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Butterflies erupt in your stomach, a broad smile stretching across your face.

"You two are sickeningly sweet," Donna rolls her eyes, but her own fond grin gives away her true feelings, "it's cute, even if it makes me feel depressingly single."

"With how sexy you look tonight? That could be about to change." You wriggle your brows.

"From this crowd? They'd be so lucky," she scoffed, making you throw back your head and laugh.

As if your words had been a spell to summon desperate assholes, a hand slides down your back, resting dangerously low. You turn to smile at Dick, only to falter at the sight of a complete stranger. "Buy you ladies a drink?"

Even when you recoil in shock, a smirk he must think is suave pulls at the corner of the man's lips, but Donna's look of disgust lets you know she's not charmed either.

Your skin crawls as you slide out from his grasp and next to Donna, who's stepped forward, shielding you slightly from view. "Not interested," she deadpans, arms crossed and showing off her impressive biceps.

The douchebag only flinches minutely before his grin comes back full force, apparently suicidal as he steps closer into your personal space, even when you and Donna back away even more.

"Playing hard to get? I like that in a woman." He reaches for your face, only for you to smack his hand away harshly.

"What are you? A cartoon villain? The answer's no. N-O." You sneer over Donna's shoulder.

That strikes a nerve, his eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Donna, "Oh, I get it, you're a —"

Fury lights in your chest, and a nasty retort readies itself on the tip of your tongue as you push past Donna, but Dick beats you to it, appearing from thin air and clapping a hand down on the creep's shoulder harshly.

"You harassing my girl?" Dick's voice is upbeat, an eerie smile stretching across his cheeks.

It's more than a little satisfying to watch the man wilt under Dick's stare, and if you're being honest with yourself, it's kind of hot.

"I—your—no?" the guy stammers, flinching away from Dick's touch and wincing when Dick's grip tightens painfully.

Your boyfriend leans in, whispering something that you can't make out over the music blasting from the dancefloor speakers, before he lets go.

You don't think you've ever seen a man scamper away from you so quickly, nor so inelegantly, as he ends up stumbling and crashing into the corner of a table.

Dick's by your side in an instant, sliding a hand up to cup your cheek loosely as he scans your person, "You ok?"

"Mm, you got here in the nick of time," You nod seriously, even if your smile betrays your mirth, "my hero."

Leaning up to him, you press a kiss on his cheek, turning to whisper in his ear when he pouts that 'you missed', "You know, seeing you defending me like that was sexy. What do you say we head home early?"

The onyx colored sheets rustled and wrinkled , as you rolled flat onto your stomach , then back on your back , legs tangling in the blankets kicking and wrestling.

His low was voice still gravelly with sleep as he called out your name , thick with concern–propping himself up on an elbow , brushing his long hair out of his face. “Y’okay?”

You huffed out a heavy breath , waving a hand vaguely–blindly in his general direction. “Shhh… I’m fine. Just—ugh.” Another groan ripped out of you as your body cramped up sharply , causing you to continue flopping over again with dramatic annoyance.

That got him upright now , torso bare , hair sticking up in a dozen different directions , eyes squirting against the darkness. “You don’t sound fine,” he muttered , scanning your face. His hand hovered over your stomach , cautious , like he wasn’t sure if touching you would make things worse or better.

“I’m fine,” you snapped , tugging the blanket over your head , as if hiding under it would swallow up the ache in your lower abdomen and end it all. “It’s just my period , Buck. Go back to sleep.”

He frowned , already wide awake and way to stubborn to listen. 

You should have known. 

“Y’period?.. You don’t look fine to me, sweetheart. You’re in pain.” He almost whined the last word , like a plea of to you to listen to him.

“Yes , genius,” you shot back , poking your head out with mused hair and a glare that wasn’t entirely aimed at him. “That’s kind of the point of a period.”

The corner of his mouth twitched , but he didn’t dare smile. Instead, he reached over and gently peeled the blanket down from your chin , cooing. “What can I do? Heating pad? Tea? Hurt whoever last wronged you?”

Despite yourself, a laugh almost bubbled up—though it broke into a groan as another cramp twisted and coiled through your stomach. You curled onto your side, back toward him, muttering quietly. “You can stop asking questions.”

