Untitled

I MISS FLUFFY FICS EVERYTHINGS SMUT NOW💔

HONOURING LITTLE SATORU

(i made the collage so dw about plagiarism or ai generated crap<3)

character(s): Gojo Satoru x fem!reader (fluff & comfort)

wc: 1.5k

(i got these lovely dividers form @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

soundtrack: literally what else but Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker

Satoru was a girls dad, through and through.

The moment he found out you were pregnant? He retired both of you and handed in every possible resignation paper within hours. A few months after you had blessed him with a beautiful baby girl, there was a second one already on the way and he was seriously considering never coming back to any form of work and just houswifing it at that point.

Now?

Both of them a little grown up. Round faces red from the cold snow falling on them, a pair of momma’s eyes and a pair of dadda’s twinkling at the sight of the illuminated theatre. Their small bodies were wrapped in thick matching winter coats that made them look like two fall-proof snowballs because of the puffy dresses beneath them.

Satoru adored dressing his girls just like they did with their dolls. It started with you when you began dating him. A dinner date = a picked out dress for you to wear. He loved seeing you in things he provided you with. Jewelry, shoes, bags, all of that included. Those were the first signs of the girls dad-ness hihi.

Now he simply had three sizes and three preferences to keep in mind:)

Satoru never changed in that way…

“Darling?” you rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Let’s take them inside, I don’t want them to catch a cold.”

Your smile was wide when he turned to you.

He bent down and placed a long kiss on your temple. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into your hair. “But let me take a picture of you three first.”

Nutcracker was an obvious choice.

Satoru loved spoiling his girls and despite never forcing either of them into any sports or hobbies… there was something about parenting a small ballerina… I mean, going around stores and looking for the perfect pair of dancing shoes for his little ones? Pink tutus? Brushing their hair into cute buns and taking you out to watch your children perform together?! You and him, worn down with wrinkles, side by side, hand in hand, in a theatre, watching a ballet and be able to turn to the couple next to you and go like, "That's our daughter"?

A man can dream, right?

And his master plan of making at least one of his daughters fall in love with ballet was already succeeding. The moment you helped them out of their coats in the foyer, they began spinning and imitating the twirls below your legs, almost knocking you over. Half of the hall's eyes were already on them and he knew they have never seen children so beautiful and full of life.

He held your own coat for you so you could slip out of it and carried everything toward the cloakrooms.

If your smile had been wide in front of the theatre it had to be stretching all the way to your damn ears now.

He looked so handsome you thought. The grey tux hugged him so well, sharp against the black shirt, a white tie with the imprint of your lipstick that was hidden on its other side, brushing against his heart. His rectangular sunnies had slipped a little down his nose for you to make out his lashes clearly. His hair, freshly washed and tousled.

If all the grandmas and grandpas adored your daughters, Satoru claimed the hearts of every single woman in that space. You could tell... Ohhhh. you. could. tell. Just from the way their eyes travelled up and down his tall body....

You bit your lip to stop yourself from absolutely ravaging him there and then.

“You look beautiful.”

“Huh?” he raised his eyebrows at you, eyes a little wide.

You placed your hands on his broad chest and stood on your tippy toes to peck his chin. Then nuzzled closer to him. “You look so beautiful, ‘Ru,” you repeated.

“Bleeeehhhh~”

You turned at the same time as Satoru did to see your older one pretending to vomit into a vase by the staircase. You climbed off of him with a sigh.

He had to take some more pictures of you three. He just had to...

Large chandeliers above your heads, people in formal clothing coming back and forth on the red carpets and warm light spilling everywhere. One angel was hugging your leg that peeked out of the slit of your dress, the other with her small arms tight around your neck, playing with a necklace that could get one a house. You looked even more sensational in that dress than you did when he helped you zip it up in your bedroom. And if your two girls were glowing, you were incandescent. You- Satoru blinked at you above the camera a few times. You were just-

“Darling?”

“Pappa! Take the picture!”

“Pappa, c'mon! It’s starting soon!”

Satoru chuckled and shook his head. The camera clicked a few times and before you knew it your minions were already running up the stairs towards the balconies.

You slipped your arm through his and let him guide you up the staircase.

Gojo took his mission extremely seriously. When you climbed up to the balconies, there were four seats waiting for you in between two red curtains. Red velvet lined the walls and floors and everything was embellished in golden details.

“Toru you didn’t have to-”

He shushed you with a firm kiss to your lips.

“I want those two monkeys to have a proper experience,” he grinned.

You looked back to them, kneeling on the chairs, leaning over the railing to get a first look at the orchestra. Brimming with curiosity and anticipation. But before you got to thank him, Satoru closed the door of your private balcony, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra came alive.

