rin was vibrating beside you on the couch, eyes flitting to you every now and then from his phone where he had been on the same app for the past half hour.
you had noticed him of course, how couldn’t you when he was literally staring at you with those big teal eyes like he was going to ask you if you had any games on your phone?
by the second hour, rin was batting his unfairly long lashes at you, almost pouting. you finally put your book down to look at him but he immediately looked away, pretending to focus on his phone.
“what is it?” you spoke up, “nothing.” he replied almost immediately. gosh, your nonchalant boyfriend. “you’ve been staring at me for the past hour, rin. ’fess up.”
his lower lip twitched but he still didn’t look at you. you internally sighed, “wanna make out?” you cocked your head to the side.
rin’s eyes widened momentarily before he began nodding slowly. a thick blush crept up his neck, spread through his cheeks and travelled all the way up to the tips of his ears.
you shook your head with a smile and grabbed onto the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.
your boyfriend is so easy!
a/n: yess dumbass nonchalant rin
2025-2026 — @gravelocked ★ don’t copy/modify/translate/repost to other sites. also don’t feed my work to ai.
Gachikuta x reader! who owns a plush that they love and sleep with; just fluffy! ♡
Zanka
The first time he notices, it’s by accident.
You’ve passed out after a long shift, curled around that tiny, threadbare plush like it’s a lifeline. Zanka walks in to drop off a repaired weapon, stops dead, and squints.
“…That's a— what is that?” he mutters. The plush stares back with one button eye and a suspicious tilt of the head.
He’s silent for a full ten seconds before huffing a low laugh. “Of course. You survive garbage beasts, but sleep with a stuffed thing smaller than my fist.”
Later, he acts cool about it — but you catch him side-eyeing it like it’s competition. “You hug that every night?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s it got that I don't, huh?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Softness. No attitude.”
He snorts, pretending that didn’t sting. “Hah. Fair.”
Still, he gets oddly protective. If anyone so much as jokes about your plush being “trash,” he’s suddenly very intense about explaining the difference between trash and treasure.
One poor Cleaner learned this the hard way. (“Say that again about the plush, I dare you.”)
One night, when you’re asleep, the plush tumbles off the bed. Zanka grumbles, picks it up, and dusts it off like it’s made of gold. He tucks it back under your arm and mutters, “Little idiot… can’t even stay put.”
Next morning, you notice someone’s repaired a loose seam. The thread’s the same color as Zanka’s coat. He denies it outright.
“Don’t look at me. Maybe it fixed itself.”
He’s smirking, but his ears are pink.
Rudo
Rudo spots it immediately the first time he visits your room. “Whoa, that plush has been through hell!” he says, picking it up with absolute awe.
You glare. “Don’t touch it with those grimy hands!”
He grins wide. “Relax! I’m not disrespecting it — I’m admiring it. Look at these stitches! Battle scars! This plush has lived a life!”
He’s fascinated by how long you’ve kept it. Starts asking ridiculous questions like, “So if it fell in the Pit, you’d dive after it, right? …Right?”
You say you’d probably dive after it. He nods solemnly. “Good answer. Shows you’ve got priorities.”
You try reminding him you were all in the Pit but he didn't hear that-
Rudo starts treating the plush like a team mascot. During downtime, he’ll hold it up and make it “talk”:
“Oi, (Y/N)! Rudo says clean your tools!”
“Hey Rudo, maybe you should clean your attitude!”
He even gives it a handmade accessory: a tiny scarf made from scrap fabric. “Now it’s got armor,” he says proudly.
It’s horribly uneven. You love it anyway.
When the plush accidentally gets smudged with grime, Rudo panics more than you do. He literally washes it by hand in the nearest water tank, humming some off-key tune while talking to it.
"You’ve been through worse, buddy. Don’t tell (Y/N) I dunked you.”
If you catch him doing this, he shrieks, denies everything, and immediately blames you.
“You left it unattended! What was I supposed to do, let it get dusty?!”
Talks about it like it's a sentient being-
“If I ever die, tell the plush I said hi. Actually, nah, tell it to avenge me.”
From that day on, the plush sits next to the tools when he’s working. He says it brings “good luck.” You know it’s because it makes him feel safe.
Enjin
Enjin doesn’t comment at first. You figure he either hasn’t noticed or simply doesn’t care. Then, one evening, while you’re cleaning equipment, he says:
“That stuffed animal you keep… it’s interesting.”
You blink. “Interesting?”
He nods slowly, studying it like he’s analyzing an ancient artifact. “Objects absorb the emotions of their owners. Yours has seen grief, joy, fear, rest. It’s… well-loved. Remarkable, really.”
You laugh nervously. “It’s just a plush, Enjin.”
“Just a plush,” he repeats, almost amused. “If that were true, you wouldn’t still keep it after all this time.”
Later, you catch him crouched beside it, carefully patching up a frayed spot with surgical precision using a Cleaners’ repair tool. “The stuffing was all coming out,” he explains without looking up.
Though seeing him squatting next to your bed, eyes scrunched up in concentration while fixing a plush was not on your bingo card-
When you thank him, he says simply, “You’d do the same for something precious.” Then, after a beat: “Also, its left button eye was loose. I tightened it. It was…creepy as fuc-”
He’s the kind of person who will, bow slightly or salute to the plush when you leave for missions.
You ask what he’s doing; he says with a grin, “Respecting the guardian that keeps you calm. Surely it deserves acknowledgement.”
You seriously can't tell if he's joking or not anymore.
You start calling the plush “Captain Plush.” Enjin stifles his laughs — but he starts using the title too.
“Captain Plush will remain on standby during your shift.”
“Captain Plush disapproves of your lack of rest.”
You’re 99% sure he’s teasing you. The other 1%? He might actually mean it.
sum. MIA for two whole days, your older boyfriend finds you have been sick the whole time but don’t worry, they are here to take care of you!
warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, you are early twenty and they are late twenty, petnames, fluff, crack,
GOJO SATORU
he bursts through your apartment door like a whirlwind in a storm — keys jangling as they hit the floor, designer sunglasses still perched on his nose, even though it's nearly sundown. the moment the door swings open, his voice echoes through the quiet, too-quiet apartment.