Bucky sighed softly. “Okay. No more questions.” His metal hand carefully smoothed over your hip bone, the coolness of the plates actually soothing against your overheated skin. He laid back down but kept his arm snug around you , thumb pad rubbing slow idle circles.

At first , all you wanted was to fully shove him off. Everything irritating you: the weight of the blankets against your body , the deep ache in your muscles , even the steady calmness of him. 

“You’re breathing too loud,” you mumbled.

He just hummed , eyes closed , breathing softer. “M’sorry.” He didn’t move his arm.

You groaned again , partly at the cramp , partly at your own short temper. “I’m being mean.”

“Little bit,” he admitted, with no heat in his tone. He pressed his lips to the back of your neck where hair met skin. “But you’re allowed. You’re hurting.”

Then after a moment , the guilt pressed in heavier.  You wriggled back against him, grabbing his arm to drag it tighter around your middle lacing your fingers with his. Tracing his knuckles , every scar and freckle alike.

“Don’t let go,” Your voice a broken whimper.

His chest rumbled with a breathy chuckle , scooting closer into your form. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

You nuzzled back against him, burying your face against the warmth of his skin. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” he murmured immediately , pulling the blanket over both of you. “Besides, I’ve been through worse.” He gave your side a playful squeeze that had you groaning again—not from pain this time, but because he was teasing you.

“Don’t make me kick you,” Tone threatening ,  even though you pressed even closer, craving the steady comfort of him against your jittery, hormonal edges.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He kissed the top of your head, hand firm and grounding on your stomach. “Just let me take care of you, okay?”

You sighed, finally letting yourself melt against him, body slowly unclenching as the warmth of his chest and the solid weight of his arm soothed some of the sharp ache.

“Okay,” you whispered, softer now, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you winning over this pesky , monthly , hormonal torture.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

You were good at a lot of things. The team’s go-to “girl in the chair,” there was no one better at intel, strategy, quick escape plans, and getting into just about any system you were presented with. You’d had the Avengers’ lives in your hands countless times, and never led them to put a foot wrong. Somehow, you, a girl with just a bachelor’s degree, a–perhaps excessive–perfectionist streak, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to help you stay sharp on overnight missions, had become indispensable to the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

But you couldn’t install a security camera above your front door.

As smart as you were, you were probably equally as uncoordinated. All the bruises in odd places told the tale of your frequent misfortune. Walking by itself often presented a perilous challenge, so standing on a ladder, balancing precariously with expensive equipment and sharp objects in your hands seemed like a perfect recipe for a trip to the ER and a costly bill for tech replacements.

Which was why you’d asked your husband, a super soldier with a metal arm and a keen eye for home repairs, to do it.

A month ago.

And three weeks ago.

And two weeks ago.

And last week.

You were tired of waiting. Bucky, of course, was busy, and often away on missions, but you only ever asked him to do it when he had a moment to spare. He’d said he would, every time you’d asked, but there was still no camera above your front door. On top of it all, the camera had been Bucky’s idea, a little extra security for when he was away on missions; it was one of Stark’s smart cameras, which could differentiate between a mailman dropping off a package and a criminal about to break into the house. Bucky didn’t exactly know how all of that worked, but he was good with the installation, and you both knew better than to assign the job to you. But the camera had sat there for a month, collecting dust on the dining room table, and despite all his promises, you knew it was time to take matters into your own hands.

And maybe get a little payback while you were at it.

It was a warm spring day, and the front door was open to let the breeze in but the screen door was in place to keep the bugs out. Bucky was in the kitchen, making lunch, so he’d be able to hear everything easily, between his proximity, the open door, and his enhanced hearing. Smirking to yourself, you set up the ladder as quietly as possible, knowing that that alone would tip Bucky off and make him come rushing out before you were ready. If this was going to get done today, you needed to execute the full plan.

Picking up the electric drill and the mount for the camera, you put one foot up on the ladder, and held down the trigger of the drill for a few seconds, causing a loud whirring sound to tear through the quiet midday air. Just as you took another step up and held down the trigger again, Bucky’s voice carried out from the kitchen.

“Doll?” he questioned, and it took everything in you not to laugh. You gave no answer, instead only whirring the drill once more as you climbed to the top of the ladder. “What are you doing?”