The stage became an actual wonderland. The dancers moved like one with the music. Sometimes you couldn’t even tell whether they were touching the floor at all… Maybe they were just gracing it with occasional taps of their tippy toes. The music was loud yet sometimes punctuated with the soft claps of the dancers feet. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Satoru’s fingers drummed against the edge of his seat. One time their arms were like scarfs fluttering in the wind, seconds later stiff and sharp like those of soldiers. The- How- It was-... Breathtaking… Absolutely astonishing human craft.

Satoru felt so small. So insignificant when the sugarplum fairy’s solo came on in the second half. She was like a porcelain doll, a being that simply looked too graceful to be of the same flesh as the audience, defining gravity itself.

His palm never left your thigh but whenever you stole a glance at him, he was tracking her every single move. You and your children completely forgotten. Out of the universe. It was him and her in a little cosmos of their own.

The drums picked up and Satoru’s shoulders stiffened, his grip on you tightened and you thought you were gonna cry from the boyish wonder and bewilderment that were reflected in his eyes. He was holding his breath. His chest was shaking but you didn’t dare move an inch in fear of interfering with his experience.

The ballerina bent and she turned and Toru sucked in a breath. He hadn’t blinked once. His glasses were pushed up his forehead and every note was reverberating through him.

You returned your focus to the stage and she stole your heart too...

She looked like a winter flower with sparkling petals that would never be seen among the grass ever again. The end was nearing. She spun and she spun and you were now holding your own breath too until the music suddenly halted and she froze in her concluding stance.

Complete silence fell over the theatre. And then collective applause filled every corner of it.

Your legs moved on their own and you stood from the chair as if some divine power pulled at a thread coming from the crown of your head. Satoru was standing beside you, clapping even louder.

The performance continued so everybody quickly sat back down and awaited the next tune.

“Papa,” you daughter whispered, “why are you crying?”

Your head instinctively snapped to your husband - still standing by your side.

Thick tears were going down Satoru’s cheeks. He wasn’t frowning. His chin wasn’t shaking. He was smiling. Bright and broad. Grinning like your daughters did when you praised their crayon drawings. He was sniffling and wiping at his cheekbones but there were more coming. He couldn’t stop.

“Sissy look!” your youngest tugged at her sister’s skirt. “Momma’s crying too!”

“Shhh! Momma! They’re dancing again!”

You slapped a palm over your mouth and grabbed Satoru’s hand with the other. You led him out the door of the balcony. The door clicked behind you and he coughed out a half-laugh-half-cry. You choked on a tear.

Your backs simultaneously hit the wall and you slid down to the floor. You threw your head back and his forehead fell against your shoulder. You slipped your fingers in his hair and scratched his scalp.

A few of the staff-members passed you in the meantime, always slowing down their step when nearing you shaking on the floor together.

Satoru laughed into your shoulder and you kissed his head.

“Why are you crying?!” he lifted his head to look you in the eyes, still shaking from head to toe.

Your mascara was smeared and your eyes hurt from it getting stuck in them.

“I don’t know,” you rubbed your red eyes and hiccupped. You knew it was him... But you couldn't put it into words... “Why are you crying?!”

“I don’t know!” He cupped your cheek and kissed you. “But it feels nice.”

You returned the favour but both of you froze when another staff-member had to step over Satoru’s outstretched legs. You pursed your lips and the quiet stretched out. You were reaching your limit, but before the person turned the corner, Satoru was already cackling again.

He sighed and placed his hands over his mouth. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Huh?” You wiped your nose and gave him a puzzled look.

“Little Satoru,” he whispered, but you could tell he was smiling without having to look at him. “I think we just reconnected a little again…”

a.n. can you tell i went to see the nutcracker ballet and loved it...? bruuuhhh... i havent made my inner child this happy in weeks... it was sublime u guys... im so grateful for being a woman and getting to experience watching the damn nutcracker ballet with my girlie friend this is insaneeee… im so grateful for life.... best money spent... fr... this is why i work! not to buy myself a damn lambo or a channel bag, but to see sparkling tutus and ballerinas in crowns… my heart is so warm<333

dad!nanami's tweets about his baby

husband!satoru : carry the baby for me

Back aching, dragging swollen feet you pad across the living room towards your husband, satoru.

Approaching his slightly drowsy figure on the couch you call out his name. Slowly his sleepy gaze lifts and lights up at the sight of his 6 months pregnant wife.

“Hey…baby” his voice soft, gaze lingering at your swollen belly and the cute pout on your face.

“What’s wrong?” he questions standing up, hands automatically resting on your hips.

“Carry the baby for me” you huff out.

Satoru tilts his head amused at his wife’s command “I would honey, if I could I would turn into a male seahorse and carry all our children”.

You glare at him, too moody for his silly antics and proceed to turn around on your feet, his chest to your back.

“Give me your hands toru” and being the ever pleasing husband he is he abides.

Bending down you feel your husband in the crook of your neck watching you guide his hands under your belly.

Something clicks and he whispers “yes ma’am” as he lifts your belly gently with his large hands.

