touya todoroki connoisseur

Uneven beats of your heart pulsed in your eardrums continuously as you stared out the open window, a cool breeze caressing your downcast face gently. Your pupils flickered down to your extended left hand, dilating smaller out of disdain upon catching sight of the cold silver ring encircling your ring finger.

You dreaded it. This arranged marriage parted an endless uncomfortable pit in your stomach, which you had felt would remain as long as you were trapped in a bind you didn’t want. Gazing down at ring once more, you couldn’t help but find it difficult to swallow the choked feeling in your throat whenever you laid eyes upon the ruby, nausea enveloping every possible sense you had in the moment. Rather than a promise ring that bound you to someone you loved, the one on your finger felt like a tiny silver collar clamped around your flesh. An irking feeling that forced you to love a stranger.

Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Arlecchino. The woman had actively attempted to respect your personal space, being able to tell how much you loathed the inescapable grasp of your arranged marriage. You could tell that she opposed even the thought of this, especially from the way her eyes would stare down at her own ring with an empty and unfeeling expression.

Sighing deeply, you reached an arm up to grasp the satin curtains, before tugging your arms inward in a single dynamic motion. As you turned your back to walk away from the now closed up windows, you felt a gust of light air brush against your nape, causing you to spin around and lower your eyes from slight annoyance. Right. You forgot to shut the windows first. You just went over to shut the windows, still harboring a hint of irritation. Ever since that marriage, you always tended to feel unwilling to do anything anymore. Frequently always irritated by the smallest of actions as you’d always think to yourself—what’s the point?

Upon closing up the windows completely, you fell back onto the intricately decorated sofa set situated in the corner of your shared bedroom, your mind still a cluttered mess from all your thoughts being scrambled rather than neatly arranged in an array. You began to ponder once more. How things could’ve been different. Ran away, or disobeyed your parents to a full extent.

There wasn’t anything you could do. You didn’t see a point in even trying to keep a happy front anymore. All of your aspirations that you had, every little dream, was now out of your reach as you were shackled into this marriage. The warm air of the heater hit your skin as you rested your cheek into your palm. A small smile made its way onto your lips as you mused at the possible scenarios that could’ve happened if you were free. Perhaps if you were wallowing in your delusion, you could smile atleast once.

“I’m home.”

You blinked from sudden surprise, jolting as the bedroom door creaked open—albeit a bit roughly. Arlecchino’s emotionless voice rang in your ears, had she called out upon entering before? She often enters the living room first, and doesn’t enter the bedroom until nightfall. Then again, you tend to reside in the living room to await your husband’s return, so maybe she simply wondered where you were.

Stray specks of blood decorated her cheek, scattering small splatters ranging in a variety of spots across her face. Right. She was the fourth harbinger after all. You folded your arms as Arlecchino towered over you, still standing upright while her x-marked eyes pierced into you. Shifting uncomfortably, you decided to clear your throat, gesturing towards your own cheek in an attempt to break the thick fog of tension between you two from the lack of words.

“You got some-“

“I’m aware.” Arlecchino replied coldly, making you bite back a scoff at the harbinger’s dismissive response. Well, excuse you for trying to make this shitty marriage more bearable.

Still, it didn’t seem intentionally rude although it did come off that way. You only looked away from her, eyes fixating on a random painting hung over the flower pot on one of the shelves. Hunching your shoulders, you bit down on your quivering lip subtly so that Arlecchino wouldn’t notice. Although you were the one that distanced yourself from her. Although you were the one who only focused on despising this marriage, rather than even trying to get closer to Arlecchino in the slightest for atleast a small hint of peace. It still hurt seeing your husband brush you off like this.

Her seemingly exhausted expression remained glued to her face as she dragged the folded white washcloth along her cheek, eyes staring at the ground aimlessly as she continued to clean her stained face. The weight of all of this had clearly taken a toll on her as well, yet she had to keep a sturdy front for the sake of her profession as a Fatui harbinger. Yet her actions regarding you had always been courteous and respectful. Consistently respecting your boundaries and trying her best to avoid making you feel uncomfortable must have taken a toll on her, especially knowing full well that your resentment for this marriage could have set you off at any given moment.

A sudden wave of sympathy flooded you upon seeing Arlecchino’s tired eyes, dark linings shaded below her eyes as well. Just maybe, you could try to repay her for having your comfort in mind throughout the course of this resented relationship. This relationship wasn’t her fault, and you knew that. She hated this just as much as you did.

Deciding to swallow your pride, you rose to your feet, standing before her as you awkwardly shifted for a couple moments while remaining standing there. Arlecchino paused her movements, raising an eyebrow at your sudden motion of getting up off the couch. She simply stared at you with a puzzled gaze, trying to figure out your sudden want to interact with her.

Hesitantly, you reached out a shaky hand, lining it up with her cheek and gesturing her to lean in. Arlecchino on the other hand, wasn’t expecting you to switch up suddenly like this, only keeping her skeptical gaze locked onto your own eyes. It felt like a trap to lean in to someone who was so hesitant to even look at her. No matter how badly she wanted to lean into the soft skin of your palm, her hesitance seemed to uphold her rationality despite her exhaustion.

“Arle…it’s okay, you can lean in…”

She needn’t be told twice as you felt her hand grab ahold of your wrist to keep it in place, her head nearly collapsing against your hand. Deep breaths echoed within the vicinity, her breaths cancelling every other noise around you two as Arlecchino slowly composed herself from your touch. She pulled back after a couple moments, her cold front faltering for a moment with a flash of tenderness, before immediately snapping back to her calm demeanor.

However, you didn’t stop there. You don’t know what flipped that switch in you, but you just felt the urge to grow closer to Arlecchino. Perhaps it was the realization that you weren’t alone in the hellhole of a marriage, and that you two may be suffering together. Knowing she hated this as much as you was comforting, it remedied your internal turmoil slightly, and made you detest the idea of anyone else going through what you were. Or maybe, it was the fact that Arlecchino didn’t push anything in this marriage, and respected you, preventing your mental state from growing worse. It could even be both.