You might have felt bad about the panic and concern in his voice, but if he’d done this a month ago when you’d asked, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to have it be done. Natasha had called it wife speak, when women use their sly little tricks to get their husbands to do what they need to. She used it with Banner, Pepper used it with Tony, Wanda used it with Vision; it was a universal language amongst women when requests and orders just weren’t cutting it.

Holding the mount up against the wall, you furrowed your brow in concentration as you tried to figure out how to hold the mount, place the screw, and drill it in all at the same time with only two hands. Judging by the purposeful footsteps pounding towards the front door, you knew you wouldn’t have to keep trying to figure it out for long. Still, you kept up the ruse, because he needed to think you were serious about doing it yourself if he was going to get it done right this minute.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice raising with alarm as he found you balancing precariously on top of the small ladder. Paying him no mind, you decided to just wing it and put the drill into the head of the screw, pulling the trigger to send the screw spinning into the wall. For extra effect, you added a little wobble, just enough to make Bucky worry more but not so much that your uncoordinated self would actually fall. “Honey! Stop! What are you doing?”

“What?” you responded innocently, still not turning around. “I’m putting up the camera.”

“Why?” His hands grasped at your waist, but you pushed him away as you continued your ruse and placed the next screw.

“Because it needs to go up?” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was, hello, and you’d asked him to do it so many times. Once more, you placed the drill into the screw head and let it rip, watching it spin into place. Maybe you could do it yourself. Maybe impatience was all it took to overcome your incoordination. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby.” Bucky’s hands were on your waist again, this time with a firmer grip so you couldn’t brush him off so easily. “Come off the ladder.”

“It needs to go up, Bucky,” you insisted, milking your moment of acting for all it was worth.

“I know, so I’ll do it, okay? Just please, come off the ladder.”

“I’ve asked you a million times over the last month to do it and you still haven’t, so I’m gonna do it and then I’ll know it's done.”

The drill was slightly stuck in the screw head once it was screwed all the way in. You gave it a tug, and the force of it combined with the resistance of the drill to come loose caused you to tip backwards slightly; for a moment, you thought you might fall, but you regained your balance after a second or two. Still, it was a second or two too long for Bucky, who’d had enough of asking nicely and being patient. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, using his strength and his grip on your waist to lift you off the ladder and set you on the wooden boards of the porch like you were little more than a doll. You almost grinned at the move, as being on the receiving end of his enhanced strength and fierce protectiveness always made your stomach do somersaults. By the time he spun you around to face him though, you had regained your self-control and regarded him with a displeased scowl. “What are you doing, huh, doll? You know I don’t like you up on that thing.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huffed, “Well, someone has to put the camera up, since you’ve proven yourself incapable.” You turned to step back onto the ladder, but Bucky grasped your arm gently and pulled you to him, maneuvering at the same time to take the drill and the remaining screws from you. You resisted, but even when he was diluting his strength, you couldn’t hope to best him, so instead you started to complain, “Bucky-”

“I know, doll, I know,” he said, voice soft as he pried the drill and screws out of your hands. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then your nose for extra contrition. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done it when you asked me to, but I’ll do it right now, okay? Just…please stay off the ladder?”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?”

Bucky chuckled in amusement, his free hand rising to cup your cheek and pull you closer so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. You melted against him instantly, as you always did, because Bucky always kissed you like he was trying to transfer his heart from his body to yours, deeply and wholly and with every ounce of love that he had. After a moment, he pulled away, though he kept his nose touching yours as his twinkling eyes gazed at you adoringly. “It’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because it’s you, doll. The last time I trusted you with a drill and screws, you drilled your sleeve into the wall and broke your finger trying to pull it free.”

Nose scrunching and lips pouting, you did your best to fight off a smile, trying to lay it on just a little thicker to make sure you would get what you wanted. “Promise you’ll do it right now?”

“Pinky promise.” Bucky held up his pinky finger between you, and you locked yours around it. “You can stay and watch if you want, just to be sure. I think you’ll like the view.”

“My cousin thinks he’s mourning. You know. A loss.” “Why the hell would he still wear the ring, then—” “Romance isn’t dead, Miki.” “Guys he once filed a report on someone for printing duplex.” “My cousin swears he saw Nanami at the Shibuya station once and the weather changed.”