A sigh of content leaves your lips as the weight of the bump gets transferred to your husband momentarily.

After all carrying the strongest’s offspring is no easy task.

Satoru watches as you melt into his chest, snuggling into your neck and inhaling your scent.

“I wasn’t joking about the seahorse part” your chuckle vibrates against his chest, his heart beating faster as your warmth ruminates through him, your mood clearly elevated.

firefly; my first post ever! i’m so nervous posting my work hopefully i can improve my writing through this ❀ུ͏  

masterlist

Looking at your and Kento's wedding album with your daughter! Based on this ask!

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

The album rested on your legs. You felt the familiar weight of the thick covers, the brush of old pages beneath your fingers as you turned them carefully. Rei was sitting between Kento and you, leaning against your side, pointing at every photo with fresh excitement, as if she were discovering them for the first time. Because she was.

“Mommy!” she suddenly said, lighting up. “That’s you!”

You looked down.

White dress. Flowers in your hands. Your trembling smile, captured just before saying yes.

“I was really nervous,” you admitted softly. “I thought I was going to trip while walking toward your daddy.”

Rei let out a little giggle.

“You looked happy.”

You kissed her temple.

“I was. Very much.”

Kento said nothing. You noticed before Rei did, you always did. His breathing slowing. His fingers pressing lightly against the edge of the album. The way his gaze lingered too long on the photo.

Rei turned the page.

And stopped.

“…Daddy.”

The picture showed him with reddened eyes, his mouth curved into a broken smile, tears falling freely. You remembered that moment with painful clarity: Kento gripping your hands, unable to speak when it was his turn.

Rei lifted her eyes from the album… and looked straight at him.

“Daddy…” she repeated, quieter.

You followed her gaze.

And you saw it.

Kento’s eyes were shining. A tear had already escaped, sliding down his cheek. Your heart flipped. Without thinking, you raised your hand and wiped the tear away with your thumb.

“Kento…” you whispered. “Love.”

He let out a small, humorless laugh.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to-”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you said immediately, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Never.”

Rei moved clumsily, stretching her little hands toward her father’s face, copying your gesture.

“Don’t cry, daddy…”

Another tear fell.

Rei broke.

“Daddy…” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him.

Kento hugged her tightly, one large hand covering her back, the other still laced with yours. You felt him tremble.

You leaned closer, wrapping both of them in your arms, resting your cheek against Kento’s chest. His heart was beating hard, uneven.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “We’re here.”

Rei lifted her face, her little eyes wet, now looking at you.

“Mommy… is daddy sad?”

You shook your head gently.

“No, sweetheart. He’s emotional.”

Kento took a deep breath.

“Because…” he said, his voice breaking. “Because that day was the happiest of my life. And seeing you like that… it still affects me.”

Your throat tightened.

“Me too,” you admitted. “I look at you and still think how lucky I was.”

Rei hugged both of you, squeezing with all the strength her small body could manage.

“Then…” she said between hiccups, “it’s okay to cry together.”

You smiled through your tears, kissing her hair.

“Yes, my love. It really is.”

The album remained open, forgotten, as the three of you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing in sync.

And for a moment, time didn’t move forward.

There was only that small circle of love, tears, and intertwined hands.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

pick one higuruma or nanami

day 12 of ficmas: christmas eve night with your husband, nanami!

"goodnight, yuuji. yes, i put the fire out. yes. okay. goodnight."

a smile creeps onto your face as your husband convinces your son to finally settle into bed, with the promise of gifts as a wager. the door to your child's bedroom creaks shut, kento sticking his ear to the door to ensure he hears no movement inside.

he slowly turns to you, satisfied expression on his face.

it's finally time.

every year, your husband has followed a meticulous routine to ensure your son has the most magical christmas, fueling his belief in santa and the wonder of the holidays. this year is no different, of course.

first is the easy stuff.

you get the job of eating the cookies yuuji'd set out earlier in the night as kento musters up his best handwriting to give a handwritten letter from santa. he's on the nice list, of course, with all his academic improvements and doing the chores he's asked of. however, even as strict of a parent your husband may be—he would never do such a thing as putting his son on the naughty list, even if yuuji was the worst behaved child on earth. that's simply monstrosity.

with a constant peek over your husband's shoulder, you make sure to leave crumbs and one cookie with a bite taken out of it, ensuring the authenticity that santa had come. you finish tidying up the kitchen from the baking earlier in the day, waiting for kento to perfect his note.

next is the last-minute wrapping.

you roll out the wrapping paper, waiting for your husband's quiet steps to come back down the hallway from your bedroom. his arms are full of things you'd shoved in the back of your closet so yuuji wouldn't see, little gifts for his stocking, candy—the whole nine yards.

the lights from the tree and a few candles illuminate the room just enough for you to see what you're doing. you try to stifle the noise as much as possible, focusing on precise corners and straight lines, even though it'll all be ripped apart in the morning. kento joins you on the floor, socked feet stretching out, effortlessly wrapping the perfect gift, a bow on top to complete it.

you've always been jealous of how good he is at gift-wrapping.

