fluff. dating him was easy, until he found out you support the enemy. sometimes true love is complicated.
characters may be ooc , but nothing to worry about
ITOSHI SAE
It’s a peaceful afternoon in Madrid, or rather, it was before Sae stirred in his sleep, blinking slowly as his fingers reached out instinctively, expecting to feel the soft warmth of your skin, the weight of your body wrapped around him from your usual post-lunch nap routine.
But there was nothing, just an empty space on the bed. Grumbling under his breath, his brows furrowed as he pushed himself up on one elbow, and he didn’t need to see himself in the mirror to know how messy his hair probably looked.
“Where the hell did you go?” Muttering to no one but himself, voice still hoarse with sleep, eyes still half-lidded, and then like a curse upon his soul, a sound echoed faintly from the living room.
The anthem.
Not just any anthem, the one that was banned from this household. It was a particular, pride-swollen orchestral swell that only belonged to the bane of his existence.
Sae stared at the doorway, unimpressed, perhaps annoyed from the way he woke up and had to sacrifice his hearing. Rubbing his face, he got up and padded into the hallway, silent as a ghost, the kind that haunts with judgment and witty remarks. And there you were, sitting pretty on the couch, blanket around your legs, eyes glued to the TV, and probably smiling more than you should, because you are a traitor who allowed yourself to watch an FC Barcha match.
You were so enthralled you didn’t even notice the tall figure looming behind you, didn’t feel the silent anger that lurked behind you.
Click. The TV screen went black.
You shrieked. “WHAT THE HELL—LAVINHO WAS ABOUT TO SCORE!”
His deadpan voice followed. “I’m taking your TV remote privileges.”
Whipping your head around and there he stood: hair messy, shirtless in grey sweats, arms crossed over his chest like he was judging all your life choices at once, because let's be real, he was. Teal eyes full of betrayal, pain, and minutes taken from his afternoon nap.
“You were supposed to be asleep...”
“I would’ve stayed asleep if my girlfriend didn’t ditch our nap to commit crimes against humanity.”
You huffed, slightly offended because you did nothing wrong. “Sae, it’s just a match.” He stepped closer, now sitting next to you. “It’s Barcha. And you’re in my living room, in my house, rooting for them.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, tugging the blanket closer because suddenly it’s so chilly here, and wonder why, probably not from your boyfriend who plays for Re Al.
“I’m not sensitive,” he said coldly, trying his absolute best not to throw some insult at his rival team. “I just play for the better team.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re lucky I didn’t use your Barcha jersey to wipe the floor.”
“Oh my god,” you gasped, hands going to cover your mouth. “No, you didn't.”
He didn’t deny it; instead, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, smug kiss that made your heart stutter and your irritation melt. When he pulled back, he looked somehow satisfied, not to the fullest, but that should do.
“Next time you leave my arms for them, I’ll make you wear white for a week.”
“White is boring.”
“I’m boring now?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
He kissed you again just to shut you up. So it happened that he fell asleep on the sofa, and you’d watch the rest of the match on your phone, with the volume off. Sae didn’t need to know, but he already knew by the way your fingers stopped caressing his hair.
MICHAEL KAISER
You came home with two bags of groceries, earbuds in, humming some song as you slipped into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, which is not that unusual, but not normal either. The smell of Kaiser’s cologne lingered, as he was probably in his room, reviewing footage, hating on his teammates, or doing shirtless yoga, who knows.
Halfway through stacking cold drinks in the fridge, it’s when you felt it, the presence that sought nothing but control … or your kisses, because you were gone for so long, a whole fifteen minutes to go to the store and buy food so you won’t end up hungry.
Turning to see him leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, smug, tattoo on full display, arms crossed, that usual glint in his blue eyes that screamed I know something you don’t.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” you said casually, focusing again on arranging things until you were completely done.
“Oh, whatever you make, liebe,” he replied, observing you like a hawk, and you were the little mouse who didn’t know it was going to be struck with its doom. “By the way… I was looking for my hoodie earlier.”
“Yeah?” You raised a brow, because really very useful information, life saving, and no, it's not because you keep borrowing his clothes (stealing them).
“Yeah. Ended up finding something else instead.”
You've never been caught doing anything wrong, but he... that pathetic, arrogant, and super hot boyfriend of yours will always be able to break through your lack of defence and strike when you least expect it.
“I must ask… since when do we collect BVB Dortmund jerseys in my apartment? Especially ones signed by Lewandowski from 2012?” he asked, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “A true crime scene, if you ask me.”
“You were snooping through my side?” Blinking, averting your gaze from his because you don’t want to look him in the eyes.
“It accidentally opened when I was grabbing something,” he said, stepping closer, making a little no space for you to escape. “Adeyemi? Reus? Meine Engel… you got a whole BVB museum in there.”
You turned away, pretending to care deeply about the onion in your hands. Kaiser wasn’t done. Oh no, he was just starting.
“So…” he drawled, touching the blue rose on his neck, on purpose. “Thoughts on the Bundesliga season so far? Bastard Munchen’s been solid, especially that one match… four-nil against Dortmund. I heard their tears tasted amazing.”
Grabbing the nearest object, which was a plastic measuring cup, and threw it at his chest. He dodged, chuckling at your awful attempts to defend yourself from the truth that hurts so much.
“Oh, touchy subject?” he teased, now having the nerve to smirk at you with that shit-eating grin. “Fine!” you snapped. “I’ve supported Dortmund since I was twelve. My dad used to take me to games before I even knew your name, so yeah, I do still love the team.”
He's glad he got a response, but he didn't expect it exactly this way. “So you’re saying you love them more than me?”
“I’m saying football existed before you strutted into my life with your rockstar ego.” His mouth fell open in mock betrayal. “Excuse me? You’re living in Munich, sleeping in my bed, and you’re secretly cheering when Dortmund scores against us?”
“I’m not secretly cheering, I’m respectfully celebrating while you are not here to judge me.”
“Oh, respectfully? Liebling, you’re one step away from painting your face yellow.”
You glared, ready to open the fridge and pour the ice-cold drinks on him, but there were better ways to “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“What?! You’re banning me from my own bed?” He might act like an emperor who has all the control and power, but he's actually a pretty princess, and it's hilarious to watch him when the game turns against him.
“You’re calling me a traitor over some merch. You can enjoy your dinner with a side of regret.”
Kaiser opened his mouth, closed it, and then smirked. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.
Next time “Der Klassiker” rolled around, he scored a hat-trick, pulled off his shirt, held it to the crowd, and guess who got a brand new KAISER 10 jersey in place of that yellow nonsense that night? Personalized, with a little note: For my favorite traitor.
BUNNY IGLESIAS
It wasn’t unusual for a footballer to have someone in the stands cheering him on. Wives, girlfriends, families… stadiums were full of them. What was unusual, surprising even, was when the said girlfriend, the love of his life, the woman who made his empty apartment feel like a home, turned out to be something she was not.
Bunny didn’t notice right away, not during the match, not during the interview, not even during the long, silent car ride home. But when he stepped out of the shower that night, towel hanging low on his hips, damp curls tousled over his forehead, he knew something was off.
You weren’t giving him your usual soft smile, praises, or attention. You weren’t curled up waiting to review his goals like you always did. Instead, you were sitting on the bed, glued to your phone, not even sparing him a glance.
Man of the Match and not even a kiss? So he did what any wronged man in a towel would do: he walked over, leaned down, and snatched your phone straight out of your hand.
“Bunny—!” you yelped, scrambling up after him. He held it up high, out of reach. “Mmm, let’s see what stole the attention of my princess,” he murmured, voice smooth, and mildly amused with that familiar, detached tone like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.
You leapt to grab it, but he took a step back. “Not fair,” you muttered. “Why are you so damn tall?”
But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He scrolled, and his brows lifted slightly. "Clothes... new series arrivals… Re Al funny moments… Re Al match highlights…” The air grew quiet. “Re Al this. Re Al that. Oh—Itoshi Sae, too? That’s a name.”
Deathly silence. Your boyfriend looked at you, then at the phone, and back at you.
He wasn’t angry, not at all, but his eyes held the disappointment, like he'd stumbled into a memory that didn’t belong to him. A memory you hid from him, and he understands why. That melancholy undercurrent to his voice came back when he said, “This is worse than cheating.”
He turned your phone off, set it aside gently, and sat on the edge of the bed, towel barely clinging to his hips. “All this time, I thought you were shaking during El Clásico because you were happy for me.”
You turned out to be a Re Al fan, not a casual one either. No. You were the walking archive of team stats and league positions, quoting matches from 2014 and arguing formation choices like your life depended on it. A nerdy fan, and apparently, a pretty traitor.
“But I am happy for you, and I will always love you more than anything in this world!”
Bunny blinked slowly, thinking whether he should believe you or not, even if you proved your love for him every second. “I remember you screamed when Kroos scored last year.”
You sighed because you hate it when he does this; you don’t know if he is serious or just messing with you for fun. “Baby…” He ran a hand through his hair, the faintest bitter smile forming. “You know, I don’t even care that much about this sport half the time. But you support them. ”
“It’s not like that,” you tried to explain, now playing with your hands as you feel his gaze on you. “I’ve supported Re Al since I was a kid. It’s my entire childhood.”
He nodded once, “So what does that make me, the villain who kidnapped the princess from the white knights?”
“No,” you whispered, now holding both of his hands in yours. “You’re the dragon who gatekeeps me from escaping.” He laughed under his breath, not cold or joyful, just incredibly soft and loving.
“It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think?” he said finally, and the smile you adored so much reappeared on his face. “Wearing my Barcha jersey on your back, while there’s another team in your heart. You are a very bad bunny~”
“So you’re not mad?” leaning closer, trying to tease him or get a reaction out of him, because was he hotter when he was half naked? Yes, yes, he was.
“I’ll live,” he said, brushing your cheek with his fingers. “But next time you’re watching match highlights, at least pretend to be distracted by me.” It was your turn to smile as you pressed your lips to his. “Only if you don’t score again next weekend.”
He smirked. “Oh, I will score, just for you and especially if Sae’s playing.” Yeah, he is still the menace you love.
ּ֯ . ❥ ּ֯ ┆꒰ taking care of you ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ꒱ 〜 ♯ ⋮ 𝄞 new gen 11 × pregnant wife reader ༉ .ᐟ ★
𑣲 michael kaiser
ever since your stomach started showing, michael kaiser acted like he had been given the most important responsibility in the world.
the same man who loved calling himself an emperor suddenly spent more time reading pregnancy books than football articles, making notes in the margins and insisting he knew exactly what every week meant.
if you even sighed a little too hard from across the room, his head would snap up immediately. "what was that?" he'd ask before you could even answer, already walking over with that serious look on his face.
