ear. “You’re ruining the masterpiece.”

Boromir chuckled, eyes soft as he let his youngest clamber into his lap, her chubby fingers carefully threading blooms into his thick, sunlit hair.

“A warrior of Gondor,” he said dryly, “brought low by flower crowns and tiny hands.”

“Shhh,” the middle child whispered, pressing a petal to his cheek. “You’re a fairy prince now.”

You watched from the porch, your youngest in your arms as your free hand pressed over your smile as the great Captain of the White Tower sat obediently amidst a sea of flowers, his daughters braiding his hair with reverence and giggles. Boromir caught your eye, his face splitting into a grin—completely unbothered by the floral crown now sitting crooked on his head.

He looked at peace. Like this...this quiet love, this gentle chaos—was the greatest victory of all.

“Papa,” the eldest declared solemnly, stepping back to admire her work, “you’re beautiful.”

Boromir reached out, pulling both girls into his arms with a huff of laughter and pride.

“I am,” he agreed, nuzzling their cheeks, “because I have the finest maidens in all of Middle-earth.”

this all is so canon to me. downbad girldad boromir u are everything to me!!!!!!!!!

I know you've talked about it before a bit but like. He may try human courting customs...later. But him trying to woo you Saiyan style first is interesting to me heh

Doing anything to show off his strength, and/or show what a capable mate he could be for you. Imagine him hunting and bringing back dead animals for you lmao. He fully thinks you'll be impressed at how well he can "provide food" for you

He's more than willing to bully/threaten his competition. See how quickly they tucked tail and ran? Weak, pathetic. He is obviously superior. He could give you healthy, strong young, unlike them. He could protect you, unlike them

And perhaps this all started because you shared food with him. Or you cooked something up just for him. I dunno, something simple that you don't think too much about, but it means something in Saiyan culture. Like you're hitting on him or something. Maybe even giving him genuine compliments makes his head spin a little. I dunno, you do something that makes this insecure clingy bastard obsessed with you

Yes this is exactly the shit I love!!!!!

You actually kind of pity Raditz. Sure, he’s confrontational and rough around the edges and, to be perfectly frank, he made a really bad first impression, but he’s kind of pathetic. He clearly has no socialization skills and you only ever see him eating bachelor foods like microwave meals and fast food.

You start making extra food when you make your own meals, packing the leftovers up and bringing them to Raditz. You tell him you won’t be able to finish it before it goes bad so he’s doing you a favor. The truth is you just don’t know how long a guy can live without eating a green vegetable, especially someone who works out as much as he does. Raditz sees it as one of the first acts of kindness he has ever received.

You feed him. If you were a saiyan that would be as close to a confession as one could give. You’re showing how you can provide for him; the benefits of having you as a mate. Warm tasty meals to come home to.

He never really considered taking a human as a mate before. Never seriously considered taking a mate at all, if he’s being honest. But now that he’s thinking about it, there’s a lot that appeals to him about having you as his mate, specifically.

You can cook, yes, but you’re also pleasant to be around. Easy on the eyes. Good with conversations but also comfortable with shared silences. Raditz takes a bite of the lunch you brought him and imagines what it might be like to bite into the meat of your inner thighs.

If you had any suitors before? You’re not hearing from them again. Raditz doesn’t even have to do anything; the threat of violence is enough to scare anyone off. And anyone unwilling to fight for the right to your hand is not worthy of being your mate.

You’ve got Ghost pinned in place with nothing but your voice. No hands on him, no weapons, just fury and sharp words.

Kyle slows. Stares. Immediately regrets having eyes.

And yet he can’t look away.

He drifts over to Soap, who’s posted up nearby like this is a cinema and he paid for premium seating. “Uh,” Gaz says quietly, because volume feels disrespectful in the presence of whatever that is. “What’s all that about?”

Soap doesn’t even glance over. “That’s his missus,” he says, like he’s explaining the weather. “And he must have done some thin’ truly bad this time, ‘cause she’s been going at him for twenty minutes.”

Gaz’s brows shoot up. “Should we… help? Get him out of it?”

Soap makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Help? Mate, look at him.”

Gaz looks.

Really looks.

Ghost’s shoulders are relaxed. Not braced. Not defensive. His weight’s pitched forward, like he’s drawn to you by gravity. Half lidded eyes, head tilted, body language screaming more, please while your words get sharper.

Gaz swallows. “He’s… enjoying this?”

Soap’s grin turns positively feral. “Turns him on. Si’s exactly where he wants to be right now.”

Gaz stares at Ghost like the man just sprouted another head.

Honestly? Not well.

Ghost is grabbing a pillow and a blanket that is far too small for him to sleep on the floor next to you. It’ll be the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen that you forget that you’re mad at him.