Regardless, you wanted to atleast provide a sort of ease to her. Cupping her cheek once more, you pulled the washcloth from her hand, rubbing it against her cheek in circular motions as stains of blood began to soak up onto the cloth and coloring it red. Arlecchino didn’t seem to protest your attempt at soothing her, face pressing further into your shaky palm as it seemed to be working. The quiet buzz of the heater reverberating through the silence, and the general tidy atmosphere of the neatly arranged bed made everything feel so right. As if this marriage wasn’t so awful after all.

Arlecchino exhaled a swift sigh as you finished washing up her face, remaining silent. The two of you awkwardly awaited for the other to speak up, the crickets outside chirping louder than the two of you by this point. You finally decided to say something, face tinged a light pink from moderate embarrassment

“You didn’t want this either did you?”

Arlecchino shook her head in affirmation, her eyes still avoiding yours—as if she was afraid that your vulnerability would shift over to her, and shatter her calm self at this moment.

“I’m well aware of this situation. Your parents are already closely associated with the Fatui, and want wanted you to marry a harbinger in order to elevate their own status for the sake of the family.” She replied. A sour taste seeped onto your tongue at the mention of the reason why you were forced into this in the first place, unpleasant memories beginning to race through your mind for a few moments.

“Why did you accept the offer then? You could’ve easily declined if you didn’t want to be in this marriage either. There’s multiple other harbingers my parents would’ve auctioned me off to.” You said bitterly, strangely hating the idea of getting married to anyone who wasn’t Arlecchino at this point. Arlecchino merely shrugged in response, raising her shoulders to remove the white fur coat cloaking her and draping it neatly over the coat hanger drilled into the wall.

“I’m not sure.” She paused, taking some time to think over another answer to compensate for her vague response. “I believe I just felt it was necessary in that moment.”

You sighed back collapsing onto the mattress. Suddenly, you felt an arm circle your waist, pulling you closer as you felt Arlecchino push her torso flush against your back. Your face burned from the sudden intimate action, the warmth of her body only serving to make you lean into her further as her sharp nails raked along your stomach lightly. Arlecchino whispered out against you, visibly less uptight than when she came in. She was a bit more relaxed and clingy with you simply with a mere touch against her cheek, it was sweet honestly.

“I still care about you, (Name).” She muttered against your neck, voice muffled as she was evidently quite tired. Pale rays of the moonlight illuminated Arlecchino’s now eased expression, watching her eyes lowered shut as her exhaustion began to catch up with her. Surprisingly, you found yourself relishing in the comfort of her arms as you flipped onto your side facing her to examine her rested features.

“…I’m starting to care about you too, Peruere.”

Your hand drew down along her arm, all the way from the skin of her shoulder down to the black faded enveloping her arms from her curse. Maybe, just maybe, this could work. You found solace in the fact that you could make the best out of this marriage with a woman who kept you in mind and tried her best to care about your interests.

Maybe, you could warm up to her.

༶┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈୨♡୧┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈༶

"(Y/N)!!!!" he heard yoruichi yell.

“YORUICHI!!!” kisuke heard his wife yell.

wondering what the two women were yelling about, kisuke made his way down the stairs and into the shop. he saw his wife behind the counter and luckily there were no customers to watch this commotion. his lovely wife was leaning over the counter, waving her hands at his long time friend who was sauntering over to her.

"mrs. urahara! i've missed you so much! you look so lovely in that dress of yours~" yoruichi said teasingly. or maybe she was flirting with you. kisuke knew she loved doing that to get under his skin.

"why thank you miss shihouin, you look as lovely as ever." you replied, an adorable grin on your face. he wished you were looking at him with that smile.

"now tell me, how have you been since i last saw you?" yoruichi asked, leaning against the counter to get closer to you.

"i've been good. y'know, putting up with the kids coming in and out of this place as kisuke helps them. and we've got jinta and ururu and tessai. there's never a boring day here at the urahara shop. but you know that!" you laugh.

"you still cooking those lovely meals? i'm craving some (y/n)." yoruichi was definitely flirting.

kisuke decided this was now the time to get between you two.

"yoruichi! stop flirting with my wife." kisuke said as he opened up his fan and hid his face with it.

"but kisuke~ there aren't any customers, you're just jealous~" yoruichi teased her friend.

"why would i be jealous of you?" kisuke asked, fanning himself.

"because i'm making your wife blush and you're not." she continued.

"i have other ways to make her blush."

"i have other ways to make her blush too~"

the distinct sound of the bell that was attached to door sounded, cutting them off.

"ah! hear that? we have a lucky customer!" kisuke said, looking over at the door only to see ichigo standing in the doorway.

"yoruichi! i have a question for you." the young man said, prompting his friend to walk over to him to talk.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"you were jealous weren't you?" kisuke heard you ask, but it did not register.

you were getting ready for bed, looking into the mirror in the bathroom as you did... something to your face, kisuke wasn't quite sure. he was just admiring.

"hmm?" he hummed, hoping you would repeat.

"i asked if you were jealous earlier." you repeated, turning the light off and walking towards your husband.

you stood in front of where he was lying down, looking down at him with your hands on your hips, and a smile gracing your lips.

"what? me? of course not!" he laughed, waving his hand at you.

"i'm sure you weren't, is that why you were trying to shoo yoruichi away earlier?" you asked, a teasing tone in your voice.

"i wasn't trying to shoo her away! she was distracting you!" he tried to justify.

"oh yeah? from what? the zero customers we had in the store, even after ichigo came in looking for her?"

"what? no of course not. there's always work to be done. of course i wasn't jealous. why would i be jealous?" kisuke tried to argue, but it wasn't working.

"you're just a jealous old man~ my little old jealous shopkeeper of a husband~" you were teasing him now.

he took this opportunity to grab your hips and pull you into the bed, causing you to let out a squeal and laugh.

"I'm always awake love. I sleep in shifts, like a dolphin."

"You do not sleep like a dolphin."