“He’s like if a calculator got reincarnated into a human body,” whispers one of the newer interns, watching Nanami stalk through the office with his sleeves already rolled up before 8AM.

Every day, Nanami Kento walked in at 7:59AM and left at precisely 6:01PM. No more. No less. Like the tides. Like taxes. Like seasonal depression. He had a desk so clean it echoed. The only personal touch?

A glossy framed photo of a... very.... rotonde cat in a red bowtie, perched on a tiny office chair. A plaque beneath it simply read: ‘The Chairman Meow.’

*-*

So you can imagine the emotional whiplash when, during a particularly wet Thursday in the middle of Tokyo’s typhoon season-

(and not your average “drip drip uwu rain is a metaphor for sadness” rain. No. This is biblical. This is build-an-ark type weather. This is “I wore my new heels to work and now they are mush and I want to die” rain. Welcome to tsuyu season, baby.)- the ever-stoic Nanami suddenly stood up during a meeting.

Just. Got up.

Mid-spreadsheet. Mid-forecast projection. Mid-‘synergize.’

Every head in the room turned. Whispers. Panic. Was this a walkout? Was he quitting? Was this it?

“What the hell?” whispers an intern, watching him walk briskly (???) toward his desk phone. “Is he okay?”

But no—he wasn’t leaving. He was on his phone. Which was new. Because Nanami never looked at his phone during work hours unless it was to smite someone via Slack.

“Pick up,” he mutters, voice tight, eyes on the storm outside. Ring ring. Ring ring. He dials again. A third time.

“Sir?” murmured one of the newer analysts, voice trembling like a chihuahua near fireworks.

Nanami’s brow furrowed deeper. “Flooding in Suginami Ward. A school and a university—both shut down.”

Okay. Sure. Weather. Bad. But what was weird was this: he looked concerned.

Then—

RING RING

A call from reception.

“…Mr. Nanami? There’s a woman downstairs. With two children. They’re… uh. Wet?”

And then:

“Bring them up. Now.”

And THAT was the moment the entire office officially short-circuited.

The elevator dinged and everyone turned.

Two dripping, fancy-ass children stepped out. We’re talking full black primary uniforms, shiny randoseru backpacks that probably cost more than a mortgage payment, and expressions of mild judgment.

One boy. One girl. Ages: approximately small and smaller. The boy looked like Nanami. Like, disturbingly so. Same face. Same scowl. Except this one looked like he still had a soul, a will to live, and maybe liked dinosaurs.

Trailing behind them, like the chaos fairy godmother she was:

You.

Heavily pregnant. Absolutely glowing. Wearing a raincoat covered in ukiyo-e wave prints. Hair very wet, maybe a leaf was stuck to you. And what was that? A satchel shaped like a frog yokai??

And you were holding a ceramic travel mug that said “YOKAI MOMMY” in gold foil.

You looked like Ms. Frizzle got tenure at Todai.

And Nanami? Nanami moved.

“Are you all okay? Were you caught in the overflow? Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Nanami’s voice is tight. His eyes are scanning every inch of you and the kids. The intensity is parental. Feral. Husband-coded.

The older child points to the younger one. “She dropped mama’s phone in a drain.”

“She said it would float!” the younger one protests. “It had a case!”

You groan. “It’s fine. The train lines were shutting down, and the campus flooded. We got on a shuttle bus before they shut those too, but the driver had to reroute, so—well, we ended up here.”

“Come here,” Nanami said—removing his jacket in a single swoop, kneeling down, pulling both kids into his arms like it was a practiced routine. He pulled hand towels out from somewhere (where were they? did he have a compartment??) and began patting them dry with terrifying efficiency.

Someone in the back of the office dropped a stapler.

You followed behind slowly, carefully, rubbing your belly as you smiled at the chaos unfolding.

“Hi darling,” you chirped. “Flood’s a mess. The kids were about to re-enact Spirited Away in the bus.”

“Are you okay?” Nanami asked you, immediately standing, eyes scanning your body like a triage nurse. “Did you slip? Did they kick? Have you eaten? Sit. Come. Now.”

A chair was pulled. A towel appeared. Tea—actual tea—was somehow ready and warm in a mug.