“sweetheart? baby?” his voice is deceptively cheerful, light and sing-song, but the tension is there, tight in the undercurrent. he hasn’t heard from you in two days. no text. no call. nothing. and you never go that quiet, not even when you’re mad at him.
satoru’s long legs carry him through your apartment like he owns the place — which, to be fair, he kind of does, considering he pays your rent without your knowledge. he steps into the dimly lit living room and freezes.
you’re there, bundled up on the couch like a miserable, sniffling ghost. oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, one of his, naturally, and a pathetic mountain of tissues around you like a fortress. there’s a blanket halfway off your legs, a cold cup of tea on the table, and your phone sitting dead by your hand.
“...what the hell,” he breathes, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he takes it in, brows furrowing under snowy bangs. “are you seriously dying in silence? do you hate me?”
you groan softly, barely able to lift your head. “didn’t wanna bother you… you’re busy with work…”
“busy with work? babe, i thought you got kidnapped by some creepy guy who’s into sniffing socks or something—which, by the way, i would’ve lost my shit over.”
he’s already moving, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, hands large and warm as they cup your flushed face. you’re burning. “oh my god, you’re so hot,” he says, wide-eyed, like it’s not from the fever. “and not in the good, ride-me-until-my-legs-don’t-work way. like… medically concerning.”
you manage a weak laugh, and he beams like you just handed him the moon. satoru brushes your hair back with trembling fingers, his usual smugness cracking under genuine concern.
“you didn’t even call me,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “two days, angel. two days. i almost broke into your classes like a psycho sugar daddy with a god complex.”
you sniffle, leaning into his palm. “didn’t wanna make you worry…”
“i always worry about you,” he says, exasperated. “that’s, like, half my personality. haven’t you noticed?”
and then, of course, he softens — because he’s a menace, but he’s your menace. satoru stands, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you squirm, mumbling protests, but your limbs are too heavy, and his arms are warm.
“shut up. we’re doing this,” he says, already carrying you to your bed. “you’re sleeping somewhere with actual blankets and no tissue graveyard. jesus, babe, this whole place smells like menthol and heartbreak.”
he sets you down carefully, tucking the blankets around you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers near your lips, hesitant.
“can i…? or am i gonna get the plague?”
you pout. “you’ll get sick.”
“worth it,” he says immediately, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss — just enough pressure to make your heart ache, his thumb brushing your cheek like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
when he pulls back, he’s grinning again, wicked this time. “besides, i bet i’d look hot with a fever. you’d have to nurse me back to health in, like, a slutty little nurse outfit. win-win, right?”
you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “you’re impossible.”
“and you’re my favorite stupid little college girl who forgets to eat when she’s sick.” his hands are already sliding under the covers, slipping around your waist, pulling you close. “so now i’m gonna hold you like a clingy teddy bear, make you drink water, and maybe talk about how good you’d look drooling all over my shirt.”
you snort. “what happened to concern?”
“baby, i am concerned. but i’m also very horny, emotionally overwhelmed, and tragically in love with you. deal with it.”
you let him spoon you from behind, his breath warm on your neck, his body a furnace. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder.
“next time you’re sick,” he mumbles, “you better call me. i swear to god, i’ll tattoo my number on your forehead if that’s what it takes.”
you nod sleepily, and satoru kisses the shell of your ear.
“good girl.”
GETO SUGURU
he doesn’t knock.
he doesn’t need to — your spare key has been hanging on his keyring for months now, worn from use. suguru opens your door slowly, shoulders tense under his tailored black coat, hair pulled into a lazy low bun like he didn’t even bother styling it this morning. he’s been in meetings all day, working too much, sleeping too little — and now, he’s standing in your apartment, greeted by silence and dim, static air.
“baby?”
his voice is low, velvety, laced with concern that makes your stomach twist. it’s the first time you’ve heard him in two days. you were too sick, too dizzy, too caught up in your own haze of shivers and aching limbs to call him, even though you wanted to. god, you wanted to.
you hear his steps grow closer, steady and measured, then stop right in front of your bedroom door. it creaks open. his tall frame fills the doorway.
and that’s all it takes.
your throat tightens immediately, and like a switch flipped, you burst into tears. snotty, pathetic, breathless sobs that hit you harder than you expected. your voice cracks as you try to speak, but nothing coherent comes out — just a whimper, an ugly sniffle, and a tremble in your bottom lip.
“suguru…” you croak, eyes watery as you sit up on the bed.
his expression falters for half a second — just a flicker of panic under the cool surface. he moves toward you so fast it’s like instinct, dropping his bag to the floor and shrugging off his coat in one motion.
but you beat him to it.
you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with all the theatrical effort of a dying victorian bride, forcing your shaky body upright. it makes your vision spin, but you don’t care — you throw your arms open dramatically, like some sad, flu-stricken princess summoning her knight.
“hold me,” you sniffle, hiccupping through the tears. “i’m sick and miserable and ugly, and i think i’m dying.”
he blinks. then huffs a breath — a soft, low laugh, like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you.
“you’re the most dramatic little brat i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, but he’s already on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you fully, palms spread over your back as he tucks your face into the crook of his neck.
“i missed you,” you whimper into his skin, voice cracking. “i was too dizzy to text you and i tried to make soup but it just turned into sadness—”
“shh,” he whispers, stroking your hair gently. “breathe, baby. you’re okay now.”
you cling to him like a koala, fists bunching the back of his shirt. your body sags in his arms, and he holds you up without flinching, like he wants to carry your weight, all of it — your illness, your loneliness, your melodramatic sniffles.
“two days without you and i already look like a corpse,” you mumble. “my skin’s grey. i’m withering.”
he chuckles against your hair, then pulls back just enough to cup your flushed cheeks. “hm. dramatic. needy. sick. crying in my arms like a heartbroken soap opera wife.” his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “you know that’s kind of hot, right?”
you blink. “i’m literally disgusting right now.”
“you’re my favorite disgusting little creature,” he says, and kisses your forehead. “now lie back. i’m going to order real food, give you meds, and make you drink water even if i have to hold your nose shut.”
you sniffle again, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzle into his chest.
“you’re gonna spoil me,” you mumble.
he smiles, kissing your hair.
“i already do, sweetheart.”
his hand trails lower under the blanket, slipping to your waist, possessive and warm.
“and after you stop looking like a dying victorian girl,” he murmurs by your ear, voice dipping low, “i’m gonna spoil you in other ways.”
you groan into his chest, heat blooming in your cheeks. “gross.”