"You don't know that." He still hadn't opened his eyes or acknowledged what was happening below his waist. You pressed your hand flat against his stomach, just above the sheet line, and felt every muscle there tighten at once. His breathing didn't change, which meant he was controlling it on purpose.

"Kisuke."

"Hm."

"Are you going to address this?"

"Address what?" He opened one eye, and looked down. "I'm a man in his own bed in the morning. Everything happening right now is within normal biological parameters."

"Normal biological parameters."

"Yup. Completely standard."

You dragged your fingers down from his stomach, tracing the line of hair below his navel, and stopped right at the edge of the sheet. Both his eyes were open now.

"Are you conducting an experiment now?" he asked, intrigued.

"Maybe."

"You don't have a control group."

"Don't need one." You tugged the sheet down an inch. His hand shot out and caught your wrist, but he didn't push it away. He just held it there, your fingers still pinching the fabric. You could feel him measuring your heartbeat.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he observed.

"And so is something else."

That managed to finally crack him as a grin pulled across his face, not the fan-hidden shopkeeper version but the one that showed his teeth and creased the corners of his eyes.

His grip on your wrist shifted and he pulled your hand under the sheet and pressed it against him and his breath left in a rush that he couldn't disguise as anything other than what it was.

"Okay," he said, voice stripped down to nothing. "Let's continue with this experiment, I'll follow your lead."

"First time for everything."

"Don't get used to it." But his hips were already lifting into your hand and his fingers were already in your hair and he didn't take the lead back for a long time.

Isshin Kurosaki

Something poked your lower back. You were half-asleep, curled on your side, and Isshin was pressed against you the way he always slept. His arm was heavy over your waist, his face was buried in your hair, and something was very insistently pressing against the base of your spine.

You shifted your hips backward, just to confirm. The pressure increased. Isshin made a sound into your hair that was halfway between a snore and a groan and his arm tightened around you.

"Isshin."

Nothing.

"Isshin."

"Mmrgh."

"You're poking me."

A long pause. Then his arm retracted and he rolled onto his back so fast the whole bed shook. You turned over to look at him and he was staring at the ceiling with a blank expression.

"That was... my knee," he said.

"That was not your knee and we both know it."

"It could have been my knee. You don't know the exact position of my knee at all times."

"Your knee is not in the middle of your body, Isshin."

He rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled a loud and long sigh. The sheet was doing nothing to help his case. You propped yourself up on your elbow and watched the flush run up his neck and across his ears until it almost reached his hairline.

"It's morning," he said into his hands. "This happens in the morning. It's a medical thing. I'm a doctor. I can explain the whole process if you want. Blood flow, hormones, there's a very boring diagram--"

"I don't want the diagram."

He spread his fingers apart and peered at you through the gap with his eyebrows raised. "What do you want then?"

You pulled the sheet down to his thighs in one motion. His hands dropped from his face. The flush had reached his forehead now and his chest was rising and falling too fast for a man who'd been asleep thirty seconds ago.

"Oh," he said quietly.

You swung your leg over him and settled in his lap and his hands grabbed your hips immediately, fingers pressing into your skin and jaw going tight as his eyes locked on yours.

"We don't have to," he started, and his voice cracked on the second word.

"I know we don't have to."

"The kids are--"

"At school. It's Tuesday."

He stared at you. You ground down against him slowly, and everything on his face rearranged. The embarrassment burned off and what was left was the version of Isshin that remembered exactly how to take charge of a situation.

"Right. Tuesday," he repeated, and his grip on your hips tightened and he sat up underneath you so fast your breath caught. His mouth was on your throat and his hands were pulling you flush against him.

Shinji Hirako

You woke up because Shinji was laughing in his sleep. Little huffs through his nose, his mouth twitching at whatever was happening behind his eyelids. He was sprawled on his back with one arm flung over his head and the other resting on his stomach, his hair wrecked across the pillow in every direction.

The sheet had migrated south during the night and was bunched around his upper thighs, which was how you noticed the situation before he did.

You watched for a moment. Considered being polite about it. Decided against it.

You poked him in the ribs. Hard.

He flinched, swatted at your hand, and didn't open his eyes. "Five more minutes, if the house isn't on fire, I don't care."

"The house might not be on fire, but your crotch is."

One eye opened. He looked at you. A slow, disoriented blink. Then he looked down at himself and the extremely obvious state of things, and the grin that spread across his face was completely unapologetic.

"Well good morning to me~" he said.

"You're not even a little embarrassed."

"Why would I be embarrassed? This is a compliment to you. You should be flattered."

"I've been awake for thirty seconds."

"And already making an impact. Look at you miss over-achiv--errrreee" He yawned while stretching his arms over his head, his back arching off the mattress, doing absolutely nothing to address or conceal himself.

In other words, he knew you were looking and intended on going you a full show.

"You're ridiculous Shinji," you scoffed.

"You're still looking though~"

"Kind hard not to."

That landed differently than you expected. His grin stayed but his eyes narrowed, and he turned on his side to face you. His hand found your hip under the covers and pulled you toward him until your body was flush against his and there was no sheet or distance between you.

"Hi," he said, face inches from yours.

"Hi."

"You wanna help me with this or you just want to keep pointing out the obvious?" his face was millimeters away now.

"What if I want to keep pointing out the obvious?"

"Then I'm gonna lose my mind, because I'm about as patient as you think I am." His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, pressing you into him, and his mouth grazed your jaw. "Which as we both know, is not much."

You hooked your leg over his hip and he groaned against your throat, performance be damned. His fingers dug into your back and his hips rocked forward.

"Oh, are we improvising now?" you said.

"Mm, shuddup."

"Just pointing out the obvious."

He pulled back enough to look at you with a heated look.

"Well," he said. "There goes my patience."

Kensei Muguruma

You woke up on your stomach with Kensei's arm pinning you across the lower back. He slept like a barricade, heavy and immovable, and most mornings you had to physically shove him to get enough room to breathe.

But this morning when you shifted against him you felt something firm against your hip, obvious and undeniable.

