⋆˚꩜｡ tsukishima is an adorable pain after practice tsukishima x reader!
^^fluff , timeskip , maybe ooc again💌
it had been hours since tsukishima texted you, the last time being during his practice break. you had assumed it ran longer than usual, considering his team, sendai frogs, had a big tournament coming up.
just as you were about to text him, the front door shut. you heard bags being shrugged off shoulders, shoes shaken off by the doorway, and footsteps being made towards the bedroom.
you finally looked up to the doorway to see that he’d already made his way in, the door closing behind him.
with a sigh, the tension from his shoulders released, pausing by the entrance of the room.
“long practice?”
nod.
“ya tired?”
nod.
he then shuffled his way into the shared bathroom, leaving you to wait for him to be done showering and crawl into bed.
once he was finished, it wasn’t long before he slipped into the covers, beside you. you had been reading, too focused to acknowledge him for the time being.
you had assumed he was too tired for any conversation or proximity, so you didn’t initiate anything.
after about 15 minutes, you felt him shift closer, his knee touching yours.
another 15 minutes go by, and he moves again, his breath now brushing your arm.
you had yet to pay any mind to it, still assuming that he’s asleep, or trying to.
when he saw you still weren’t budging or saying anything, he let out a small huff. then, lifting up your arm, he slides in between your arm and side, resting his head on your chest. he wraps his arm around your hip, pulling you closer to him.
“tsukki,” you laugh quietly, looking down to see his blonde hair snuggled into you.
he lets out a satisfied hum, his body practically melting on you. it was then that you realized that tsukishima was waiting on you.
you placed your book on your nightstand, “awe, did you miss me?” you tease, huddling closer to him.
“shut up,” he grumbled, leaning up to kiss your jaw.
a moment passes, and his fingers start slowly dragging across your hip, “yeah, i did,” he whispered.
you laugh once more as you place a soft kiss in his hair, half asleep.
Imagine being the gays at a pride event in 2004 living their lives when someone grabs the microphone and announces to the room that Ronald Reagan was pronounced dead. Can you even imagine the hype, the celebration, the pure elation
hi queen can i request a daryl fic where the girls in the quarry group in season 1 doesnt seem to understand how can daryl and reader be together since he is always grumpy over something and has quite the temper, while reader is very gentle and sweet? but they soon end up noticing that daryl gives her princess treatment🤭 and even with his temper (towards the others ofc) he is actually a good boyfriend?
Scary Dog Privileges
You and Daryl fell in love long before the world met its end, though it seems no matter what you both do, the people you're making camp with can't grasp the concept of you, all frilly and sweet, and Daryl, all temper and rage, finding love together.
A/N: Hello, dear! Thank you so sm for requesting this fic! S1-S2 Daryl is so special to me, since I fell head over heels for his grumpy attitude almost immediately (so immediately MY MOM called me out on it, embarassing I know). I hope I did your request justice! Thank you for being so patient. I know this fic took some time to get out.
CW: 5k words, Established relationship pre-outbreak between Daryl and the reader, reader is an official sunshine! girly and Daryl spoils her rotten but won't admit it, the reader stays behind to help with basics at camp (i.e cooking, cleaning, mending), the reader gets Daryl out of his shell in more ways than you think (wink wonk), Outercourse between a male and female, brief mentions of pregnancy and wanting to avoid it, Daryl being kind of inexperienced and the reader guiding him briefly, Daryl being a grumbly little ball of anger but a softie for the reader, Carol teasing Daryl (besties), written with a plus sized! reader in mind (as always, chubby girls rise up), Petnames (sugar, doll, baby).
The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.
Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."
You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.
Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."
Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.
They'll never understand him.
Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her.
Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"
"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears.
"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.
"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself.
Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."
Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"
You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."
Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"
You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."
"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.
The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly.
Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”
You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.
He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”
You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.
“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”
Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”
Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”
"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”
His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.
You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."
Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.
His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.
"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.
"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.
"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.
Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."
You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.
The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.
You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.
Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.
“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”
You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”
Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”
You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."
Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"
You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."
Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.
"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."
You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.
"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.
Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."
You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "
You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.
Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.
You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"
Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.
You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.
"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."
The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.
Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.
“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”
Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.
“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.
Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.
"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.
You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.
Though he doesn't deny it outright.
His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.
His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.
The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it.
You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”
Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.
Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.
Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.
The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.
“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.
You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”
Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."
You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.
The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.
Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.