"how do you do that?" you ask, defeated, trying to get a piece of tape off of your fingers. your husband just shrugs in response, as if his method is some cia-level secret. he squints and goes back to folding the paper around a corner.

wrapping gifts takes a little longer than expected. it's not until halfway through you realize you severely underestimated the amount of gifts you'd both gotten your son, looking over at a pile of toys and clothes and everything else a child could want. yet your husband continues to wrap away, pushing out gifts as if it's his job. kento knows he's also to blame, having splurged a little too much in the recent months—on both you and your son.

you study him for a moment, everything very familiar to the past years of marriage, yet still carries the same warmth every time. seeing your husband—who normally says he "doesn't care" about holidays—fully emersed in celebrating christmas makes your heart flutter, makes you feel greatful for your little family.

your phone is slipped out, camera open, silently snapping a few photos of your husband. they'll be saved for the forseeable future, a reminder of cherished times.

"ken," you whisper, not wanting to kill his groove of wrapping, "where are the santa gifts?"

"what?" he returns, finally looking away from all the presents, exhaustion in his eyes.

"the santa gifts," you say again, looking back at him with the same amount of tiredness. he only mouths the words back to you, as if he's confused on what you're asking. his eyes go wide.

"i wrapped them."

"you wrapped them?" you try to not sound panicked, though your eyes match your husband's in width, "where are they?"

his back slumps, and kento nods to the pile of gifts in front of the tree. you look at the clock, and it's a half hour until midnight. too close for comfort.

"what did we get him from santa?" you question, unable to remember everything from fatigue and stress all in one. the gifts are taken one by one from their pretty pile, shaken around as if it'll jog your memory.

"shit," your husband mutters under his breath, getting up from the floor to help you search. "the—the skateboard."

it's well past midnight when you finish searching through everything, nearing the next hour.

ripped up paper is strewn about the floor, bows and snowflakes littering your carpet. you grab a big trashbag and pick up all the shredded paper while kento tries to organize everything else, creating santa's display. it won't be as flawless as the years before, but you're sure yuuji won't notice.

"ken, it's snowing!" you whisper-yell when you throw the trashbag outside, joining your husband in the living room again to look over his finished product.

everything is perfect.

maybe it's just the christmas cheer talking, but it looks as if santa himself had been in your living room tonight. presents and goodies of all kinds are lined up around the living room, displayed so yuuji can see as soon as he enters the room. the string lights just add to the curated magic in the room.

"wow," you breathe out, in utter awe of whatever superpowers your husband has to create such an amazing scene so quickly. "it's perfect, ken."

unable to keep your happiness to yourself, you throw yourself on your husband, hugging his neck tightly. he catches you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, satisfied with his work as long as you're satisfied first.

in front of the tree, you share your final kiss of the night, taking in the coffee-tinged flavor of his tongue. you lean back and smile at him, your grin making all the craziness of the season worth every moment.

this year will be a very merry christmas.

merry merry christmas guys!!! i’m so so happy to have been able to do this collab with my loves <3 i hope you all enjoyed everything from us! if you missed anything, the rest of your presents can be found here! happy holidays!!!!

“kei..” you whispered in between kisses.

tsukishima kei is a busy man. if he’s not acing his classes, he’s repping sendai city and racking up points for his team. he barely ever had free time on his hands — specifically, you in his hands.

so, when he stopped by your place, it took you by surprise to see him standing at your doorstep. he was heaving, hair and clothes tassled by the wind. one thing led to another and…

“kei, c’mon..” you whispered again. he kept going, hungry and starved for your lips, deep groans in annoyance and protest to your wishes. he finally had you in his hands — how in the world could he pass up this opportunity? he kissed you in such a manner that if he pulled away for just a bit, you’d vanish from his touch.

he pulled you in closer by the waist, hands roaming around your body for something, anything to keep him on steady ground. his lips were no different from his hands, ravaging and becoming completely insatiable. tongues dancing, teeth clashing — it was just too much for you. with a whine and a small push to his shoulders, he finally pulled away, a string of your shared saliva covering the gap between your lips.

“kei, it’s getting late. don’t you have some work to do?” you panted as you clung to his sweater, small amounts of worry peeking through your voice. you knew how busy he was and how committed he was to his passions, but in this moment, nothing could match how badly he needed you.

“one more, please. please let me stay,” he begged in reply, voice laced with fear of an absence of you, even if it’s just a second. his glasses were long tossed aside, his hair tasseled from your fingers, lips swollen with kisses, and cheeks flushed a deep, bright red. his hand cupped your jaw as his wide hazel eyes searched for the smallest glint of permission to keep going.