“mm. you love it.”
and he’s right. because even at your worst — sick, crying, clingy — suguru geto looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made his life worth slowing down for.
NANAMI KENTO
he should’ve come sooner.
the thought pounds in his head, rhythmic and steady like the ticking of his watch as he pushes into your apartment with a key he made you give him months ago — “for emergencies,” you said, laughing. but this feels like one. you hadn’t texted him back in two days, and that’s unlike you. you were always eager to reply, dramatic even in your “i miss you” messages. so when the silence stretched into a second night, nanami ended his meeting mid-sentence, picked up his coat, and walked out without an ounce of hesitation.
the moment he steps inside, he knows something’s wrong.
your apartment smells off — like the sour tang of sickness masked under old lavender candles. he closes the door quietly, gaze sharp as he sets down his briefcase and calls your name once, calmly.
no answer.
the bathroom light is on.
and then he hears it — the retching.
nanami’s blood runs cold. he moves fast, faster than you’d ever expect from the man who lectures you about walking too quickly indoors. the bathroom door is cracked open. inside, you’re slumped on the cold tile, hugging the toilet bowl, trembling and feverish. your hoodie is sticking to your back with sweat, your knees red from the floor.
you don’t hear him. not until his calm, familiar voice cuts through the haze.
“sweetheart.”
your head jerks up weakly. your voice comes out hoarse, cracking. “kento…?”
he doesn’t say anything at first — just takes a slow breath and kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up in one fluid motion. his tie dangles over your shoulder as he brushes your damp hair back gently, then reaches for the towel nearby to wipe your mouth. his hand doesn’t shake, but his jaw clenches. tight.
“how long has this been happening?” he asks softly, but there’s steel under it. restrained panic. the kind that only surfaces when something he cares about is suffering — and you are the only one who makes him lose control like this.
you sniffle, dazed. “since last night… thought it would pass…”
“and you didn’t call me.”
“you were working,” you mumble. “didn’t wanna stress you out.”
nanami lets out a breath. a sharp one. he gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his frown deepening. you’re burning up.
“you’re shaking,” he mutters. “you’re not staying in here another second.”
“but i threw up—”
“exactly why you’re not staying in here,” he says firmly.
and that’s when your vision blurs again, but this time with hot tears. you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking like glass. “i feel gross, kento. i smell disgusting. my mouth tastes like death. i wanted to clean up before you came and now you’re seeing me like this—”
he doesn’t let you spiral.
his hands, large and warm, wrap around your wrists and gently pull them from your face. he leans in, forehead to yours, voice calm but low.
“you think any of that matters to me?” he whispers. “you’re sick. and you’re mine. i don’t care if you smell like hell. you’re still the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”
you sniff, swallowing another sob. “i look like a wet rat.”
he presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “then you’re my wet rat.”
and despite everything, you laugh — a weak, wet, pitiful sound, but it makes him smile.
then he lifts you. no warning. one smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing. your arms cling to his neck, dizzy and lightheaded as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall.
“where—?”
“bed? no,” he says, striding straight past it. “you’re burning up and soaked through.”
he stops in front of your closet and kicks it open gently. “clean clothes,” he mutters. “then i’m drawing you a bath.”
you blink. “aren’t you going to let me change myself?”
he looks at you, unimpressed. “do you really think i’m letting you stand on your own right now?”
you pout. “you’re bossy when i’m sick.”
“i’m bossy because you’re reckless and dramatic and refuse to call me when you need help,” he says, setting you down on the edge of your bed. his hands reach up, unzipping your hoodie with such care it makes your breath catch. “and if you ever do this again, i swear to god—”
you reach out weakly, tugging at his tie. “you’ll what?”
he leans in, gaze dark and heavy.
“i’ll handcuff you to my bed and monitor your temperature every hour until you learn your lesson.”
your eyes go wide. “…is that a threat or a promise?”
his lips curl into the barest smirk.
“both.”
TOJI FUSHIGURO
you were crying. again.
but not soft, delicate tears — oh no. it was messy, snotty, full-volume dramatic sobbing, the kind you’d only let out in the privacy of your kitchen, hunched over like some tragic figure in a bad medical drama.
the bottle of meds sat in front of you. sealed. stupid. evil.
and your fingers? useless. trembling. too weak to twist it open. your body had already betrayed you all day — shivering under five blankets, sweating through them an hour later, barely able to sit up without seeing stars. and this goddamn childproof bottle was the final straw.
“open,” you whispered hoarsely, turning it with your palms, your arms shaking.
“open, please… i’m not strong enough, oh my god. i’m a weak pathetic little victorian widow.”
you tried again. failed again.
your bottom lip quivered.
you dropped your head onto the counter with a dramatic thunk.
“this is it,” you wailed to no one. “this is how i die. taken out by a five-dollar bottle of generic tylenol.”
and that was, of course, the exact moment the front door opened with a heavy thud.
of course it was toji.
he was supposed to be out — working, training, maybe casually intimidating someone. but no. your hot mess of a dramatic arc just had to intersect with him at the peak of your suffering.
“you better not be on the floor again,” his voice called out dryly.
you gasped. “toji—!”
and in he walked, black shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly wet from the shower he probably took at the gym, eyebrow cocked in that way — the one that said he knew he was walking into bullshit.
he paused at the kitchen doorway.
you were curled in front of the counter, shaking like a leaf in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, cradling the bottle of meds in your hands like it was your last hope.
your eyes, glossy with fever and tears, locked on him like he was salvation.
“babe,” you croaked, dramatic hand on your heart. “i’m too weak. i need you.”
his face was unreadable.
then he sighed.
“you can’t open your meds bottle?”
“no,” you sobbed. “i tried. i begged. i even yelled at it. and it laughed at me, toji.”
he walked over slowly. “the bottle laughed at you?”
“with its silence.”
“you’re outta your damn mind.”
you whimpered as he took the bottle from your hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. he twisted it open with one hand. one hand.
your mouth dropped open in betrayal.
“don’t gloat,” you muttered.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were thinking it. i can hear your thoughts. they’re all smug and condescending.”
toji plucked two pills out, popped them in your hand. “yeah? what else are my thoughts saying?”