"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.
Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.
You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."
Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.
"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."
You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.
Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.
The stew bowl scrapes against the tent floor as Daryl sets it aside, half-finished. His fingers find the curve of your knee again, where his vest rides up, tracing idle circles that raise goosebumps. Outside, the campfire laughter swells, Glenn's nervous giggle, Shane's annoying booming voice, but Daryl's touch anchors you, rough and sure.
the day your brain upgraded to shinsuke premium thoughts™, you learned two things: 1) cows have best friends, 2) your best friend wants to be your everything—starting with the spoon you just licked.
wc: 1.3k, request EVERYONE CELEBRATE, IT’S THE TELEPATH SERIES 🧚🏻♀️
the first thing you notice is the sound.
not a noise, exactly. more like the sensation of standing too close to a vending machine that’s thinking very hard about soup.
it hits you mid-afternoon, while you’re brushing your teeth and staring at your reflection like it personally wronged you. your head fills with static, then words. not spoken. not imagined. just… there. thoughts, naked and unashamed, parading through your skull like they pay rent.
you spit toothpaste into the sink and grip the porcelain.
“okay,” you tell your reflection, very calmly, very rationally, because you are a functional human being and not about to spiral. “either i’m having a breakdown, or i’ve unlocked a brain app.”
the mirror does not respond. rude.
𓏵
you spend the evening testing your new brain app. you discover it has range: roughly a tennis court. you discover kita’s thoughts are 4k resolution while everyone else’s are pirated cam-rip. you discover your neighbor secretly thinks your haircut makes you look like a “protagonist,” which is flattering until you realize she means the distressed kind who starts every anime sitting alone on the school rooftop.
the neighbor’s thoughts feel fuzzy, like they were recorded on a phone hidden in a coat pocket. lots of coughing, bad angles, emotional sincerity but no budget.
the cashier at the convenience store thinks about whether raccoons have hands. the kid on a bike is thinking about jumping a curb and dying gloriously. someone across the street is mentally replaying an argument from three years ago and winning it this time.
and then there’s kita.
you’re not even trying to listen to him. you’re just walking home, hands shoved into your pockets, the world slightly tilted, when his thoughts slam into you with the clarity of a nature documentary narrated by god.
‘did she eat lunch today. i should have asked. i should always ask. tomorrow i will bring extra rice balls. two kinds. no, three. she might want variety. variety is important. cows like variety.’
you stop dead on the sidewalk.
“what,” you whisper, to no one.
kita shinsuke, your best friend, your quiet constant, your moral compass in human form, is currently thinking about cows. which is normal. unfortunately, he is also thinking about you like you are a fragile ecosystem that needs careful tending and occasional offerings.
you take one cautious step forward.
the thoughts sharpen, like the signal bars on your phone climbing from one to five.
‘her footsteps sound tired. i should walk slower to match her pace. if she trips i can catch her. i’ve practiced. not on purpose. just… mentally.’
your heart does a very unhelpful thing where it forgets how to beat correctly.
𓏵
you spot him ahead, standing near the crosswalk, hands folded neatly, posture straight like the world might grade him on it. kita looks the same as always. calm. composed. eyes soft when he turns and sees you.
“hey,” he says.
“hey.”
inside your head, a choir of him clears its throat.
‘she said hey. normal. respond normally. don’t stare. don’t stare at her mouth. i’m staring at her mouth. stop.’
you choke on air.
“you okay?” he asks, concern immediate, genuine. his brow creases like it always does when you look even a little off, like your wellbeing is a delicate origami he’s afraid of unfolding wrong.
“yeah,” you say, because lying has never been harder in your life. “just… tired.”
‘she’s tired. of course she is. the world is loud and she carries it anyway. i wish i could take some of it. i would hold it. carefully. just for her.’
your chest aches, sharp and sweet, like biting into something with too much sugar.
𓏵
you walk home together. you don’t touch, but you’re close enough that his thoughts stay crystal clear, every one landing with unsettling tenderness.
everyone else’s minds are background noise, easily ignored. kita’s is a cathedral.
he notices things. always has. the crack in the sidewalk you always avoid. the way you hum when you’re thinking. the sweater you’re wearing tonight, soft and familiar.
and then, like a gift wrapped in your exact favorite color, his thought arrives, perfectly phrased, devastatingly sincere, even though he was staring at a dairy farm poster:
‘she’s wearing the sweater i said looked cute last winter. she remembered. i’m going to die. officially deceased. bury me under that cow.’
you almost laugh. almost cry. almost stop walking just to look at him and scream.
instead, you shove your hands deeper into the sleeves of said sweater and say, “it’s cold.”