“…is that—” whispered someone. “Is that his wife?” “Dude. That’s the yokai lady from NHK. I watched her series on oni last month. She wore horns. Like real horns.” “I thought he hated chaos?” “That’s the mother of his children????He actually reproduced??? I thought he was dickless like a Ken doll.” “She’s like… so pregnant. And so wet. But like. In a majestic way??”

Inside his office, Chairman Meow watched silently from his portrait as Nanami helped the children into fresh clothes (from a hidden drawer, of course—organized by size, season, and child).

“I—” said Nakagawa, staring as Nanami calmly peeled the wet uniforms off the kids and handed them—handed them!!!—change-of-clothes from a drawer in his desk. “He’s got… spare pants?”

“He’s got tiny boy-sized khakis, Nakagawa,” whispered someone from accounting. “I think I’m having a stroke.”

Meanwhile, Nanami was kneeling to unbuckle his daughter’s ridiculous frog boots.

“You’ll get sick like this,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you wait at the university?”

You were already sipping the hot tea he had miraculously conjured from the office pantry. “Because your son insisted on seeing Daddy’s office. He said if the world was ending, he wanted to say goodbye to your copier.”

“I love the copier,” said his son, solemnly. “It’s strong.”

“…I raised you well,” Nanami said with a sigh.

Your shoes were off now, flipping through your notes for an upcoming NHK segment on “Tanuki: Agents of Chaos or Just Fat Raccoons?”

“You should’ve called earlier,” he murmured, swapping your daughters socks to clean ones, putting the damp ones in ziplock bags.

“Ken, the roads were closed. And you hate being interrupted at work.”

“I hate being interrupted unnecessarily.” He stood again, smoothed his sleeves. “This was necessary.”

You smiled. “That’s sweet.” Then leaned in. “Also you have like five grown adults trying to discreetly look into your office from behind a copier.”

“…I’ll deal with that later.”

The kids, now dressed, ran to the window. “Are we in the clouds??” “Father! Can Chairman Meow fly?” “Daddy. I want to flie!!!”

Nanami closed his eyes briefly. Counted to three. Opened them again. Turned to you.

“How long do you need to stay?”

“Mm… few hours? Until the university un-floods. Also I think our son broke your assistant’s brain.”

Outside, the boy in question was telling Nanami’s assistant, with full sincerity: “Daddy says if you schedule things five minutes early, you’ll never be late.”

The assistant was looking slightly horrified at the view of mini Nanami.

Nanami just sighed and handed you another cup of tea. “Stay as long as you like.”

And just like that—Mr. Order, Mr. Ring-Mystery, Mr. Clean-Desk and Quarterly Forecast—turned back into your husband.

*-*

An hour or so later (nap time- thank fuck), Nanami was now sitting on the couch, both kids wrapped around him like sleepy vines as he looked over the paper reports, his wife sipping tea while perched like a divine cat next to him.

“You smell like copier toner,” she murmured.

“I’ve been here since 8.”

“You always are.”

*-*

When the roads cleared and the rain finally dialed back to “melancholy anime opening” instead of “divine punishment,” Nanami moved like a man with a plan. And that plan was: Get Wife And Children Home Without The Apocalypse Following Us.

It began with The Wrangle. (aka: every parent’s personal Cirque du Soleil act.)

“Shoes on. No, those are not your brother’s. No, you cannot bring the office label maker—” “But I labeled my frog!” “Yes. I’m proud of you. It’s still staying here.” “Daddy, the receptionist gave me three jellybeans and I told her you only allow two per day—” “...Did she survive?”

The children were wriggly. The raincoats were squeaky. Your ankles were tired. And Nanami? Nanami was moving like a SWAT unit.

He carried every bag. Every. Single. One. – One glitter-covered randoseru – One serious leather satchel with your academic credentials and twelve notebooks labeled "Fox Spirits and Feminism" – One tiny backpack covered in dinosaur stickers – His own briefcase – And your reusable lunch tote that said "Snack Now, Cry Later."

“Do you need help?” you asked, innocently, already knowing the answer.

Nanami blinked at you. “You’re eight months pregnant.” “...Right.” “You are exempt from lifting everything but spirits and chopsticks.”