You turned your head on the pillow to see that he was still out of it. Face half-buried in the mattress, jaw slack, breathing deep. Kensei asleep was one of the only times his face fully relaxed, the permanent scowl smoothed out into something almost peaceful. You rarely got to see it.

Buuuuuut.

You also rarely got to see him at a disadvantage.

You pressed your hip back against him, slow and deliberate and his breathing hitched. His arm tightened across your back and you did it again, putting more weight behind it. A low rumble started in his chest, not quite a growl, not yet a groan.

"Keeeenseeei~" You kept your voice quiet.

His eyes opened. It took him about two seconds to register the situation, his jaw clenched and he pulled his hips back from you immediately, putting an inch of distance between his body and yours.

"Don't," he said. His voice was rough with sleep and something more heated.

"Don't what?"

"Don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing, it already it is."

You rolled over onto your side, facing him. His arm was still across you but his hips were angled away now, as if that single inch of space was going to save him. You could see the tension running through his shoulders, his neck, the way his hand had curled into a fist against the mattress.

Kensei embarrassed was Kensei angry, and Kensei angry was Kensei who wanted to put his fist through a wall. Or you, ideally.

You reached over and put your hand flat on his chest and he looked at it like you just placed a live grenade there.

"It's fine, Kensei."

"I know it's fine. I didn't say it wasn't fine."

"You're scowling."

"I'm always scowling."

You rolled your eyes, "You're scowling more than usual then."

His jaw clenched while you slid your hand down from his chest to his stomach, feeling every ridge of muscle contract under your palm before you traced the edge of his 69 tattoo with your thumb.

"You don't have to make it more of thing," he said again, quieter now, going with your logic.

"What if I want to make it more of a thing?"

He looked at you and his scowl cracked. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough. His hand uncurled from its fist and landed on your waist, gripping hard enough to dimple your skin.

"Then get over here," he said, "and stop teasing me about it."

You closed the distance and pressed yourself against him and felt him exhale like he'd been holding it since he woke up.

His mouth found yours, rough and graceless, and his hand dragged you in by the back of your thigh. Whatever control he'd been performing dissolved the second your hips met his.

Rojuro Otoribashi (Rose)

You woke to the sound of humming. Of course you did.

Rose was on his back beside you, eyes closed, one hand conducting an invisible orchestra above his chest, fingers moving through the air in slow arcs. The morning light caught all that blonde hair spread across the pillow and made it look like something out of a gallery.

He was composing again. Probably had been for an hour.

What he had not noticed, apparently, was the sheet.

It was draped across his hips in a way that made the whole situation extremely obvious, and he was either genuinely unaware or so lost in whatever symphony was playing in his head that his body had become irrelevant background noise. Knowing Rose, it could have been either or both.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked as he kept humming. His conducting hand swept through a crescendo and you reached over and laid your palm flat on his stomach, just below his navel.

The humming stopped.

"Oh, good morning love." he said, eyes still closed, voice carrying the faintest vibrato.

"Morning... Love? You have bit of a situation."

"I have many situations. I'm a captain and a musician. Situations are all part of my work"

You exhaled a long sigh, "Rose. Look down at yourself."

He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked. He paused. Then he let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh that somehow managed to sound melodic.

"Ah, I see... Well. The body is an instrument, and instruments don't always wait for the conductor's cue."

"Did you just... compare your penis to a musical instrument?"

"Everything is music if you listen closely enough." But his voice had lost its airy quality, because your hand was still on his stomach and your thumb had started tracing a slow line back and forth below his navel.

His conducting hand lowered and came to rest on top of yours. Not guiding, not stopping. Just holding.

"You could ignore it," you offered.

"One could ignore a thunderstorm. One could also ignore a Beethoven overture... It would be a profound waste in both cases."

"You're always so dramatic."

"I prefer passionate." He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his eyes were focus on you. "You're not moving your hand."

"No."

"Are you planning to move it somewhere?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you stop comparing yourself to a cello."

He laughed and his hand closed around yours and guided it down beneath the sheet.

His breath caught when your fingers found him, a sharp intake through parted lips, and his eyes fluttered shut and opened his mouth in a gasp, his free hand fisting the pillow beside his head.

Ryuken Ishida

You opened your eyes at 5:02 AM because Ryuken's side of the bed was still occupied. That alone was unusual enough to wake you. Most mornings the sheets were already cold by the time your alarm went off, his side made with military precision.

But today he was still here. Flat on his back, one arm across his eyes, breathing evenly. The sheet were pulled to his waist in that precise way he did everything, edges straight, fabric smooth.

Although it wasn't smooth enough to hide what was underneath.

You looked. Probably for longer than you should have. Then you rolled onto your side and said, "You're still here..."

"I'm aware." His arm stayed over his eyes. His voice was flat and clipped.

"And you're--"

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to." His arm came down from his eyes and he stared at the ceiling. His jaw was tight and a muscle in his cheek was working. He looked like a man trying to perform surgery on his own composure.

You slid across the mattress until your body was against his side. He didn't move toward you, but he didn't move away either. You rested your hand on his chest, over the pressed undershirt he wore to bed.

"It's natural, Ryuken."

"I'm aware of the physiology. I am a doctor."

"Then why are you acting like you've been caught doing something wrong?"

His eyes were sharp and guarded when he looked at you, but his pupils were wide in the low light. He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the ceiling.

"I am not accustomed to... being seen like this."

The sentence landed in the quiet room and stayed there. You understood what it cost him. You didn't push it. You just moved your hand from his chest down to his stomach, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted.

He didn't.

"You don't have to do anything," you said. "I can just--"

"Don't patronize me." But his hand had come up and closed around your wrist, and instead of pulling you away he held you there, fingers tight, thumb against your pulse.

You turned your wrist in his hold, laced your fingers through his and brought his hand to your mouth before kissing his knuckles, one at a time, and watched the muscle in his jaw finally release.

"Come here," you said.

He rolled toward you stiffly, but his hand found your waist and his forehead dropped against yours. You reached between the two of you and touched him through the fabric and his whole body jerked once.

Jugram Haschwalth

You weren't sure what woke you at first.