“yeah,” kita agrees, immediately shrugging out of his jacket and offering it to you like this was always the plan. “here.”
‘if she says no i will respect it. if she says yes i shall ascend.’
you take it. your fingers brush his. sparks are a myth, but something warm and electric crawls up your arm anyway.
“thanks, shin,” you say, because you’ve always called him that, because it feels right and soft and his name sounds different in your mouth.
he freezes for half a second.
‘she called me shin. again. my soul is doing cartwheels. i must remain composed.’
he smiles at you, small and steady, and keeps walking.
by the time you reach your place, your brain feels full. overflowing. like you’ve eaten too much affection and don’t know where to put it.
“do you want to come in?” you ask, casual, like this isn’t the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever spoken.
‘yes. yes. yes. but don’t impose. don’t scare her. be normal.’
“if it’s not a bother,” he says.
you let him in.
your apartment smells like laundry detergent and whatever candle you forgot to blow out this morning. you kick off your shoes. he lines his up neatly by the door without being asked.
‘her space. this is her space. i am honored. sniff more, make it last. DON’T DROOL—’
you make tea. he sits at your small table, hands folded, eyes following you like you’re a story he’s memorized but still wants to reread.
you test the range again, stepping into the kitchen, then the hallway. his thoughts fade slightly when you put distance between you, like lowering the volume on a song you don’t actually want to stop hearing.
when you come back, the hd resumes instantly.
‘she’s smiling. she smiles when she’s thinking. i want to know what she’s thinking. i want to be the reason.’
you set the mugs down and sit across from him. steam curls up between you, intimate and slow.
“can i ask you something kind of weird?” you say.
he nods. always does. “anything.”
you watch his face. the way his eyes soften, the way he leans in just a little, like the world is quieter when you speak.
“do you ever feel,” you start, searching for words that won’t shatter everything, “like you notice things more than other people?”
he considers this.
‘about her? yes. about everything else? not really, they’re not worth it.’
“maybe,” he says aloud. “i think… paying attention is important.”
you smile into your tea.
“yeah,” you say. “i think so too.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s warm. full. his thoughts drift, slow and careful, circling you like he’s afraid to step wrong even in his own head.
‘if this moment could last forever, i would take care of it. feed it. keep it safe. like a core memory.’
your chest tightens again.
𓏵
later, when it’s dark outside and the city hums softly, you sit on the couch together. not touching. close enough that your knees almost brush.
you could tell him. about the thoughts. about the way he shines louder than everyone else in your head. you could unravel everything.
instead, you lean your head on his shoulder.
his breath stutters.
‘this is it. this is my favorite moment. i will remember this when i am old. when i am dust. i will still be here for her. always for her. if she doesn’t want me to, then i’ll watch from afar.’
he doesn’t move. doesn’t dare. but he lifts his hand, slow, asking without words.
you nod.
his arm wraps around you, gentle, like you might disappear if he holds too tight.
you listen to his thoughts until you fall asleep like that, tucked into his side, heart loud, brain buzzing, knowing this could be an ending or the softest beginning.
either way, you’re not uninstalling the brain app anytime soon.
n: this was such a struggle to write without being repetitive. ‘you’re just repeating plots.’ GIVE ME A BREAK??
Everyone thought Oikawa Tōru was a playboy. It made sense.
He was handsome, ridiculously popular, always surrounded by squealing girls, and flirted like breathing was a competitive sport. Rumors followed him everywhere—stories about dates, confessions, heartbreaks. Half of them weren’t even true, but Oikawa never bothered correcting anyone. It was easier to laugh dramatically and move on.
So naturally, when Oikawa Tōru actually fell in love for real… it became a complete disaster.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO ASK HER OUT?!” Iwaizumi’s yell echoed through the empty gym.
Oikawa sat sprawled dramatically across the bench, clutching a volleyball to his chest like he was in a tragic romance movie. “Iwa-chan, lower your voice! This is a sensitive matter!”
“You flirt with girls every day.”
“That’s DIFFERENT!” Oikawa cried. “That’s easy! This is serious! This is terrifying!”
