Something about the bastardization of the story time and time again proves that nobody in power really cares about the people who would resonate with King’s Carrie White. A girl so ugly and repulsive she’s been removed from her own story. The societal need for women and girls to be constantly perceived as attractive is what fuels a fair amount of her torment in the book, but that person isn’t even allowed to exist on the screen. We cannot empathize with her; it isn’t allowed. It’s fascinating to me.
pairing : kisuke urahara x wife!reader & platonic!yoruichi shihouin x reader
summary : kisuke gets jealous of yoruichi play flirting with his wife~
word count : 0.6k
requested by : @laweona150
request/prompt : "OK HEAR ME OUT, Wife!Reader and yoruichi are like besties they're talking they haven't seen each other and stuff and kisuke being kisuke...he's jealous but hes like: me? Jealous? no waaaay! what are you sayiiiing (he totally is) And just yoruichi teasing him over it I dont know u think it will be funny (its 1am help)"
warnings : she's a short one
notes : i hope you like this! i laughed when i read the request and i loved it. i hope you enjoy
༶┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈୨♡୧┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰✿⊱⊷⋇┈༶
"(Y/N)!!!!" he heard yoruichi yell.
“YORUICHI!!!” kisuke heard his wife yell.
wondering what the two women were yelling about, kisuke made his way down the stairs and into the shop. he saw his wife behind the counter and luckily there were no customers to watch this commotion. his lovely wife was leaning over the counter, waving her hands at his long time friend who was sauntering over to her.
"mrs. urahara! i've missed you so much! you look so lovely in that dress of yours~" yoruichi said teasingly. or maybe she was flirting with you. kisuke knew she loved doing that to get under his skin.
"why thank you miss shihouin, you look as lovely as ever." you replied, an adorable grin on your face. he wished you were looking at him with that smile.
"now tell me, how have you been since i last saw you?" yoruichi asked, leaning against the counter to get closer to you.
"i've been good. y'know, putting up with the kids coming in and out of this place as kisuke helps them. and we've got jinta and ururu and tessai. there's never a boring day here at the urahara shop. but you know that!" you laugh.
"you still cooking those lovely meals? i'm craving some (y/n)." yoruichi was definitely flirting.
kisuke decided this was now the time to get between you two.
"yoruichi! stop flirting with my wife." kisuke said as he opened up his fan and hid his face with it.
"but kisuke~ there aren't any customers, you're just jealous~" yoruichi teased her friend.
"why would i be jealous of you?" kisuke asked, fanning himself.
"because i'm making your wife blush and you're not." she continued.
"i have other ways to make her blush."
"i have other ways to make her blush too~"
the distinct sound of the bell that was attached to door sounded, cutting them off.
"ah! hear that? we have a lucky customer!" kisuke said, looking over at the door only to see ichigo standing in the doorway.
"yoruichi! i have a question for you." the young man said, prompting his friend to walk over to him to talk.
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
"you were jealous weren't you?" kisuke heard you ask, but it did not register.
you were getting ready for bed, looking into the mirror in the bathroom as you did... something to your face, kisuke wasn't quite sure. he was just admiring.
"hmm?" he hummed, hoping you would repeat.
"i asked if you were jealous earlier." you repeated, turning the light off and walking towards your husband.
you stood in front of where he was lying down, looking down at him with your hands on your hips, and a smile gracing your lips.
"what? me? of course not!" he laughed, waving his hand at you.
"i'm sure you weren't, is that why you were trying to shoo yoruichi away earlier?" you asked, a teasing tone in your voice.
"i wasn't trying to shoo her away! she was distracting you!" he tried to justify.
"oh yeah? from what? the zero customers we had in the store, even after ichigo came in looking for her?"
"what? no of course not. there's always work to be done. of course i wasn't jealous. why would i be jealous?" kisuke tried to argue, but it wasn't working.
"you're just a jealous old man~ my little old jealous shopkeeper of a husband~" you were teasing him now.
he took this opportunity to grab your hips and pull you into the bed, causing you to let out a squeal and laugh.
world of the living / quincy - m!bleach x chubby fem!reader
You wake up and see/feel his hardness from under the sheets
featuring. kisuke urahara, isshin kurosaki, shinji hirako, kensei muguruma, ryojuro otoribashi, ryuken ishida, jugram haschwalth, askin nakk le vaar, bazz-b, lille barro, cang du
cw/tags (19+ Only | Minors DNI). established relationship, humor, morning wood, non-explicit smut implications, mild crack, minimal-beta read
Kisuke Urahara
You woke up face down in the pillow with one arm hanging off the edge of the futon. The shop was quiet, which meant it was either very early or Tessai had already handled the morning without bothering to wake anyone.
Rolling over, your hand bumped against Kisuke's hip under the sheet, and then against something else entirely, causing your eyes to snap open, completely awake.
Kisuke was on his back beside you, one arm folded behind his head, breathing steady, apparently dead asleep. The sheet was draped low across his hips and doing nothing whatsoever to conceal his situation.
You looked at it. You looked at his face. You looked back at it and it twitched.
"You're staring~" he teased without opening his eyes.
"You're awake?!"
"I'm always awake love. I sleep in shifts, like a dolphin."
"You do not sleep like a dolphin."
"You don't know that." He still hadn't opened his eyes or acknowledged what was happening below his waist. You pressed your hand flat against his stomach, just above the sheet line, and felt every muscle there tighten at once. His breathing didn't change, which meant he was controlling it on purpose.
"Kisuke."
"Hm."
"Are you going to address this?"
"Address what?" He opened one eye, and looked down. "I'm a man in his own bed in the morning. Everything happening right now is within normal biological parameters."
"Normal biological parameters."
"Yup. Completely standard."
You dragged your fingers down from his stomach, tracing the line of hair below his navel, and stopped right at the edge of the sheet. Both his eyes were open now.
"Are you conducting an experiment now?" he asked, intrigued.
"Maybe."
"You don't have a control group."
"Don't need one." You tugged the sheet down an inch. His hand shot out and caught your wrist, but he didn't push it away. He just held it there, your fingers still pinching the fabric. You could feel him measuring your heartbeat.
"Your heart rate is elevated," he observed.
"And so is something else."
That managed to finally crack him as a grin pulled across his face, not the fan-hidden shopkeeper version but the one that showed his teeth and creased the corners of his eyes.
His grip on your wrist shifted and he pulled your hand under the sheet and pressed it against him and his breath left in a rush that he couldn't disguise as anything other than what it was.
"Okay," he said, voice stripped down to nothing. "Let's continue with this experiment, I'll follow your lead."
"First time for everything."
"Don't get used to it." But his hips were already lifting into your hand and his fingers were already in your hair and he didn't take the lead back for a long time.
Isshin Kurosaki
Something poked your lower back. You were half-asleep, curled on your side, and Isshin was pressed against you the way he always slept. His arm was heavy over your waist, his face was buried in your hair, and something was very insistently pressing against the base of your spine.
You shifted your hips backward, just to confirm. The pressure increased. Isshin made a sound into your hair that was halfway between a snore and a groan and his arm tightened around you.
"Isshin."
Nothing.
"Isshin."
"Mmrgh."
"You're poking me."
A long pause. Then his arm retracted and he rolled onto his back so fast the whole bed shook. You turned over to look at him and he was staring at the ceiling with a blank expression.
"That was... my knee," he said.
"That was not your knee and we both know it."
"It could have been my knee. You don't know the exact position of my knee at all times."
"Your knee is not in the middle of your body, Isshin."
He rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled a loud and long sigh. The sheet was doing nothing to help his case. You propped yourself up on your elbow and watched the flush run up his neck and across his ears until it almost reached his hairline.
"It's morning," he said into his hands. "This happens in the morning. It's a medical thing. I'm a doctor. I can explain the whole process if you want. Blood flow, hormones, there's a very boring diagram--"
"I don't want the diagram."
He spread his fingers apart and peered at you through the gap with his eyebrows raised. "What do you want then?"
You pulled the sheet down to his thighs in one motion. His hands dropped from his face. The flush had reached his forehead now and his chest was rising and falling too fast for a man who'd been asleep thirty seconds ago.
"Oh," he said quietly.
You swung your leg over him and settled in his lap and his hands grabbed your hips immediately, fingers pressing into your skin and jaw going tight as his eyes locked on yours.
"We don't have to," he started, and his voice cracked on the second word.
"I know we don't have to."
"The kids are--"
"At school. It's Tuesday."
He stared at you. You ground down against him slowly, and everything on his face rearranged. The embarrassment burned off and what was left was the version of Isshin that remembered exactly how to take charge of a situation.