"does something hurt? are you hungry? tired?" and nine times out of ten you were only stretching, but that never stopped him from checking anyway.
he would grumble under his breath whenever people teased him for fussing over you so much, pretending it annoyed him, yet he never once slowed down.
if anything, he only became worse, refusing to let you carry grocery bags, reaching things from high shelves before you even looked at them, and quietly taking over chores you normally did because, in his words, "i'm the one with a perfectly healthy body right now. let me use it."
his training schedule never disappeared, but somehow you always came first.
after every practice he came home carrying something in his hands, sometimes your favorite pastries, sometimes fresh fruit, sometimes flowers because he remembered reading that seeing beautiful things could improve someone's mood.
the moment he walked through the door, he'd kiss your forehead before crouching in front of your stomach with a softness nobody else ever got to see. his hand rested there so naturally, gently rubbing little circles as he talked about his day, telling the baby how he scored in training or how everyone else was too slow to keep up with him. then he'd smirk proudly.
"obviously your father is still the best." a second later, the baby would kick, making his eyes widen every single time without fail. "did... did you see that?" he'd whisper in complete disbelief, looking at you like it was the greatest goal he'd ever witnessed.
no matter how many kicks he felt over the months, he reacted with that same amazed expression every single time.
the nights were when he became the most protective.
if your back hurt, he learned exactly how to massage it without pressing too hard. if you couldn't sleep because the baby kept moving, he'd stay awake with you instead of telling you to rest alone.
sometimes the two of you would sit by the window while the city lights glowed outside, your head resting against his shoulder as he absentmindedly played with your fingers. he'd quietly admit things he never told anyone else, how becoming a father scared him more than any football match ever could because he knew what it was like to grow up without kindness.
he promised himself long before the baby was born that your child would never question whether they were loved, never wonder if they were enough, and never experience the loneliness he carried as a boy.
he'd press a careful kiss to your stomach before resting his forehead there, speaking softly enough that only you and the baby could hear. "you'll have everything i never did. i'll make sure of it."
his ego never really disappeared, but it changed in funny ways. instead of bragging about himself, he'd confidently tell everyone your baby was obviously going to be beautiful because they had your features and his genes.
he'd already planned which tiny football jerseys to buy, despite you reminding him the baby couldn't even walk yet. when you rolled your eyes, he'd simply shrug with complete confidence. "it's called preparing for greatness." but the second you mentioned feeling nervous about labor, all that playful confidence melted away.
he held your face between his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as he looked at you with complete sincerity. "you don't have to be strong every second," he murmured. "i'll stay with you through all of it. every contraction, every tear, every moment. you won't face any of it alone."
and for someone who spent so much of his life believing only in himself, staying beside you without hesitation became the promise he valued more than any victory on the field.
𑣲 sae itoshi
pregnancy brought out a side of sae that almost nobody believed existed.
he wasn't loud about how much he cared, and he wasn't the type to constantly ask if you were okay every five minutes, but he noticed everything before you even had the chance to mention it.
if you shifted uncomfortably on the couch, he'd already be grabbing another pillow for your back. if your water bottle was empty, he'd quietly refill it without saying a word. when your feet started hurting after standing for too long, he'd guide you back to the couch with a gentle hand on your waist before kneeling in front of you to rub away the soreness.
if you tried telling him you could do it yourself, he'd only glance up at you with that calm look of his. "i know you can," he'd say simply. "but you don't have to."
his routine slowly changed around yours without you even realizing it. he made sure he was home whenever he could be, cooked meals you could actually keep down, and kept track of every doctor's appointment like it was part of his own schedule.
his phone ended up filled with reminders about vitamins, checkups, and things you mentioned wanting days before. he never made a big deal out of it either.
he'd just quietly remember.
whenever you woke up in the middle of the night because you couldn't get comfortable anymore, he'd wake up too, helping you sit up before fixing the blankets around you and staying awake until you finally drifted back to sleep. even if he had training the next morning, he never complained once.
sae didn't talk to your stomach very often, mostly because he felt a little embarrassed, but whenever the baby kicked while his hand happened to be resting there, the serious look on his face softened without him even noticing.
he'd stay completely still for a moment before letting out the smallest smile, one that only ever seemed to appear around you. sometimes he'd quietly tell the baby about his day, speaking so softly it almost sounded like he was talking to himself.
"don't make your mom work too hard today, okay?" he'd mumble, gently rubbing your stomach with his thumb before leaning down to press a light kiss against it. every time the baby responded with another kick, he'd look at you with quiet amazement, like he still couldn't believe there was a little life growing between the two of you.
whenever people crowded around you or offered too many opinions about your pregnancy, sae became quietly protective. he didn't need to raise his voice or argue. one look from him was usually enough to make people step back.
if someone stressed you out or kept touching your stomach without asking, he'd calmly move between the two of you, resting a hand against your back as he guided you somewhere quieter. "she needs space," he'd say, leaving no room for discussion before walking away with you.
once the two of you were alone again, he'd check on you first instead of talking about the situation. "you alright?" he'd ask, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. if you nodded, he'd simply squeeze your hand and stay beside you until you felt better.
the closer your due date came, the more he found himself thinking about the future.
one evening, while the two of you sat together in the nursery after finishing the last few decorations, he rested his head against yours as the room fell quiet. after a long silence, he reached over to lace his fingers with yours.
"i don't know everything about being a dad," he admitted honestly, his voice low enough that it almost blended into the silence around you. "but i'll learn." he looked over at you before gently smiling. "i'll learn for you... and for our baby."
it wasn't a dramatic promise or a grand speech, but somehow hearing those simple words from someone as reserved as sae meant more than anything else ever could.
𑣲 vivan hugo
the moment hugo found out you were pregnant, he started treating the months leading up to the baby's arrival like something the two of you had to get through together instead of something you had to carry alone.
he never wanted you to feel like the pregnancy was only your responsibility, so he naturally slipped himself into every little part of it.
every appointment became "our appointment," every milestone became something he celebrated just as much as you did, and every difficult day ended with him reminding you that you didn't have to hide how you were feeling around him.
whenever you apologized for being emotional or tired, he'd lightly shake his head before pulling you into his arms. "you're growing our baby," he'd mumble against your hair. "you never have to apologize for that."
he became surprisingly observant, picking up on the smallest habits you didn't even notice yourself. if he saw you rubbing your lower back while making breakfast, he'd quietly take over cooking before gently steering you toward a chair.
if you had one of those days where nothing sounded good to eat, he'd spend the afternoon trying different recipes until he found something you could stomach without feeling sick. he never acted like it was a burden either. seeing you finish even a small meal always made him smile to himself because, in his mind, that meant both you and the baby were taken care of.
hugo loved spending quiet afternoons with you more than anything. instead of filling every moment with conversation, he'd sit beside you while you watched movies, read a book, or simply rested with your legs across his lap.
his fingers would absentmindedly trace slow circles over your stomach whenever the baby started moving, and before long he'd start talking to them like they were already sitting beside him.
he'd tell funny stories about his day, make little jokes he hoped would earn a kick, and laugh every time one actually came. "see?" he'd grin while looking at you. "they already think i'm funny." even when you rolled your eyes, you couldn't stop yourself from laughing with him.
there were moments when the pregnancy became overwhelming, especially as your due date got closer and the nerves slowly settled in. on those nights, hugo never tried to fix everything with the perfect words.
he'd sit beside you, letting you lean into him while his hand gently rubbed your back. he'd listen to every fear you had without interrupting, only speaking once you had gotten everything off your chest. "we're going to figure it out together," he'd say quietly, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "i'm not expecting you to know everything, and you don't have to expect that from yourself either."
as the nursery slowly came together, he found himself stopping in the doorway more often than he'd admit, imagining what life would be like once the room was finally filled with tiny cries and sleepy smiles instead of silence.
after finishing the last piece of furniture, he wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder while the two of you looked around the room.
"it's starting to feel real," he whispered with a soft laugh. after a moment, he lowered one hand to your stomach, giving it a gentle pat before smiling to himself. "i can't wait to meet you," he said to the baby. "but don't rush. your mom and i will be right here whenever you're ready."
𑣲 bunny iglesias
bunny never realized how much someone could become his entire world until you became pregnant.
from that day on, taking care of you became second nature, never something he felt forced to do. he'd wake up before you just to make breakfast, leaving little notes beside your plate reminding you to eat everything because "our little family needs it."
if you wandered into the kitchen insisting you could've made it yourself, he'd gently nudge you toward a chair with an amused smile. "that's my job this morning," he'd tell you. "your job is letting me spoil you."
he quickly learned that some days weren't about fixing anything. there were afternoons where your body ached, your emotions felt all over the place, and nothing seemed to make you feel better.
instead of searching for the perfect words, bunny would quietly crawl into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist while the two of you stayed under the blankets for hours. he'd put on one of your favorite movies, play with your hair, or simply let you complain about everything without interrupting.
whenever you apologized for being "too much," he'd look at you like the thought had never crossed his mind. "you're carrying our baby," he'd say softly. "if you want to complain all day, i'll listen all day."
he also became oddly excited about preparing the house. one weekend you walked into the spare room only to find him sitting on the floor surrounded by tiny baby clothes, carefully folding every little onesie even though half of them ended up looking messier than before.
he looked so focused that you couldn't help but laugh, earning a confused look from him before he held up one impossibly tiny sock between his fingers. "how is someone's foot supposed to fit in this?" he asked with complete seriousness. the room quickly filled with your laughter, and he couldn't stop smiling after hearing it.
whenever you struggled with the changes pregnancy brought, bunny always found a way to remind you that nothing about you had become less beautiful.
if your favorite clothes no longer fit or you felt frustrated looking in the mirror, he'd stand behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder while your eyes met in the reflection. "all i see is the woman i love," he'd murmur, gently taking your hand into his.
"you're giving us the greatest gift i'll ever receive. i don't think i've ever looked at you and loved you more than i do now."
late at night, after the house had gone quiet, the two of you often found yourselves talking about everything the future might hold.
you'd sit together on the couch with your head against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced shapes over your hand, wondering what your child's laugh would sound like, whose habits they'd inherit, or what kind of parents the two of you would become.
bunny never claimed to have all the answers, but every time the conversation drifted toward uncertainty, he'd smile and squeeze your hand. "whatever happens," he'd whisper, "we'll learn together. that's what families do."