“they’re saying, ‘wow, my girlfriend’s so weak and small and pitiful, i could crush her with one hand.’”
he snorted, pushing the water bottle toward you.
“i’d rather use the one hand to spank you next time you act like an idiot instead of calling me.”
your eyes widened. “i was preserving your peace!”
“and i’m preserving your life, you dramatic little shit.”
you downed the meds, still sniffling. “i want chicken soup and cuddles.”
“yeah? say please.”
you glared at him.
he leaned down, grabbed you by the back of the thighs, and lifted you up with zero warning, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.
you squealed. “toji—!”
“you want cuddles? you get ‘em after soup. and no more dying alone in the kitchen, dumbass.”
you whined into his back, but your fingers were already gripping the hem of his shirt, safe and secure.
he set you on the couch, tucked you in aggressively, and went back to the kitchen to slam pots around. the bottle of meds still sat on the counter, now open. completely defeated.
you glared at it from your blanket cocoon.
“i hope you fall off the counter and roll under the fridge, you little bitch.”
“what was that?” toji called.
“nothing, babe! love you!”
“that’s what i thought.”
RYOMEN SUKUNA
he knew something was off the second he walked through the door.
your apartment was dark. quiet. no sounds of you stomping around, no dramatic voice echoing from the bedroom about how he never refills the snacks or always leaves his rings on the counter like you’re his damn butler.
nothing.
just silence.
and sukuna?
he doesn’t do silence when it comes to you.
so his voice comes loud, sharp. “oi. where the fuck are you?”
no answer.
he’s already heading down the hall, jaw tight, fingers twitching like he’s ready to rip the universe in half if it’s taken you from him. he calls for you again—louder this time. still nothing. until—
a soft, pathetic sound.
gagging.
choking.
then… sniffling.
he throws open the bathroom door and freezes.
you’re on the cold tile, curled up dramatically beside the toilet like a tragic heroine in some bad romance movie. your hair is a mess, face flushed with fever, nose red, eyes glassy with tears. you’re shivering in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked up like a child. and you’re talking to yourself.
rambling.
like you’re saying goodbye.
“tell… tell my mom i loved her,” you whisper hoarsely to no one. “and you can have my manga… just not the signed ones. bury me with those. and don’t let that bitch from the office come to my funeral—”
sukuna blinks. hard.
“what. the fuck,” he growls, stepping in. “are you doing?”
you gasp, like he’s a ghost. “sukuna? is that you? i can’t see, i’m so cold—”
he crouches beside you instantly, hands grabbing your face. your skin is clammy. lips dry. eyes dramatic as hell.
you’re not dying.
you’ve just been throwing up for hours and working yourself into a spiral.
“are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?” he hisses, brushing your hair back, eyes scanning every inch of you. “you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t scream at me for buying the wrong brand of tea. i thought someone killed you.”
you sniffle, grabbing his wrist with trembling fingers. “i tried to crawl to the kitchen… to get water… but then i thought, what’s the point? i’m dying anyway—”
he looks like he’s two seconds from slamming his fist into the wall.
“you’ve got a stomach bug. not the plague. stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ soap opera.”
“easy for you to say,” you croak. “you’re not the one rotting from the inside out.”
sukuna lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-laugh, and scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you cling to him instantly, arms locking around his neck like a koala.
“don’t cremate me,” you mumble into his throat. “i wanna be dramatic even in death. open casket. fake lashes. maybe some light fog and music—”
he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. “shut up.”
you gasp, offended. “did you just spank me on my deathbed?!”
“you’re not dying,” he growls, carrying you to the bed. “but if you keep talking, i’ll kill you myself.”
you whimper pitifully in his arms. “then… will you at least keep my diary? the one hidden in the closet behind the shoe box? don’t read it—”
“i’ve already read it.”
“what?!”
he lays you down gently, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek.
“you wrote about me in it,” he says, voice low and dangerous now, “every page. even the ones where you were mad. you love me so much it’s pathetic.”
you sniff, cheeks heating up. “i’m allowed to be obsessed with you. it’s your fault.”
he leans down, face inches from yours. “and i’m gonna baby you so hard after this that you’re gonna wish you died, brat.”
“you promise?” you whisper.
his eyes flash with something possessive, raw, feral.
“yeah,” he says, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, “but only after i get some fluids in you. and not the kind you’re thinking, you filthy little goblin.”
you smile weakly.
and sukuna — your unhinged, dangerous, older boyfriend — tucks you into bed, curses the germs under his breath, and spends the entire night at your side.
because dramatic or not… you’re his.
and he’s not letting you go.
SHIU KONG
he had a key.
of course he had a key. he demanded it after you once locked yourself out at 3 a.m. wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, sobbing over forgotten dumplings. "never again," he’d muttered, shoving the key into his wallet with the same reverence he gave blackmail material.
he wasn’t expecting the door to be unlocked today.
or to hear… whimpering.
low, pitiful, echoing from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
“babe?” he calls out, already slipping off his shoes. his voice carries a lazy calm, the kind he always uses when he’s preparing for bullshit. “you better not be doing something stupid again.”
he turns the corner and freezes.
you’re on the floor.
literally on the floor, crawling toward the kitchen like a Victorian orphan in the final act. your blanket is trailing behind you like a cape, your hair a mess, eyes glassy with tears as you stretch your trembling hand toward the counter like it’s the promised land.
you pause, mid-drag, and look up at him with the most heartbroken face he’s ever seen.
“i dropped… my toast…”
shiu blinks.
you sniffle. “it fell jelly-side down.”
his lips twitch. “oh no.”
“and then i got dizzy.”
“mhm.”
“and i think the floor is sucking the life out of me, shiu.”
he’s walking toward you now, casually, like he’s not biting back a laugh. “you’re telling me… you belly-crawled like a war hero because you dropped toast?”
“i’m starving. i haven’t eaten in days.”
he bends down, squats beside you, one elbow resting on his knee as he watches you dramatically paw at the floor like you’re about to fade into the afterlife.
“you had broth.”
“broth isn’t food. it’s liquid regret.”
shiu snorts. actually snorts. “you’re outta your mind.”
but his voice is gentler now, and without warning, he slips an arm under your waist and another beneath your knees, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you yelp, clinging to his shirt.
“shiu! put me down! i was making progress!”
“toward what? an oscar?”