"Right. Tuesday," he repeated, and his grip on your hips tightened and he sat up underneath you so fast your breath caught. His mouth was on your throat and his hands were pulling you flush against him.
Shinji Hirako
You woke up because Shinji was laughing in his sleep. Little huffs through his nose, his mouth twitching at whatever was happening behind his eyelids. He was sprawled on his back with one arm flung over his head and the other resting on his stomach, his hair wrecked across the pillow in every direction.
The sheet had migrated south during the night and was bunched around his upper thighs, which was how you noticed the situation before he did.
You watched for a moment. Considered being polite about it. Decided against it.
You poked him in the ribs. Hard.
He flinched, swatted at your hand, and didn't open his eyes. "Five more minutes, if the house isn't on fire, I don't care."
"The house might not be on fire, but your crotch is."
One eye opened. He looked at you. A slow, disoriented blink. Then he looked down at himself and the extremely obvious state of things, and the grin that spread across his face was completely unapologetic.
"Well good morning to me~" he said.
"You're not even a little embarrassed."
"Why would I be embarrassed? This is a compliment to you. You should be flattered."
"I've been awake for thirty seconds."
"And already making an impact. Look at you miss over-achiv--errrreee" He yawned while stretching his arms over his head, his back arching off the mattress, doing absolutely nothing to address or conceal himself.
In other words, he knew you were looking and intended on going you a full show.
"You're ridiculous Shinji," you scoffed.
"You're still looking though~"
"Kind hard not to."
That landed differently than you expected. His grin stayed but his eyes narrowed, and he turned on his side to face you. His hand found your hip under the covers and pulled you toward him until your body was flush against his and there was no sheet or distance between you.
"Hi," he said, face inches from yours.
"Hi."
"You wanna help me with this or you just want to keep pointing out the obvious?" his face was millimeters away now.
"What if I want to keep pointing out the obvious?"
"Then I'm gonna lose my mind, because I'm about as patient as you think I am." His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, pressing you into him, and his mouth grazed your jaw. "Which as we both know, is not much."
You hooked your leg over his hip and he groaned against your throat, performance be damned. His fingers dug into your back and his hips rocked forward.
"Oh, are we improvising now?" you said.
"Mm, shuddup."
"Just pointing out the obvious."
He pulled back enough to look at you with a heated look.
"Well," he said. "There goes my patience."
Kensei Muguruma
You woke up on your stomach with Kensei's arm pinning you across the lower back. He slept like a barricade, heavy and immovable, and most mornings you had to physically shove him to get enough room to breathe.
But this morning when you shifted against him you felt something firm against your hip, obvious and undeniable.
You turned your head on the pillow to see that he was still out of it. Face half-buried in the mattress, jaw slack, breathing deep. Kensei asleep was one of the only times his face fully relaxed, the permanent scowl smoothed out into something almost peaceful. You rarely got to see it.
Buuuuuut.
You also rarely got to see him at a disadvantage.
You pressed your hip back against him, slow and deliberate and his breathing hitched. His arm tightened across your back and you did it again, putting more weight behind it. A low rumble started in his chest, not quite a growl, not yet a groan.
"Keeeenseeei~" You kept your voice quiet.
His eyes opened. It took him about two seconds to register the situation, his jaw clenched and he pulled his hips back from you immediately, putting an inch of distance between his body and yours.
"Don't," he said. His voice was rough with sleep and something more heated.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make it a thing."
"I'm not making it a thing, it already it is."
You rolled over onto your side, facing him. His arm was still across you but his hips were angled away now, as if that single inch of space was going to save him. You could see the tension running through his shoulders, his neck, the way his hand had curled into a fist against the mattress.
Kensei embarrassed was Kensei angry, and Kensei angry was Kensei who wanted to put his fist through a wall. Or you, ideally.
You reached over and put your hand flat on his chest and he looked at it like you just placed a live grenade there.
"It's fine, Kensei."
"I know it's fine. I didn't say it wasn't fine."
"You're scowling."
"I'm always scowling."
You rolled your eyes, "You're scowling more than usual then."
His jaw clenched while you slid your hand down from his chest to his stomach, feeling every ridge of muscle contract under your palm before you traced the edge of his 69 tattoo with your thumb.
"You don't have to make it more of thing," he said again, quieter now, going with your logic.
"What if I want to make it more of a thing?"
He looked at you and his scowl cracked. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough. His hand uncurled from its fist and landed on your waist, gripping hard enough to dimple your skin.
"Then get over here," he said, "and stop teasing me about it."
You closed the distance and pressed yourself against him and felt him exhale like he'd been holding it since he woke up.
His mouth found yours, rough and graceless, and his hand dragged you in by the back of your thigh. Whatever control he'd been performing dissolved the second your hips met his.
Rojuro Otoribashi (Rose)
You woke to the sound of humming. Of course you did.
Rose was on his back beside you, eyes closed, one hand conducting an invisible orchestra above his chest, fingers moving through the air in slow arcs. The morning light caught all that blonde hair spread across the pillow and made it look like something out of a gallery.
He was composing again. Probably had been for an hour.
What he had not noticed, apparently, was the sheet.
It was draped across his hips in a way that made the whole situation extremely obvious, and he was either genuinely unaware or so lost in whatever symphony was playing in his head that his body had become irrelevant background noise. Knowing Rose, it could have been either or both.
You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked as he kept humming. His conducting hand swept through a crescendo and you reached over and laid your palm flat on his stomach, just below his navel.
The humming stopped.
"Oh, good morning love." he said, eyes still closed, voice carrying the faintest vibrato.
"Morning... Love? You have bit of a situation."
"I have many situations. I'm a captain and a musician. Situations are all part of my work"
You exhaled a long sigh, "Rose. Look down at yourself."
He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked. He paused. Then he let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh that somehow managed to sound melodic.
"Ah, I see... Well. The body is an instrument, and instruments don't always wait for the conductor's cue."
"Did you just... compare your penis to a musical instrument?"
"Everything is music if you listen closely enough." But his voice had lost its airy quality, because your hand was still on his stomach and your thumb had started tracing a slow line back and forth below his navel.
His conducting hand lowered and came to rest on top of yours. Not guiding, not stopping. Just holding.
"You could ignore it," you offered.
"One could ignore a thunderstorm. One could also ignore a Beethoven overture... It would be a profound waste in both cases."
"You're always so dramatic."
"I prefer passionate." He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his eyes were focus on you. "You're not moving your hand."
"No."
"Are you planning to move it somewhere?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you stop comparing yourself to a cello."
He laughed and his hand closed around yours and guided it down beneath the sheet.
His breath caught when your fingers found him, a sharp intake through parted lips, and his eyes fluttered shut and opened his mouth in a gasp, his free hand fisting the pillow beside his head.
Ryuken Ishida
You opened your eyes at 5:02 AM because Ryuken's side of the bed was still occupied. That alone was unusual enough to wake you. Most mornings the sheets were already cold by the time your alarm went off, his side made with military precision.
But today he was still here. Flat on his back, one arm across his eyes, breathing evenly. The sheet were pulled to his waist in that precise way he did everything, edges straight, fabric smooth.
Although it wasn't smooth enough to hide what was underneath.
You looked. Probably for longer than you should have. Then you rolled onto your side and said, "You're still here..."
"I'm aware." His arm stayed over his eyes. His voice was flat and clipped.
"And you're--"
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to." His arm came down from his eyes and he stared at the ceiling. His jaw was tight and a muscle in his cheek was working. He looked like a man trying to perform surgery on his own composure.
You slid across the mattress until your body was against his side. He didn't move toward you, but he didn't move away either. You rested your hand on his chest, over the pressed undershirt he wore to bed.
"It's natural, Ryuken."
"I'm aware of the physiology. I am a doctor."
"Then why are you acting like you've been caught doing something wrong?"
His eyes were sharp and guarded when he looked at you, but his pupils were wide in the low light. He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the ceiling.
"I am not accustomed to... being seen like this."
The sentence landed in the quiet room and stayed there. You understood what it cost him. You didn't push it. You just moved your hand from his chest down to his stomach, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted.
He didn't.
"You don't have to do anything," you said. "I can just--"
"Don't patronize me." But his hand had come up and closed around your wrist, and instead of pulling you away he held you there, fingers tight, thumb against your pulse.
You turned your wrist in his hold, laced your fingers through his and brought his hand to your mouth before kissing his knuckles, one at a time, and watched the muscle in his jaw finally release.
"Come here," you said.
He rolled toward you stiffly, but his hand found your waist and his forehead dropped against yours. You reached between the two of you and touched him through the fabric and his whole body jerked once.