𑣲 julian loki
when loki learned you were pregnant, he somehow became both calmer and even more energetic at the same time.
he still had his endless amount of energy and couldn't sit still for very long, but whenever it came to you, he slowed himself down without thinking about it. if he noticed you were walking behind him, he'd immediately match your pace instead of rushing ahead.
if the two of you were out together, he'd always make sure there was somewhere nearby for you to sit and rest whenever you needed a break. he never wanted you to feel like you had to keep up with him, so instead, he happily kept up with you.
he loved turning ordinary days into something fun because he hated seeing you bored while you were stuck resting. he'd show up with board games, puzzles, snacks, or some random hobby he found online that he insisted the two of you should try together.
sometimes the activity lasted hours, other times it ended with the two of you laughing because neither of you had any idea what you were doing. he didn't care if the final result looked terrible. if you were smiling, then he'd call the day a success.
loki was also the first person to notice when your energy started running low. before you could even say anything, he'd already be pulling a blanket over your legs, handing you your favorite drink, or asking if you wanted to lie down for a while.
he never made it sound like you were fragile. instead, he'd smile and say, "you're doing enough already." hearing those words always made the guilt disappear whenever you felt bad for needing extra rest.
as your due date slowly got closer, he became surprisingly curious about everything that came after.
he'd ask endless questions while the two of you put together the nursery, wondering what your baby's first word might be, whether they'd like sports, music, drawing, or something completely different.
whenever someone joked that your child had to become a football player because of him, loki would laugh before shaking his head. "they don't have to be anything except happy," he'd say. "whatever they love, i'll be cheering louder than everyone else."
one day, after finishing the last few things around the house, the two of you ended up sitting on the living room floor surrounded by unopened gifts and tiny baby blankets.
the room was quiet for once as loki leaned his head against your shoulder with a content sigh. after a long moment, he reached over and intertwined your fingers with his, smiling to himself. "our life is about to change completely," he murmured. "and honestly..." he looked at you with the same bright smile that always made your heart race.
"i don't think i've ever been this excited for anything before."
𑣲 don lorenzo
when lorenzo found out you were pregnant, the excitement hit him almost immediately, but so did the fear. it wasn't something he admitted out loud at first.
instead, it showed itself in the quiet moments, when he'd stare a little too long at the tiny clothes in store windows or stop talking whenever someone mentioned what made a "good parent."
growing up with almost nothing left him wondering if he'd know how to give your child the kind of childhood he never had. every now and then he'd ask you questions that seemed to come out of nowhere.
"do you think i'll be enough?" he'd mumble one evening, avoiding your eyes. "i don't want them growing up the way i did."
those worries never stopped him from taking care of you. if anything, they made him try even harder.
he'd proudly carry every shopping bag before you could reach for one, constantly remind you to sit down whenever you looked tired, and somehow always remember the little things you mentioned in passing.
if you casually said you wanted strawberries three days ago, he'd come home holding a carton with the biggest grin with his grills showing on his face like he'd just completed the world's greatest mission. because seeing you smile because of something so small always made him feel like he was doing at least one thing right.
lorenzo also had a habit of making you laugh whenever pregnancy started feeling overwhelming.
if you became frustrated because your body was sore or you were exhausted, he'd immediately start making ridiculous faces, dramatic impressions of people you both knew, or tell exaggerated stories that became more unbelievable with every sentence.
he'd celebrate every laugh he managed to get out of you like he'd won a trophy. "there it is," he'd say with a satisfied smile. "that's the one i've been waiting for."
sometimes, though, the cheerful act slipped away.
late at night, after you'd both gotten ready for bed, he'd quietly rest beside you with his fingers loosely intertwined with yours. those were the moments when he'd finally admit what was sitting in the back of his mind. "i keep thinking about when i was little," he'd confess softly.
"i remember what it felt like to be hungry... to wonder if anyone cared where i was." his voice would grow quieter before he looked over at you. "i never want our kid to feel that. not even for a second." you'd remind him that the very fact he worried so much already showed how deeply he cared, and hearing that always seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders.
the nursery became something deeply personal to him. every shelf he built, every toy he carefully placed, every blanket he folded was his way of creating the kind of home he'd always wished for as a child.
one afternoon, after the room was finally finished, he stood in the doorway looking around in complete silence.
you walked over and slipped your hand into his, and after a long pause, he smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "they're never going to wonder if they're loved," he whispered. "they're going to wake up every day knowing they have a family waiting for them."
then he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently kissed your temple. "that's the childhood i want to give them... one that's nothing like mine."
omg pls write a bunny version of ur clingy!sick sae oneshot
Happily <33
Sae ver.
It felt, honestly, impossible.
There hadn't been a warning. No real development to point back to and say 'oh, that's when it started'. Nothing Bunny had said or done that would've made you think this was coming.
Sure, maybe his cheeks had been a little too flushed after his morning runs the past few days. A touch too pink even for someone who pushed himself the way he did, and yeah, he'd slept in longer than usual yesterday. Only to somehow still manage to knock out for nearly three hours in the middle of the afternoon like it was nothing. But even then, it hadn't felt real. It hadn't felt like something serious.
Bunny didn't get sick.
That was just...a fact, one he'd reinforced so many times it had become truth to everyone around him, including you.
Except now.
Now his body burned in a way that felt wrong, heat clinging to his skin like it had nowhere else to go, settling deep into his bones until even breathing felt heavier than it should have. His face flushed a deep, stubborn crimson, the kind that didn't fade no matter how much time passed. And every inch of him felt weighted down, as if gravity had decided to double just for him alone.
If he didn't know better, Bunny might've genuinely thought this was what dying felt like.
He had, actually.
Around five in the morning, sprawled half off the bed, fevered and dramatic in that way only he could be when no one was there to hear it, quietly deciding that if this was how it ended, it was at least a little pathetic.
Not on the field, not in front of a crowd, not even during something worth remembering. Just...like this. Taken out by something invisible, something boring. His pride would've had a lot more to say about that if his brain had been functioning properly.
But it wasn't.
Everything felt slow, almost thick. Like his thoughts had to push through something just to form, and even then, they didn't come out right. Your voice, especially, felt distant. He could hear it, could see your mouth moving as you hovered near him, but the meaning of your words slipped through his grasp before he could catch them.
It was frustrating in a way he couldn't even properly react to, his brows pulling together faintly as you pressed a small cup into his hand, guiding it up to his lips with a patience he didn't deserve.
The liquid tasted awful.
Bitter enough that his face twisted immediately in weak protest, a quiet, hoarse complaint slipping out under his breath, something half-formed that even he didn't fully register. "Sabe horrible..." it came out rough, slurred at the edges, like the effort of speaking alone was too much, but he swallowed it anyway. Not when you were looking at him like that, with that barely hidden look of concern. And even in this state, he didn't quite have it in him to refuse you.
So, when your voice pulled through his sluggish mind again.
"-sleep."
That word stuck.
Something simple enough for his brain to latch onto without struggling, and he didn't argue. Sleep sounded right. Sounded easy. So, he let himself fall into it, just like that. His body gave in almost instantly, like it had been waiting for permission.
Bunny Iglesias slept like the dead when he was sick.
Not the kind of sleep where he'd stir if you shifted beside him, or crack an eye open at the sound of movement.
No.
This was a complete shutdown, like someone had pulled the plug entirely. It took effort, actual effort, to wake him, to get him to drink water or take more medicine or eat even a few bites of something you'd made. His body had simply decided it was done participating, done cooperating, and there was very little you could do about it expect work around him.
Well, almost entirely. Because somehow, some freaken how, one thing didn't shut off.
That football strength.
What was once a carefully controlled matter of mass was now pure instinct without thought behind it. Muscle memory acted on its own while his mind lagged somewhere far behind. But it was still there, enough to be a problem.
Because when you leaned over him again, trying to adjust the blanket slipping off his shoulder, maybe to check his temperature or wake him just enough to get more water into him, Bunny moved.
Not intentionally. His arm lifted sluggishly, uncoordinated, you could say, but it still found you. Hooked around your waist like it had done a hundred times before. Only this time, without any awareness behind it, dragging you down with him in a slow, unsteady pull that you didn't have time to react to before his full weight followed.
Sudden enough that the air left your lungs in a startled wheeze as he settled on top of you, all heat and dead weight, like he'd decided you were simply where he belonged now.
"Bunny-" you tried, breath catching as you pushed weakly at his shoulder, but it barely did anything. "Get-off-"
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
Instead, his grip tightened. Just enough to keep you there as his face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he shifted closer, like he couldn't quite get close enough, no matter how much space he closed. His leg hooked over yours in the same half-conscious motion, anchoring you more firmly beneath him, trapping you in a way that would've been intentional if he'd been awake. But he wasn't. Not fully anyway.
The low sound slipped from him, something soft and slurred, words tangled together in Spanish as his fingers flexed weakly against your side. “Quédate… aquí… no te vayas…” The syllables blurred together, barely audible, but the meaning was there. Stay here… don’t leave…- mumbled like a plea he didn’t even realize he was making.
And then he snuggled closer.
Aggressively.
There was no grace to it, no awareness of how much weight he was putting on you or how little room you had to breathe as he shifted again, dragging you tighter against him like you were something he could tuck into himself and keep there.
His face pressed fully into your neck, nuzzling in a way that would've been embarrassing if anyone was around, his arm tightening just enough to make sure you couldn't go anywhere even if you tried.
"Bunny- I can't- breath-" you wheezed out, half-laughing despite the situation, but there was no response.
blue lock: playmaker's choice | masterlist
request by: @chososbunny (for bunny i tried to make it his "true self", since i believe how he acts in the manga isn't how he actually acts, and he's just acting so that people won't see the real him)
prompt: bachira, yukimiya, bunny + truth spell
a/n: feel free to read my series "all-star training" on wattpad, it's edited so the story flows nicer and there's also an extra five chapters not on tumblr of sae and reader's date
the charm is cheap.
like… embarrassingly cheap.
you’re standing outside a tiny, shady stall tucked between two normal shops, one selling sports gear, the other selling takoyaki, and right in the middle is this weird purple tent with tassels everywhere and a sign that says:
“truth spell - 500 yen. results may vary.”
you honestly only bought it because the old lady running the booth looked like she’d cry if you didn’t.
the charm itself is a little wooden pendant with a swirl carved into it. suspicious. lightweight. probably made in bulk. the instruction paper is even worse, written in sparkly gel pen like a bored middle-schooler created it during math class.
you’re walking away with it tucked between your fingers, already regretting the entire thing, when you hear, “yooou got something weird again, didn’t you?”
oh god.
that voice.
that sing-song tone.
that ‘i saw something shiny and decided it was your problem now’ energy.
you turn, and there’s bachira, half-sweaty from individual drills, hair tied despite his hair being short that somehow makes him look even more feral..
he tilts his head, yellow eyes tracking the charm in your hand with unnerving accuracy. “hmm… what’s thaaat?”
you shove it behind your back. bad move. his grin widens.
“oh? ohh? hiding it?” he leans forward, hands clasped behind him, rocking on his toes. “now i’m extra curious.”
you try to deflect, but he’s already circling you like a playful predator, humming to himself.
“did you buy something cursed? a toy? a snack? a pet? is it a pet?” he gasps. “is it a haunted pet? can i see?”
“it’s not a haunted pet-!”
“so it is something fun!”
you exhale through your nose. no escaping.
“it’s just…” you show him the charm. “…this.”
bachira freezes mid-step. then, “…pff-”
a snort.
another snort.
and then he’s full-on laughing, hands on his knees, the sound unrestrained and absolutely delighted.
“oh my god, it’s so ugly—” he snatches it from you before you can stop him, holding it between two fingers like it’s bizarre and precious at the same time. “what’s it do? do you rub it? wear it? eat it?”
“don’t eat it.”
