meet me in the city where we won't sleep
javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist
summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.
wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.
an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.
It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.
Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.
It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.
“What do you want, Piña?”
He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.
“What you doing in my field, Flor?”
Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.
Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.
And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.
It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.
Not that Javi cares.
If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.
The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.
Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.
Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.
When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.
It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.
Then, it was all he had thought about.
Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.
Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.
It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.
He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.
Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.
Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.
He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.
He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.
Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.
“Hello?”
“Flor?”
It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”
You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.
Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”
“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”
Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.
Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.
A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.
“Where are you, Piña?”
Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.
“In a phone booth on a bridge…”
He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.
“…right across from your place.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”
Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”
Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.
“Give me five minutes.”
The call ends before he can get in a bye.
The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—
Then he does.
Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.
Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.
It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.
“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.
Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.
Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.
Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.
“What d-do you want, Piña?”
But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.
Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.
Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.
A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.
Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.
It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.
More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.
“You’ll be here in the morning?”
“Not going anywhere.”
Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”
He knows he has.
It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.
He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.
But, they're not here.
At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.
That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.
“You keep staring.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”
The thing is, you’re not wrong.
Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.
“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”
He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.
Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”
Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.
“My favourite place here.”
He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.
“Books?”
“Books.”
Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.
It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.
“Which do you recommend?”
Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”
“Funny.”
Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.
“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”
Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.
“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.
“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”
Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.
“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”
Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”
Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.
“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”
His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.
“I’ve really missed you.”
Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”
Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.
Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.
“Hello, Flor.”
“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”
Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.
“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”
Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”
“Did you love her?”
Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.
“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”
Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”
Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”
He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.
How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.
What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.
Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.
Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.
Done it weekly since you left the first time.
The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.
Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.
“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”
It’s here within the hour.
A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.
He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.
“So I have to ask.”
Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”
“Did you like the tie I sent you?”
Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.
“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”
“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”
Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”
It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.
I’d do anything for you.
It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.
Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.
Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.
“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”
“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”
You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.
“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”
“You not happy I’m here?”
Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”
Yes. It’s all he thinks.
Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.
It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.
“I am now,” he replies.
Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.
That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.
For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.
Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.
What else is a guy like you gonna do…
This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.
Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.
He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.
The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”
Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”
Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.
“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”
Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—
“What are you doing, Piña?”
“Kissing you.”
Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”
And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.
He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.
Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.
He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.
A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.
Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.
Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.
What door he’s trying to open all over again.
“Javi…”
Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.
Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.
It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.
A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.
Practically whine.
Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”
You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.
“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”
Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”
“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.
You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.
When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.
“More, Javi. Please—”
“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”
Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.
“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”
Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”
Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.
He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.
There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.
“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.
His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.
You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.
“You best fuck me now.”
Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”
Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.
“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”
“Yeah?”
“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”
“Murphy is a nice guy.”
Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.
“You jealous, Piña?”
“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”
Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”
Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.
“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”
Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.
“Too dangerous.”
“That it? I can learn—”
“No.”
“No?”
He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—
Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”
When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.
Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.
There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.
But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.
It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.
“Wanna get a coffee?”
Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.
A thing he thinks when he showers.
When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.
“Now who's staring, hermosa.”
“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”
He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.
None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.
Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.
It was just like in Colombia.
A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.
The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.
“You should buy me flowers.”
“Should I?”
Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”
Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—
“Piña.”
“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.
The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.
Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.
His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.
“Here.”
You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”
“There your—”
“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”
Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.
“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.
“You deserve more than flowers.”
“I’m that good?”
Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”
“Hello?”
He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”
“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”
Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”
You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No. I love you.”
Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”
“Still love you.”
Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.
“You doing okay, mi Piña?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.
“I am now—okay, I mean.”
It needs to be left alone.
He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.
But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.
His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.
“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”
Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.
“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”
He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.
Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.
One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”
“It’s okay.”
Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”
It breaks him a little.
Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.
It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.
“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—”
“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”
You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.
Because it’s like last time.
The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.
“Come home with me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”
“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”
Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”
“You read about it.”
“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”
For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.
And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.
“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”
“That isn’t—”
“You left. You left me.”
“—Flor—”
“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”
He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.
“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”
Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.
You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”
“I am—”
Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”
Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Flor—”
“Save it.”
The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.
It was different.
Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.
When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.
Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.
“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”
He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”
“Flor—”
“I wish you'd never kissed me.”
It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.
“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”
He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.
“What do you want, Piña?”
Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”
It’s weeks.
Eight weeks and four days to be exact.
At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.
Javi doesn’t expect anything else.
Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.
Home.
A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.
Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.
Because he knows what he did.
Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.