Iwaizumi stared at him like he’d grown another head. “You’re telling me the guy who winks at cashiers is panicking over one girl?”
Oikawa slowly lowered the volleyball from his face. His expression became strangely genuine. Soft. Nervous. “…Because it’s her.”
And somehow, that shut Iwaizumi up for exactly three seconds. “…Still pathetic though.”
“Iwa-chan!”
The truth was, Oikawa didn’t know what had happened to him.
Maybe it started during lunch breaks, when you absentmindedly handed him half your milk bread because you noticed him staring. Maybe it was when you scolded him for overworking himself without sounding impressed by his talent like everyone else did. Or maybe it was the terrifying realization that your attention mattered more to him than winning arguments, fan attention, or even his stupid pride.
Whatever it was, he was doomed. Completely doomed.
Because suddenly, Oikawa Tōru—smooth talker, captain of Aoba Johsai, self-proclaimed ladies’ man—couldn’t even say good morning properly around you anymore.
“Y/N-chan!” he greeted one morning in class, dramatically sliding into the seat beside you. “You look beautiful today—”
Then your eyes met his. And he immediately choked on air. “—I MEAN NORMAL. You look NORMAL today. Not that you’re usually ugly! WAIT—”
Hanamaki nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Matsukawa looked genuinely concerned. “Did someone hit him in the head with a volleyball?”
Meanwhile, you blinked slowly while chewing your snack. “…Are you okay?”
“No,” Oikawa whispered weakly. “Not anymore.”
It only got worse from there.
He started rehearsing imaginary confessions in the mirror.
He googled “how to ask a girl out naturally” at two in the morning.
He borrowed romance manga from Hanamaki and immediately regretted it because now he was comparing himself to fictional male leads.
And worst of all—he started pestering Iwaizumi nonstop.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispered dramatically during practice. “What if she says no?”
“Then move on.”
“But what if she hates me afterward?”
“She won’t.”
“But what if she thinks I’m annoying?”
“You are annoying.”
Oikawa collapsed to the floor. “I’m doomed…”
“Get up, Trashykawa.”
But despite all his dramatics, everyone noticed the difference.
Because when Oikawa flirted before, it was effortless. Playful. Meaningless. With you, though?
He became careful. Terrified.
He remembered every little thing you said. He carried extra snacks because you liked them. He walked slower so you could keep up beside him. He’d casually brag about his serves one second, then short-circuit completely if you praised him too sincerely.
And whenever you smiled at him? God.
He looked like he’d seen heaven itself.
One evening after practice, Iwaizumi found Oikawa sitting alone outside the gym, staring at his phone with the expression of a man moments away from cardiac arrest.
“What now?” Iwaizumi asked tiredly.
Oikawa slowly turned the screen around.
A single text from you glowed on it.
“Thanks for waiting for me today :)”
Iwaizumi stared. “…And?”
“She used a smiley face.”
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“She used a smiley face, Iwa-chan.”
And that was when Iwaizumi realized something horrifying: Oikawa Tōru was genuinely, hopelessly in love.
Not in the dramatic fake way people assumed.
Not in the shallow playboy way rumors painted him to be.
No—this was worse. Because the great Oikawa Tōru had turned into the most embarrassing lovesick idiot alive. And honestly? It was the realest anyone had ever seen him.
Iwaizumi’s nose is bleeding, his hands bruising an angry shade of red.
He doesn’t remember what happened, not really at least.
One second, the bar was loud and lively, overcrowded and sticky with spilled drinks.
The next, he’d heard an all too aggressive, “You don’t have to be such a bitch.”
The rest is a blur.
He vaguely remembers Makki yanking him off some poor bloody heap on the floor.
Oikawa shouting something that sounded both panicked and furious as he dragged him toward the exit.
Matsukawa laughing in that disbelieving, holy shit, kind of way while ushering you out of the room before you could see the worst of it.
And before his brain can really catch up, the feeling of the brisk night air hitting his face hard enough to make him realize his nose was bleeding.
Now you’re all halfway down the block, the neon lights and lively noise of the bar fading far behind you.
Everyone’s breathing hard from the sudden get away, adrenaline still buzzing thick in the air.
But all Iwa can focus on is the sting in knuckles and the terrified look on your face.
“Are you okay?” you ask immediately, voice a little shaky and a whole lot worried.
He’s weirdly calm right now, too calm. Like all the anger fizzled out the second the cold air hit his face.