“you sound unsure,” he says, inching it toward his mouth just to watch you panic.
you grab it back, heart racing. “it’s- it’s a truth spell, okay? supposedly.”
“oooh.” his eyes sparkle with interest, humor, and a little something else, like he’s already ten steps ahead of you. “are you planning to interrogate someone?”
you freeze for a millisecond too long.
he notices.
he always notices.
“oho,” he hums, leaning in, nose almost brushing yours. “so you really were trying something.”
“not… anything bad.”
his grin softens into something gentler but more intense. bachira has this weird way of looking at you, like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve and also a treat he wants to eat and also something he genuinely enjoys watching.
“hey,” he says, tapping the charm lightly. “if you’re going to use magic on me, at least take me out first.”
your stomach drops.
“…what?”
he beams. “let’s go hang out! i want taiyaki. and maybe a smoothie. or maybe… hmm…” he circles behind you and gives your shoulders a push. “a walk sounds good! c’mon.”
you stumble forward, helpless.
♕♕♕
you don’t activate the spell right away.
mostly because bachira is acting like he drank three energy drinks and then snorted a fourth one. he drags you across the street, bouncing, literally bouncing, every third step. you have to jog a little to keep up, and he glances back at you each time with a grin like your struggle is endlessly entertaining.
by the time you reach the riverside path, he’s already bought taiyaki. you’re still panting. he’s leaning over the railing, stretching like a cat, hair falling from his loose bun in wispy strands.
“so?” he asks casually. “when’re you gonna sprinkle your magic on me?”
your heart jumps. “i- i’m not sprinkling anything.”
he turns his head just enough to raise an eyebrow at you, lips curled into a lazy smirk.
“mm. okay.” he takes a bite of his taiyaki. “liar.”
you nearly choke on your own air. “w- what do you mean liar?!”
he taps his temple with the end of the fish-shaped pastry. “your whole face said, ‘oh crap, how did he notice?’”
you glare. he beams.
god, he’s impossible.
but fine. if he’s going to be like that? you’re activating it now.
you hold the charm in your hand, thumb pressing into the carved spiral, just like the instructions said. you whisper the phrase. a tiny quick spark zips through your palm like static.
you flinch.
bachira’s head snaps toward you instantly. “what was that?”
your throat tightens. “nothing!”
he narrows his eyes playfully, just enough mischief to make you sweat. but then he shrugs, stretching his arms behind him until his back pops.
“so,” he says brightly, “ask me something!”
“…why are you so enthusiastic?”
he gasps dramatically. “did you just waste your spell on that question? that’s so boring! you can do better!”
you huff, crossing your arms. “fine. then answer seriously.”
he hums thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “because i like talking to you.”
your brain just pauses.
not because it’s romantic or anything, but because he says it so smoothly. like he didn’t even think about dodging.
wait.
is the spell actually working?
“actually,” bachira adds, eyes flicking toward you in that too-knowing way, “it’s fun trying to guess what you’re thinking all the time.”
you swallow.
okay.
okay, good.
the spell works.
time for the real stuff.
you try to sound casual. “alright… then… what do you think of your teammates?”
you expect chaos, jokes and even expect him to sidestep.
instead you got, “hm… rin is strong, but not fun yet. isagi’s awesome, his monster gets loud sometimes, loud enough that mine wants to chase it around. barou’s annoying but in a satisfying way, like kicking a vending machine and getting a free drink.”
you choke on a laugh. he smiles at your reaction.
“and kaiser?” you ask.
he grins wolfishly. “a mosquito with pretty hair.”
you bark a laugh. okay, so the spell is definitely making him honest. casually brutal even.
you get bolder. “…what’s something you never tell anyone?”
his smile softens, but only slightly. “mm. that i get lonely when everyone else’s monsters go quiet.”
your heart squeezes. he looks away right after saying it, watching the river ripple in the fading sunlight.
the truth spell didn’t force him into saying something dark or dramatic. it just… let something honest slip.
you take a breath.
okay.
time to test the waters, carefully.
“what about… someone you like?”
bachira doesn’t even blink. “i like lots of people.” he tilts his head, thinking. “people are nice. some feel spicy. some feel boring. some feel… mm… comforting.”
he looks right at you when he says that last word, but the spell doesn’t catch him in a lie, because technically, he hasn’t said anything specific.
you squint. “that’s not- that doesn’t even answer-”
“it’s the truth!” he says cheerfully. “you didn’t ask me who.”
…damn it.
he’s already finding loopholes.
you narrow your eyes at him. “fine then. who’s the person your monster reacts to the most?”
he hums, rocking on his toes, hands behind his back. “oh, that’s easy.”
your pulse jumps.
he leans forward, lips quirking. “it’s someone who asks a looot of questions.”
your soul leaves your body. “you’re messing with me,” you mutter.
he gasps. “me? mess with you? never!”
that is, ironically, the most dishonest-sounding truthful thing anyone has ever said.
“you’re seriously getting around the spell already,” you complain.
bachira beams, stepping backward with a spin and landing in a crouch. “that’s because you’re asking questions with too much bait.” he taps his head. “be smarter. gotta outplay me if you want secrets.”
you groan. you are not going to lose a mind-game to this man.
he just laughs, eyes glinting, delighted. “so?” he asks. “what’s next, spellcaster?”
you clear your throat. “okay. new question.”
he stops mid-spin and turns toward you with a bright “mm?”
you take a breath. “…what do you want right now?” you ask.
his eyes shine. “taiyaki.”
“you already had taiyaki.”
“i always want taiyaki.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose. “no. i mean, emotionally.”
“ooooh~” he leans in close, hands clasped behind him, grin wide. “that’s a sneaky way of asking something else.”
your cheeks warm. “just answer.”
he opens his mouth, closes it, taps his chin, then says,“…i want you to try harder.”
your breath stutters. he straightens, stretching his arms behind his back until his shirt rides up just a little, revealing warm brown skin.
“you’re smart,” he says with a playful pout. “but your questions are boring.”
you sputter. “i am-? excuse-?!”
“you keep asking around what you want to know,” he says, pointing at you with exaggerated seriousness. “not toward it. you’re scared of the actual question.”
you freeze.
because he’s… not wrong. at all.
and the only reason he knows that is because bachira is impossibly, terrifyingly perceptive.
you square your shoulders defensively. “fine. fine, then. how about this, what do you think about me?”
“you’re fun.”
you roll your eyes. “that’s vague.”
“you didn’t ask for detail,” he replies, too sweetly.
you grit your teeth. “okay. then give me details.”
“mm.” he taps his lip. “you’re warm. you ask questions like you want to peel someone open, but you hesitate when it matters. your monster’s a little shy, but also cute. you smell nice. oh- and you get this little wrinkle right here-” he reaches forward to tap between your eyebrows, “when you’re holding back from asking what you actually want.”
you swat his hand away, heart hammering. “you’re cheating.”
“nope!” he beams. “still the truth.”
you’re losing this. you are absolutely losing this.
time to escalate.
you take a step closer. then another.
bachira watches with visible delight, eyes sparkling like a kid at a carnival.
“okay,” you say slowly. “let’s try something… direct.” you hold the charm up between you. “who-”
he suddenly plucks the charm out of your hand.
you yelp. “hey-!”
he holds it above his head like a prize, sticking his tongue out. “what if i ask the questions now?”
“that’s not how this works!”
“why not?” he wiggles the pendant. “you didn’t read the instructions. i checked.”
“you what-?!”
“when you were ordering taiyaki.” he shrugs. “you take too long picking fillings.”
you smack his arm, mortified. “give it back-”
“answer my question first,” he says, smiling big and sharp. “what do you want right now?”
“i- that’s not the deal-”
he steps closer. and closer. until you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
“c’mon,” he murmurs. “truth for truth.”
the air shifts. the playful lilt in his voice doesn’t disappear, but it deepens, turning into something warm, something focused. his eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing all your little reactions.
he waits.
you open your mouth todeny, deflect, dodge, anything. but before any sound can escape, he suddenly gasps loudly and jumps back like he remembered something crucial.
“oh! i almost forgot!” he points down the path. “there’s a place with melon soda!”
your brain screeches. “what-”
he sprints off.
actually sprints.
full speed.
arms waving above his head.
“bachira-!!!”
he twists around mid-run, jogging backward just to grin at you.
“catch me if you want your spell back!”
“you are the worst-!”
he just laughs, bright and feral and delighted.
and as you chase after him, two thoughts hit you at once, he absolutely ditched the question on purpose. and that the spell might force the truth, but it will never, ever force a confession out of someone who refuses to play easy.
especially not someone like bachira.
♕♕♕
you eventually catch him.
not because you’re fast enough, god no, but because bachira lets you.
you grab the back of his shirt, breathless, absolutely done with life. he stops immediately, spinning around with his hands in the air like you’re a cop and he’s pretending to surrender.
“okay, okay! don’t arrest me, officer.”
you glare. “give it.”
he dangles the charm by the cord, expression pure mischief. “hmm… i dunno…”
“bachira meguru.”
“oh?” his grin cracks wider at the sound of you saying his first name like that. “using my government name now? scary.”
“give. it.”
he steps closer, one smooth glide of movement, until the charm is swinging between you like a pendulum. his voice lowers, loses its bubbly sing-song edge, and becomes something softer… but sharper.
“you really want answers that badly?”
your breath catches. because something about the way he says it feels… serious.
you swallow. “…yeah.”
he hums thoughtfully, tapping the tip of the charm against your forehead.
“then you’re gonna have to do better,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you feel his breath. “you’re asking me questions like you’re scared of what i’ll say.”
you stiffen.
he notices. of course he notices. bachira's instinct for emotional shifts is borderline supernatural.
“wanna know a secret?” he asks quietly.
you blink up at him. “…what?”
“you’re not the only one who gets to dig.” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing in an almost cat-like focus. “i can ask questions too. and unlike you, i won’t run from the answers.”
before you can retort, he suddenly steps around behind you, looping the charm’s cord loosely around your wrist like a bracelet. his fingers brush your skin, warm, soft, lingering one second too long.
you shiver.
“okay,” he says brightly, voice jumping back to playful but with a warm undercurrent. “my turn!”
“that’s not-”
“you asked me a hundred things.” he holds up one finger in front of your mouth. “my turn.”
you snap your mouth shut. he smiles like you’re a good student.
“question one,” he says, walking in a slow circle around you. “why were you scared i’d find out what the spell was for?”
you freeze.
he giggles. “that’s a yes-face if i’ve ever seen one.”
you sputter, “no- i just- i wasn’t-”
“liiiies,” he sings, booping your cheek. “next!”
“bachira-”
“question two,” he continues, relentless. “what were you hoping to learn from me that you couldn’t just ask normally?”
your breath hitches.
he stops in front of you, leaning slightly forward, waiting.
you open your mouth, but no sound comes out.
and his eyes soften. just a bit. enough that the teasing melts into something warm and understanding.