“please, i need you…”

well, how could you say no to that?

content: inspired by this tweet, husband!atsumu, established relationship, atsumu is obsessed with his wife.

you’ve been married four years, and were together for four before that.

eight whole years of shared closets and toothbrushed counters and yelling “i said i love you, stupid” from opposite ends of the apartment.

but somehow, none of that has dulled the way atsumu miya still blushes like a schoolgirl when you flirt with him.

you’ve always had that effect on him. even back in college, when you’d lean over in class just to whisper something dumb in his ear like “i like the way you wear those sweatpants, miya” and he’d lose his cool entirely.

he'd drop his pen, miss the lecture notes, immediately text osamu about it like a man spiraling.

and now, all these years later, it’s still the same.

hell, he still wakes up nervous sometimes. still watches you like he can’t believe you’re real. still kisses your fingers when you hand him his coffee.

and now, it’s 8:20a.m., and he’s halfway through fixing his tie when you step in behind him, sliding a hand across his stomach, fingers smoothing over the waistband of his work pants.

“you look sexy,” you murmur into the side of his neck, voice still hoarse with sleep. “these pants are doing a lot for you, babe.”

atsumu freezes like a cartoon character caught in a trap—back arched, eyes wide, pupils dilated. he’s still holding both ends of the tie in each hand, mid-knot, but they drop immediately.

“oh,” he says, already turning around. “oh really now?”

and yeah, sure—he had plans to stop for a breakfast sandwich so he didn’t have to spend his entire lunch break waiting in that absurd line. but breakfast can wait. nutrition can wait. hell, work can wait.

because you’re still in his t-shirt, yawning against his chest, and he’s beaming. it’s boyish and crooked and already dangerous, like something knocked loose in his brain. 

he can feel the grin tugging at his cheeks and doesn’t bother fighting it—because what’s the point, when you’re looking at him like that? when your voice is still rough from sleep, warm with mischief, and you’ve just whispered the word sexy like it belonged to him?

“say it again,” he breathes, eyes hungry.

“nope. you’re gonna be late.”

he scoffs, reeling back like you’ve just betrayed him. “‘you’re gonna be late,’” he mimics under his breath, already trailing you into the kitchen like he hasn’t been completely lobotomized by a single sentence. like you didn’t just detonate his dignity with one hand and a whisper.

you raise an eyebrow at him the second he rounds the counter. the look is clear: you have approximately four minutes, miya atsumu, before you miss your train and your chances of getting any tonight.

“‘tsumu, i mean it.”

“i know,” he whines, petulant, making a pitiful little noise in the back of his throat like a kicked puppy.

he dips his head toward you with that fake innocent look he’s always used to get out of trouble, already leaning down for a kiss—but you’re ready for him. have been for years. you duck under his arm and scoot toward the coffee pot with practiced precision.

“but ya called me sexy—” he tries again, like it’s a legal defense. like it should grant him immunity from time, responsibility, god himself.

“and i meant it,” you say, without even turning around. “now get your ass to work.”

he stands there for a second, devastated. his mouth opens. closes.

and then, with the reluctant shuffle of a man banished from paradise, he snatches his keys off the counter, slings his coat on backwards, fumbles with the sleeves, then finally manages to push his feet into his sneakers.

he barely makes it out the door.

…

9:04 AM – meeting room B, msby offices

atsumu’s practically bouncing in his seat.

not literally—sakusa already threatened to throw his stainless steel water bottle at him if he didn’t stop shaking the conference table.

but emotionally? oh, he’s sprinting laps around the moon. barefoot. euphoric. his soul is doing cartwheels in a business casual outfit.

he hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked in, and unfortunately for sakusa, who, despite his protests, is the only coworker atsumu can talk to about these things without getting reported to human resources, he won’t shut up either.

“—she just walked up behind me and said it. like, casually! sexy! me!”

sakusa sighs so hard it fogs his reading glasses.  “miya.”

“what?” atsumu blinks, all wide-eyed innocence.

“stop smiling like that. it’s terrifying.”

atsumu leans forward, elbows braced on the table, still glowing. “i’m just in a good mood.”

“you’re talking about you and your wife’s bedroom matters in a budget meeting.” sakusa scribbles something onto his notepad, half-listening to the guy at the front who’s been droning about quarterly expenditures for a full fifteen minutes. “and you’re being quite loud about it.”

atsumu scoffs, reclines in his chair like a smug little king. his tie is loose. his eyes are unfocused and glittery, like he’s watching a slow-mo replay of you leaning in, brushing his waistband, calling him sexy. like he’s not in this meeting at all.

“you’re just jealous my wife flirts with me,” he says with a shit-eating grin.

sakusa doesn’t even blink. “no,” he says flatly. “i’m jealous i can’t unhear the words ‘sexy pants’ before my second coffee.”

atsumu only beams wider.