“toward the toaster!”
he carries you to the couch instead, ignoring your weak little kicks as he deposits you like a fragile treasure, tucks your blanket around you like he hasn’t seen you cry over expired yogurt before, then leans in close.
his voice drops, soft and dangerous.
“next time you wanna reenact your dramatic death, text me first, sweetheart.”
“i didn’t wanna bother you.”
“you’re my favorite kind of bother.”
you blink up at him, pout trembling.
“you’re such an asshole.”
he grins, brushes your hair back gently with a sigh. “but i’m your asshole.”
and then he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about how he’s going to make toast the size of your face and spoon-feed you if you try to crawl again.
he does.
he even cuts it into heart shapes.
he just won’t admit it.
HIROMI HIGURUMA
he knew something was off the second he called and you didn’t answer.
you always answered. even if it was just a groggy voice telling him you hated his ringtone and to never call you again. so when he’d finished his meeting, walked out of the courthouse with his tie loosened and a coffee he didn’t even want, and still hadn’t heard from you?
his stomach turned.
fifteen minutes later, he was at your apartment door, unlocking it with the key you gave him the night you first got sick and told him he was your emergency contact “because you look like you’d yell at doctors for me.”
he pushes the door open.
“...hello?”
silence.
and then—
soft sniffles. pen scratching paper. a dramatic sigh.
he follows the sound to the living room and—
freezes.
there you are. wrapped in a blanket like a sad little lump, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your head resting against the coffee table. a whole stack of napkins laid out in front of you like legal documents, each one written in your slightly-shaky, overly-loopy script.
he walks closer, blinking at the one closest to him.
“to my beloved hiromi: you can have my succulents, even though you always forget to water them. i forgive you. i love you. tell my cat i said bye.”
his brow twitches. “...what the hell is this?”
you jump, head snapping up like a child caught drawing on the walls. your eyes are watery and dramatic, red from crying, your nose a little stuffy and your cheeks flushed from fever. you clutch a pen like it’s a quill and you’re writing your last will before war.
“you came,” you whisper.
“yeah. what the hell is going on.”
you sniffle, voice soft and shaking. “i think i’m dying.”
he looks at the box of tissues, the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, and the room-temperature cup of tea on the table.
“you have a cold.”
“a terminal one.”
he sighs, long-suffering but fond, dropping the briefcase onto the floor with a soft thud.
“you sent me twelve napkin letters. in one of them you said i can have your pinterest password when you die.”
“you should know what i liked. to mourn properly.”
“you also left the air fryer to nanami.”
“he said he liked it once!”
he crouches down in front of you, long legs folding easily, eyes scanning your flushed face. he lifts a hand to press it gently to your forehead.
“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re burning up.”
you gaze at him with tear-filled devotion. “if i go, you have to be the one to eulogize me. make it sound like i was sexy and mysterious.”
“you’re congested and covered in napkins.”
“so was marilyn monroe probably.”
hiromi lets out a soft breath. then he leans forward, gathering you into his arms with a slow, practiced motion, your blanket and all, lifting you gently until you’re in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder.
you melt into him instantly, mumbling, “i left you my lip balm too. don’t let another girl use it.”
he hums. presses a kiss to your forehead.
“don’t worry, angel. you’re not dying.”
“you sound like a lawyer.”
“i am one. and i can legally promise you’re going to be fine.”
you grumble something about rewriting your will just in case, and he lets you. even picks up a fresh napkin for you and hands you your glitter pen with a quiet, indulgent smile.
“just let me make you some soup after,” he murmurs. “and then i’ll read every one of your dramatic goodbyes.”
“even the one where i left you my collection of embarrassing texts?”
“especially that one.”
he holds you tighter. his voice soft, but his touch firm. grounding. safe.
because for all your chaos, he wouldn’t be anywhere else.
meeting single dad!toji fushiguro at the park / sfw
“yuuji, don’t run too far!”
you barely make it through the gates of the park before the pink haired boy lets go of your hand and runs, swallowed by the swarm of children and adults who look equally as exhausted as you. one thing you’re glad for is the shade granted by the gigantic trees, their leaves covering a good portion of the merciless afternoon sun.
you bring yuuji here every day, it’s the only thing that can tame his insatiable energy, knocking him out cold in a two hour-long nap when you take him back home. mothers and babysitters alike know you by now, or rather, they know yuuji, because the boy is friends with every kid here.
his young and fresh memory is something you do envy sometimes, when he tells you all about the other children he’s played with, calling them by name. you forget them the second after they’ve come out of his mouth.
knowing he’s probably found at least a dozen people to play with, you decide to take a breather, setting the heavy bag with all the essentials for a seven year-old onto the nearest bench. a few of the regular moms spot you and immediately start gravitating towards you before you’re even able to get a sip of water.
“hey hey, did you know he’s here today?” one of them gives you an eager grin, a warm flush blooming on her cheeks. “he’s working out behind the playground, and we can’t even go check him out because it’ll be too obvious!” another one whines, clearly worked up over the mystery man.
“i’m sorry, who?” you finally ask, twisting the cap of your water bottle shut.
“fushiguro, of course!” a third one chirps, and you’re pretty sure her eyes would turn heart-shaped if they could. “oh, but you’ve been bringing little itadori around only for a few weeks, you’ve never seen him, right?”
“well, better go take a look then,” one leans over to whisper, giggling like a highschool girl. “we can check on itadori, you go get your eyes blessed!”
and then they’re walking away just as fast as they had approached you, leaving you dumbstruck from the confusing conversation. some guy was working out, and that was the talk of the day, apparently.
their words are quickly pushed to the back of your mind when you sling your bag over your shoulder once more and walk closer to the playground, only to leave it among the numerous other bags. there was always someone watching over them, so you felt safe.
but the world was seemingly against you today, because when you go to check on yuuji, you can’t find him— which seems impossible, the damn kid had pink hair!
“yuuji? yuuji!” you start calling, hoping his head would pop out somewhere, maybe out of a slide or a tree. even the other children look around. panic starts settling in your stomach, blood running cold. “yuuji!”
the babysitter next to you runs to her kid to ask her if he’s seen the boy anywhere, and all he does is point in the distance, behind the thick trees. “he says he saw him over there!” she tells you. “want me to come with you to look?”