“mmm…” he hums. “thought so.”
you look away, cheeks burning.
he tilts your head back gently with one finger under your chin.
“hey,” he says quietly. “you don’t have to be scared of me.”
your chest tightens.
because that, that is the problem.
bachira’s gentle tone is too sincere. his eyes too soft. his presence too close.
you force your voice to work. “i’m not scared.”
“of course you are,” he says sweetly. “but it’s okay. that just means you care.”
you feel your heart somersault.
he leans even closer, close enough that the ends of his hair brush your cheek.
“and i like that,” he whispers. “i like that a lot.”
you just… stand there. frozen. useless. your entire brain replaced with static.
bachira pulls back just slightly, enough to see your face clearly.
his eyes flick down to your lips. then back up to your eyes.
your pulse skyrockets.
he smiles, slow, almost lazy.
“mmh… cute.”
you nearly combust.
he taps the charm still looped around your wrist.
“see?” he says, stepping back with a little hop. “you don’t need magic to get answers out of me. you just need to stop running.”
you exhale shakily. “i’m not running.”
he grins, teeth flashing. “then why’s your heart beating so loud?”
you choke. “how would you even-?!”
he taps his chest. “monster can hear it.”
you want to bury yourself six feet under.
finally, he lifts the charm off your wrist and presses it into your palm, closing your fingers around it with his own.
“here,” he says softly. “your spell. use it if you still want to.”
you look up at him. “do you want me to?”
he smiles, gentle, real, something warm curling beneath it. “mm… i wanna see what you decide.”
and with that, he steps back, leaving you flustered, breathless, and completely unsure who’s actually in control anymore.
spoiler: it’s not you.
so you don’t use the charm again.
not because it stopped glowing, or humming, or whatever weak excuse the instructions offered.
you don’t use it because you can’t.
not when bachira looked at you like that.
not when he turned the game around so effortlessly.
not when he made your heart beat loud enough for him to tease you about.
so you tuck the charm into your pocket and pretend you’re not rethinking your entire existence.
bachira hums as he walks beside you, hands behind his head, steps light and aimless. he’s calmer now, not less playful, just… softer around the edges. like the running, teasing, and emotional ambush earlier wrung out the last of his manic energy.
he nudges you with his elbow. “you’re suuuper quiet.”
you force a smile. “just… thinking.”
“oooh.” he tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “that usually means trouble.”
“not this time.”
“lies~”
you snort. “that’s not how the spell works.”
he stops walking.
you keep going two steps before turning back, confused.
he’s standing under the soft lamplight, hands loose at his sides, the evening breeze picking at the ends of his hair. his expression is unreadable, somewhere between playful curiosity and something deeper.
“so,” he says, “ask me another one.”
you blink. “another what?”
“a truth question.”
you shake your head. “no. i… i’m done.”
he raises a brow. “eh? give up already?”
“it’s not giving up,” you say quietly. “it just feels… wrong now.”
he studies you. really studies you.
slowly, he walks toward you, each step measured, not bouncing or spinning. his eyes stay locked on yours, focused in a way that makes your breath stutter.
when he stops in front of you, he’s close. close enough for you to see the flecks of gold in his irises and to feel the warmth radiating off him.
“why?” he asks.
you swallow. “because i didn’t want a spell to force you to say something you weren’t ready to.”
bachira’s brows lift, not dramatically, just a small flicker of surprise.
then he smiles, like you said something he wasn’t expecting, but liked hearing.
“…you’re cute,” he murmurs. “you know that?”
you blush so hard it hurts. “i’m- i’m serious.”
“i know.” his voice drops even lower. “and that’s what makes it cute.”
you want to scream.
he straightens, sighing dramatically as he stretches his arms above his head. “well, too bad.”
you blink. “too bad what-?”
he looks at you with that signature bachira grin, bright, mischievous, but with a warmth underneath it. the kind that says he made a decision three minutes ago and is only now looping you in.
“truth spell’s gone.”
your heart stops. “what?”
he taps the charm dangling out of your pocket. “no more buzz. it’s turned off.”
you pull it out. he’s right, it’s cold. dead quiet.
the spell is gone.
your stomach sinks. “then i really can’t ask-”
he steps forward.
too close.
your back presses against the rail overlooking the river, and he plants his hands on either side of you, caging you in, not threatening, just close enough that you can’t look away from him.
“mm,” he hums, tilting his head. “you can ask.”
“but you won’t have to.”
your breath catches. “what do you-”
he cuts you off gently.“i’m gonna tell you anyway.”
you freeze.
“you wanted to know who i like, right?” he says softly.
“meguru-”
“it’s you.”
silence. long, stretching silence broken only by the river below you.
you stare at him.
and he keeps going, because now that he’s started, there’s no hesitation.
“my monster? it reacts to you the most.” he smiles a little, eyes bright and earnest. “you make it purr. you make me wanna follow you around, and talk to you, and show you things, and ask things, and today you were running circles around me with that little spell and it was fun. really fun.”
your chest tightens.
“but the truth… the real one…” he taps his chest lightly with two fingers. “i didn’t say it because of magic.” he leans in until his forehead almost touches yours. “i like you because i want to like you.”
the world goes quiet.
the street, the river, the sunset, all of it dims under the weight of his words.
you whisper, “why now?”
his lips curl. “because you tried so hard not to scare me into confessing.” his hand rises slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want, and cups your cheek. “you gave up the spell when you didn’t have to. that was enough for me.”
your throat tightens. “you… you’re impossible.”
he laughs. “yeah. but i’m your impossible.”
you make a small, entirely mortifying sound. he beams.
then, without overthinking it, without hesitation, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
he pulls back just enough to look at your wide eyes. “what?” he grins. “you look like your spell backfired.”
“…you surprised me.”
“good.” he nudges your nose with his. “next time, you don’t need magic. you can just ask me.”
and then he bumps his forehead gently against yours, eyes closing for a second, the closest thing bachira has to a quiet, intimate gesture.
when he opens them again, they sparkle.
“so,” he says brightly, “wanna walk home together? or do you wanna sit here and melt for a few more minutes?”
you bury your face in your hands.
he cackles.
the whole mess starts because yukimiya kenyu cannot walk past anything with minimalist packaging and vague promises.
what you thought was a quick stop at the evening street market, just to kill time after practice, somehow turns into an unplanned tour of every aesthetically pleasing booth within a two-minute radius. and, naturally, he moves through it like it’s a runway.
he’s still in his casual clothes, light jacket draped perfectly over his shoulders, glasses reflecting the soft glow of the string lights overhead.
he is, in the simplest terms, doing the most without even trying.
you’re halfway through a row of handmade jewelry stalls when he suddenly stops.
“…there it is,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing with the intensity of a man who has spotted a rare collectible.
“what? a mirror?” you tease.
his lips twitch, but he ignores you and steps toward a booth decorated with crystals, woven charms, and little glass bottles labeled in curly handwriting.
a sign reads: “awaken your inner clarity - herbal tonics”
you stare at it. then at him. then back at it.
“kenyu,” you say slowly, “please don’t.”
he’s already halfway to the table.
the vendor greets him with the enthusiasm of someone who knows they’ve just spotted a premium customer. “you have a beautiful aura! you look like someone who values inner harmony.”
yukimiya straightens as if someone complimented his footwork. “i do try to maintain balance,” he says warmly, slipping into that polite, perfectly-modulated voice he uses in interviews.
you pinch your nose.
the vendor presents a small, elegant bottle filled with shimmering teal liquid. “this one enhances clarity of mind. helps open your inner truth and purifies emotional pathways.”
“that,” yukimiya says, “sounds useful.”
“no,” you say at the exact same time.
he glances at you with that soft, amused lift of his brow. “it’s a harmless wellness drink.”
“you don’t even like green smoothies.”
“this is entirely different,” he says, already paying.
it is not different.
it is worse.
but he accepts the tiny sample cup with perfect posture, shoulders back, eyes shining like this is a skincare commercial.
he takes a sip.
and instantly, instantly, his expression flickers.
“ah,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. “refreshing.”
“rate that lie on a scale of 1 to 10,” you mutter.
he clears his throat, visibly fighting for dignity. “it has a… complex profile.”
“so does dish soap.”
“i happen to enjoy nuanced flavours,” he insists.
“you’re sweating.”
he is, in fact, very elegantly sweating.
still, he thanks the vendor (too politely), places the empty cup down (too carefully), and walks away (too stiffly).
you follow, both concerned and ridiculously entertained.
“kenyu?” you ask as he adjusts his glasses for the third time in fifteen seconds. “you good?”
“of course. why wouldn’t i be?” he says lightly.
and then, as two strangers walk past, he mutters under his breath, “that man should not be wearing horizontal stripes. it’s a crime against his torso shape.”
you stop walking. “.…what?”
he blinks, confused. “did i say that out loud?”
“yes.”
he turns slowly as an older woman strolls by with her dog. “that hoodie is humiliating for both of them,” he whispers.
“kenyu-!”
a couple passes. “someone needs to tell him those sunglasses are counterfeit.”
he gasps softly and covers his mouth with his hand.
“why am i saying these things?” he whispers behind his palm, horrified. “i didn’t mean for any of that to sound… external.”
you stare at him.
he stares at you.
“…oh my god,” you breathe. “kenyu. i think you drank a truth spell.”
he looks personally offended. “that’s insane. those things aren’t real.”
“say something you would never admit.”
he hesitates. “…chartreuse makes me look sickly.”
his eyes widen. he slaps both hands over his mouth like he just confessed to tax fraud.
you grin. “oh, this is going to be fun.”
he looks at you, absolutely stricken behind his fingers. “this is a violation of my entire brand,” he whispers.
and that’s how your story begins. with yukimiya, picture-perfect idol-in-the-making, blurting the unfiltered truth in the middle of a crowded street market while you try not to cackle.
you drag yukimiya out of the main market street with the urgency of someone escorting a celebrity away from paparazzi. mostly because if he blurts one more unsolicited fashion critique at a stranger, there will be a confrontation.
you stop under a string of lanterns near a quiet side path. he fiddles with his hair. his jacket. his glasses. his entire existence.
“kenyu.” you fold your arms. “i need you to breathe.”
“i am breathing.” he inhales sharply like a man about to be executed. “i just can’t seem to stop talking.”
“that’s because of the drink.”
his mouth opens, probably to defend his choices, but another truth spills out instead, “i only bought it because the bottle was aesthetically pleasing.”
you burst out laughing.
he covers his mouth again, eyes blown wide. “why is this happening?”
“because you drank a truth potion from a vendor who said you had a ‘beautiful aura.’”
“that part was objectively accurate-” his eyes widen as he clamps a hand over his mouth again. “please strike that from the record.”
you snort. he looks like he wants the earth to swallow him.
“okay,” you say, stepping closer. “we need to test this.”
“no, we do not need to test this-”
“yukimiya.”
you give him a look.
he sighs. “…fine.”
you glance around. no one’s nearby. perfect.
“alright,” you say. “tell me something truthful on purpose.”
he considers, then says with perfect diction, “i have impeccable hair.”