All he feels now is the heaviness settled deep in his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he suddenly blurts, shame quickly creeping in.
You stare at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind.
Behind him, Makki lets out a confused, “Huh?” while Matsukawa starts cackling again.
Even Oikawa pauses mid-rant, eyes squinting hard.
“What the hell do you mean you’re sorry?” you spit out incredulously.
He swallows hard, unable to meet your eyes for a second, “That was stupid,” he mutters, flexing his aching hand with a wince, “I shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that”
For a moment, nobody says anything.
Then Matsukawa snorts, loud and obnoxious, “Dude.”
You roll your eyes, gently grabbing his battered hands and inspecting the damage, “Shut the hell up, you didn’t embarrass me you idiot”, you mutter, ears burning now.
“Well I, for one,” Oikawa says dramatically, throwing an arm around Iwa’s shoulders, “am pissed we had to leave, so you’re buying a bottle and we’re going back to yours”
Makki snickers, elbowing the drama queen in the ribs, “Iwa just beat the shit out of some guy for his girl and that’s what you’re worried about?”
And if your face was pink before, it’s burning now.
Heat crawls all the way up your neck as the words replay in your head on loop.
His girl.
And maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that he didn’t even deny it, but your stomach flips hard.
When you finally glance at him, you find that he’s already staring at you, cheeks pink too.
You huff out a quiet little laugh before reaching up and pulling his face down just enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Thank you for protecting me, my hero” you tease.
His entire face burns red instantly, and suddenly the sting of his knuckles is the last thing on his mind.
“Shut up” he mutters, despite the little smile pulling at his lips.
“Okay!”, Oikawa announces loudly, clapping his hands together, “Konbini time. We need a first aid kit and a case of soju.”
Still laughing and shoving at Iwa while he grumbles for everyone to shut up, the five of you start down the street toward the convenience store, the tension from earlier replaced with something warm and easy.
You never have to stress the small stuff when you're with Kita. You wouldn't describe him as controlling because that sounds so negative, the image that comes to mind doesn't match Kita at all. But he does enjoy having a say in your life. He likes choosing what you'll wear, he likes planning your day when he can, sometimes down to what you'll eat. He likes taking care of you, is all.
Neither of you really question it at first. It's little things like asking him what you should order at a restaurant or maybe you have a mile long check list and don't know where to start. There's a hundred things on your mind, and putting together an outfit is somehow your last straw. So you ask Kita.
It's nice having one less thing to worry about, and he likes seeing you happy with his suggestions. There's a sense of pride when you like the food he recommends, when he sees how pretty you look in the outfit he laid out.
After a while, you don't even have to ask. He can see your brows pinch as you flip through the menu over and over. There's a pile of clothes on the bed as you try in outfit after outfit. You're sitting on the couch while the little "to-do list" notepad sits blank in front of you. So he offers his thoughts and beams at the way your shoulders sag in relief.
It's not until you're at dinner with friends, when Kita orders for you like second nature, do you think hard about it.
"Are you two regulars here?" Someone asks. You shake your head confused, so the follow up is "Oh. Well, is that your usual order?" You can't even answer this time. You have no idea what Kita ordered for you. You've been too engrossed in your conversation with old friends to even check the menu. You realize, now, how this might look to others, so you laugh nervously and shrug "He knows what I like. Back to what we were saying, though" and you redirect the conversation to whatever had you too distracted to pick up the menu.
When you get home that night, the whole thing has mostly left your mind. You ate every bite of your meal, and enjoyed it. You wash your face and listen to the drawers in your room rattle as Kita pulls out pajamas for you both. When you walk into the bedroom however, Kita is at your drawers, your clothes in hand, but he's standing so still and has a contemplative look on his face.
You assume he's just thinking about what set to give you, so you reach for his hands to take whatever he's already taken out. But he says "do you think it's strange? How many decisions I make for you?". It's only then that you remember that moment at dinner
You don't think it's strange, not even for a second. It's always been helpful, a relief. You still have opinions that you voice regularly, and they're always heard. Kitas never pushed you to go with his suggestions when you've had something else in mind. In fact, he rarely even offers suggestions when you already have something in mind.
So you explain it as best as you can. "No, it's nice. Sometimes I can't be bothered to consider a hundred options, and you have good taste, so..." You shrug. "And it's not like I never think for myself. You're just there when I don't want to".