“n-no, i’ve got it!” you hurriedly shake your head before taking off in that direction. your heart is beating out of your chest, cold sweat gluing a strand of hair to your temple, trickling down the nape of your neck. you run past the trees, calling yuuji’s name desperately until you stumble into a clearing.
you’ve never been on this side of the park, the area completely new to you. there’s gym equipment, and sure enough, a man is doing pull-ups on a bar. was this the guy they were talking about?
the thought is quickly shoved aside as you jog towards him, worry overriding everything else. “excuse me!” you wave your hand to get his attention. “have you seen a little boy? pink hair?”
the man seems to notice you, fingers letting go of the metal bar as he hops to the floor. his jade colored eyes settle on your distressed face, and the scarred side of his mouth quirks up with a smirk. “you mean this little boy?” he nods his chin to the side.
following his gaze, you finally see yuuji. too busy to acknowledge you, his sole focus a boy around his age, with a scruffy head of raven hair and a frown on his face, nose shoved inside a book. a very weak attempt to get yuuji to leave him alone, by the looks of it.
“oh thank god,” you exhale in relief. the weight of panic lifts off your shoulders, and it feels so good you could cry. “his dad would’ve definitely killed him if anything had happened to him.”
“he’s a little pest, isn’t he?” he jokes with a husky chuckle. “yeah, you don’t know the half of it.”
with a clearer mind, you can allow yourself to take a good look at the man in front of you. dark hair, green eyes, a silver scar cutting down the right side of his lips, and muscles. a whole lot of them. a black compression shirt that looks like it’s seconds away from bursting at its seams stretches across his wide chest, figure slimming down his waist to his hips, gray sweatpants hanging low around the thickening circumference.
“…so the little brat’s your kid?”
your gaze snaps back up to his face, heat blooming underneath your skin like a kid who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. “w-what? ah…oh, no! yuuji’s not my son,” you wave your hand awkwardly. “he and his dad live on the same floor as me, and i’m finishing my masters and working a part time job…just doing jin a favor, really.”
“huh,” he muses, eyes dragging down your body much more shamelessly than you, making you flustered by just a look. “could’ve fooled me. i was gonna ask if you were his older sister.”
you giggle, the classic lovestruck, airhead sound girls make when the hottest man they’ve ever seen compliments them. but you’re quick to regain your composure, clearing your throat. “t-thanks, uhm…is that your son?” you try to change the subject.
“uh-huh,” he nods gruffly, turning his head. “that’s megumi. he’s not the sociable kind.”
“i’m so sorry,” your shoulders slump in defeat. “yuuji can be a bit too much, but he’s a great kid.”
“are you kidding? that little boy is the bomb! he asked me if i could bench him earlier.”
“oh god…” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. the man laughs once again, then takes a step in your direction, extending a very large hand. “toji fushiguro,” he introduces himself.
you offer yours, along with your name, and try to ignore the nasty stirring in your belly when his calloused fingers engulf your palm, almost wrapping all the way around it. you’re slightly dazed when he withdraws, just from a handshake.
“yay, you’re here!” yuuji suddenly starts running towards you at full speed, a visibly overwhelmed megumi lazily trailing behind. “this is megumi, he’s my best friend!” he’s jumping up and down now, finger pointing at the other boy. “no i’m not,” he sighs when he’s finally caught up, then looks up at you. “hello.”
“hi,” you beam happily. you open your mouth to speak again, but yuuji cuts you off. “toji-san, toji-san! can you help me show her how i can do pull-ups like you?”
“sure thing, kid. come here,” he beckons him over with his hands, effortlessly picking him up and lifting him until his smaller hands can grip the metal bar. you totally don’t see the way toji’s biceps bulge under the short sleeves of his shirt.
gosh, girl, get ahold of yourself!
once toji is sure yuuji has gotten a safe hold, he lets the boy dangle, yet keeps his hands hovering just shy of his sides in case he needs to catch him. and you really, really wish you could focus on yuuji’s remarkable athleticism, but there’s a six foot something distraction that has your mind wandering far away each time.
“look, look! are you looking? are you looking?” the little boy chirps. you nod, hands clapping to cheer him on. behind him, toji shoots you a knowing grin that makes you bite down on your bottom lip, fighting back a complicit smile of your own.
once yuuji is spent and out of breath after his - honestly impressive - number of pull-ups, toji puts him back on the ground. you think he’s gonna tell you he’s finally ready to go back home, but of course, he’s already all over megumi again, yapping away and jumping. a fond smile finds your lips as you watch the two boys, and you don’t even notice toji comind to stand right next to you.
“so…you’ve got plans tonight?”
you’re a bit startled, neck craning to meet his gaze. “i, uhm…n-no, i don’t think so, i just have to ask jin if—”
“nah, don’t you worry ‘bout that. i’m sure he won’t mind watching my brat for once,” he fishes out his phone casually. your brows knit in confusion. “wait, you know him?”
“mhm, old pals,” he hums. “at least now i know i don’t have to ask for your address to come pick you later. how does 7:30 sound?”
“sounds like a date to me.”
┊┊a/n. i saw a video on tiktok of yuuji and toji's jp VAs talking about how toji would likely get along with yuuji, he would act annoyed as hell at first but would probably start missing him after not seeing him for a while LOL it was such a wholesome interaction. also if this post gets a gazillion likes i'll make a part 2
he may be a broke gambling addict, but he still has morals!
toji spends his few and far between scratch off wins to buy formula and nursery decorations. are they flimsy and from the clearance aisle? yes, but he's trying!
toji trys your breast bump before you. a "test run," as he called it. he looked awfully funny with it on, huge pecs barely fitting into the small cups.
"if it can't fit my tits, how's it supposed to fit yours?" you know he's being serious, but the question is beyond laughable. "they're not that big, 'ji."
your shared baby memory book is filled with pics of toji with a breast bump on.
toji turns into a halfwit-gentleman now that you're carrying his child. mindless tasks like putting on shoes or doing your hair are taken care of by the big brute you call home.
"just tryna help." he grumbles, as if he's not trying to spoon feed you dinner.
"i can do it myself, toji!"
it takes yelling (and threats of sleeping on the couch) for him to stop hovering like a mother hen.
toji "hates" shopping for baby clothes. you didn't know hatred could include hidden smiles and abashed "awww-ing," but maybe that's the pregnancy brain talking.
toji almost forgets your due date. he needs a gentle reminder every time you have a checkup, and he continuously forgets to put it on his google calendar. "i'm doing my best" is his only excuse.
toji spends his nights cutting up coupons, searching for deals on any and everything infant related. his back and bottom may be aching from the uncomfortable seat, but that's the least of his worries.