Down in the garage, the company sedan gleamed like a sad, capitalist chariot. Nanami opened the doors, wiped down the car seats (yes, of course they had car seats—Nanami Kento would rather die than compromise on child safety) and proceeded to personally buckle in each child with the precision of a man defusing a bomb.

“Straps should be flat, not twisted.” “We know, Daddy.” “Secure chest clip. Properly positioned at armpit level.” “Can I hold my rock?” “...Fine. But only if it’s soft.” “It’s sedimentary!” “I’m proud of you.”

Then he turned to you, opened your door, helped you in like you were made of glass and national treasure status, and—yes—buckled your seatbelt for you.

“Ken,” you murmured, blinking. “That’s very sweet but I’m not a geriatric turtle.”

He leaned in. Kissed you gently. Pulled back only to say: “You’re my geriatric turtle.”

You swooned. The children gagged.

“Daddy, why do adults kiss with their mouths?” “Yeah, do your teeth touch?” Nanami turned on the radio. Loudly. Jazz. No more questions.

*-*

The house—sleek, warm, smelling faintly of green tea and cedarwood—stood waiting.

And inside it: Chairman Meow.

Overlord. Beast. Feline menace. He was perched on the windowsill like a judgmental god. He screamed.

“MRROOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!!!”

“Chairman!!” the kids yelled, flinging themselves toward him at light speed. He allowed two seconds of petting before darting under the table to scream again. The heir apparent was pleased.

Meanwhile, Nanami herded you in like a loving bouncer, helping you off with your coat, shoes, satchel, and literal hairpin.

“I’m fine, I can walk—” “You waddled.” “That’s pregnancy swagger.” “That was a ping-pong motion. Sit.”

You sat. Instantly. Because honestly? Yeah. He was right.

*-*

Twenty Minutes Later The children were occupied (read: attempting to build a “yokai trap” using yarn and crackers). Chairman Meow was on the fridge. And Nanami was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, an apron on (it said ‘World’s Okayest Cook’ but it was a lie and you knew it), stirring something that smelled like love and soy sauce.

You sat at the counter, sipping barley tea, watching him move. And occasionally, when he passed by, he’d feed you a piece of something.

A bite of simmered pumpkin. A cube of marinated tofu. A sliver of daikon soaked in yuzu.

Every time, you’d blink. “You’re spoiling me.” “Correct.” “Ken, I can feed myself.” “You’ve had three back cramps today and you nearly cried because the toast this morning looked like a bunny.” “It was SO ROUND.” “And you’re not lifting a finger until further notice.”

You kicked your feet. Watched him with stars in your eyes.

“Hey,” you said, propping your chin in your palm. “Yes?” “You know you’re literally perfect, right?”

Nanami scoffed, slicing scallions like his life depended on it. “Hardly.” “Okay, but like—emotionally? Physically? Romantically? Sexually?”

He froze for a beat. Then slowly looked at you over his shoulder. You smiled, all saccharine and sinister. You were trying to seduce your husband while eight months pregnant.

“You know I want to fuck you stupid, right?” you whispered, cheerful.

He cleared his throat. “Children are awake.” “They’re occupied.” “You can’t even bend over.” “You can just lie me down like a prize hog!”

Nanami dropped the knife. Covered his face with one hand.

“You are evil.” “You love it.” He walked over, kissed you slowly, firmly, deeply. You melted into it. Sighed. Nuzzled. Bit his lip. Then—

“MRROOOOOOWWWW.” Chairman Meow launched from the fridge directly between you, like the furry agent of celibacy he was.

“AH—” “—Jesus—” "LET ME KISS MY HUSBAND."

“He’s asserting dominance,” Nanami muttered, holding you protectively while the cat glared.

*-*

After dinner (which was delicious, thank you), the children were bathed, stories read, lullabies hummed (Chairman Meow included).

Nanami tucked them in himself. Even braided your daughter’s hair. Even found your son’s missing plush fox under the couch. Even cleaned the weird cracker trap.

You, of course, supervised from the couch with a single pillow and a smug expression (oooh and there he goes, bending over again.) “Ken?” “Yes?” “You are the best husband and father on this whole fucking planet. Also great ass. 10/10. Would slap if I wasn't growing another pair of eyeballs.” “You’re biased.” “Yeah, and I’m right.”

Later that night, you lay in bed with him, curled up, full and loved and very nearly asleep.