That's all folks. I just needed to get this idea out my system
Now you’re playing designated driver to a car full of drunk idiots.
Hinata’s halfway through retelling some insane story from Brazil for the third time, talking so fast half his words blur together.
Atsumu and Bo are loudly arguing about god knows what, their words slurring together into a big jumble of nothing.
Sakusa sits slumped in the passenger seat, head resting against the window with the most miserable expression you’ve ever seen.
You let out a long, exhausted sigh, immediately catching the attention of the bickering blonde in the back.
“What’s wrong baby?” Atsumu dramatically slurs from the backseat and for whatever reason, Sakuas’s eyebrow twitches ever so slightly.
You let out a huff of air, “This isn’t what I signed up for. We’re going back to yours, Tsumu. I’m not driving everyone around”
“WOOOO!” Bo shouts instantly.
Hinata joins him without hesitation, “Sleepover!”
Atsumu looks way too proud for someone who can barely sit upright, “I knew ya liked me best”
Sakusa clicks his tongue quietly beside you, shooting him a nasty little glare.
“I don’t want to go to his place,” he mutters flatly.
Drunk and he’s still such a hardass.
You snort quietly, glancing at him for only a second before turning back to the road,
“Well unless you’re volunteering to drive everyone home, we’re going to blondeys.”
His pissy little frown deepens immediately.
Honestly, it’d almost be intimidating if he didn’t look half asleep.
Sakusa’s head tips lazily toward the window again, dark curls messy from the night out, eyes heavy with exhaustion and alcohol.
Part of you can’t believe he let them get him drunk, another part knows they weren’t leaving until he was.
“…But his couch smells weird” he complains under his breath.
From the backseat Atsumu gasps dramatically, “Omi, yer so obsessed with me”
“I’m obsessed with not smelling weird” he shoots back instantly.
You can’t help the laugh that slips out, eyes rolling fondly as the idiots in the back immediately spiral into another loud argument about the couch.
From the corner of your eye, though, you notice Sakusa staring at you.
Not annoyed.
Not glaring.
Just… staring.
“You okay?” you ask quietly after a few seconds, once the three drunks in the back drift back into their own conversations.
He tears his eyes away from you then, gaze settling on the road ahead instead, “They’re so loud”, he whines.
You huff out a little laugh, “You knew that before you agreed to come out”
“I lost a bet”
“You’re such a liar”
“I know,” he admits easily, lips twitching just slightly, “I just hate saying no to Hinata.”
Something warm settles in your chest at that.
It’s strangely sweet hearing him admit it so openly, especially because he usually acts like affection is some kind of contagious disease.
“I’m glad you came”, you admit quietly, eyes still glued to the road, “This wouldn’t have been much fun without you.”
For a second, he doesn’t answer.
When you finally glance over, you notice the faintest blush dusting across the bridge of his nose, barely visible beneath the passing streetlights.
“I’m too drunk for this” he mutters
“Sorry,” you tease gently, “Get some rest, babe”
His cheeks darken almost instantly at the nickname and despite himself, his eyes drift right back to you again.
He can’t help it, he’s feels compelled.
Like he can’t risk missing the soft little smile tugging at your lips, or the way your fingers tap quietly against the steering wheel to the barely audible song playing.
“I like that” he admits out loud before he can stop himself.
You glance over, eyebrow raised, “Like what?”
“Babe,” he blurts immediately.
The second the word leaves his mouth, Sakusa internally recoils.
Jesus christ. He’s never drinking again.
Meanwhile, your expression softens into something dangerously amused.
“You like when I call you babe?” you ask, tone too soft for him to handle right now.
Sakusa stares stubbornly straight ahead, refusing to look at you despite the heat crawling all the way up to his ears, “Are we almost there?”
The laugh you let out is so bright and warm, it rivals the feeling in his chest. He glances over, small smile tugging at his own lips now.
From the backseat, Bokuto suddenly gasps loud enough to startle everyone, “HOLY SHIT, IS KIYOOMI FLIRTING?”
“Let me out of this car now” Sakusa says immediately, slumping further into his seat, embarrassment radiating from him.
The rest of the ride dissolves into obnoxious cheering and relentless teasing while he miserably sinks lower and lower into his seat.