“something you’d never admit.”
he hesitates. his jaw tightens.
“…i sometimes rehearse compliments in the mirror to make sure they sound natural.”
you choke.
he looks horrified. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to say that out loud!”
“oh, this is worse than i thought,” you wheeze.
he starts pacing like he’s preparing for a press conference apology.
“okay,” you say between laughs, “try to lie.”
he straightens, schooling his features into neutral professionalism. “i think… pineapple is a delightful pizza topping.”
silence.
then, completely monotone, “that is a lie. pineapple on pizza is culinary treason.”
you bend over, laughing. he looks at you like you’ve personally vandalized his sense of dignity.
“i can’t lie,” he mutters. “and i can’t stop telling the truth.” his cheeks flush. “do you have any idea how horrifying that is for someone with my level of public image control?”
“oh, absolutely.”
“please take this seriously.”
“i am. very seriously. deadly serious.”
you’re not. not even a little.
he groans quietly, adjusting his glasses again.
“fine,” you say, stepping forward with perfect villain energy. “question one.”
he eyes you warily. “k… okay.”
“what’s a fashion trend you pretend to like but secretly hate?”
he stiffens. his mouth fights itself, trying to stay shut.
“…micro-sunglasses,” he whispers finally. “they make people look like confused beetles.”
you slap a hand over your face to muffle your smile. “another,” you say. “what skincare step do you skip even though you say you don’t?”
he visibly dies inside. “…toner.”
you gasp. “you lied to me about toner?”
“it dries me out!” he says defensively, and then winces because that was honest too.
you squint at him. “alright,” you say, “now for the big one.”
he freezes.
“no,” he says. “not the big one.”
you grin like someone who just found a loaded truth gun. “who-”
he puts a finger over your lips before you can finish. “no.”
“kenyu-”
“no.”
“you can’t lie.”
“i can avoid answering,” he says quickly, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i can redirect. i can mislead. i can dance verbally. i can-”
“so you do have someone you like.”
he goes still.
too still.
you whisper, “...kenyu?”
he whispers back, strained, “don’t.”
you blink. “…is it someone i know?”
he practically leaps away, hands thrown up. “i am not answering that,” he declares, voice cracking like he’s in a melodrama. “this is a violation of human rights. and fashion rights. and-”
“so it is someone i know.”
he runs both hands through his hair, messing it up, which is how you know he’s spiraling, before he blurts, “this is an unfair line of questioning and i am filing an emotional complaint.”
you grin. “so you admit-”
“no.”
he just stands there, expression tight, cheeks pink, glasses slipping down his nose because he keeps touching them.
“kenyu,” you say gently, “you know i’m gonna ask again.”
he freezes mid-step.
“no,” he says immediately, finger raised. “no more questions about… that.”
“so you admit there’s a ‘that.’”
his jaw flexes. “…i walked into that one.”
you smile, and he must see it, because he raises a hand in preemptive surrender.
“please listen,” he pleads quietly, smoothing his glasses. “this spell is… deeply inconvenient.”
“inconvenient for who?”
“for my dignity,” he deadpans.
you try (and fail) not to laugh.
he takes a breath, finds his composure, and faces you directly. posture straight, chin raised, like he’s preparing for a press conference.
“ask something else.” he gestures with a polite little wave. “something harmless.”
“harmless,” you repeat.
“yes.”
“okay.”
you lean in.
“do you have a crush?”
his eyes widen, just slightly, before he schools his face into something deadpan and poised. “…yes.”
your eyebrows shoot up. his hand shoots up too, like he wants to shove the truth back into his mouth.
“i said to ask something harmless!”
“how is that not harmless?”
“because you’re asking,” he snaps, then quickly covers his mouth. “that was rude. i apologize. but please stop interrogating me.”
“kenyu…” you smile sweetly. “who is it?”
“i am not answering that.”
“you can’t lie.”
“i can redirect.”
you raise a brow. “try me.”
he inhales, eyes narrowing with the focus of someone invoking every brain cell.
“love,” he begins slowly, “is a complex-”
“stop filibustering.”
he deflates.
“fine,” he mutters. he straightens his glasses again, he’s touched them so many times they’re smudged. “ask something specific.”
“okay.” you step closer, watching his throat bob nervously. “do i know them?”
his eyes flick away. “…define ‘know.’”
“no loopholes.”
he winces like you stabbed him with a blunt spoon. “…yes,” he whispers. “you know them.”
your heart skips.
he sees your face, panics internally, and immediately backpedals, “but not- not necessarily well-! i mean, you might know of them, or- or maybe you’ve seen them? in passing? possibly through casual social overlap-”
“kenyu.”
he shuts up instantly.
you take one slow step closer.
“do they like you back?”
his entire body jerks. he looks like a man being ambushed by his own hormones.
“th-that- that’s-” he swallows. his voice cracks. “that is not… a simple question.”
“simple question, simple answer.”
“it requires nuance!”
“i don’t think it does.”
he hesitates. magic pulls the answer out of him anyway.“…maybe.”
you inhale sharply.
his breath stutters. he tries to walk it back, hands fluttering helplessly as he attempts damage control.
“‘maybe’ is a very flexible term! it covers a wide emotional spectrum! you shouldn’t read too much into-”
“kenyu,” you say, stepping close enough that he flinches like he’s about to combust. “do you want them to?”
“…yes,” he whispers.
the word hangs between you like something fragile and glowing.
his cheeks bloom a soft pink. he grips his jacket like it can protect him from his own honesty.
“and before you say anything,” he blurts, “i refuse to elaborate.”
you grin. “kenyu-”
“no elaboration!” he practically jumps back. “zero elaboration. i am maintaining boundaries for the sake of my mental wellbeing.”
“you like someone i know.” you take another step. “you want them to like you back.”
he covers his face with both hands like a victorian maiden fainting. “that is enough analysis for one evening.”
“are you embarrassed?”
he peeks through his fingers. “…yes.”
“can i ask one more thing?”
“no-” he pauses. the spell tugs at him, and he sighs in defeat. “…yes.”
you lean forward with deadly intent. “is it someone you’re close to?”
his breath catches.
you see it.
the tiny moment where the truth rises, and he tries to swallow it, and the magic yanks it forward anyway.
“…too close,” he whispers.
and then his eyes widen like he can’t believe he said that out loud.
you go still.
he goes very still.
you open your mouth, but he cuts you off, “no more questions.”
“i-”
“no more,” he repeats, softer. his eyes flick away, lashes trembling. “i can’t keep answering like this. it’s humiliating.”
you exhale slowly, stepping back to ease the pressure. “okay. i’ll stop.”
he looks relieved. so relieved your chest squeezes a bit.
he smooths his hair, adjusts his glasses, straightens his jacket, all the little rituals he uses to restore his carefully constructed composure.
“…thank you,” he murmurs.
but the blush stays.
♕♕♕
yukimiya stays silent for a long moment.
too long.
he turns away from you, inhaling slowly, shoulders rising in that smooth, controlled way a model resets their posture before a photoshoot.
except you can see the tremor in his hand.
“kenyu,” you say softly.
he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t trust himself to, maybe.
“don’t,” he says, polite, soft, but edged with something raw. “it’s already difficult enough.”
you take a slow step closer, but not too close. not close enough to overwhelm him again.
“what is?” you ask gently.
he exhales. his breath shakes the tiniest bit. “my… loss of control,” he murmurs.
that lands heavier than you expect.
yukimiya prides himself on control. on composure. on presenting the most polished version of himself, not for vanity alone, but because it’s his armour. his way of existing safely. his way of staying collected, strong, admirable.
and now a single sip from a sketchy vendor has him unraveling.
“i’m… not used to this,” he adds quietly. his eyes stay fixed on the ground. “i don’t usually…” he presses his lips together, searching. “…say things without thinking.”
you soften. “you don’t have to say anything else.”
he laughs under his breath. it’s tiny, humourless. “with this spell,” he murmurs, “i think i do.”
a group of people walk by, and he tenses instantly, afraid he might blurt something again. he turns his head sharply away, shoulders tightening, like he’s bracing for impact.
and then, it slips. “i didn’t want this to happen in front of you.”
your breath catches.
he does too.
his head snaps toward you, eyes wide in horrified realization. “that- that wasn’t- i mean, i didn’t-”
you step toward him. “what do you mean ‘in front of me’?”
he backs up a step like you’re holding a torch to his secrets. “n-nothing. forget it.”
“kenyu.”
“no.”
you watch him struggle between the spell tugging at the truth and his entire personality fighting to keep his inner world intact.
but the spell wins.
“…because i like looking composed in front of you.” his voice is barely a whisper, like he’s trying to outrun what he’s saying.
“did you…” you start slowly, “just say-”
“no.” he turns away so fast his hair swishes. “that was a mistake. a spell-induced… misfire. purely accidental honesty. ignore it.”
“kenyu-”
“please ignore it.”
he’s flustered. fully, beautifully, canonically flustered. he smooths his hair so aggressively it becomes messier. his glasses are crooked but he’s too overwhelmed to fix them.
another beat passes.
then he quietly adds, “…i also didn’t want to look ridiculous while you were watching.”
you blink. “you’re not ridiculous.”
“i feel ridiculous.”
“only because of the truth spell.”
he hesitates. and then whispers the truth he never meant to let slip, “…because i care what you think of me.”
your breath stops.
he realizes what he said a beat later, and goes absolutely still. eyes widening, shoulders rising, dignity plummeting.
he shakes his head so quickly it almost looks like a glitch. “that- please forget- no, don’t forget- no, actually do forget- actually, i don’t know- oh god.”
he lifts his hands to his face again, covering the spreading flush along his cheeks.
“this is mortifying.”
“it’s… honest,” you say gently.
“i don’t want to be honest right now!”
“what, why?”
he blurts it out suddenly, desperately: “i wanted to tell you properly.”
your chest tightens.
he freezes again, breath catching, eyes wide like he can't believe he just said that. “i-” he swallows, throat bobbing. “i wasn’t planning to… confess anything… under magical influence.”
he squeezes his eyes shut, voice trembling with frustration and embarrassment.
“i didn’t want the truth to come out like this,” he murmurs. “i wanted it to be… perfect. thoughtful. controlled. something worthy of you.”
the honesty is so raw it leaves you breathless.
you step closer, slow and delicate.
“kenyu,” you say softly, “i’m not forcing anything. we can stop. we’re stopping. no more questions.”
he exhales shakily, relief and fear and lingering humiliation all tangled together. his shoulders loosen, his head dips slightly.
“…thank you,” he whispers.
and even though the spell is still active, this one isn’t the spell speaking.
this one is just him.
he sighs softly.
“…i’m sorry about today.”
you smile gently. “there’s nothing to apologize for.”
he presses a hand to his forehead, looking almost boyishly embarrassed. “for me, there very much is. i acted out of character. i said far too much. i-”
“kenyu,” you say lightly, nudging his arm. “you literally drank magical truth juice from a glowing paper cup. i think you get a pass.”
that earns you a tiny, reluctant laugh.