...

12:32 PM – the sandwich shop

“your usual?” suna asks, barely glancing up from the register, already keying it in with the same mechanical indifference he offers every weekday. 

“yep,” atsumu chirps, bouncing slightly on his heels as he digs around in his back pocket for his wallet.

he’s got that same unhinged glint in his eye, like he’s been waiting all morning for someone to ask. “but i should warn ya, i’m feelin’ sexy today.”

suna’s fingers freeze on the register. his brows lift, gaze flicking up just enough to make eye contact, like he needs visual confirmation that this is, in fact, happening again. “i’m sorry?”

atsumu leans forward against the counter, elbows braced, chin tilted up. his grin is radiant.

“my wife said so.”

suna’s deadpan is honed to perfection. “you brought that up yesterday.”

“yeah, well, she said it again this morning.” he says it like he’s dropping state secrets. like he’s trying not to float off the ground.

suna blinks once, then slides the sandwich across the counter with the resigned grace of a man who’s already lived through war.

his mouth is a thin, straight line. he doesn’t respond, just prays someone else walks in soon to spare him from round three tomorrow.

...

6:47 PM – your apartment

he’s retelling it. again.

you don’t even get to ask about his day at work—he’s already mid-story as he walks in the door, tie loosened, cheeks flushed from the fall air.

and ten minutes later, he’s flopped onto the couch like a golden retriever in business slacks, sprawled dramatically across the cushions with his cheek pressed against your thigh. 

one arm is tucked around your waist, the other lazily scrolling his phone, but he’s not really reading anything. not when you’re this close. not when he can smell the familiar trace of your perfume clinging to your hoodie and feel the soft rise and fall of your stomach beneath his wrist.

he presses his nose into your thigh for a second, just to breathe you in, then sighs. loudly.

“you really meant it though, right?” he asks, voice a little muffled. “about the pants.”

you set your book down in your lap and glance down at him. “atsumu.”

“i’m just sayin’.” he tilts his head back to look at you upside down, his hair flopping off his forehead. “it’s important context. i was on the verge of skipping work.”

“you did skip breakfast,” you remind him, tapping your finger against the bridge of his nose.

he closes one eye dramatically like you’ve wounded him. “babe,” he says, dead serious, “you called me sexy. i had a responsibility to react appropriately.”

you huff out a laugh and lean over to brush his bangs out of his face, fingers lingering in his hair longer than they need to. he nuzzles into the touch instinctively.

“you are so dramatic.”

“say it again.”

“nope.”

he pouts, eyebrows knitting together like you’ve just ruined his whole night. “please.”

you raise an eyebrow and he blinks up at you with those ridiculous puppy-dog eyes, still curled against your side like he belongs there. 

you try to keep your face stern, but the corners of your mouth betray you. (you’ve always been quite easily persuaded by atsumu miya too, you suppose).

“…you’re ridiculous,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair again.

he hums like a man victorious, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh just above the hem of your shorts. “yeah, but you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

he grins wider. “and you think i’m sexy.”

“don’t push it.”

...

the next day – the gym

“so there i was,” atsumu grunts, standing mid-curl, arms flexing as he stares dramatically into the gym mirror, “tying my tie, mindin’ my business—”

aran doesn’t even look up from the bench press. he exhales, slow and exhausted. “dude.”

atsumu ignores him, curling the bar with theatrical precision, like the memory fuels his strength. “—and she just says it. right behind me. like she knows what she’s doin’.”

“well that’s because she probably does,” aran mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel. 

he’s seen this look before—the starry eyes, the overly expressive hand gestures, the pacing between sets. it’s the same thing that happened when atsumu came back from thanksgiving with your family and couldn’t shut up about “how cute she looked with kids.”

“and then,” atsumu continues, lowering the barbell like he’s been personally wronged, “she just walked away. like it was nothing!”

he drops the bar onto the floor with a loud clang and starts pacing. his gym shirt sticks to his back, still damp, but he’s too charged up to notice.

“who does that? who delivers news of that magnitude and then just… moves on?”

aran adjusts the weights on his bar, eyebrows raised. “because it is nothing. y’all’ve been married years.”

atsumu freezes, mouth slightly open like he’s just been slapped. he presses his lips together, nods once, solemn. “wow. that’s cold.”

aran doesn’t flinch. he keeps doing his reps.

atsumu turns away, muttering under his breath as he wipes his face with his shirt, revealing a flash of abs to the mirror, which he then admires. “…yer not invited to our vow renewal.”

aran sighs. “again?”

“you’re double uninvited.”

“you’re the one who brought it up,” aran groans, but atsumu’s already dialing his phone, probably to tell osamu that he’s been betrayed at the gym.

and still, even with the endorphins, the sweat, the slight ache in his arms—he can’t wipe that lovesick grin off his face.