Jugram was sleeping beside you on his back, perfectly still, perfectly composed, even in sleep. His hands folded over his stomach and his hair arranged on the pillow as if he planned its placement before closing his eyes.

Then you noticed the sheet.

There was a subtle elevation across his lap that did not match the flat, controlled lines of the sheets on top of him. You blinked at it. You blinked again.

Jugram Haschwalth. The Grandmaster, the man who ironed his cape and aligned his boots at right angles before bed... was lying with an erection pressing against Wandenreich-issued bedding like a quiet act of mutiny against his own discipline.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

His eyes opened suddenly, like a switch being thrown and immediately fixed them on you.

"Why are you laughing," he said.

"You well--um...drawn your bedroom sword it seems."

The silence that followed was profound.

His gaze held yours and then, with enormous control, shifted downward. He observed the situation the way he might observe a battlefield irregularity, with calm assessment and absolutely no visible reaction. Then he looked back at you.

"This is merely a physiological occurrence."

"I know what it is, Jugram."

"It requires no acknowledgment."

"And yet here it is. Being acknowledged."

His jaw tightened by a fraction and you rolled onto your side, closing the distance between you before resting your chin on his shoulder. You could see the faintest color along the tops of his cheekbones.

Jugram Haschwalth was blushing. It was so subtle that anyone else would have missed it entirely, but you had spent enough time studying this face to know what his neutral expression looked like, and this was not it.

"It'll pass," he said to the ceiling.

"What if I could help it pass faster?"

He went quiet as though he had been caught without a plan.

You laughed softly and put your hand on his chest. His breathing stayed even but his pulse didn't, you could feel it jumping under your fingers, and the contrast between what his body was doing and what his face was doing was almost unbearable.

"Jugram. Look at me."

He did, looking at you the same way a person looks at someone they still can't quite believe chose them back.

"You could ask," you said.

"I don't ask for things."

His hand came up from his side and cupped the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held there, firm and deliberate. He pulled you down and kissed you, and it was nothing like the rest of him. It was deep and his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

When you slid your hand down his stomach and under the sheet he inhaled against your mouth and his hips lifted to meet you before he could stop them.

Askin Nakk Le Vaar

You were lying on your side, half-awake, watching the early light cut a stripe across the bed, when you noticed the sheet was doing something architectural over Askin's lap.

He was flat on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, still asleep. The sheet tented upward with a frankness that bordered on comedic.

You stared at it for a moment. Then you reached over and flicked it.

His eyes flew open. "Ow. What. Why."

"Good morning to you too babe."

He blinked, looked at you, looked down at himself, and then let his head fall back against the pillow with a groan. "Ah. Right. That."

"That," you agreed.

He rubbed his jaw and stared at the ceiling. "You weren't supposed to be awake for this part. I had a whole system. Get up, handle it, come back, make coffee, maintain the illusion of dignity."

"Illusion's gone, sorry."

"Yup. Completely shattered. Thanks for that." He glanced sideways at you, one eye half-open, that stray strand of hair stuck to his cheekbone. "I could still go handle it... Bathroom's right there."

"You could." you agreed again.

"That would be the reasonable thing to do."

"Absolutely."

"Or."

"Or."

"Or," he said again, quieter.

"Or," you said, and neither of you were finishing the sentence. His throat moved when he swallowed. Your hand was already on his stomach.

"Somebody has to finish saying it," he murmured.

"Ooorrrr I could just do this." You slid your hand below the sheet and his whole body went taut, his breath leaving him in a rush as his hand grabbed your wrist but not to stop you.

"That works," he managed. "--That works too."

He pulled you over him, both hands on your hips, and when you pressed down against him the sound he made was something he would have let anyone else hear. His mouth found yours, slow and unhurried, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip.

"You're so fatal," he murmured against your lips.

Bazz-B

You woke up with Bazz-B's leg shoved between yours and his arm pinning you to the mattress. He was taking up most of the bed space at a diagonal, his face mashed into the pillow and mohawk crushed flat on one side. He was still out, his breathing heavy and body was slack.

But something between your thighs was not slack at all.

His hips were pressed flush against your leg and the situation was extremely, undeniably, clear. You shifted slightly and felt it press harder and his hips rocked forward on instinct, a slow, unconscious grind that made your breath catch before your brain was fully awake.

You laid there for a moment. Considering your options.

"Bazz."

Nothing. His arm tightened around your waist and he mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow and pushed his hips forward again. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip.

"Bazz." You shoved his shoulder. He grunted but didn't wake up. His hand slid down to your hip in his sleep and gripped it and pulled you closer against him, which made the whole situation significantly worse. Or better. Depending on perspective.

"Bazz!" You pinched his arm hard enough to leave a mark.

His head jerked up. "What--W-What's happening--"

"You're grinding on me in your sleep you idiot."

He blinked. The disorientation lasted about two seconds before awareness caught up. He looked down at the position they were in, his leg between yours, his hips pressed against your thigh, his hand gripping your hip.

"That's not--I was asleep!"

"I know you were asleep. That's why I woke you up!"

"So... I'd stop?"

"So you'd do it on purpose."

He stared at you before his gaze dropped to where his body was still pressed between your thighs, then back up to your face.

"Yeah? Is that what you want." he said. Slower this time.

"You heard me."

His fingers pressed into your skin, pulling you tighter against him.

"If you're messing with me," he said, "I'm going to be pissed."

"When have I ever messed with you?"

"Constantly. All the time. It's like half our relationship."

You rolled your hips against his one slow, deliberate grind. The groan that came out of his throat was raw and his eyes went half-shut as his fingers dug into your hip.

"I'm not messing with you," you said.

Lille Barro

Lille's room carried a specific kind of stillness, ordered and absolute. He was beside you on his back, eye closed and breathing measured. Even in sleep, Lille Barro looked disciplined.

You noticed the sheet first. It was pulled tight across his body and tented at the hips, and it took you a moment to reconcile what you were seeing with the man lying next to you. Lille Barro. Was lying here like any other man on any other morning.