Soap is just as pathetic but in a different way. He’ll stare at you from afar with those beautiful blue puppy eyes. As you continue to ignore him, he’ll creep closer and closer until he’s eventually laying on top of you, asking if you’re still angry with him.

Gaz respects your need for space but doesn’t believe in going to bed angry, or sleeping apart for that matter. He’ll drag out the air mattress, make far too much noise, and then set up beside you, grunting and groaning and tossing and turning and sighing until you give in.

Price puts his foot down about you sleeping on the couch after an argument. Think you’re going to sleep alone? Think again. You won’t even make it to the couch. That man will toss you over his shoulder or drag you back to bed if he has to.

I know exactly who asked this, @amostimprobabledream, so I'm writing these for your belated birthday headcanons. Happy birthday, ya spooky bitch. <3

Characters: Kensei Muguruma, Ikkaku Madarame, Kenpachi Zaraki, Renji Abarai

Contents: gn!reader, buttslapssss

Kensei Muguruma

This is who immediately came to mind, and I know you were thinking it too. Those hands are made for spanking, as much as they are for wielding a zanpakuto or a frying pan.

It wasn't really planned, the first time it happened. He was giving you a series of directions while you were both in the kitchen, whipping up dinner. You gave him your usual cheeky reply ("Yes, Chef!"). He grunted, amused, and when you turned away, his hand swatted against your ass, the sound echoing off the kitchen cabinets.

"Good, get to it."

It becomes a sort of ritual after that. Any time he's heading out the door or giving you a run down on chores or plans for your free time together, he sends you off with a hearty slap on the ass.

If it bothered you, he wouldn't do it, and he won't do it in public because he doesn't want anyone else getting ideas, but there was that time he slipped up and did it in the office without thinking.

Immediate regret.

While you were laughing and Kensei was turning red as an organic heritage tomato, Mashiro started screaming about Kensei being a pervert!! and for everyone to watch their backs (literally). By the time you distracted her with something shiny, Kensei had broken several pens and almost punched out one of the shoji screens.

For weeks after that, Hisagi spent the end of every debriefing looking nervous yet hopeful. For, wasn't it a sign of Kensei's approval? That is, until Kensei glares at him.

"Don't even think about it."

Hisagi didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Ikkaku Madarame

This trait has the Eleventh Division written all over it. It probably happens the first time while you're training. Ikkaku's correcting your form, and you manage to fix it first time.

Pleased, he lets out a raucous laugh, and his hand instinctively swings for your ass.

The impact makes you stumble forward half a step. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. Not for the ass slap, but because he threw you off balance while you were finally nailing a difficult stance.

Ikkaku holds his hands up, grinning, unrepentant.

"What? Testing your balance, babe."

Unfortunately, you've just incentivised him, and anytime he's instructing you, his hand is magnetically attracted to your ass. To the point where you start pre-emptively clenching to brace for impact.

If you want to get him back, give his chrome dome a nice little slappety-slap next time.

Kenpachi Zaraki

If your name starts with 'Ken' or you're part of the Eleventh Division, this applies to you, so Kenpachi never stood a chance of escaping these allegations.

Unlike Kensei, Kenpachi has zero compunction about doing this in public, no matter who's around. I mean, if you're dating Kenpachi, then you probably already know that he gives zero fucks about what other people think.

You'll be chatting in front of his men, you probably about to step into the sparring ring and knock someone's teeth out. He'll give your ass an encouraging swat with a giant hand.

"Go kill 'em."

"It's to first blood, but you've got the spirit."

If anyone dares to make a comment about it, Kenpachi looks around, flexing his hand so that his knuckles crack loudly.

"You got a problem with it? Or you want me to do the same to you?"

Funnily enough, no one dares voice any opinion on the matter after that. Probably because they know that it wouldn't be the fun, cheek-jiggling smack you got, but a wallop that would break their spines.

Renji Abarai

He's too embarrassed to do it at first. For all his muscles and tattoos and rough Rukongai energy, Renji isn't as confident as he seems underneath the cocky exterior. He has to work up to it.

He probably sees someone else do it in an old movie or a sitcom, and the idea lodges in the back of his mind, taking root like a little seed.

For months, his hand twitches with a phantom urge whenever you're about to leave the room, his gaze sliding down your back to your ass.

The temptation is real.

Then one day, as you're wrapping up a conversation with him, the instinct locks in and his hand moves of its own volition.

"Have a good day, ba—"

Smack.

You clench a little bit, staring at him in surprise. It didn't hurt, you just weren't expecting it. Renji stares back at you, equally surprised that he finally did it. His face starts to break into a giant, sheepish grin.