"money's gonna be tight now," he excuses when you question his activities.
"i think you like feeling useful." unsurprisingly, the raven haired man scoffs.
"pfft—naw, just doing what's right." he doesn't stop you when you take a seat next to him, cuddling into his arm.
eyes glued to the newspaper, he mumbles, "i'm not messing this up again."
"what was that?" you drawl, already sleepy.
"nothin'."
toji comes up with the dumbest baby names. just to piss you off your shared pinterest board has saved things like 'fufu, ijo, and ijot."
"what about toji-junior?"
"we're having a girl, 'ji. and i'm not naming my child that."
"then how's tojina sound?"
"i'm ignoring you now, fushiguro."
toji isn't exactly a deadbeat dad. there are days when he steals your pregnancy pillow, buys knock-offs of your much needed craving foods and general dipshit behavior. this is his last chance to be a capable father; to give his kid the childhood he deserved. when it counts, he cleans up his act. for the most part.
masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred
a/n: inspired by @lilikoiyu broke baby daddy!toji and my current pregnancy kick.
ᓚᘏᗢ ⦂ bringing girl dad!toji to your daughter’s shot appointment has yet to be the worst decision of your life…
“okay, deep breath, toji. she’s fine. it’s just a routine thing. we talked about this.” you’re starting to regret asking him to drive you to the hospital.
“i know, babe, i know, but—did you see her face?!”
toji’s pacing outside the pediatrician’s office like he’s about to storm a government facility. like he’s on a mission. except the mission is his toddler not getting poked by any more “cruel, heartless needles.” he’s got one rough and big hand dragging down his face, eyes glossy, shirt collar stretched slightly where your daughter had clung to it before the nurse gently pried her away.
you’re sitting in the hallway chair holding said daughter, a year and half years old, baby-fat arms, dimpled knees, and teary eyes still red from her brief betrayal. she’s sniffly but soothed now, head tucked against your chest, one hand tangled in your shirt.
meanwhile the mighty, collected, very well behaved toji is in shambles.
“they stabbed her,” he mutters dramatically, like it wasn’t a literal trained nurse giving a vaccine in a sterile, kid-safe room. “she looked at me like i handed her over to get executed.”
“baby, it’s a shot. she’s literally going to forget in five minutes.” you try to calm him, which was not helping at all by the way.
“i’m not,” he says, hand over his heart like he just watched a shakespearean tragedy.
you blink. “…are you crying?”
“no.” he sniffs. “i’m sweating. from my eyes. it’s different.”
you fight a laugh, even as you rock your baby girl gently on your lap. “you didn’t cry when you literally got stabbed.”
“that’s different. i signed up to get stabbed. she just wanted a juice box and some bluey reruns, and they came at her with a syringe like she’s an adult.”
you lean back in the chair and look at him, arms cradling your daughter while her breathing evens out. “you’re being ridiculous.”
“am i?” he gestures toward your daughter’s tiny arm, still with the little bandaid on it. “she has a wound, baby. it’s gonna scar her”
okay now he’s being very dramatic, you raise an eyebrow. “it’s a dinosaur bandaid.”
“yeah. a purple dinosaur. her least favorite color.”
“…she’s not even fully aware of colors yet.”
“that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel the betrayal.”
you don’t remember when he got up, too focused on how you’re trying to ease him down. you roll your eyes affectionately and pat the seat next to you. “sit down, drama king. she’s fine, you’re the one who needs a juice box.”
he finally huffs and sits, dramatically sagging into the chair beside you with a big, rough-man sigh that rattles his chest. and then your daughter, like the little emotional kryptonite she is, shifts in your arms, sniffs, lifts her head, and sees him.
“dada…” she whimpers, bottom lip wobbling.
“oh no,” toji breathes, already leaning forward. “no no no, come here, baby, don’t cry—i’m the one who should be crying—”
he opens his arms and she immediately scrambles over to him, face still tear-streaked but already soothed by the sound of his voice. she burrows into his chest and he wraps her up so tightly it’s like he’s shielding her from the entire medical establishment.
“shhh. daddy’s got you. daddy’s gonna fight the needle monster next time, okay? i got hands for all of them. no one touches you again.”
you’re giggling now, covering your mouth. “you’re gonna square up with a pediatric nurse?”
“damn right i am,” he says, face buried in her baby curls. “with a vengeance.”
your daughter makes a soft little hiccup of a sigh, her hand patting his shoulder like he’s the one who needs comforting now. and you’re watching the man who once cleaved enemies in half practically crumble into a puddle because his tiny daughter got a standard immunization.
“she’s braver than i ever was,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “absolute little warrior. my sweet lil killer baby.”
“killer?” you snort.
“killer cute, i mean. obviously.” you’re done with this man.
you lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder. “you know she’s gonna get like four more shots next year, right?”
he goes silent.
“…toji?”
“we’re skipping town.”
“what.” you’re caught off guard.
“going off-grid. living in the woods. raising her feral. no more needles, no more betrayal, just vibes and dirt and blueberries.” he gives the mini creation of you both on his lap with a determined look.
you laugh into his bicep. your daughter hums softly in his lap, now peacefully chewing on the collar of his shirt, completely unbothered. you watch toji watch her—and he’s got that look again. the one he gets when she does anything remotely adorable, like blink or exist.
god, he’s doomed for her. and you’re doomed for both of them.
“you’re so pathetic,” you whisper jokingly and he doesn’t even flinch. toji just smiles, soft and teary-eyed.