“…it was glowing, wasn’t it?” he shakes his head. “i should’ve known better.”
“you were tired. and curious.”
he lets out a breath, soft and rueful. “curious about how it might help my eyes… yes.”
the honesty there is deliberate, not spell-forced, and your chest warms at the trust.
the two of you walk a little farther, the festival sounds fading behind you.
finally, he stops beneath a lantern, the warm gold light catching the edges of his hair and making his expression look softer than you’ve ever seen it.
“…the spell is almost gone,” he says quietly.
you blink. “yeah. i can feel it too.”
he meets your eyes, and there’s no magical shimmer in his irises now. just sincerity. just him.
“before it disappears completely,” he says, “i want to correct something.”
you inhale slowly. “okay.”
he takes a breath so steady and measured it makes your heart thump.
“earlier… i said things the spell forced out of me.” his fingers flex at his side, like he’s grounding himself. “but that doesn’t mean they were untrue.”
your chest tightens.
he holds your gaze, voice gentle but unwavering.
“i do care what you think of me.” his expression softens, the faintest pink dusting his cheeks. “i do want to look composed around you. i do worry about how i seem in your eyes.”
“kenyu…”
“and…” he swallows, but this time, not from fear. from intent. from choosing this moment. “…i did want to tell you properly. without magic.”
your heart jumps.
he steps a little closer, barely a breath of distance left.
“so let me,” he murmurs. “please.”
you nod.
he exhales slowly, relief and courage mixing.
then he says it, softly, beautifully, on purpose, “i like you.”
your breath catches.
“i’ve liked you for a while,” he continues, voice smooth but trembling with honesty he chose to give. “and… if you’ll let me… i’d like to pursue something real with you. no tricks. no spells. just me.”
your chest feels warm and tight and unbelievably gentle all at once.
“kenyu,” you whisper, “i like you too.”
for a moment, he just looks at you, wide-eyed, stunned, joy blooming over his face like sunlight cresting the horizon.
then he laughs and brings a hand to his chest as if steadying the rush of emotion.
“i’m… very glad to hear that,” he says softly.
you smile. “you know, if you want to kiss me now, you don’t need a magic trick.”
his breath hitches.
colour floods his cheeks.
“i-” he clears his throat, trying (and failing) to reassemble his composure. “i would like to. if you’re comfortable.”
“i am.”
he steps closer.
the kiss he gives you is tender, controlled, and sweet, his hand brushing your cheek like he’s making sure you’re real.
when he pulls back, he lets out the quietest breath of wonder.“…much better than blurting things in the street,” he murmurs.
you grin. “yeah. this version suits you more.”
he smiles, soft, radiant, and completely genuine.
“then i’ll make sure you get many more moments like this,” he says, touching your hand lightly. “moments i choose.”
and under the lantern light, with the last of the spell fading into nothing, you believe him.
bunny iglesias’ apartment looks exactly like you expected: minimalist to the point of discomfort, weirdly clean in some places and inexplicably neglected in others. like he only cleans when something annoys him, and never out of a desire for aesthetic harmony.
he sits on the floor instead of the couch, back against the wall, knees bent, scrolling through his phone with the blank, lifeless expression of someone skimming the news purely to pass time until death.
when you step out of the kitchen holding a bowl, he glances up at you. just once. slowly.
“whatever you made smells… confusing,” he says in his usual monotone.
you grin. “it’s experimental.”
“experimental,” he repeats like the word personally offends him. then he shrugs. “if it kills me, it kills me.”
you bring the bowl over. it’s a strange mix, vegetables you found in his freezer, a packet of seasoning with no label, something that looked like rice but might not have been, and a drizzle of the neon-orange sauce he claimed ‘wasn’t expired enough to throw away’.
he doesn’t even hesitate. he just takes the bowl, scoops a spoonful, and eats.
you watch for a reaction.
he swallows.
then, “…tastes like honesty.”
you blink. “…excuse me?”
“it’s weird.” bunny tilts his head with mild curiosity. “feels like my brain’s being… scraped. gently.”
“that’s not normal, bunny.”
“neither is the thing you cooked,” he says with flat certainty.
you smack his arm; he doesn’t flinch. he just lifts another spoonful and eats again, like this is all just routine.
then, something shifts in his expression. a tiny flicker. the slightest tension around his eyes. like his nervous system just pinged a warning.
you lean forward. “what?”
he exhales, slow and bored. “i think i can’t lie right now.”
“you what?”
“i can’t lie,” he repeats, voice flat as stone. he looks at the bowl. “you did this.”
your jaw drops. “what?! why the hell did you eat it-”
“i eat anything,” he says simply. “food is not emotional to me.”
you sputter. “bunny, that’s not- that’s not normal!”
“i never said i was normal,” he says.
you stare at him. he stares back with the emotionally neutral expression of a man staring down the abyss and finding it tedious.
“so you… can’t lie about anything?” you test cautiously.
he opens his mouth immediately. “i hate most things.”
you pause. “…okay.”
“people are too loud.” another spoonful. he chews. “i don’t like when they look happy for no reason.”
you blink. “…what?”
“happiness is suspicious.”
you snort. “you’re joking.”
“i’m not,” he says, voice dead-flat. “i think joy makes you stupid.”
you burst out laughing, you can’t help it. he watches you, unimpressed, like your amusement is something he’s scientifically observing.
“are you… okay?” you ask through your laughter.
he shrugs lightly. “i feel the same as usual. just… more direct.”
“you’re already direct!”
he takes another bite. “…then this is worse.”
you plop down across from him, staring with fascination. “okay, iglesias. say something nice.”
he considers.
thinks.
then says, in his usual calm, unblinking way, “…i like you more than most people. which is not a compliment, statistically.”
you choke on air. he just watches you struggle, expression unchanged.
then adds, “don’t ask me why. i don’t know.”
your heart does a weird little flip anyway, because even in this dry, clinical tone, the truth is unmistakable.
you swallow.
“so the food gave you a truth spell.”
“yeah.”
“and you’re… okay with that?”
“i don’t care.” he sets the bowl down, calmer than anyone with a magical affliction should be. “if i had a secret i truly needed to protect, i wouldn’t have let you into my home.”
you go quiet.
because that, in bunny iglesias language, is affection.
and he doesn’t realize he just said it.
you watch him slowly, quietly, unknowingly unravel something he’s never put into words.
and it hits you, that this might get dangerous. and he might be way, way more honest than you’re ready for.
“so,” you say slowly, “you really can’t lie?”
“nope.”
“you feeling okay?”
“physically, yes.” he tilts his head. “emotionally, i don’t monitor that.”
you choke on your own breath. he doesn’t blink.
“so you’re just… doing this raw?”
“yes.” a pause. “i don’t see the point in pretending.”
right. truth spell.
you decide to test it, gently.
“okay… tell me what you think of your teammates.”
bunny doesn’t hesitate. he doesn’t even breathe before answering.
“most of them talk too much.”
you snort. “okay, but who specifically?”
“all of them.”
you switch tactics.
“fine. what do you care about?”
he looks at you.
and for the first time, the truth spell gives his eyes a kind of startling clarity, sharp and focused, like he’s not choosing what to hide anymore.
“you,” he says simply.
you freeze.
“i care about you,” he repeats. “but it doesn’t make sense. you’re unpredictable. irrational. you laugh too easily, and you’re always… happy.”
“o-okay…” you manage.
“but i remember what you say.” another shrug. “which is inconvenient.” he keeps going, unaware he’s casually dropping emotional bombs, “you bring energy into my house. not good, not bad. just… something. and you don’t make me tired,” he adds.
that one hits you dead-on.
you swallow. “that’s… kind of sweet, bunny.”
he wrinkles his nose (like a bunny), slightly, barely, like the word ‘sweet’ bothers him.
“it’s just a fact.” he leans back against the wall again, arms resting loosely on his knees. “i don’t like things that make me feel anything. but you do. and i haven’t thrown you out.”
you can’t tell if that’s an insult or a confession.
or both.
“so,” you ask softly, “you do like me?”
his eyes flick up to yours.
“yes.”
just that. flat, direct, deeply sincere.
“and you’re… okay with that?” you push.
“no.”
you let out a wheezing laugh. “bunny-”
“it makes everything more complicated,” he continues calmly. “i preferred when life was quiet.”
“that’s rude.”
“it’s true.”
you’re caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream into a pillow.
the truth spell has him fully in its grip now, peeling away every wall he normally hides behind, leaving him bare-faced and intensely real.
you lean closer.
“okay then… tell me something you’d normally never admit.”
he doesn’t flinch. “when you leave,” he says softly, “the apartment feels empty.”
your breath catches hard enough to hurt.
bunny blinks slowly, unaware he just ripped open the emotional equivalent of a bullet wound. “i don’t like that feeling,” he adds. “so i ignore it.”
your chest clenches.
“and i don’t like ignoring things,” he continues, voice low but steady. “it means they matter.”
you stare at him.
he stares back.
for the first time since this whole absurd situation started, bunny stops talking.
not because the spell has worn off, no, the air around him still feels charged with that strange, tugging honesty, but because he seems to realize something:
you haven’t stopped asking questions.
and he hasn’t been able to stop answering them.
you sit across from him on the floor, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, watching him with a mix of awe and something else you’re not quite ready to name.
bunny sits exactly where he was, back against the wall, knees up, arms loose around them, but his eyes are different.
like there’s something tightening behind them. a flicker of awareness.
“why are you staring at me like that?” he asks, voice flat.
“because you’re being honest. and now… you clearly don’t care to be all fake-smiley around me now that you can’t lie since there’s no point.”
he scoffs under his breath. “unfortunately.”
you smile. “it’s kinda endearing.”
“no, it isn’t.” he says it instantly, no heat, just blunt practicality. “you’re only saying that because you like hearing things that make you feel special.”
you blink. “that’s- okay, ouch?”
“not an insult,” he says calmly. “everyone likes feeling special. that’s just psychology.”
you cross your arms. “okay, then what’s your psychology right now?”
bunny doesn’t answer.
not immediately.
his jaw tightens just slightly, the kind of tiny, involuntary movement you wouldn’t notice unless you were watching him carefully.
and you are.
“…i’m irritated,” he finally says.
“because of the spell?”
“because of you.”
your stomach flips. “me?”
“you’re pushing.” still quiet. still steady. “i’m not used to being pushed.”
you soften. “i’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“you are,” he says flatly. “but you’re pretending it’s curiosity.”
you look down, heat prickling your neck.
he’s not wrong.
you have been pushing. you’re curious, but also… hoping. and maybe he sees right through you.
the truth spell leaves him nowhere to hide, but it leaves you exposed too.
you swallow. “okay. i’ll stop.”
“no.” his voice stops you instantly.
you look up.
he’s watching you, expression unreadable but intense in a way he doesn’t realize he is.