———————————————————————
A/N: this isn’t that great I’ll write something better for him soon :P
“hey, just because you’re all hot and tan doesn’t mean you don’t need sunscreen,” you pull out a bottle of sunscreen from your bag, quickly opening it to squirt some of the lotion into your hand.
hinata stops in his tracks, turning back around to look at you. his eyebrow quirks upward, hands resting on his hips. reaching out your hand, you wipe the sunscreen across his forehead, hands smoothing it down his temples and onto his cheeks. his gaze remains fixed on you, a small smile resting on his lips.
“this is fun for you, isn’t it?” he questions, one hand reaching over to rest on your lower back, keeping you standing in place.
your fingers rub the sunscreen onto his nose, slowly working it into the skin below his eyes. “i am simply enjoying protecting you from sun damage,” you wipe it across his cheeks, quickly realizing that you grabbed way too much sunscreen for his face.
“well, you need some protecting too,” his hand pulls you towards him, his cheek rubbing up against yours as the sunscreen wipes across your skin.
“shoyo!” you screech, hands pushing away from his shoulders, only counteracted from his arms wrapping around you.
kicking your feet, he pulls you with him towards the water. you both laugh in between breaths, the cool ocean water quickly brushing up against your feet and then shins. the water keeps rising until it reaches your waist, your legs wrapped around his own waist. keeping your hands on the back of his neck, you hold on tight, not letting go.
“do not drop me in the water!” you exclaim, forehead pressed against his.
“okay! okay, i will not, in exchange for a kiss,” he leans back, eyes staring up at you, the glow of the sun radiating around you.
“this is extortion, you know that?”
“call it what you want, i am asking for one simple thing.”
shaking your head, your hands shift to his shoulder blades, pulling yourself to him. you press a kiss to his lips, tasting a lingering hint of sunscreen and the mango ice cream he had minutes ago. slowly, you lean back up, staring back down at him. “okay, i’ve given you what you want!” you wrap your arms back around his neck.
Your Daughter tries to make your Sick!Husband feel better //fluff
“Daddy, Daddy!!”, your Daughter squeals loudly, running into the House after having accompanied you on running errands.
Your Husband, Iwaizumi Hajime, is currently sick on the couch, used tissues and soup bowls next to him. He looks awful; his nose is red, skin pale and eyes dull from watching too much stupid TV and well, obviously the virus.
“Baby, don’t get too close to your Father. He’s still infectious.”
“Infesius?” she babbles confused and looks up to you.
“You can get sick too if you get too close to him.”
She pouts and shakes her head, “But Mommy, I bought Daddy the things!! I wanna give him!!”
You pout and nod, putting the grocery bag down. “You can show him what you bought, but no kisses or hugs, okay?”
She grins and runs further into the House, “Okay!!”
After organizing the Groceries and preparing a new Soup and Tea for Iwaizumi, you walk into the Living Room, carrying both to the table.
Your Daughter sits a little too close to her Father, her just bought things in her own little Bag, pulling one out after the other with her clumsy little toddler fingers.
“Look Daddy!”
Iwaizumi’s eyes have fallen close, due to fatigue.
“Daddy!! Look!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Princess…Daddy’s a little tired.”
“Yeah, Yeah. Okay, I bought this!” She holds a pink Unicorn Bath Bomb into Iwaizumi’s face.
He blinks a few times, backing off slightly before nodding slowly, “Mh, looks great, Baby.”
“Yes!! Look, it’s so pink…” Her voice is genuinely amazed by the very vibrant color of the Product, getting distracted by it.
After a silent minute of her spacing out and Iwaizumi already drifting off again, she suddenly snaps out of it and puts the Bath Bomb away to pull three other Bath additives out of her Bag.
“Daddy! I bought you those too!”
They’re relaxing Bath Salts for the Immune System, against Back pain etc. The next Things she pulls out is a Nasal Spray, many different Herbal Teas, new Tissues and Cough Drops, which she presents him with great enthusiasm accompanied by her insistent “Daddy, look!!”’s.
After a few minutes, Iwaizumi can’t look anymore and falls asleep. As your Daughter notices that, she presses a gentle kiss on his hot forehead, which she is not supposed to do, before running off to her room.
With a soft sigh, you free Iwaizumi from being covered by his Daughter’s gifts and press a kiss to his forehead as well, which you are not supposed to do too.
He is so loved.
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
a/n: English isn’t my first language, criticism is welcomed but please be nice. Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! Do not steal or copy my work, nor feed it to ai.
n: Iwa spoiled his little girl too much // not proofread
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