Jugram Haschwalth
You weren't sure what woke you at first.
Jugram was sleeping beside you on his back, perfectly still, perfectly composed, even in sleep. His hands folded over his stomach and his hair arranged on the pillow as if he planned its placement before closing his eyes.
Then you noticed the sheet.
There was a subtle elevation across his lap that did not match the flat, controlled lines of the sheets on top of him. You blinked at it. You blinked again.
Jugram Haschwalth. The Grandmaster, the man who ironed his cape and aligned his boots at right angles before bed... was lying with an erection pressing against Wandenreich-issued bedding like a quiet act of mutiny against his own discipline.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
His eyes opened suddenly, like a switch being thrown and immediately fixed them on you.
"Why are you laughing," he said.
"You well--um...drawn your bedroom sword it seems."
The silence that followed was profound.
His gaze held yours and then, with enormous control, shifted downward. He observed the situation the way he might observe a battlefield irregularity, with calm assessment and absolutely no visible reaction. Then he looked back at you.
"This is merely a physiological occurrence."
"I know what it is, Jugram."
"It requires no acknowledgment."
"And yet here it is. Being acknowledged."
His jaw tightened by a fraction and you rolled onto your side, closing the distance between you before resting your chin on his shoulder. You could see the faintest color along the tops of his cheekbones.
Jugram Haschwalth was blushing. It was so subtle that anyone else would have missed it entirely, but you had spent enough time studying this face to know what his neutral expression looked like, and this was not it.
"It'll pass," he said to the ceiling.
"What if I could help it pass faster?"
He went quiet as though he had been caught without a plan.
You laughed softly and put your hand on his chest. His breathing stayed even but his pulse didn't, you could feel it jumping under your fingers, and the contrast between what his body was doing and what his face was doing was almost unbearable.
"Jugram. Look at me."
He did, looking at you the same way a person looks at someone they still can't quite believe chose them back.
"You could ask," you said.
"I don't ask for things."
His hand came up from his side and cupped the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held there, firm and deliberate. He pulled you down and kissed you, and it was nothing like the rest of him. It was deep and his teeth grazed your bottom lip.
When you slid your hand down his stomach and under the sheet he inhaled against your mouth and his hips lifted to meet you before he could stop them.
Askin Nakk Le Vaar
You were lying on your side, half-awake, watching the early light cut a stripe across the bed, when you noticed the sheet was doing something architectural over Askin's lap.
He was flat on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, still asleep. The sheet tented upward with a frankness that bordered on comedic.
You stared at it for a moment. Then you reached over and flicked it.
His eyes flew open. "Ow. What. Why."
"Good morning to you too babe."
He blinked, looked at you, looked down at himself, and then let his head fall back against the pillow with a groan. "Ah. Right. That."
"That," you agreed.
He rubbed his jaw and stared at the ceiling. "You weren't supposed to be awake for this part. I had a whole system. Get up, handle it, come back, make coffee, maintain the illusion of dignity."
"Illusion's gone, sorry."
"Yup. Completely shattered. Thanks for that." He glanced sideways at you, one eye half-open, that stray strand of hair stuck to his cheekbone. "I could still go handle it... Bathroom's right there."
"You could." you agreed again.
"That would be the reasonable thing to do."
"Absolutely."
"Or."
"Or."
"Or," he said again, quieter.
"Or," you said, and neither of you were finishing the sentence. His throat moved when he swallowed. Your hand was already on his stomach.
"Somebody has to finish saying it," he murmured.
"Ooorrrr I could just do this." You slid your hand below the sheet and his whole body went taut, his breath leaving him in a rush as his hand grabbed your wrist but not to stop you.
"That works," he managed. "--That works too."
He pulled you over him, both hands on your hips, and when you pressed down against him the sound he made was something he would have let anyone else hear. His mouth found yours, slow and unhurried, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip.
"You're so fatal," he murmured against your lips.
Bazz-B
You woke up with Bazz-B's leg shoved between yours and his arm pinning you to the mattress. He was taking up most of the bed space at a diagonal, his face mashed into the pillow and mohawk crushed flat on one side. He was still out, his breathing heavy and body was slack.
But something between your thighs was not slack at all.
His hips were pressed flush against your leg and the situation was extremely, undeniably, clear. You shifted slightly and felt it press harder and his hips rocked forward on instinct, a slow, unconscious grind that made your breath catch before your brain was fully awake.
You laid there for a moment. Considering your options.
"Bazz."
Nothing. His arm tightened around your waist and he mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow and pushed his hips forward again. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip.
"Bazz." You shoved his shoulder. He grunted but didn't wake up. His hand slid down to your hip in his sleep and gripped it and pulled you closer against him, which made the whole situation significantly worse. Or better. Depending on perspective.
"Bazz!" You pinched his arm hard enough to leave a mark.
His head jerked up. "What--W-What's happening--"
"You're grinding on me in your sleep you idiot."
He blinked. The disorientation lasted about two seconds before awareness caught up. He looked down at the position they were in, his leg between yours, his hips pressed against your thigh, his hand gripping your hip.
"That's not--I was asleep!"
"I know you were asleep. That's why I woke you up!"
"So... I'd stop?"
"So you'd do it on purpose."
He stared at you before his gaze dropped to where his body was still pressed between your thighs, then back up to your face.
"Yeah? Is that what you want." he said. Slower this time.
"You heard me."
His fingers pressed into your skin, pulling you tighter against him.
"If you're messing with me," he said, "I'm going to be pissed."
"When have I ever messed with you?"
"Constantly. All the time. It's like half our relationship."
You rolled your hips against his one slow, deliberate grind. The groan that came out of his throat was raw and his eyes went half-shut as his fingers dug into your hip.
"I'm not messing with you," you said.
Lille Barro
Lille's room carried a specific kind of stillness, ordered and absolute. He was beside you on his back, eye closed and breathing measured. Even in sleep, Lille Barro looked disciplined.
You noticed the sheet first. It was pulled tight across his body and tented at the hips, and it took you a moment to reconcile what you were seeing with the man lying next to you. Lille Barro. Was lying here like any other man on any other morning.
You didn't touch him. You just looked, chin propped on your hand, and waited.
His eye opened and glanced at you.
"You've been watching me sleep again..." he said.
"For a few minutes."
His eye moved to the sheet and than back to you. His expression remained exactly the same.
"Even the divine inhabit a body," he said simply.
"Lille."
"I am merely contextualizing--"
"Lille." You put your hand on his stomach and his sentence died. Under your palm his muscles pulled tight and his breathing hitched for exactly one beat before he corrected it. You could almost see him recalibrating, reasserting control, building the wall back up brick by brick while your hand sat on his bare skin and made it all pointless.
"You do this," you said. "Every time. You talk about divinity and purpose and context. And the whole time your heart is going like this." You slid your hand up to his chest and pressed down. His pulse was hammering.
For the first time his composure thinned enough that you could see something underneath it.
Confliction. With part of him that believed he was above this and the part of him that wanted you to move your hand down lower.
"I am not accustomed to--" he started.
"I know."
"My purpose has always been singular. His Majesty's will. The execution of--"
"I know, Lille."
You leaned over and kissed the crosshair mark over his left eye and he stilled. You kissed his cheekbone. The bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. Each one deliberate. Each one placed with the kind of precision only he would understand.
His hand came up and caught the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and held you there, your mouth a breath from his.
"Show me," he said. Quiet. Almost inaudible. "I do not know to be selfish. Show me."
You kissed him. His mouth opened under yours and his hand tightened in your hair and when you slid your hand down he exhaled against your lips like a man surfacing from deep water. His hips lifted to meet your touch and the rest of his composure didn't just thin, it dissolved.
You guided his other hand to your body and he followed your lead with the same focused precision he brought to everything, learning you the way he'd learned the rifle, thorough, intent, and unwilling to miss.
Cang Du
You woke because the room was cold and Cang Du didn't radiate heat when he slept. He barely radiated presence. He was on his back, perfectly still, the sheet folded across his waist with a neatness that suggested he hadn't moved once his sleep. His face was blank, his breathing silent.
But the sheet, neat as it was, couldn't lie.
You looked at the subtle tension in the fabric across his lap. Then you looked at his face. Nothing. He could have been carved from the same iron his body produced. You had no idea if he was awake or asleep, because with Cang Du, there was often no difference in the expression.
You put your hand on his forearm and his eyes opened. No surprise. No disorientation. Just a narrow look fixed on you with the same flat calm he used in everything.
"You're awake," you said.
"I have been awake for some time."
"How long?"