“i didn’t say you should stop,” bunny clarifies, eyes boring into yours. “i said i’m not used to it.”
your pulse stutters.
he continues, the words coming out like he’s being pulled forward by something in his chest, “you’re the only person who talks to me like you expect something back. i don’t know what to do with that,” he murmurs.
you don’t speak.
“and i don’t like not knowing things.” a faint edge enters his voice, not anger, just frustrated truth. “i don’t like the way my thoughts change when you’re here.”
“change how?” you whisper.
he immediately looks away.
that little, subtle retreat is the closest thing to panic bunny iglesias expresses.
you inch a bit closer. “bunny… change how?”
he stays silent, jaw clenched.
then the spell tugs, you can practically feel it, and he exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s giving in against his will. “…you make me aware of myself.”
he doesn’t look at you when he says it, he stares at a corner of the room, expression stiff, like he’s trying to escape.
“i don’t like being aware of myself,” he continues quietly. “it’s messy. it’s slow. it makes me notice things i don’t want to notice.”
“what kind of things?”
another silence.
“when you laugh, my chest gets tight.” your heart slams painfully. he finally looks at you. and the rawness in his gaze hits like a punch. “i don’t like that either.”
you swallow hard, pulse thundering.
“bunny…” you start gently.
but he shakes his head, a tiny, quick motion, not angry, just overwhelmed.
“this is why people shouldn’t feel things like happiness,” he mutters. “it turns everything into noise.”
you reach a hand out, slowly. “what else,” you whisper, “does the spell make you notice?”
his throat bobs.
and then the truth slips, soft and painfully honest:
“when you look at me like you’re waiting for something…” he swallows. “…i want to give it to you.” his voice lowers even more. “and i hate that.”
you stare at him, breathless.
because the truth spelled out between you is too heavy to pretend you didn’t hear.
bunny’s eyes flick away, breaking the intensity for just a moment. “i didn’t want to say that,” he murmurs.
you move closer, barely, and he glances back.
“you can stop,” you say softly. “i won’t push anymore.”
he shakes his head once.
not frantic.
just honest.
“i don’t want to stop,” he admits. “but i don’t know how far this goes.”
you whisper, “we find out together.”
his breath hitches, so subtly you wouldn’t have caught it if the room wasn’t so quiet.
bunny iglesias, usually detached, emotionally distant, dangerously blunt…
…is unraveling.
and he doesn’t know how to stop.
you shuffle even closer before you can overthink it. he tenses, every nerve in his body going alert.
“…why are you moving closer?” he asks, trying to sound irritated.
“why does it matter?”
“it doesn’t,” he says too quickly. “…it does.”
you bite your lip. “what does it do to you?”
bunny’s gaze cuts away, sharp and evasive. “no.”
you lean in a little. “c’mon.”
“no,” he repeats, but this one is weaker. like he already knows he’s going to lose.
the spell pulls.
“it makes my stomach feel weird,” he blurts out.
you blink. “weird… how?”
he closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact.
“like something is climbing up it,” he mutters. “i hate it. it’s intrusive.”
you try not to laugh. “sounds like nerves.”
“i don’t get nervous.”
you raise a brow. “you sound nervous right now.”
“i’m not.” another pause. “…i am.”
you blink.
he glares like it’s your fault. “stop asking me things.”
“you want me to stop?”
“yes.” then, “no.”
you grin a little. “bunny.”
he groans under his breath. “you’re unbearable.”
“you don’t mean that.”
“i do.” another tug. “…i don’t.”
your smile softens into something smaller, more real.
“what am i to you?” you ask it before you can stop yourself.
bunny’s entire body stills.
his eyes snap to yours, and suddenly you can feel the tension.
“you’re-” his voice breaks for the first time. “…someone i think about when i shouldn’t.”
the silence that follows is thick enough to touch.
you whisper, “oh.”
he huffs, frustrated. “stop saying ‘oh’. say something useful.”
“okay,” you say breathlessly. “then… how long?”
his head hits the wall behind him, lightly, like he’s trying to knock himself unconscious before he answers. “since you started showing up here like it was normal.”
“…but you invited me.”
“not the point.”
you try very, very hard not to melt into a puddle. “so you like me,” you say softly.
he glares. “that’s not what i said.”
“that’s what you meant.”
“i hate the way you jump to conclusions.”
“but am i wrong?”
another painful tug.
“no.” a pause. “…and i wish you were.”
you look down, a quiet warmth blooming painfully in your chest.
he watches you. “you keep making these expressions,” he murmurs. “and it’s messing me up.”
“what expressions?”
“that one,” he says, pointing at your face without hesitation. “the one where you look like you’re hoping i’ll say more.” you blink, startled. “and the worst part?” he runs a hand through his hair, visibly distressed. “i keep wanting to say more.”
your breath gets tangled in your throat. “why?” you whisper.
he looks at you, and the truth breaks out of him like a crack in glass. “because i want you.”
your whole body goes still.
he immediately clenches his jaw, furious at himself, shoulders tensing like he wishes he could snatch the words back out of the air.
“i shouldn’t have said that,” he mutters harshly.
but it’s too late.
the truth is hanging there, raw and irreversible.
he exhales shakily and looks away.
“i hate this,” he whispers.
you smile softly. “i don’t.”
he closes his eyes like that only makes it worse.
you watch him carefully.
“bunny…” you say gently.
he doesn’t look up.
“i didn’t mean to make things weird.”
“you didn’t.” he pauses. “…i did.”
that makes you blink. you weren’t expecting him to take the blame. he wasn’t expecting it either, you can tell by the way his jaw locks right after the words escape.
you inch a little closer, slow and careful.
he tenses, but he doesn’t pull away.
“look,” you say softly, “you’re being honest because of the spell. none of this is your fault.”
he finally lifts his head.
“no,” he says quietly. “it is.”
your breath stutters. “why?”
“because…” his fingers tighten around his knee. “…none of the things i said were new.”
that hits you straight in the chest.
“you mean-”
“yes.” a flicker of something flashes through his eyes, not softness, but something bare. “i already knew all of it. i already thought all of it. i just didn’t want you to know.”
you swallow thickly. he watches your reaction like it’s a live wire, ready to recoil.
“and why didn’t you want me to know?” you whisper.
he looks away, expression tightening into something sharp.
“because caring about someone makes them unpredictable.” his voice is low. “it makes me unpredictable. and i don’t like that.”
you nod slowly. “that makes sense.”
he shoots you a glare, defensive. “no it doesn’t.”
you fight a smile. “okay, it makes bunny-sense.”
he scowls, but the tension in his shoulders drops just slightly.
you let the silence sit for a moment, warm and tentative.
“…do you feel better after saying it?” you ask.
“no.” a beat. “…yes.” another beat. “…i don’t know.”
you laugh quietly, and he narrows his eyes like the sound personally inconveniences him.
you reach out, slowly, and tap a finger against his knee. “bunny,” you say softly, “you’re allowed to like someone.”
he stiffens. “that’s not the problem.”
“then what is?”
his eyes land on you, and for the first time, they look… scared. “i don’t want you to like me back because of the spell.”
“it didn’t affect me,” you say gently.
he huffs. “i know.”
you blink. “you… know?”
“yes.” he shifts, avoiding your gaze. “you were already looking at me like that before any magic happened.”
your face heats instantly. “you noticed?”
“obviously. you’re not subtle.” a pause. “…and i’m not oblivious.”
you stare at him.
he stares back.
and something in his expression frays, an invisible string snapping.
“i like you,” he says, voice low, steady, intentional. “not because of magic. not because i slipped. not because you asked.”
your breath stops.
“i like you,” he repeats, almost irritably, as if trying to get ahead of your reaction. “and i’m choosing to tell you. because not saying it anymore feels worse than saying it.”
your chest feels too tight.
you whisper, “bunny…”
he swallows hard, gaze steady but trembling at the edges.
“you don’t have to say it back,” he adds quickly, almost defensive. “i’m not asking for anything. i just-” he exhales shakily. “i needed you to know. from me. not from that stupid spell.”
something in you just cracks open.
without thinking, you gently brush your hand against his.
he freezes like you touched him with live electricity.
but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t even flinch.
he just looks at your fingers touching his like he’s trying to understand the laws of physics again.“…you’re warm, cariño,” he murmurs.
“so are you,” you whisper.
“i don’t like it.”
“you don’t?”
“…i do.”
you laugh.
he squeezes your hand once, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion.
then he says, with the smallest, smallest hint of softness, “you make things complicated.”
Bunny was touching his scar before you got home. The small hand mirror in his hand, the soft plush digits touching the cross-like scar, almost as if he was ashamed of it. When you pushed the door open, he didn’t hear it.
After stepping into the luxurious apartment, you pulled your soaked coat off of your shoulders, hung it on the coat-hanger and then took your shoes off. “I’m home Bun.” You greeted as you looked up at him. The way he quickly hid the mirror in his pocket and the fact you saw him move his fingers away from his scar like it burned them, that didn’t go unnoticed by you. Usually he’d greet you with a soft smile, saying something along the lines of ; “welcome home darling.” But there wasn’t a single word that got out of his mouth, only the pained way he looked at you with his red eyes, looking at you like he wanted, no, needed to say something but he didn’t think he was allowed to.
You stepped up to him, pushing a strand of hair out of his face. “What’s the matter darling?” You asked when he looked at you like he was a monster. “Do you ever think my scar is disgusting?” He asked after a beat of silence. You remained frozen, why would he think of such thing? “No. I’ve never saw it as disgusting. At first I thought it was odd. I’m curious about it, not disgusted.” you reassured him softly, the words hitting too close to comfort. He laid down against your chest and played with the soft ends of your hair. “I think I need to talk to you about it. Promise me you won’t be scared or anything.” He asks, the words carefully picked out before he even said anything. “I promise.” You murmured against his hair.
It took him quite a while to figure out how to explain it. At first, he was sure just throwing some random words to explain would do, but he really wanted you to understand him, to understand what he went through. “I was abandoned when I was a child.” He started. “I got sort of adopted by the church, and since nobody knew my name, they called me bunny, because I jump high.” He said, looking up at you from your chest like a tiny child wanting comfort. You wrapped your arms around him with a chuckle, now understanding the name.
“And the last name ‘Iglesias’ means church. I’m a foundling.” He tried to find the words, wanting to explain everything to you. “Foundlings were usually treated harshly. And since they thought I looked odd, I was an easy target. Everyone was disciplined physically, never a good education. That’s why I was scared when you kept raising your voice or putting your hands up. I kept thinking I was gonna get disciplined.” He murmured into the soft fabric of your shirt. “That’s what happened before I was able to leave that living hell.”
Your breath hitched as you held him, you pressed him tighter against your chest and kissed his forehead. “I’ll never let you go back. I’ll never act like that. I’m here Bun.” You comforted, kissing his head all over like a lovesick puppy. And he smiled. really smiled.
Simon and River are not amused with my sense of humor or their new pal. Fluffy is the culmination of this past week's worth of their collected bunny fluff.