One week adds up, then another, and another.
If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.
A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.
It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.
He’s not prepared.
Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.
Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.
Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Piña.”
It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.
Home.
A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”
Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.
“I didn’t come for you.”
He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.
“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”
Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.
“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”
Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.
“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”
“Flor…”
Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”
Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.
“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”
Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.
“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”
“That so?”
Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”
“Not doing it again to you.”
“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”
“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.
“Fine. I love it.”
Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”
Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.
“You owe me flowers.”
Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”
“That’s a good start.”
Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.
Home now feeling right.
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𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐝! 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹
featuring. sukuna ryomen x reader
warnings. sukuna wanted a son, but got a daughter instead (he's smitten for her shh), sukuna is modern af bye he knows how to use a phone ok, reader is called "wife", ooc sukuna bye
note. ok listen, i've been having a girl dad sukuna brainrot lately. and i even gave out a req to @rrairey (u go check out her works rn) — but i just had to write something about girl dad sukuna jsjdksjks it's on my mind 25/8 and i can't stop unless i actually write abt him (i'm lying, he's still going to be in my mind bye).
girl dad! sukuna who initially wanted a son but when he finds out he's going to be having a daughter instead, he didn't know how to feel. he thought that if he had a son, he could at least play "rough" with him. it's sukuna, he doesn't know what soft is.
girl dad! sukuna who has to secretly watch tutorial videos on the most random thing like "how to play nicely with your daughter" or "how to be nice to your daughter". but also searches up for things like "easy hairstyles to give your daughter for beginners", when your daughter isn't even born yet.
girl dad! sukuna who hates to admit it but he's pretty worried about having a daughter. finally shoves his ego down his throat and comes up to you to talk about it, and you encouraged that he's going to be a good father — but still, he's worried.
"ryo, you're worried about what exactly?" you asked the male, brushing his hair.
"not being a good father." he replies, leaning into your touch with a big frown on his face, grumbling under his breath slightly about how embarrassed he is to be so fragile in front of his own wife.
"baby, you're going to be the best father."
although your words were supposed to be encouraging, and he did feel a bit of burden lift off of his shoulders — the male still couldn't help but to worry about his unborn daughter.
girl dad! sukuna who complains about your pregnancy cravings and how his daughter is a weird baby. despite that, he will go out of his way to get you what you wanted, not caring if it was two in the morning, or five in the morning. he will get it for you and your growing daughter inside your belly.
girl dad! sukuna who grows anxious when your due date was inching closer. he took a break off from work and devoted his time to look after you, especially since you were walking for two right now. even if you did tell your husband that you were fine — he still thinks it's his job to look after you and your daughter.
"damn it brat, stop moving so much. you'll hurt yourself," he gently tugs on your arm, directing you to the couch, "what'dya want?"
"sausages and blueberry jam . . ." you tell him nonchalantly, missing the look of disgust on his face.
". . . just stay there." he walks a few steps before turning back, "don't move."
girl dad! sukuna who watches labor videos only to focus on the husbands and what they were doing in it so he could try to take notes and searches for what he should get ready for labor, or if he could do anything as a husband for his wife during labor. the results didn't ease his worries — they added up his worries. like adding fuel to the fire, the internet tells him that giving birth was the second most painful thing after getting burned alive.
girl dad! sukuna who already thought of names for your daughter and even buys things for her. telling you that he'd be out to grab a few things and then coming back with a crib set, toys, or even a baby walker. he even got a baby strap for both you and him to use, picking out the most random motives like skulls and fires.
"ryo, why did you pick that motive?" you asked, eyeing the baby strap that had white skulls all over.
"our daughter will like that. i know it." he retorts.
girl dad! sukuna who looked as calm as a cucumber but internally panics the most when your water broke. he grabs the bag that he had packed, following a youtube tutorial and helped you get into the car so that the both of you can finally drive off to the hospital. he holds your hand tightly along the way, showing his worry as he "tries" to follow driving laws (which he ended up driving past the speed limit and had to get a ticket in the hospital).
girl dad! sukuna who had to pay a ticket as you were tended in a hospital room (you didn't know about this and he didn't tell you about it so you won't worry). the doctor telling both you and him that the labor procedure will have to wait up to a few hours as they proceeded with "watchful waiting" after they checked on the baby's condition and yours so they could see if it was safe for you to give birth normally.
girl dad! sukuna who waited those long hours with you as you laid on the bed, telling him how nervous you are. and all the bad possibilities that could happen (he searched that up too), he tells you to stop saying those kind of things. sukuna wasn't angry — he just didn't want you to stress so much, rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb to soothe you. he didn't let go until the doctor came back to finally do something.
girl dad! sukuna who was inside the delivery room with you, even after telling you that he won't come inside a few months ago. holds onto your hand (which you were holding onto tightly as the procedure goes on for hours), he winces — but he didn't care about his hand right now, he only cares about you and his daughter. brushing your hair lightly, mumbling out hushed praises to you (unknowingly, it just comes out), wipes away your sweat with his bare fingers and pressing kisses onto your face every single time he feels your hand clenching around his.