He paused. "Approximately forty minutes."
You stared at him. Forty minutes. This man had been lying perfectly still in the dark for forty minutes, refusing to acknowledge his own body, with the same stubborn discipline he brought to everything else in his life.
"Cang. That's absurd."
"It is not absurd. It is discipline."
"Okay, that's just sad."
You moved closer. You put your hand on his chest flat over his heart. His skin was cool, but his pulse hammered under your palm, fast and hard, the only part of him that couldn't hold rank.
"You could have woken me up," you yawned.
He looked at you. The flat calm didn't crack but something shifted behind it. His hand came up and rested over yours on his chest, pressing it down. His fingers were cool and rough and exact.
"I would not know how to ask," he said.
Seven words. From a man who barely spoke five words in an entire day. You felt the weight of them settle in your chest.
You leaned in and kissed the scar on his lip. He inhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. You kissed the corner of his mouth. His hand tightened over yours. You kissed him fully and for a moment he was rigid and still, and then something gave way and he kissed you back with a crumbling restraint.
You pulled the sheet down and his jaw clenched. You touched him and his eyes closed and his head turned into the pillow and the sound he made was so quiet you felt it more than heard it.
a/n. i laughed too much at myself while writing this. anyone wanna take a wild guess at what my favourite line was?
You know his training schedule by heart, so when the front door opens an hour too early, you already know something's wrong. But loving Kylian means learning the difference between the headlines and the man who comes home, wraps his arms around your waist, worries more about whether you ate during your flight than the adductor strain that brought his medical team into his kitchen.
WARNINGS ◦ established relationship ◦ domestic fluff ◦ slice of life ◦ professional football ◦ soft kylian mbappé ◦ physical affection ◦ sfw content ◦ multilingual couple ◦ reader is an academic ◦ long-distance elements ◦ comfort ◦ poor attempt at being funny mb ◦ description of light injury
2,94O ━━━━━ drabble kylian mbappé x french!reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , the dictator made me write this. don't ask questions pls, just read.
━━━━━ read on ao3
translated from french mon acour—my love tu m'as tellement manqué—i missed you so much alors… comment s'est passé le congrès—how did the conference go ma chérie, c'est si bon de te voir—my dear, is so good to see you et ta mère, elle va bien—and your mother, is she doing well?
The front door swung open.
You had heard the commotion in the hallway a few moments earlier, low voices, the shuffle of shoes on the tiled floor, the faint metallic clink of something heavy being shifted. Kylian’s schedule was etched in your mind after so many overlapping seasons: he should still be at Valdebebas for at least another hour, maybe longer if they were doing extras. The surprise dinner you’d planned, pasta slowly simmering, parmesan freshly grated, the kitchen warm and lived-in, had been timed with care. You weren’t here to disrupt his rhythm, this was simply a quiet gesture, the kind real couples carved out when lives pulled them in different directions.
“I swear, it’s just a tiny—”
His voice carried through the doorway first, familiar and laced with that trademark mix of exasperation and charm, mid-sentence as if continuing an argument that had started in the car or the elevator. Then the door swung fully open, and everything paused.
Kylian stood frozen just inside the apartment, one hand still on the door handle, training bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Behind him, Marc, the club physiotherapist, carried a hard black medical case, while Isabelle, his long-time player liaison who had been with him since the Saint-Germain days, hovered with her iPad and that perpetually composed expression. She was older, elegant, unfazed by football drama but deeply attuned to Kylian’s rhythms.
Your boyfriend blinked, surprise washing over his face so genuinely that your stomach did a small flip despite the immediate knot of worry forming.
“…Mon cœur?”
The words came out softer than the hallway debate, laced with disbelief and a spark of delight that cut through the fatigue etched beneath his eyes. His mouth curved into that boyish smile you knew so well, the one that reached all the way despite the subtle tension in his posture. You could already see it, the way he favored his right side ever so slightly even while standing still, the minor hitch that most people would miss but that sent a quiet thread of worry through your chest.
He wasn’t supposed to be home this early, not with company, not unless something had pulled him off the pitch.
A slow smile tugged at your lips despite the knot forming in your stomach. “Surprise,” you said lightly, setting the spoon down. “I got back this afternoon.”
Kylian’s whole face transformed. The corner of his mouth lifted into that trademark grin, the one that lit up stadiums and press conferences alike, before he let out a low, delighted laugh.
"Give me a second," Kylian said over his shoulder, he shrugged his windbreaker off as he stepped inside, tossing it onto the console table with the kind of accuracy that came from doing it every day, before giving Marc a small nod toward the apartment. "Close the door, will you?" Only then did he make his way toward the kitchen. His gait was almost normal, enough that most people wouldn't have thought twice about it, but every few steps his right leg hesitated just enough to betray him.
It wasn't dramatic, just a careful shift of weight, a fraction less push-off than usual, but you caught it immediately, long before he reached you.
“You made dinner?” His gaze flicked to the stove, then back to you, softening with something deeper than hunger. Without missing a beat, he glanced over his shoulder at Marc and Isabelle, voice dripping with playful theatrics. “Well… you two can leave now,” he announced, gesturing loosely with his free hand, the charm turned up to full Mbappé levels. “Clearly I’ve recovered. Private recovery session incoming.”
The line landed perfectly. Marc snorted, and Isabelle’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but she shook her head with fond exasperation. Your boyfriend caught your eye again, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, conspiratorial smile before giving you a quick wink as if the conversation behind him no longer mattered.
That single quip, tired as he was, mildly annoyed at the injury, yet instantly prioritizing you, felt exactly like the boy Isabelle used to taking care of in early Paris games: cheeky, affectionate, and completely unafraid to tease the people tasked with keeping him in one piece.
Isabelle sighed with the weary fondness of someone who had spent years losing the same argument. "One day," she said, "you're going to discover we're usually right." Kylian let out an incredulous laugh, looking to Marc for support only to find the physiotherapist already nodding in agreement. "Unbelievable," he muttered, earning another laugh from the pair. The easy banter gave you just enough time to step around the counter and greet them properly with a warm smile and a small wave. It wasn't until your attention returned to Kylian that the warmth in your expression quietly faltered.
You noticed the limp the moment he took those first careful steps forward. Subtle, but there, his right leg never quite accepting full weight, a minor hesitation that most fans scrolling highlight reels would never catch. Usually he’d push straight through something like this. The fact that he was home early, escorted by staff, sent a quiet ripple of worry through your chest.
“Kyky…”
He reached you in the kitchen, one hand finding your waist with easy familiarity while the other brushed dampness from the shower from his own forehead. The touch grounded everything, the faint scent of his shower gel mixing with garlic and tomatoes, the warm ambient light spilling across the countertops. His shoulders were still tight with the residue of training, but they eased a fraction as he drew you closer.
“I’m okay,” he murmured, forehead dipping toward yours. “Precautionary. Just a little adductor pull during acceleration work. Planted awkwardly, nothing dramatic.” The humor lingered in his voice, that signature lightness cutting through the fatigue. “I feel fantastic now, honestly, bebé.”
Isabelle draped her blazer over a nearby chair with efficient grace, the two staff inside the star's apartment slowly walking towards you and Mbappé, the familiriaty of colleagues being thrown in the Madrid night air as they got closer to where you both stood.
“We’ll give you two a proper hello,” she said, her tone carrying that maternal steadiness. “Treatment table’s still in the car. Ten minutes.” She shot Kylian a pointed look, no stairs, no heroic, but there was affection beneath it. Marc set the case down with a soft click, exchanging a quick glance with her before they slipped back out.
The door clicked shut.
The apartment felt smaller, softer, the professional “game face” melting away as Kylian’s shoulders dropped fully. He let out a slow breath against your hair, both arms wrapping around you now, holding you close in the quiet hum of the kitchen.
« Tu m’as tellement manqué, mon cœur… » The words were a low murmur against your skin, rich with quiet longing. His voice carried that familiar warmth, the one reserved only for these stolen pockets of normalcy.
You smiled, unable to help it, your hands sliding up his chest. “I’ve only been gone four days, Kyky.”
“I know.” A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “Still a tragedy.”
You laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle simmer of the sauce on the stove and the distant hum of Madrid traffic filtering through the tall windows.
He leaned in then, kissing you slowly, unhurried, lingering just a second longer than usual, as though savoring the taste of home after days apart. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. One hand traced higher along your back while the other rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your waist, his touch warm and grounding amid the savory scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.