“…Ken?” “Hm?” “If we weren’t married already, I’d marry you tomorrow.” He kissed the top of your head. “We can renew our vows.” You smiled. “…Nude?” Nanami sighed. “Sleep.”

A/N: some sweetness! i needed some pure fluff. hope it was good!

Masterlist.

Toji furrows his brows, "Bro. She said hi."

Sukuna won’t speak to you for like an hour. Just scoffs and slams the kick pedal louder than usual every time he sees your name trending next to Toji’s.

Eventually, you catch him sulking in the van.

"Are you seriously mad about internet comments?"

"They said you’d have prettier kids with Toji."

You climb onto his lap and kiss his jaw. "They’re wrong."

Sukuna grumbles, wrapping his arms around you like a seatbelt. "Damn right they are."

★ Vocalist!Gojo, being shipped with Choso.

Gojo’s mid-hair routine when he opens Twitter and sees:

"that soft girl who follows Gojo around all the time and choso? soulmates. i said what i said."

He freezes, holding the flat iron in one hand.

Satoru exclaims, "I’m gonna be sick."

Suguru turns to look at him, "You okay?"

"No. They’re giving my girl to the goth piano man."

He spends the whole day pouting.

At practice, he refuses to sing Choso’s harmonies properly. He sings them off-key on purpose.

Choso looks at him, eyes half lidded, "...Did I do something?"

"Nothing. Just stole my life partner, but whatever."

Later, you bring Gojo a drink, and he won’t even look at you.

You finally bring it up, "You're being weird."

Gojo replies, "Do you think he'd write you poems?"

"I literally bring you snacks and chapstick daily."

He softens. "You're right. I'm the total package."

Then he snaps a selfie with you and captions it: “me and the girl you can’t have 🧃❤️”

★ Guitarist!Suguru, being shipped with Gojo.

He finds the edit while scrolling late at night. It’s a clip of Gojo tossing you his sunglasses and you putting them on while laughing.

“Gojo x her is the sunshine duo we DESERVE.”

Suguru just stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

Next morning, he sends it to Gojo with no context.

Gojo: "LMAO do they know she falls asleep on your chest?"

Suguru: "Apparently not."

That night, Suguru brings you coffee, sets it down gently, then murmurs, "Don’t wear his sunglasses again."

You blink. "Wait, is this about that video?"

He doesn't answer. Just lifts your chin and kisses you.

A minute later he posts a blurry photo of your hands intertwined on his story with the caption:

“sunshine? she’s always been mine.”

Gojo reposts it and adds: “don’t be jealous I’m prettier 💋”

Suguru blocks him for 24 hours.

★ Bassist!Toji, being shipped with Suguru.

Toji doesn't do Twitter. But he does hear about it from Gojo, who will never let it go.

"They said Suguru and your girl give off forbidden lovers energy."

Toji raises an eyebrow. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means people think she should’ve chosen him instead."

Toji looks across the room where you're laughing at something Suguru said.

He walks over. Picks up your bag.

"We’re leaving."

You blink. "Wait, what? We just got here."

"Too much forbidden love in this room. Come on."

Later that night, he gives you his hoodie and tugs you close while you're brushing your teeth.

"You like his hair or something?"

"You’re the one I fall asleep next to."

He grunts. Satisfied.

Next gig, he wears a shirt that says: “she’s with the bassist. stay mad.”

He doesn’t say a word about it.

★ Keyboardist!Choso, being shipped with Sukuna.

Choso finds a clip of Sukuna teasing you and you throwing a napkin at him. Someone zoomed in on Sukuna smirking and wrote:

“why does sukuna lowkey flirt with her like they’re already married 😭”

Choso stares at it.

Closes his phone.

Later, Sukuna throws a drumstick toward your chair at rehearsal and grins when you roll your eyes.

Choso is silent the entire practice.

Afterward, you ask, "Are you mad?"

He shakes his head. "Just… quiet today."

Then adds, "Do you think he’s hotter?"

You almost choke. "Are you serious?"

Choso shrugs. "I wear all black. He wears no sleeves."

You wrap your arms around his neck.

"He’s loud. You’re home."

That night, he posts a quiet video of you leaning against his shoulder in the green room, captioned:

“not loud, not flashy, still hers.”