Smack!

Only for the expression to freeze on his face when you smacks his ass right back, harder, giving one muscular buttock a lusty squeeze.

"As I was saying," you drawl, giving him another little pat, like a well behaved dog. "Have a good day."

Renji totters to work still feeling your metaphorical handprint on his ass, his face red as his hair.

Notes: Sub zero x reader / Scorpion / Smoke

Ice and Redemption ❄️– Chapter 1

Next chapter here

The journey had been long, the constant snowfall, the silence among the trees, the anxiety of carrying an old man who was still not fully healed.

But when you finally glimpsed the dark wooden gates, marked with the Lin Kuei symbol, you knew there was no turning back.

Two hooded guards made way as soon as they recognized the elderly master on your makeshift mount. They looked at you in surprise... until he, still weak, murmured in a firm voice:

"She... saved me. Treat her with respect," said the Grandmaster.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this is ridiculous i’m warning you

nanami doesn’t even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: “ken, i can’t—i think i have a fever, and she won’t stop crying unless i’m holding her.”

your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the baby’s red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.

nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.

“i’ll take her.”

you blink. “you… you have three meetings today.”

“and now i have three meetings with a baby,” he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.

you can’t even protest properly before he’s kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice — warm and low, as if he’s de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.

“there we go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. “we’ll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.”

ten minutes later, he’s at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like she’s a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. she’s wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore you’d never put on her — but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and he’s not here to pick battles today.

diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.

“don’t let the interns try to hold her,” you wheeze weakly from the hallway.

“i would rather die,” he replies without missing a beat.

as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, “no loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.”

cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.

the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always uses—

except this time, there’s a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.

“moving into Q3,” he says, clicking to the next slide, “we’re forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocation—”

the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.

nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, “correct. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.”

silence.

well—almost silence.

from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, “is that a—?”

nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.

“yes. she’s here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.”

no one questions it.

she doesn’t cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like it’s her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.

someone tries to make eye contact and smile at her—

she beams and throws her toy at them.

nanami takes back the toy and sighs, “don’t encourage her. she’ll never stop.”

the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like he’s been doing this his whole life.

he wraps up right on time.

“any further questions?”

dead silence.

even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.

—

back home, it’s late afternoon when the door creaks open.

you’re still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.

nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable… except there’s a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.

the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. she’s drooling slightly. he hasn’t removed the headband.

“she was very well-behaved,” he says quietly. “arguably more professional than half the team.”

you laugh — or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.

he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “how are you feeling?”

“like death.” he nods and kisses your cheek.

you glance over at the baby. “how was she, really?”

“chatty,” he says, straight-faced. “opinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.”

he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“efficient,” he corrects.

then, after a beat—

“also… she now technically works in accounting.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs.

“someone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. that’s more than my latest intern did today.”

you laugh again, properly this time.

he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesn’t stir — not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.

you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:

papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and he’d still be home in time to fold the laundry.

wAIT BECAUSE THAT'S SUCH A GOOD IDEA 🥺👀 And it's perfect to go from my first post to a 1500 followers post! Thank you for this so much anon 🥹 I'm doing everyone again because I like to think I’ve grown in my understanding and/or writing and also I LOVE EM

How LoTR Characters Act Around Their Crush

Dad! Price + pregnant! reader

John Price wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But lately, he’d caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.

It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitations—a small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.

Yeah. The boy was watching.

John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.

He didn’t just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.

And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.

John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.

Smart boy.

He didn’t tell him to do any of this. Didn’t have to.

The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasn’t in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.

John caught his son’s eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.

Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.

He was going to turn out just fine.

That’s the image you try to keep in mind when it’s late at night and you’re alone with John in his office. Otherwise, you’ll conjure visions of him spreading you out on top of his desk, and you are no homewrecker.

Admittedly, you haven’t been doing a great job of battling against the various temptations he throws your way. Once John starts leaning in close and casually touching you and speaking directly into your ear, all logic leaves your brain and you just indulge. Lately, he’s been dropping a few “sweetheart”’s into his conversations with you, which has got you spinning. The sanctity of marriage means something to you, though. You resolve to set some professional boundaries and stick to them.

It’s a good thing too because a week later, you finally get your first real confirmation of his secret wife. Your whole body seizes up when you overhear John confiding to his men that the missus seems to be upset with him. Pivoting in place, you scuttle back the way you came from before he realizes you’re there. You’re so embarrassed now that it’s truly been established that you’ve been flirting with a married man. After that, you avoid ever being alone with him and can barely look him in the eye, but it's for the best.

The captain seems to have a different opinion on the way you’ve settled this matter, though.