« Alors… » he murmured, studying your face with that intent gaze, like he needed to memorize every detail to make up for lost time. « How was the congress? »
The question came so naturally it almost made you forget the subtle hitch in his step when he’d crossed the room. You told him about the long days, the endless speeches, the half the room pretending to follow the keynote graphs, and your own presentation that had gone better than expected. He listened with genuine interest, chuckling at the familiar absurdity of it all, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on your hip.
“And you?” you asked gently, searching his expression.
Kylian's smile settled, the playfulness easing into something more honest. He shrugged one shoulder, still holding you close. “Normal session, acceleration work... The staff stopped me before I could push through.” He paused, reading the concern in your eyes. “I argued, of course, but they won this time.”
Your fingers drifted from his hair to the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the kitchen felt smaller, warmer, the golden light from the overhead fixtures casting soft shadows across the countertops, the faint steam rising from the pan behind you. “You came home early,” you said softly. “You never do that.”
“I know.” His voice was quieter now. Silence stretched comfortably between you, thick with years of learning each other’s truths beneath the public answers.
You searched his eyes carefully, the kind of attentive look that came from loving someone whose body was both his greatest gift and occasional adversary. He didn’t look away. He simply let you study him, tired, mildly annoyed at the interruption to his flow, frustrated with the minor betrayal of his adductor, but not scared, no hidden tension, no minimization that didn’t hold up.
Eventually, a small, amused smile tugged at his lips. « Bébé… » He brushed his thumb across your hip again, voice dropping softer. "Look at me."
“I am looking.”
“No. Look at me, not the injury.” His smile deepened, gentle and reassuring. “I’m okay. If I’d been stubborn and stayed on the pitch, Marc would’ve reminded me how stupid I was for the next month. I’d rather miss three days than three weeks.”
You held his gaze a moment longer, testing for any flicker. You found none, only the honest exhaustion of a man who had learned the hard way when to listen. Your shoulders relaxed, and he sensed it immediately, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead with quiet triumph. "See?"
“I hate when you’re reasonable,” you murmured, a smile playing on your lips.
“I know.” His eyes sparkled with that boyish mischief. “It’s very inconvenient. I can be unreasonable tomorrow if it helps.”
“You probably will.”
“Oh, definitely.”
The easy rhythm wrapped around you both like a blanket, the kind of domestic exchange that grounded everything beyond the headlines and stadium lights. For a moment, it was simply the two of you, your independent lives intersecting here in his kitchen, pasta sauce bubbling softly, his arms still around you as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The apartment door opened again before the moment could stretch further. Marc stepped inside backwards, carrying the folded treatment table over one shoulder, while Isabelle followed with the portable ultrasound unit tucked neatly beneath her arm.
“There he is,” Marc announced dryly. “Patient of the year.”
“I’m literally standing,” Kylian replied, though he didn’t pull away from you, only loosening one arm while keeping the other securely at your waist.
“Exactly,” Isabelle said without missing a beat, her tone warm but firm. “And we’d like to keep it that way.” She set the ultrasound down with practiced efficiency, already glancing toward the living area as if mentally mapping the best spot for the table.
Kylian sighed dramatically, pressing one last quick kiss to your temple before glancing at you with a conspiratorial glint. “See?” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes together and they’re already interrupting.”
“They’re keeping you employed,” you whispered back, lips twitching.
“I preferred your first answer,” he teased softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that signature way that made the whole room feel lighter.
Isabelle’s gaze shifted to you, and her expression softened instantly into something genuinely maternal and affectionate. She crossed the kitchen with a few graceful steps, pulling you into a quick, warm hug that smelled faintly of her signature light perfume. “Ma chérie, it’s so good to see you,” she said in French, her voice rich with that familiar Parisian warmth. “You look lovely. The congress went well, I hope? What about your mother, is she alright?”
You returned the hug easily, smiling. The two of you had always gotten along, Isabelle had known Kylian long enough to treat you like family rather than just “the girlfriend,” offering quiet advice and gentle teasing in equal measure.
“It was productive. Long, but good to be back. Mom's doing great as well. Just complaining that I've been coming to Madrid more than Paris for the last few months.”
Marc offered a polite nod and a quick “Hello” from the edge of the kitchen, keeping a respectful distance. Kylian caught his eye and gave a small, approving nod, silently granting permission for him to move deeper into the apartment. Marc headed off toward the small gym room down the hall, the treatment table balanced easily on his shoulder, his footsteps fading against the hardwood.
Kylian stayed right where he was, one arm still looped around your waist, listening with quiet contentment as you and Isabelle exchanged a few more pleasantries, light updates about travel and how the apartment had felt too quiet without you. His thumb continued its slow, soothing rhythm against your side, a subtle anchor amid the conversation.
After a moment, Isabelle glanced toward the hallway with a knowing smile. “I’ll go help Marc set up. We won’t be long.” She gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her eyes sparkling with understanding. “Enjoy your hello. Properly this time.”
As soon as she disappeared down the hall, Kylian turned his full attention back to you. He studied your face carefully, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer, almost protective.
He glanced over at the simmering pan, and his eyes lit up with genuine excitement.
“Pasta,” he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You have no idea how good that smells right now, bebé.”
He studied your face for another quiet moment, taking in details he hadn't seen over video calls, the faint traces of makeup you'd never quite managed to wash off after traveling, the way a loose strand of hair had escaped behind your ear, the familiar expression that only ever belonged to home.
"Have you eaten properly today, mon cœur?" The question came softly, almost as an afterthought. Before you could answer, he continued. "With the flight... and the congress..." He shook his head a little. "You always forget when things get busy."
He searched your eyes for a second, his expression gentling even further.
"You're okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too tired?"
You couldn't help smiling. It wasn't unusual for him to check in like this after you'd been away, especially knowing how easily you'd get caught up in work when you were excited about it.
Leaning into him, you rested one hand lightly against the front of his training top, the lingering scent of shower gel mixing with your body wash.
"I'm okay, Kyky," you assured him. "I ate on the flight."
His eyebrows lifted just enough to say really?
"Promise," you added, already smiling because you'd recognized the look.
Only then did his shoulders loosen. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before leaning down to brush another unhurried kiss against your forehead. His nose lingered briefly against your hair afterwards, taking a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.
"Good," he murmured, one arm tightening around your waist for just a moment.
Before you could reply, Marc’s voice drifted in from the living room, patient but insistent. “Kylian.”
Your boyfriend closed his eyes, pressing his face into your hair with a quiet groan. “Ignore him,” he muttered, the words half-muffled and entirely unserious.
You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Kyky.”
“Five more minutes.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. He sighed with dramatic reluctance, stealing one last quick kiss, easy and familiar, before his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer. “This is harassment,” he declared under his breath, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.
“It’s your medical team.”
“Same thing.” He squeezed your hand once, light and instinctive, before finally pulling away with the exaggerated resignation of a man being sent to his doom. “You’re taking their side, I don't like it.”
“I’m taking the side of your adductor,” you replied lightly.
“Traitor.” The word carried no heat, only that playful spark that always surfaced when he was caught between what he wanted and what his body needed.
With one final glance over his shoulder, he headed toward the living room. Marc had already unfolded the treatment table near the sofa, the portable ultrasound ready on the coffee table. Isabelle stood nearby, tapping notes into her iPad without looking up. Kylian dropped onto the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh.
“Miraculously recovered?” Marc asked dryly.
“Apparently not.”
You turned back to the stove, lifting the lid to let another wave of fragrant steam rise. The sauce was still perfect, the pasta nearly ready. Behind you, the familiar rhythm of low questions, answers, and the rustle of medical tape blended into the quiet sounds of home. It wasn’t the quiet evening either of you had pictured when you’d planned the surprise, but as Kylian glanced back and caught your eye across the room, the small, tired smile he gave you said he didn’t really mind. Not one bit.
author's note — hello ballblr my name is zerocoded. ig i overdid the french sentences for the non-french speakers like me, 'm sorry 😔. pretend i'm not spamming football content in my kpop dominant account pls. you'll see a lot of me here for the next couple of days pls don't hate me.
small morning date with chihiro except it's just you spoiling and pampering your beloved. chihiro grew up being used to look out for his father during their times together. he shows his affection in subtle ways that are surprisingly romantic once you look into it.
when the two of you are walking in a crowd, chihiro would keep a hand somewhere around your waist to make sure the two of you wouldn't lose each other in the sea of people.
when a stranger gets a little too close to you, he would stand slightly ahead of you and act as a shield to make sure they wouldn't dare to as much as think of doing anything to you.
not to mention how you only need to call his name in dire times and he'll gladly be the blade that protects you with his life on the line.
chihiro is devoted to you and sweet it may sound, but there are times when this self-sacrifical tendency of his worries you.
you decide that it's time you return the favor.
sunlight peeks through gaps the curtains in the room failed to cover, illuminating your beloved's scarred face in a soft shade of yellow. one of your free hands drifted down to hold his shoulder, while the other gently cups his face as you press your lips on the soft plain of his face.
chihiro's face scrunched slightly at the feeling of your lips making contact with his face, a soft shade of pink creeping up his cheeks as the back of his neck grew warmer despite it being left exposed by the black long sleeved shirt he wears to sleep.