You didn't touch him. You just looked, chin propped on your hand, and waited.

His eye opened and glanced at you.

"You've been watching me sleep again..." he said.

"For a few minutes."

His eye moved to the sheet and than back to you. His expression remained exactly the same.

"Even the divine inhabit a body," he said simply.

"Lille."

"I am merely contextualizing--"

"Lille." You put your hand on his stomach and his sentence died. Under your palm his muscles pulled tight and his breathing hitched for exactly one beat before he corrected it. You could almost see him recalibrating, reasserting control, building the wall back up brick by brick while your hand sat on his bare skin and made it all pointless.

"You do this," you said. "Every time. You talk about divinity and purpose and context. And the whole time your heart is going like this." You slid your hand up to his chest and pressed down. His pulse was hammering.

For the first time his composure thinned enough that you could see something underneath it.

Confliction. With part of him that believed he was above this and the part of him that wanted you to move your hand down lower.

"I am not accustomed to--" he started.

"I know."

"My purpose has always been singular. His Majesty's will. The execution of--"

"I know, Lille."

You leaned over and kissed the crosshair mark over his left eye and he stilled. You kissed his cheekbone. The bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. Each one deliberate. Each one placed with the kind of precision only he would understand.

His hand came up and caught the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held you there, your mouth a breath from his.

"Show me," he said. Quiet. Almost inaudible. "I do not know to be selfish. Show me."

You kissed him. His mouth opened under yours and his hand tightened in your hair and when you slid your hand down he exhaled against your lips like a man surfacing from deep water. His hips lifted to meet your touch and the rest of his composure didn't just thin, it dissolved.

You guided his other hand to your body and he followed your lead with the same focused precision he brought to everything, learning you the way he'd learned the rifle, thorough, intent, and unwilling to miss.

Cang Du

You woke because the room was cold and Cang Du didn't radiate heat when he slept. He barely radiated presence. He was on his back, perfectly still, the sheet folded across his waist with a neatness that suggested he hadn't moved once his sleep. His face was blank, his breathing silent.

But the sheet, neat as it was, couldn't lie.

You looked at the subtle tension in the fabric across his lap. Then you looked at his face. Nothing. He could have been carved from the same iron his body produced. You had no idea if he was awake or asleep, because with Cang Du, there was often no difference in the expression.

You put your hand on his forearm and his eyes opened. No surprise. No disorientation. Just a narrow look fixed on you with the same flat calm he used in everything.

"You're awake," you said.

"I have been awake for some time."

"How long?"

He paused. "Approximately forty minutes."

You stared at him. Forty minutes. This man had been lying perfectly still in the dark for forty minutes, refusing to acknowledge his own body, with the same stubborn discipline he brought to everything else in his life.

"Cang. That's absurd."

"It is not absurd. It is discipline."

"Okay, that's just sad."

You moved closer. You put your hand on his chest flat over his heart. His skin was cool, but his pulse hammered under your palm, fast and hard, the only part of him that couldn't hold rank.

"You could have woken me up," you yawned.

He looked at you. The flat calm didn't crack but something shifted behind it. His hand came up and rested over yours on his chest, pressing it down. His fingers were cool and rough and exact.

"I would not know how to ask," he said.

Seven words. From a man who barely spoke five words in an entire day. You felt the weight of them settle in your chest.

You leaned in and kissed the scar on his lip. He inhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. You kissed the corner of his mouth. His hand tightened over yours. You kissed him fully and for a moment he was rigid and still, and then something gave way and he kissed you back with a crumbling restraint.

You pulled the sheet down and his jaw clenched. You touched him and his eyes closed and his head turned into the pillow and the sound he made was so quiet you felt it more than heard it.

translated from french mon acour—my love tu m'as tellement manqué—i missed you so much alors… comment s'est passé le congrès—how did the conference go ma chérie, c'est si bon de te voir—my dear, is so good to see you et ta mère, elle va bien—and your mother, is she doing well?

The front door swung open.

You had heard the commotion in the hallway a few moments earlier, low voices, the shuffle of shoes on the tiled floor, the faint metallic clink of something heavy being shifted. Kylian’s schedule was etched in your mind after so many overlapping seasons: he should still be at Valdebebas for at least another hour, maybe longer if they were doing extras. The surprise dinner you’d planned, pasta slowly simmering, parmesan freshly grated, the kitchen warm and lived-in, had been timed with care. You weren’t here to disrupt his rhythm, this was simply a quiet gesture, the kind real couples carved out when lives pulled them in different directions.

“I swear, it’s just a tiny—”

His voice carried through the doorway first, familiar and laced with that trademark mix of exasperation and charm, mid-sentence as if continuing an argument that had started in the car or the elevator. Then the door swung fully open, and everything paused.

Kylian stood frozen just inside the apartment, one hand still on the door handle, training bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Behind him, Marc, the club physiotherapist, carried a hard black medical case, while Isabelle, his long-time player liaison who had been with him since the Saint-Germain days, hovered with her iPad and that perpetually composed expression. She was older, elegant, unfazed by football drama but deeply attuned to Kylian’s rhythms.

Your boyfriend blinked, surprise washing over his face so genuinely that your stomach did a small flip despite the immediate knot of worry forming.

“…Mon cœur?”

The words came out softer than the hallway debate, laced with disbelief and a spark of delight that cut through the fatigue etched beneath his eyes. His mouth curved into that boyish smile you knew so well, the one that reached all the way despite the subtle tension in his posture. You could already see it, the way he favored his right side ever so slightly even while standing still, the minor hitch that most people would miss but that sent a quiet thread of worry through your chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be home this early, not with company, not unless something had pulled him off the pitch.

A slow smile tugged at your lips despite the knot forming in your stomach. “Surprise,” you said lightly, setting the spoon down. “I got back this afternoon.”

Kylian’s whole face transformed. The corner of his mouth lifted into that trademark grin, the one that lit up stadiums and press conferences alike, before he let out a low, delighted laugh.