“yeah,” he says, kissing his daughter’s little forehead. “and i’d die for her.”
timeskip!kuroo tetsurō x f!reader
you surprise your long distance bf!kuroo and instantaneously give him a cardiac arrest.
the thing about kuroo is that he has always been a little bit of a menace. not the ‘i’ll set your house on fire’ kind of menace, but the ‘i will stare at you across a gymnasium until you feel the heat of my gaze through your uniform’ kind.
when he first saw you at that away game, his brain basically short-circuited into a single, high-frequency hum. you were power-walking across the court with a clipboard, looking like the most beautiful, stressed-out person in miyagi, and he was a goner. he didn’t even try to be cool. well, he tried, but he mostly just ended up leaning against walls in your peripheral vision, looking like a tall, lanky gargoyle who had been struck by lightning.
he spent the next few months yearning with the intensity of a victorian widow waiting for a ship to return from sea. it was pathetic, really. kenma would be trying to play a boss fight and kuroo would be sighing into his palms, wondering if you liked apple juice or orange juice better. he was gentle about it, though. he never wanted to crowd you. he just wanted to be near you, like a moth circling a very pretty, very confused lamp.
then came the fukurodani summer camp. the heat was melting everyone’s brains, but kuroo was on a mission. on the final night, under the cicada-heavy air, he cornered you, not in a scary way, but in a ‘my knees are actually shaking’ way.
“look,” he had started, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. “i know we live hundreds of kilometers apart. i know i’m just a guy from tokyo with hair that defies the laws of physics—but a very handsome one—and a laugh that sounds like a hyena having a mid-life crisis. but if you don’t let me be your boyfriend, i think i might actually wither away like a neglected houseplant. i’ve got it bad. i’ve got it so bad that i’ve started liking karasuno’s black and orange team uniforms just because i saw that they also got you a custom one. please. give me a chance. i’ll be the best. i’ll be so good you can boss me around anytime, and i’d say thank you.”
it was the longest, most desperate, most strangely poetic ramble you’d ever heard. you melted faster than an ice cube on the pavement, pulled him down by his collar, and kissed the rambling right out of him.
𓏵
fast forward to the present, and the long-distance thing? kuroo handled it like a man that has the spirit of a thousand devoted golden retrievers.
three hundred kilometers is a lot for some people, but for kuroo, it was just a distance he could bridge with excessive delivery orders. you’d mention a craving for strawberry shortcake at 2:00 pm, and by 4:00 pm, a delivery driver would be at your door in miyagi with a box from the best bakery in town and a note that said: ‘eat up, my beautiful treasure. i’m currently hugging my pillow and pretending it’s you.’
he sent you flowers for no reason. he sent you ‘thinking of you’ care packages that were 90% snacks and 20% hoodies he’d worn for three days straight so they smelled like him. his letters were the worst, long, sappy, ink-smudged manifestos of his devotion.
but lately, the ‘jokes’ had started.
“you know,” he’d say over facetime, lounging on his couch in a tank top that showed off way too much shoulder, “the guest room in my apartment is looking really lonely. it’s actually crying. i heard it sob today. it said, ‘tetsu, why isn’t she living here yet?’ and i didn’t have an answer.”
then he’d show you the room. he’d turned it into a sanctuary. your favorite candles were on the nightstand. the bookshelves were stocked with your favorite series. the bedding was the exact shade of the color you once mentioned you liked. he was actively luring you. he was baiting the trap with high-thread-count sheets and domestic stability.
and god, you were hungry for the bait.
saturday night. tokyo.
kenma, the unsung hero of your romantic life, had been your inside man. he’d driven you from the station, mocking kuroo’s ‘pining puppy’ energy the entire way.
“he’s going to lose his mind,” kenma muttered as he pulled up to the lavish apartment complex. “he’s been moping all day because you didn’t text him back. he thinks you’re mad. he’s probably currently staring at a wall in silence.”
kenma helped you get your bags to the door, rang the bell, and then evaporated into thin air like a ninja. he didn’t want to be there for the sheer amount of sap that was about to occur.
you stood there, heart hammering against your ribs. you heard footsteps. heavy ones. the door swung open and there he was, kuroo, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that said science is cool, looking absolutely dejected.
“kenma, if you’re here to tell me i’m being dramatic about the lack of texts, i—”
he stopped. his jaw practically hit the floorboards. his eyes darted from your face to the suitcases at your feet, then back to your face. for a solid ten seconds, he looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
he didn’t scream. he didn’t cheer. instead, he moved with a surreal, robotic sort of calm. he reached out, took your bags with hands that were visibly trembling, and stepped aside to let you in. he was so quiet it was actually terrifying.
“tetsu?” you whispered, your nerves finally bubbling over. “are you… okay?”
he set the bags down in the middle of the living room and turned to face you. the ‘calm’ facade shattered instantly. his hands were shaking so hard he had to shove them into his pockets, but then he took them out because he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for you.
he lunged, not to tackle you, but to fold himself around you like you were the last source of oxygen on the planet. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hitching in ragged, heavy bursts.
“you didn’t text me,” he choked out, his voice thick and wobbly. “i thought… i thought you were tired of me. i was sitting here planning how to drive to miyagi at midnight just to check if you still liked my face. and then i open the door and you’re here. with bags. tell me those bags mean what i think they mean.”
“i’m moving in, tetsu,” you murmured, rubbing his back. “i’m staying.”
a sound escaped him, a jagged, pathetic little sob-laugh. he pulled back just enough to frame your face in his large, warm palms. his eyes were wet, sparkling with a level of adoration that felt almost heavy.
“i love you so much it’s actually embarrassing,” he rambled, his words tripping over each other. “i was so scared. i was genuinely terrified that i’d finally annoyed you into silence. but you’re here. in my house. you’re going to be in that room i decorated. you’re going to be in my kitchen. i’m going to see you every morning? i’m going to wake up and you’ll just… be there? i don’t think you understand. i’m going to be the most annoying roommate in history. i’m never letting you leave this apartment. i’ll lock the door and throw the key into the sumida river. i’ll be your personal chef, your foot massager, your bodyguard, anything.”
he kissed you then, and it wasn’t a ‘welcome home’ kiss. it was a ‘i have been starving for you and finally, i am full’ kiss. it tasted like relief and far too much caffeine.
he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, his chest still heaving. “i have the guest room ready, but just so you know, my bed is much bigger and i have a heated blanket. just a suggestion. a humble proposal from your very desperate, very relieved boyfriend.”
you laughed, feeling the vibration of his own chuckles against your lips. kuroo was a lot of things, a dork, a former captain, but standing there in his living room, he was mostly just a man who had successfully trapped his favorite person in the world, and he looked like he’d just won the olympics, the lottery, and a lifetime supply of your attention all at once.
ps. you didn’t sleep in the guest room that night, or any other night for that matter.
n: all i could think about while writing this is his back, like mmm back muscles..