"[name], you've been kissing my face for the past five minutes.."
at the sound of his sweet gentle voice, you finally pulled away — albeit just slightly — from him.
"you can handle barrages of attacks sorcerers bombarded you with. surely you can survive a harmless barrage of kisses?"
oh, how truly evil, chihiro thought.
chihiro has many weaknesses and you are one of them. he's weak for you in the knees and you know it that it's truly heinous you're using this knowledge to swarm him in kisses with your soft lips.
later that day, the group is greeted by a somewhat happy chihiro who also seems a little more bashful than he usually is. it doesn't take a genius to guess what happened between the two of you just from the way their samurai's eyes seem to be sneaking looks at your lips when you're present in the room.
Shiba’s eyes flick up from the cigarette tucked between his lips, tip flaring bright as the shuddering flame cupped behind his scarred fingers licks against it.
A warm wind slips over the rooftop.
He pockets his lighter and inhales. His shoulders lift with a shrug.
“Yeah,” he replies, cigarette bobbing slightly with the movement of his lips.
The late night skyline dots the horizon behind him, but Shiba doesn’t turn. Doesn’t shift from where his elbows rest against the railing. He just looks at you.
You pluck the cigarette from his mouth, lips settling over the ghost of his own.
Shiba sighs, seeming nearly transfixed for a moment as he watches you take a drag. He swipes it back before you can protest, and something inside of you thrums in response to his quick reflexes.
“But you’re too young for this shit,” he grunts, and there’s a sense of satisfaction that unfurls in your gut at the way he doesn’t hesitate to put his mouth right over the bright red lipstick stain you left behind.
You hip check him as you come to stand beside him, gazing out at the city beyond.
“You barely have ten years on me, old man.”
Shiba huffs, and you start to turn your head to give him a sidelong glance, only to find the warmth of his chest pressed to your back. He cages you in against the railing, bringing the cigarette back to your mouth again.
His fingers brush against your lips as he holds it there. You taste nicotine and heat and late summer air.
The sun glowing dim, you glided across the ice rink far from the castle, The quietness offering a moment of peace to clear your mind. As you were skating, your eyes caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance.
65.. you think to yourself, you can sense him gawking at your dancing silhouette so intensely.
You draw yourself closer to his figure, as you do, you catch yourself smiling slightly, maybe feeling a bit flushed. “What are you doing here?” you inquire.
His hand resting on his cane, unbothered. You cannot see his eyes, yet you can tell they are burning a hole through you. “I came to check on our darling, of course.”
“What for?” You look over the snowflakes falling on his fluffy hair. You have always favored 65 over the other segments; he was much more mature compared to all of them, and probably because he reminded you of your beloved Zandik.
“Hm? Why am I compelled to explain my reasoning?” he responds, maintaining a calm manner.
“Because you always have an agenda for everything.” You tease, skating around in a circle, not too far from him. “How did you even know I was here?” You paused, drawing yourself closer to him again.
“This is the only place you come to when you’re nowhere to be found.” he says, inspecting you.
You smile slightly at him before that smile sours. “I miss him.” you sigh softly.
There was an eerie silence between you two before he spoke again. “It’s getting late. We should head back.” He extended his hand to you, the other resting on his cane. “Shall we?”
HIIII I LOVE UR WORKS SM!!!!!! I CONSUME THEM LIKE IT'S THE BIBLE 😭🙏🏻
i want to go back to writing and i want to write katsuki... and i have an idea but... i wanted a second opinion about the theme... so like it's katsuki's 3rd year finally and aizawa gets a pro hero sidekick as a temp TA... and she's really cool w a cool quirk... and katsuki admires her right and we all get that tiny crush on one of our teachers right... and katsuki has that, so he starts doing better in class like more active w participation and all that... but she treats it like a normal boy crush and doesn't reciprocate then they graduate right? and katsuki starts working as a pro, but he doesn't stop crushing on her and then she goes back to hero work once her temp TA contract ends so when she's back to the hero scene he starts actually pursuing her 🫣🫣🫣
thank u hello !!!
i think bakugou with an older woman or crush on an older woman is very canon to me. like i can see that happening so i think this idea is very fun lol i don’t dabble in him in school often or read about it so it’s not completely up my street at the beginning but the overall idea very fun. push and pull. you like you are TOO YOUNG !!! and he’s like u met me when i was 18. i am a big boy now. and him impressing you with his quirk and heroness ness. his crush on you being fueled by how talented and skilful you are. like there’s more to it than just how you look. jealousy of you being around older professional senior heroes. bakugou being the new young big dawg who knows he could fight them all in a scrap and win and he SHOULD have respect for his elders but he couldn’t gaf. secret relationship of it all. if there’s shame involved from you because he’s younger??? him falling over your feet wanting to impress you while you’re just going about your day. eeeeekk. him mad that you never take him seriously. he KNOWS what he wants why would he be wasting time???
i wish people would stop romanticizing not eating breakfast and not getting enough sleep and being dependent on coffee to function and always being in a bad mood and treating yourself poorly because that behavior is very unhealthy for you
your wish is my command ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ hope you enjoy this doll (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
♡₊˚ 🏆・₊✧𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐲, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥
♡ song of the year wasn't the only thing michael planned on claiming that night.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ thrad!era ⟡ michael jackson x presenter!fem!reader
FEBRUARY 25, 1986
you stand backstage at the 28th annual grammy awards with the soft hum of the audience drifting through the curtains like a warm tide, the air buzzing with the kind of electricity that only nights like this can hold, and you breathe in slowly as you go over your lines for the third time, whispering them under your breath while your fingers trace the cue cards even though you already know every word by heart, your pulse steady but alert because you want everything to be perfect, not just for the show but because you know he is somewhere out there in the crowd watching you with those dark eyes that always make your stomach flutter, and the thought alone sends a quiet warmth through your chest as you straighten your posture and prepare to step into the lights.
the stage manager gives you a gentle nod and you walk out into the golden glow of the auditorium, the applause rising like a wave that washes over you as you smile at the sea of faces, the cameras, the glittering gowns and tuxedos, the shimmering set pieces that catch the light like jewels, and you let your voice carry with practiced grace as you welcome everyone, your tone warm and confident even though your heart is beating a little faster than usual because you know he is somewhere in the audience listening to every word. "good evening everyone and welcome to the twenty eighth annual grammy awards, we are so excited to celebrate the incredible music and artistry that defined this past year, thank you all for being here tonight."
you hold the microphone with both hands as the applause settles, the lights softening just enough to let you see the first few rows of the audience, and your gaze flickers instinctively toward the spot where you know he is seated, catching only the faint outline of his silhouette, the familiar tilt of his head, the quiet stillness of his posture that always gives him away, and even from this distance you feel the invisible thread between you tighten, a secret connection woven through months of stolen moments and whispered conversations and careful glances that no one else has ever noticed.
you continue with your lines, introducing the first categories of the night, your voice steady and smooth as you guide the audience through the ceremony, and each time you step offstage you feel the adrenaline settle into your bones like a soft hum, the backstage crew moving around you with practiced precision, the sound of applause rising and falling like a heartbeat behind the curtains, and you take a moment to breathe, to center yourself, to remind yourself that you are here to work even though your heart keeps drifting toward him like a compass that cannot help but point north.
when it is time for you to present the next award, you step back into the lights with a smile that feels natural and warm, the audience greeting you with another wave of applause, and you read the nominees with clear, confident rhythm before opening the envelope with a practiced flourish, your voice lifting as you announce the winner, the crowd erupting as the popular male artist makes his way toward the stage with a bright grin and an energy that fills the room, his excitement contagious as he climbs the steps and approaches you with open arms.
you expect a handshake or a quick hug, something simple and professional, but instead he leans in with a warm smile and presses a friendly kiss to your cheek, his hand resting lightly on your arm as he murmurs his thanks for your support on the charity project you worked on together, and you feel your breath catch in surprise as the audience reacts with soft laughter and applause, your cheeks warming as you laugh awkwardly and try to keep your composure, reminding yourself that it is harmless, that it is friendly, that it is nothing more than a gesture of appreciation in front of a room full of people.