"Give me a second," Kylian said over his shoulder, he shrugged his windbreaker off as he stepped inside, tossing it onto the console table with the kind of accuracy that came from doing it every day, before giving Marc a small nod toward the apartment. "Close the door, will you?" Only then did he make his way toward the kitchen. His gait was almost normal, enough that most people wouldn't have thought twice about it, but every few steps his right leg hesitated just enough to betray him.

It wasn't dramatic, just a careful shift of weight, a fraction less push-off than usual, but you caught it immediately, long before he reached you.

“You made dinner?” His gaze flicked to the stove, then back to you, softening with something deeper than hunger. Without missing a beat, he glanced over his shoulder at Marc and Isabelle, voice dripping with playful theatrics. “Well… you two can leave now,” he announced, gesturing loosely with his free hand, the charm turned up to full Mbappé levels. “Clearly I’ve recovered. Private recovery session incoming.”

The line landed perfectly. Marc snorted, and Isabelle’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but she shook her head with fond exasperation. Your boyfriend caught your eye again, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, conspiratorial smile before giving you a quick wink as if the conversation behind him no longer mattered.

That single quip, tired as he was, mildly annoyed at the injury, yet instantly prioritizing you, felt exactly like the boy Isabelle used to taking care of in early Paris games: cheeky, affectionate, and completely unafraid to tease the people tasked with keeping him in one piece.

Isabelle sighed with the weary fondness of someone who had spent years losing the same argument. "One day," she said, "you're going to discover we're usually right." Kylian let out an incredulous laugh, looking to Marc for support only to find the physiotherapist already nodding in agreement. "Unbelievable," he muttered, earning another laugh from the pair. The easy banter gave you just enough time to step around the counter and greet them properly with a warm smile and a small wave. It wasn't until your attention returned to Kylian that the warmth in your expression quietly faltered.

You noticed the limp the moment he took those first careful steps forward. Subtle, but there, his right leg never quite accepting full weight, a minor hesitation that most fans scrolling highlight reels would never catch. Usually he’d push straight through something like this. The fact that he was home early, escorted by staff, sent a quiet ripple of worry through your chest.

“Kyky…”

He reached you in the kitchen, one hand finding your waist with easy familiarity while the other brushed dampness from the shower from his own forehead. The touch grounded everything, the faint scent of his shower gel mixing with garlic and tomatoes, the warm ambient light spilling across the countertops. His shoulders were still tight with the residue of training, but they eased a fraction as he drew you closer.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, forehead dipping toward yours. “Precautionary. Just a little adductor pull during acceleration work. Planted awkwardly, nothing dramatic.” The humor lingered in his voice, that signature lightness cutting through the fatigue. “I feel fantastic now, honestly, bebé.”

Isabelle draped her blazer over a nearby chair with efficient grace, the two staff inside the star's apartment slowly walking towards you and Mbappé, the familiriaty of colleagues being thrown in the Madrid night air as they got closer to where you both stood.

“We’ll give you two a proper hello,” she said, her tone carrying that maternal steadiness. “Treatment table’s still in the car. Ten minutes.” She shot Kylian a pointed look, no stairs, no heroic, but there was affection beneath it. Marc set the case down with a soft click, exchanging a quick glance with her before they slipped back out.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment felt smaller, softer, the professional “game face” melting away as Kylian’s shoulders dropped fully. He let out a slow breath against your hair, both arms wrapping around you now, holding you close in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

« Tu m’as tellement manqué, mon cœur… » The words were a low murmur against your skin, rich with quiet longing. His voice carried that familiar warmth, the one reserved only for these stolen pockets of normalcy.

You smiled, unable to help it, your hands sliding up his chest. “I’ve only been gone four days, Kyky.”

“I know.” A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “Still a tragedy.”

You laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle simmer of the sauce on the stove and the distant hum of Madrid traffic filtering through the tall windows.

He leaned in then, kissing you slowly, unhurried, lingering just a second longer than usual, as though savoring the taste of home after days apart. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. One hand traced higher along your back while the other rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your waist, his touch warm and grounding amid the savory scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.

« Alors… » he murmured, studying your face with that intent gaze, like he needed to memorize every detail to make up for lost time. « How was the congress? »

The question came so naturally it almost made you forget the subtle hitch in his step when he’d crossed the room. You told him about the long days, the endless speeches, the half the room pretending to follow the keynote graphs, and your own presentation that had gone better than expected. He listened with genuine interest, chuckling at the familiar absurdity of it all, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on your hip.

“And you?” you asked gently, searching his expression.

Kylian's smile settled, the playfulness easing into something more honest. He shrugged one shoulder, still holding you close. “Normal session, acceleration work... The staff stopped me before I could push through.” He paused, reading the concern in your eyes. “I argued, of course, but they won this time.”

Your fingers drifted from his hair to the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the kitchen felt smaller, warmer, the golden light from the overhead fixtures casting soft shadows across the countertops, the faint steam rising from the pan behind you. “You came home early,” you said softly. “You never do that.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter now. Silence stretched comfortably between you, thick with years of learning each other’s truths beneath the public answers.

You searched his eyes carefully, the kind of attentive look that came from loving someone whose body was both his greatest gift and occasional adversary. He didn’t look away. He simply let you study him, tired, mildly annoyed at the interruption to his flow, frustrated with the minor betrayal of his adductor, but not scared, no hidden tension, no minimization that didn’t hold up.

Eventually, a small, amused smile tugged at his lips. « Bébé… » He brushed his thumb across your hip again, voice dropping softer. "Look at me."

“I am looking.”

“No. Look at me, not the injury.” His smile deepened, gentle and reassuring. “I’m okay. If I’d been stubborn and stayed on the pitch, Marc would’ve reminded me how stupid I was for the next month. I’d rather miss three days than three weeks.”

You held his gaze a moment longer, testing for any flicker. You found none, only the honest exhaustion of a man who had learned the hard way when to listen. Your shoulders relaxed, and he sensed it immediately, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead with quiet triumph. "See?"

“I hate when you’re reasonable,” you murmured, a smile playing on your lips.