...

later that night – phone call w/ osamu “

...anyway,” atsumu says, lying flat on the floor now, still dressed from the gym. “i think that’s the fifth time i’ve brought it up. i’m just sayin’, that compliment gave me a second lease on life.”

“you are so whipped,” osamu mutters.

“yeah,” he sighs, blissed-out. “and sexy.”

you call from the kitchen: “stop saying that!”

he cups the phone. “she knows.”

You’re laying on your bed, tears soaking the sheets, blanket pulled tightly around you, just staring at the wall in front of you.

You’ve been like this for god knows how long, unable to convince yourself to just move.

You feel your phone vibrating from somewhere underneath you, not bothering to search the bed for it. Probably another text from Cho, you think to yourself, the guilt you feel over not having the energy to answer his text adding to your already depressed mood.

Your stomach growls, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of the fact that you haven’t gotten up to eat or drink today, your mouth feeling bone dry and your stomach cramping from the emptiness.

You hear the soft click of the front door to your apartment and bury yourself under your blanket, trying to make yourself as small as you could, as if shielding yourself will make this feeling go away.

You feel the bed dip next to you and a large hand on your waist, rubbing tender circles on your hip through the blanket.

“Baby,” you hear Choso murmur.

You remain silent, unable to face him in your current state. Embarrassed.

“Baby,” he tries again, voice even softer this time, “Have you even gotten up today?”

Another tear slips down your cheek and you sniffle, silently shaking your head, unsure if Choso could even see the gesture from where you were under the blanket.

You feel the warmth of his body disappear, causing you to curl in on yourself even more before you hear Choso shuffling around the kitchen, the sounds of clinking dishes filling your apartment.

Soon, your shared home fills with the aroma of your favorite meal, and your mouth starts to water. You peek out from under the blanket curiously as Choso comes back into the room, plate in hand, his warmth returning to your side again as he sits back down.

He takes a spoonful and brings it up to your mouth. “Eat,” he says gently, and you open your mouth for him on instinct.

The two of you sit just like this, a comfortable silence filling the room as Choso feeds you.

Once he’s fed you the last bite, he leans over to place a gentle kiss on your temple, getting up to wash the dishes, your eyelids heavy, mind starting to doze now that your belly was full.

Just as your eyes flutter closed and your breathing deepens, the sound of the bath running awakens you. You crack your eyes open and see Choso standing in front of you, hands held out expectantly, waiting for you to take them.

You hesitantly reach out for him, gasping slightly when he pulls you up out of bed only to pick you up in a princess carry and take you to the bathroom.

He strips you down, but it’s not sexual. It’s slow, calming. He places delicate kisses along your neck, your shoulders, your collar bones, worshipping you, reminding you with his mouth how loved you are.

After he has you completely undressed, he turns you around and ties your hair up with one of his spare hair ties, taking extra care to not tug on the delicate strands.

He brushes past you, fingers dipping into the water, testing the temperature for you, before holding his hand out to you once again and helping you step in.

He grabs your favorite soap and scrubs your body slowly, reverently, like he’s trying to memorize every little mole, every freckle. You feel your body relax and you sigh, leaning into him further, enjoying the feeling of his hands on your body.

As he works, he starts humming your favorite song, a small smile forming at the edges of your lips when you hear the familiar tune.

“Cho?” You whisper, eyes peering up at him from where he was leaning over you in the tub.

“Hmm?” He responds, hands now moving to your shoulders, hands massaging the tissue to work out the thick knots you got in your neck after laying in your awkward position all day.

“Thank you,” you whisper, so quietly you’re almost not sure if he heard you, until you feel his hand cup the side of your face, his hair tickling you as he leans in to place a kiss on your forehead.

“Anything for my girl.”

🜼 ⋆ nanami kento trying to hold it in but ends up breaking down while you’re riding him

his hands are resting on your hips, heavy and sure, but trembling just slightly—just enough that you might think it’s the aftershocks of your rhythm. but you’ve been riding him slow for minutes now, your knees on either side of his hips, thighs aching, spine curving into the soft arch that makes his breath catch each time you grind down. it’s not a frantic fuck. it’s not desperate.

it’s the kind of movement that says i want you to feel this—each inch, each wet, sweet clench, each time your body opens around him like it knows his name.

nanami’s head is tilted back against the pillow, throat flushed, golden skin glowing in the amber haze of the bedside lamp. he hasn’t opened his eyes in a while—like if he does, the spell might break. you’re bent over him slightly, hands planted on his chest, the soft drag of your pelvis against his keeping the pace low and warm and intimate.

his breath comes in quiet gasps. not harsh, not needy. just overwhelmed. like this—this exact rhythm, your skin on his, your fingers tracing down his neck—is too much. not from lust. from love.

you notice the shift when his hands move—not to guide your hips, not to speed you up, but to pull you down, gently, into his chest. one palm flattens between your shoulder blades. the other presses at the small of your back, urging you to lean into him. you do. your bare chest presses against his, your heartbeat loud in your own ears.

his mouth finds the crook of your neck like he’s seeking shelter there. not to kiss. not to bite. he just breathes you in—deep, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this moment.

and then you feel it.

not from his breath. not from his body.

from the slow, sudden warmth that seeps into your skin.

your movement falters, just slightly. you don’t ask. not yet. your hand slides up, cradling the back of his head, fingertips threading through sweat-damp hair.