you step aside to give him space for his acceptance speech, your smile polite and steady even though your mind is still catching up with the unexpected moment, and as the lights shift to focus on him you let your gaze drift toward the audience again, searching instinctively for the one face that matters most, and when you find him your breath catches because michael isn’t just tense, he’s wound so tightly he looks like he might snap if anyone so much as brushes against him. his jaw isn’t only clenched, it’s locked, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as if he’s fighting every instinct in his body not to get up and drag you off that stage, his eyes don’t just stay on you, they burn into you, dark and sharp and unblinking that sends a shiver down your spine as his fingers curl harder against his knee, knuckles whitening, breath tightening in his chest.
he tries to hide it, he really does, but you know him too well, you know the way his emotions flicker beneath the surface like sparks waiting to catch fire, and you can see the jealousy simmering in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he shifts in his seat as if trying to shake off the image of another man’s lips on your cheek, the way his gaze keeps darting between you and the artist onstage as if replaying the moment over and over in his mind, each repetition tightening something inside him until he looks like he might burst from the pressure alone.
the artist continues his speech, completely unaware of the storm brewing in michael’s chest, thanking his team and the fans and the people who supported the charity project, his voice warm and enthusiastic as the audience applauds again, and you keep your expression calm even though you can practically feel the jealousy radiating off him, thick and hot, filling the space between you even from across the room. it’s in the way he won’t blink, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his foot taps once, twice, three times before he forces it still. he’s trying to stay composed for the cameras, for the crowd, for the moment, but his eyes give him away completely. they’re dark with something possessive, something wounded, something that says he didn’t expect to see another man’s mouth anywhere near you tonight.
when the segment ends and you walk offstage, your heart is still fluttering from the intensity of his stare, your mind replaying the moment in the same way you know he is, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway you press a hand to your cheek where the kiss landed, not because it meant anything but because you know it meant something to him, and the thought alone makes your chest tighten with a mix of affection and worry as you wait for the next cue, the distant sound of applause echoing through the walls like a reminder that the night is far from over.
you lean against the backstage wall for a moment, letting the cool surface steady you as you go over your next lines, your voice soft as you rehearse under your breath, and even though you are alone for now you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin, a silent promise that the night will only grow more intense from here, and you close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the charged air of the grammy awards, knowing that the real storm has only just begun.
you stay backstage for a few minutes after your last presentation, letting the noise of the audience settle into a distant hum as you breathe in the dim hallway, the soft glow of the backstage bulbs warming your skin while you rehearse your next lines under your breath, your voice low and steady as you try to shake off the lingering awkwardness from earlier, your fingers brushing your cheek again even though you keep telling yourself it was nothing, just a friendly gesture, just a moment that should not matter, yet you can still feel the ghost of michael’s stare like a hand closing around your ribs, tightening with every breath you take.
the stage manager calls your name again and you straighten your shoulders, smoothing your gown as you step toward the curtain, your heart beating a little faster because this category is bigger, heavier, more important, and you want to deliver it perfectly, especially knowing he is out there somewhere watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your pulse skip, and as you step into the lights again the applause rises like a warm tide, the golden glow washing over you as you smile at the audience with practiced grace.
you hold the microphone with both hands, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of it as you begin to speak, your voice steady and warm as you welcome the audience back from the short break, the cameras gliding across the room like silent birds while the crowd settles into their seats, and you let your gaze sweep gently across the front rows, your eyes catching the faint outline of his silhouette again, the soft shimmer of his jacket, the stillness of his posture that tells you he has not relaxed since the moment he saw that kiss.
you inhale slowly, letting the moment settle before you continue, your voice carrying clearly through the auditorium. "it is my honor to present one of the most meaningful categories of the night, a category that celebrates the power of music to move us, to unite us, and to change the world. these are the nominees for song of the year." the screens behind you light up with clips and audio, the audience reacting with soft murmurs and applause as each nominee appears, and you stand poised and elegant, your heart thudding quietly beneath your ribs as you hold the envelope in your hand.
when the final nominee fades and the applause settles, you open the envelope with careful precision, your breath catching for a moment as you read the name printed inside, and you lift your gaze to the audience with a soft smile that feels both warm and electric. "and the grammy for song of the year goes to… we are the world, michael jackson and lionel richie."
the room erupts into applause, cheers rising like a wave that shakes the floor beneath your feet, and you look toward the aisle where he stands, his expression unreadable for a moment as he rises from his seat, but then his eyes lock onto yours and everything inside you stills because he is not looking at the audience, he is not looking at the cameras, he is not even looking at the stage itself, he is looking only at you, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he begins to walk toward you with a new calmness that feels too controlled, too deliberate, like a storm holding itself together by sheer force of will, and beside him lionel richie rises as well, moving with him up the aisle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling at the crowd but clearly aware of where this is going, and as they reach the steps lionel goes first, pulling you into a warm, effortless side hug that makes you laugh softly through the shock of it all, his hand patting your shoulder in genuine pride as he murmurs something you barely catch before he steps back with an approving grin.
you swallow hard as he moves toward you, each step drawing the world in tighter until everything else fades into a soft blur. your fingers clamp around the envelope, the paper bending under the tension, but his eyes stay fixed on yours with a steady focus that makes the crowd feel distant and unimportant. the air seems to shift as he gets closer, warm and dense, settling over your skin like something quietly electric.
when he reaches you, he slips an arm around your waist with a certainty that steals your breath. his touch isn’t forceful, just sure, like he’s anchoring you in place without needing to say a word. he looks down at you with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying you with a softness that makes your chest tighten. his teeth catch lightly on his lower lip, a small, unguarded gesture that gives away how much this moment matters to him. and even through all that tenderness, you can still sense the jealousy flickering in his eyes, a faint shadow beneath the warmth. it is not harsh or angry, just a quiet ache he cannot hide, something that tightens his hold on your waist for a heartbeat. his hand squeezes gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you feel the emotion he is trying so hard to keep contained.
then he leans in and kisses you.
not a quick peck, not a shy brush of lips, but a soft, sure, deliberate kiss that melts the entire room into silence for a heartbeat before the audience explodes into gasps and cheers and applause, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave as your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your heart racing wildly as his lips linger just long enough to make it clear that this is not a mistake, not a slip, not a friendly gesture, but a declaration, a reveal, a claim spoken without words in front of the entire music industry.
when he pulls back, he gives you a small, playful wink that makes your stomach flip, his hand brushing your waist one last time before he turns to accept the award from you, his fingers brushing yours with a warmth as he takes the grammy into his hands, the crowd still roaring with excitement as he steps toward the microphone with that soft, shy smile that always makes people melt.
he waits for the applause to settle, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds with a quiet possessiveness that only you can read, and when he finally speaks his voice is gentle, warm, and full of gratitude. "thank you, thank you so much." he pauses as the applause rises again, his smile widening before he continues. "i want to thank lionel, first of all, for being such an incredible partner in creating this song. he is a true friend and a true artist, and i am so grateful for everything we were able to do together."
he shifts the award in his hands, his voice softening with sincerity. "i want to thank every artist who came together for this project, everyone who gave their time and their hearts to something bigger than all of us. this song was made with love, with hope, and with the belief that we can make the world a better place when we stand together."
the audience applauds again, "and of course, i want to thank the fans, because none of this would be possible without your love and your support. you inspire me every single day, and i am so grateful for you."
he pauses, his smile turning a little mischievous, his eyes sliding toward you again with a glimmer that makes your breath catch. "and, um… i guess i should also say…" he lifts the grammy slightly, his tone light but unmistakably pointed. "some people should be a little more careful about kissing another man's lady."
the audience bursts into laughter, cheers rising as people clap and whistle, the cameras catching your face as your cheeks burn with embarrassment and surprise, your hand lifting instinctively to cover your mouth as you try not to laugh, and michael just smiles, that soft, cheeky smile that tells you he knows exactly what he is doing, exactly how flustered he is making you, and he is enjoying every second of it.
he finishes with a warm, humble thank you before stepping away from the microphone, and as he walks back toward you he gives you another small wink, his fingers brushing your waist again as he passes, the touch subtle but full of meaning, and you feel your heart flutter helplessly as he heads back down the steps, the audience still buzzing with excitement from the unexpected reveal.
you stand there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing as the cameras cut away and the stage manager ushers you offstage, your mind spinning, your cheeks still warm, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and affection and something deeper, something that feels like it has been waiting to surface for a long time, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway again you know he will find you soon, and you know the conversation waiting between you will be one you will never forget.