"jus' a bit more, pretty." he whispers, kissing your knuckles multiple times before moving on to kiss your forehead, "a bit more."
girl dad! sukuna who almost bursts into tears when he heard the loud cry of your daughter, but blinked his tears back. peering slightly at your worn out face. he tells you how he's proud of you (spoiler: he hates it if you reminded him about it in the future).
"y'hear that? you did so good, pretty. 'm proud of you," he clung onto your hand, grazing his thumb over your forehead as a smile adorned his face, "she's here, baby."
girl dad! sukuna who couldn't hold his tears back when the nurse suggested skin-to-skin contact with the father. he wasted no time tugging his shirt off to hold his little bundle of joy, nestling her in his arms — unknowingly letting a few stray tears of joy out as he coos down to his newborn daughter.
"oh, you're so pretty, little one." he cradled her gently against his bulky arms, sniffling softly. he was so gentle — different from how he used to be, his eyes soft and watery as he affectionately stares down at his now sleeping daughter.
girl dad! sukuna who slept on a chair by your bed when the doctor told you that you'll be allowed to go home once your body is fit again, he didn't care that he didn't have a bed to lie on. he was just there, prepped in a chair as his fingertips touched your wrist near the IV injection on the back of your hand. making sure he didn't touch the transparent hose. and his eyes darted back and forth from your resting form and his daughter who was now all warm and bundled up inside a bassinet. making sure that the both of you are resting well even if he was barely able to open his eyes fully.
girl dad! sukuna who carried all your bags and your daughter's car seat with ease while leading you down the hospital hallways and to the car. helping you buckle your seatbelt and making sure that his daughter is going to be safe and sound during the ride home, prepping up the car seat like he learned, giving his daughter a light kiss on her head before closing the door.
girl dad! sukuna who tells you to rely on him every time his daughter wakes up in the middle of the night — he won't let you get up, gently tugging you down onto the bed and tucking you underneath the covers before leaving to tend your daughter without any other words. as if his daughter is the most fragile thing in the world, he carries her into his arms and hushed her softly, nuzzling his nose onto her head, trying to get her back to sleep.
"shh, baby, mama's tired right now . . . go back to bed." he whispers, kissing her small forehead.
girl dad! sukuna who offered to shower your baby for the first time after two weeks upon arriving back home (under your watch of course), as you filled the bathinette with warm water — sukuna was cradling her in his arms, swaying his body side to side. and when you tell him the water's ready, sukuna prepped his big hand behind your daughter's small head so the water won't go to her face and began cleaning her. concentrating, he wets his finger and traced it over his daughter's face, making sure she's not frightened. and once he's done, he cupped his hand and scooped some water to wet her hair, rubbing her head lovingly.
girl dad! sukuna who's personality did a somersault ever since you were pregnant with his daughter. turning soft and more clingy, he has your daughter strapped to his chest. and will tell you that he's got it every time his daughter cries or ruined her diapers, he's learnt it all thanks to other great dads on youtube.
girl dad! sukuna who was even more ecstatic than you are when his daughter said her first word, which was of course "mama", he didn't care that she didn't say "dada", he focuses on the fact that his daughter had grown so much to be able to say her first word. tells your bundle of joy how proud he is of her even if she probably doesn't understand her father.
"maa..ma."
sukuna who had his eyes on the television immediately darted to his daughter who was in your hold, his lips were slightly parted as he tries to process what just happened, "did . . . did she . . ?"
when you confirmed his question, he pulled you into his arms and kissed your head before kissing your daughter's head, muttering out a, "papa's proud of you, baby."
girl dad! sukuna who treats both you and your daughter like the most precious beings in the world. he. spoils. you. both. to no end, coming home from work with a present for the both of you. mostly food for you, and a toy for your daughter. you just know [daughter] is going to grow up spoiled by her father.
girl dad! sukuna who spoils your daughter rotten. and ever since her first steps — he's been going out with her to no end, of course going out as a family of three. holding your daughter's chubby little hands as he guided her down the street, earning coos from strangers all around him.