“I know.” His eyes sparkled with that boyish mischief. “It’s very inconvenient. I can be unreasonable tomorrow if it helps.”

“You probably will.”

“Oh, definitely.”

The easy rhythm wrapped around you both like a blanket, the kind of domestic exchange that grounded everything beyond the headlines and stadium lights. For a moment, it was simply the two of you, your independent lives intersecting here in his kitchen, pasta sauce bubbling softly, his arms still around you as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The apartment door opened again before the moment could stretch further. Marc stepped inside backwards, carrying the folded treatment table over one shoulder, while Isabelle followed with the portable ultrasound unit tucked neatly beneath her arm.

“There he is,” Marc announced dryly. “Patient of the year.”

“I’m literally standing,” Kylian replied, though he didn’t pull away from you, only loosening one arm while keeping the other securely at your waist.

“Exactly,” Isabelle said without missing a beat, her tone warm but firm. “And we’d like to keep it that way.” She set the ultrasound down with practiced efficiency, already glancing toward the living area as if mentally mapping the best spot for the table.

Kylian sighed dramatically, pressing one last quick kiss to your temple before glancing at you with a conspiratorial glint. “See?” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes together and they’re already interrupting.”

“They’re keeping you employed,” you whispered back, lips twitching.

“I preferred your first answer,” he teased softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that signature way that made the whole room feel lighter.

Isabelle’s gaze shifted to you, and her expression softened instantly into something genuinely maternal and affectionate. She crossed the kitchen with a few graceful steps, pulling you into a quick, warm hug that smelled faintly of her signature light perfume. “Ma chérie, it’s so good to see you,” she said in French, her voice rich with that familiar Parisian warmth. “You look lovely. The congress went well, I hope? What about your mother, is she alright?”

You returned the hug easily, smiling. The two of you had always gotten along, Isabelle had known Kylian long enough to treat you like family rather than just “the girlfriend,” offering quiet advice and gentle teasing in equal measure.

“It was productive. Long, but good to be back. Mom's doing great as well. Just complaining that I've been coming to Madrid more than Paris for the last few months.”

Marc offered a polite nod and a quick “Hello” from the edge of the kitchen, keeping a respectful distance. Kylian caught his eye and gave a small, approving nod, silently granting permission for him to move deeper into the apartment. Marc headed off toward the small gym room down the hall, the treatment table balanced easily on his shoulder, his footsteps fading against the hardwood.

Kylian stayed right where he was, one arm still looped around your waist, listening with quiet contentment as you and Isabelle exchanged a few more pleasantries, light updates about travel and how the apartment had felt too quiet without you. His thumb continued its slow, soothing rhythm against your side, a subtle anchor amid the conversation.

After a moment, Isabelle glanced toward the hallway with a knowing smile. “I’ll go help Marc set up. We won’t be long.” She gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her eyes sparkling with understanding. “Enjoy your hello. Properly this time.”

As soon as she disappeared down the hall, Kylian turned his full attention back to you. He studied your face carefully, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer, almost protective.

He glanced over at the simmering pan, and his eyes lit up with genuine excitement.

“Pasta,” he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You have no idea how good that smells right now, bebé.”

He studied your face for another quiet moment, taking in details he hadn't seen over video calls, the faint traces of makeup you'd never quite managed to wash off after traveling, the way a loose strand of hair had escaped behind your ear, the familiar expression that only ever belonged to home.

"Have you eaten properly today, mon cœur?" The question came softly, almost as an afterthought. Before you could answer, he continued. "With the flight... and the congress..." He shook his head a little. "You always forget when things get busy."

He searched your eyes for a second, his expression gentling even further.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too tired?"

You couldn't help smiling. It wasn't unusual for him to check in like this after you'd been away, especially knowing how easily you'd get caught up in work when you were excited about it.

Leaning into him, you rested one hand lightly against the front of his training top, the lingering scent of shower gel mixing with your body wash.

"I'm okay, Kyky," you assured him. "I ate on the flight."

His eyebrows lifted just enough to say really?

"Promise," you added, already smiling because you'd recognized the look.

Only then did his shoulders loosen. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before leaning down to brush another unhurried kiss against your forehead. His nose lingered briefly against your hair afterwards, taking a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.

"Good," he murmured, one arm tightening around your waist for just a moment.

Before you could reply, Marc’s voice drifted in from the living room, patient but insistent. “Kylian.”

Your boyfriend closed his eyes, pressing his face into your hair with a quiet groan. “Ignore him,” he muttered, the words half-muffled and entirely unserious.

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Kyky.”

“Five more minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. He sighed with dramatic reluctance, stealing one last quick kiss, easy and familiar, before his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer. “This is harassment,” he declared under his breath, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“It’s your medical team.”

“Same thing.” He squeezed your hand once, light and instinctive, before finally pulling away with the exaggerated resignation of a man being sent to his doom. “You’re taking their side, I don't like it.”

“I’m taking the side of your adductor,” you replied lightly.

“Traitor.” The word carried no heat, only that playful spark that always surfaced when he was caught between what he wanted and what his body needed.

With one final glance over his shoulder, he headed toward the living room. Marc had already unfolded the treatment table near the sofa, the portable ultrasound ready on the coffee table. Isabelle stood nearby, tapping notes into her iPad without looking up. Kylian dropped onto the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh.

“Miraculously recovered?” Marc asked dryly.

“Apparently not.”

You turned back to the stove, lifting the lid to let another wave of fragrant steam rise. The sauce was still perfect, the pasta nearly ready. Behind you, the familiar rhythm of low questions, answers, and the rustle of medical tape blended into the quiet sounds of home. It wasn’t the quiet evening either of you had pictured when you’d planned the surprise, but as Kylian glanced back and caught your eye across the room, the small, tired smile he gave you said he didn’t really mind. Not one bit.

author's note — hello ballblr my name is zerocoded. ig i overdid the french sentences for the non-french speakers like me, 'm sorry 😔. pretend i'm not spamming football content in my kpop dominant account pls. you'll see a lot of me here for the next couple of days pls don't hate me.