the hallway feels calmer than the stage, dimmer and softer, the noise of the grammy crowd fading into a distant echo as you step into the quiet. you’re still warm from the lights, still breathless from everything that happened, your mind replaying the moment he kissed you in front of everyone like a scene you can’t quite believe is real. you press your hand lightly to your lips, trying to steady yourself, when you hear him behind you, his footsteps slow and sure, carrying that familiar mix of confidence and emotion that always gives him away.
when you turn, he’s already watching you, his grammy tucked under one arm, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes still burning with that jealousy he hasn’t shaken off yet. he walks toward you with a softness that contradicts the storm you know is still swirling inside him, and when he reaches you he stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him settle around you like a blanket. his voice is gentle when he speaks, even though his eyes are still sharp with emotion. "you okay baby?" he asks quietly, his hand brushing your arm in a way that makes your breath catch. "i didn’t mean to overwhelm you out there."
you nod, though your heart is still racing, and he studies your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort. when he finds none, his expression shifts, softening into something warm but edged with that quiet, simmering jealousy he’s trying so hard to keep under control. "i just… i couldn’t sit there and watch that," he murmurs, "him kissin' you like that. i know it was friendly, i know it didn’t mean anything, but it still…" he trails off, shaking his head slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment before he exhales slowly. "it still bothered me."
you whisper his name softly, and he gives a small smile, one that’s both apologetic and a little proud, like he knows he’s being ridiculous but he also knows he’d do it all again. "i’m not gonna pretend i wasn’t jealous," he says, his voice low and honest. "i was. i still am." he leans in a little, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "but i’m glad everyone knows now. i’m glad they know who my woman is... the woman i get to love."
your cheeks warm instantly, and he notices, his smile turning a little smug but still gentle, still full of affection. "guess i made the night a little more interesting." he adds, his tone playful but certain. lifting the grammy slightly, his eyes glimmering with pride.
you roll your eyes at him, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his expression softening again as he cups your jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. "you did amazing tonight," he whispers. "i’m so proud of you."
you tell him you’re proud of him too, and his smile grows, warm and bright, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. he glances down at the grammy in his hand, then back at you, and the warmth in his eyes deepens. "i got my award," he says softly. "and i got you. that’s all i wanted tonight."
he leans in closer, his voice dropping into something playful, something that makes your stomach twist. "c’mon," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "let’s go home so i can show you how jealous i was."
your eyes widen and you slap his chest lightly, your voice a shocked whisper. "michael!" he laughs softly, the sound warm and sweet, his shoulders shaking just a little as he catches your hand gently, his fingers curling around yours with an ease that makes your heart flutter.
"i’m teasing," he says, though the sparkle in his eyes tells you he’s enjoying every second of your reaction. "but i do wanna get you out of here."
you’re still flustered, still warm, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his own smile stretching wider as he gives your hand a gentle tug. he leads you down the hallway toward the exit, his grammy tucked under his arm, his fingers laced with yours like he’s never letting go. when he pushes open the door to the cool night air, the limo waiting just outside, he glances back at you with a look so full of pride and happiness it makes your chest swell.
he’s got his grammy.
he’s got his girl.
and he looks like he’s floating.
you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full, and he squeezes back, his voice low and warm as he whispers, "let’s go home."
hey dolls 🌸 just wanted to say sorry if my recent fics haven't been my best. i've been dealing with some personal stuff lately and it's been making it really hard to find motivation to write, and i've also recently started therapy, so i've been trying to focus on myself a little more. i know i probably shouldn't be sharing this, and this is honestly a little embarrassing to admit lol, but i don't have friends to talk to about this stuff, and you guys honestly feel like friends to me, so i wanted to be honest about why some of my writing might feel a little shit. i also feel really guilty about the requests that have been sitting in my inbox for months now, and i'm genuinely so sorry to everyone who's been waiting. thank you for still reading my stuff and supporting me, it genuinely means so much. i still really wanna write and make things you guys enjoy, even when i'm struggling. requests are still open btw !! feel free to send them in <3 i love you all !!
ִֶָ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚ lakers cheerleader | michael jackson ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚
pairing: !1983 m.jackson x !lakers cheerleader reader
synopsis: michael attends a lakers game and can’t stop watching one of the cheerleaders. after the game, bill forces him to introduce himself, and they immediately click.
cw: fluff
he’d arrive fully intending to watch. he’d clap when everyone else clapped, stand when everyone else stood, cheer when something exciting happened on the court. and by the time he got home, the entire thing had blurred together into noise and bright lights and the occasional memory of somebody scoring.
years later, if somebody asked him about a lakers game he attended in 1983, he wouldn’t remember the final score, but he would remember you.
it started sometime during the first quarter.
the cheerleaders ran onto the floor during a timeout, the crowd’s attention shifting away from the game for a few minutes. michael watched absentmindedly at first. there wasn’t any particular reason his eyes settled on you. there wasn’t some dramatic moment where the rest of the arena disappeared.
he just looked, and then looked again.
by halftime, bill had noticed. of course he had. bill noticed everything.
“you know they’re playing basketball down there, right?”
michael glanced away from the court immediately.
“i am watching.”
“mhm.” bill didn’t even sound convinced.
michael hated that, mostly because bill was right.
the second half wasn’t much better. every time the cheerleaders came back onto the floor, michael’s attention wandered. he found himself looking for you before he even realized he was doing it.
you always seemed to be smiling. that was what stayed with him more than anything else. the arena was loud, crowded, exhausting, and you looked like you were having the time of your life up there.
one time, while another cheerleader was talking to you during a break, you laughed so hard you nearly missed your cue.
michael smiled without meaning to, and bill caught that too.
the lakers won. the crowd exploded. people started heading toward the exits while reporters swarmed the players.
through all of it, michael caught one last glimpse of you disappearing into a hallway beneath the arena.
that should have been the end of the story, but instead, bill stood up.
michael already knew that look.
it was the same look bill got whenever he had decided something was happening regardless of anyone else’s opinion.
“don’t.”
“i haven’t said anything.” bill said, while he adjusted his jacket.
“you don’t have to.”
five minutes later, michael was following him through the lower level of the forum while questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.
the hallway was quieter than the arena above. voices echoed somewhere in the distance. staff members passed carrying equipment and boxes. every step made michael more certain this was a terrible idea.
then they turned a corner, and there you were.
you were sitting in a folding chair near one of the dressing rooms, one sneaker already untied while you searched through your gym bag.
for a second michael just stared. he’d spent the entire evening accidentally looking at you from across an arena filled with thousands of people, and somehow standing ten feet away felt worse.
you looked up and your expression changed almost immediately.
recognition, surprise, then a smile. a real one. the kind people gave when they were genuinely happy to see someone.
“hi.”
michael had spoken to world leaders, he’d performed in front of packed stadiums, he’d accepted awards on national television, but for some reason, that single word nearly got stuck in his throat.
“hi,” you said back.
there was a brief pause, but it wasn’t not awkward exactly. just two people trying to figure out the next sentence.
“did you enjoy the game?” you asked, looking at him in the eyes.
bill made a suspicious noise beside him, one that sounded like a giggle.
michael ignored him.
“yeah.”
“really?” you tilted your head slightly.
something in your voice made him suspicious.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing.” your smile widened.
“you weren’t watching half the time.” you eventually said, smiling.
michael blinked, and you laughed immediately. the sound of your laughter bounced off the hallway walls.
“you should’ve seen your face.”
“my face?”
“every timeout.”
bill turned away, and that was all the confirmation michael needed. you looked far too pleased with yourself.
“i can’t believe you noticed.”
“i was on the floor.” you giggled
“there’s not much else to do besides notice the celebrity sitting courtside.”
the conversation somehow became easier after that, but not because either of you stopped being nervous, but because neither of you seemed to mind.
you asked him about touring, and he asked how long you’d been cheering for the lakers, then you told him about balancing rehearsals with classes, and he told you he’d spent most of his life in rehearsals too. every answer seemed to lead naturally into another question.
at some point michael stopped wondering what to say next, and eventually another cheerleader appeared down the hallway and called your name.
you glanced over your shoulder, then back at him.
“that’s my ride.”
for a second, neither of you moved. the conversation had lasted maybe fifteen minutes, but it felt much shorter.
“well,” you said, adjusting your bag onto your shoulder, “next time try watching the game.”
michael laughed.
“i’ll work on that.”
you smiled one last time before walking away, and michael watched until you disappeared around the corner. then kept looking for another second anyway. when he finally turned around, bill was waiting.
“did you get her number?” bill asked, raising his eyebrow.
the silence answered for him, and bill closed his eyes.
“michael.” bill sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“i forgot.”
“you forgot.”
“i was distracted.”
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