"good girl, that's right . . . left and right." he said softly, watching [daughter] walk slowly, still a little wobbly.
girl dad! sukuna who gets a little emotional when your daughter has her first birthday — because, it's been that fast? he tries not to cry, i swear. but silently slips inside the bathroom and lets a few one out before coming out like he didn't just cry over his daughter growing up too fast. he swore it was just yesterday that he was in the hospital.
girl dad! sukuna who will with no shame, participate in tea parties with his daughter once she's known enough about it. you'd call them both down for dinner and when they didn't, you decided to be the one to approach them inside [daughter]'s room. and there he was, sitting on the floor, to his left and right were [daughter]'s stuffed animals and your daughter was sitting across from sukuna with a silver tiara on.
"this looks fun," you chuckled, eyeing them.
"mama! tea party?" [daughter] beams out at you, you walked over to them and carried your daughter into your arms, "mama, no tea party?"
"after dinner, baby. okay?"
sukuna has no shame in it. at first, he did try to decline his daughter, telling her that she should ask you instead, but your daughter looked so crestfallen that he just has to accept — which turned out to be a daily thing now. a tea party.
girl dad! sukuna who will be his daughter's experiment subject to trying out make ups. he's a little skeptical (lies, he's very skeptical), but it's not like this is the first time he's had make up put on his face. he's had his fair share of you trying to put make up on him, but this was a toddler doing it and not a full grown adult. but he couldn't say no, so he just submits to his daughter and lets her modify his face and clips on cute hairclips to his hair.
"mama mama! look at papa," your daughter cheers, pointing at sukuna. and you laugh, carrying your daughter before approaching the male who was sitting down on the floor in the living room.
"you look pretty, ryo."
"i feel pretty, my little girl did it to me." he rolls his eyes before grabbing a mirror to look at his face.
eh, not bad.
girl dad! sukuna who drops his daughter off for the first day of pre-school, telling her that she should punch anyone who messes with her (thankfully nobody yet). and gets a bit emotional again as she walks inside the building, his eyes going glassy watching her skip inside her new chapter.
girl dad! sukuna who's overprotective when it comes to his little girl. a trip to the park was a daily routine for his family — and believe me when he has eyes everywhere for his little girl, if anyone was bothering her, he would have no fear on finding out who their parent was. taking matters into his own hands, leaving the children out of it. as much as he wanted to confront the kid for bothering his little princess, he knew the parents had the most fault.
"your boy has issues. the next time he lays his hand on my girl, i will come for you." he said to the boy's father before walking back to you.
the boy and his father never came back to the park after that day.
girl dad! sukuna who watches his daughter grow from a small girl to an eight year old in a matter of what felt like a week. he swore yesterday she was just babbling out her first word, and the next thing he knows, she's got a "boyfriend" at school? oh, boy.
"you don't have a boyfriend." he mutters out, eyeing his daughter.
"yes i do have a boyfriend," your daughter replies back with her soft voice.
"no."
the banter continued until your daughter ended up in tears, and sukuna had to force himself to say that she indeed had a boyfriend in school. he's upset that she's growing up too quickly, but at the same time — he's proud of his little girl.
girl dad! sukuna who finds out you were pregnant with a second child, who turned out to be another girl. and he was still as loving and caring like he was with his first daughter, this time, he had a helping hand to take care of you.
"mama has a baby in her belly, so you can't be too rough on her, okay?" he baby talks his eight year old daughter like she's still a small baby — he softly caresses your clothed stomach as he speaks to her.
girl dad! sukuna who had to see his first daughter cry over her new "soon to be" born baby sibling. thinking both you and him were not going to love her anymore — and his heart breaks, because why would he not love his princess anymore?
"hey, hey, why're you cryin'?" sukuna tucks [daughter]'s hair behind her ear as she lets out a few fat tears out of her eyes.
"mama and papa will still love me, right?" she asks, her voice breaking slightly.
sukuna pulls the young girl into his embrace, holding her with one of his arm as he wipes her tears with his other, "'f course mama and i will still love you, you're our princess."
girl dad! sukuna who proudly watches his big girl now approaching his newborn daughter and her sister, eyeing the baby with such an innocent glint in her eyes. oh, and big girl? doesn't matter, to sukuna, your first daughter will always be his little girl.
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