“kento…?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t lift his head. he just stays there, arms wrapped around you, cock still seated deep inside you—so snug, so full, like you were made to hold him.

but the wetness spreads. soft. persistent. and your heart twists.

you shift just enough to pull back, hand slipping to his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye.

his eyes are open now.

and they’re full. not just with tears, but with everything. pain. relief. awe. something ancient and breaking apart like waves finally reaching shore.

“you’re crying,” you whisper. not accusatory. just gentle. worried.

he blinks, and another tear falls. his voice, when it finally comes, is wrecked—quiet and cracked at the edges.

“i didn’t mean to,” he breathes. “i just… i don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”

you brush your thumb over his cheek again. “nothing’s wrong.”

he exhales, jaw tightening like he’s fighting a thousand things he can’t name.

“you love me like i’m not broken,” he says softly, like he’s ashamed of the truth. “like i’m not exhausted. like i didn’t give up on myself years ago.”

you don’t speak. you just kiss him. soft. slow. with your body still wrapped around his, like you can pour all your love into him that way. like if you kiss him deep enough, he’ll finally believe you.

and he melts.

right there beneath you.

arms curling tighter around your waist, lips parting against yours, tears slipping freely down his temples now as you begin to move again—slow, slow, like the pace you started with.

like you’re telling him i’m here. i’m not letting go.

he sobs once. just once. not loud. not harsh. a small, broken thing that escapes against your shoulder, and then—

“i love you,” he chokes out. “god, i love you. i didn’t think i was allowed to have this.”

you pause, breath catching. your hips grind down, slow, deep, pressing your foreheads together.

“you are,” you whisper. “you are.”

his hands hold your face now, trembling slightly as he kisses you again, tears wetting both your cheeks. and still—you’re joined. still, you move together. no thrusting. no hurry. just the soft slide of your bodies in sync, like he’s being reborn between your thighs.

his voice cracks again.

“you’re my everything,” he whispers. “you’re the only thing that makes me feel like a man. not a weapon. not a machine. just… someone worthy.”

you cry too, then.

not loud. not messy. just tears against his skin, mouths pressed together, arms wrapped tight like if you hold each other hard enough, the world might stop spinning.

and in that room—low lit, hot skin on hot skin, your name tangled in his lips and his love spilling raw from his chest—you both stop pretending.

he’s yours.

you’re his.

and the tears? they’re just proof he finally believes it.

How I feel after skipping past all the smut in a fanfic cause I’m only in the mood for fluff

Believe it or not, Kento Nanami is a massive drama queen.

It starts when you come home from grocery shopping. You two are putting stuff away, sharing tidbits of your days, when you remember the special treat you picked up just for him.

“I got you that blueberry yogurt you like!” you proudly proclaim, showing off the big tub.

Kento’s brows knit together, a look of genuine confusion taking over as he studies the label like it’s personally offended him.

There’s a long beat before he finally says, “You must be confusing me with your other boyfriend”.

You freeze mid-step, slowly turning to squint at him, “..what?”

He simply shrugs, “I’ve never had that blueberry yogurt” he says with a sassy little tilt in his voice, “Wrong boyfriend”.

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at his lips, amusement sparkling behind his glasses.

“….are you mocking me?” you ask, jaw dropping dramatically.

“Now you’re gaslighting me?” he quickly counters, walking to the couch, “unbelievable” he cries out before dramatically flopping down, one arm thrown over his eyes like a Victorian widow.

You giggle as you follow, dropping down beside him, “Kenny! I swear you tried it last time!”

He makes a show of lifting his arm and rolling his eyes, “If you hate me and want me dead just say so, it would hurt much less”.

“You’re being so dramatic” you say with a little smirk, “You need to stop hanging out with Gojo”.

“And you’re talking about other men?” he says with an offended tone, disgruntled pout in place.

You giggle as you reach for his hand. He pulls it away with an exaggerated huff. The betrayal makes you gasp before dissolving into laughter.

He struggles to contain his own laughter, stubbornly fighting off a smile when you look at him with your best puppy dog eyes.

He closes his eyes and turns his face away with a sharp, highly offended HMPH.

“Kennyyyy” you whine, poking his side as he dramatically sighs over and over like he’s truly suffering, “if you forgive me we can go to the bakery for dessert later”.

One eye peeks open.

“Well…. I suppose I could forgive you” he mumbles, “..though I might need more bribing”.

You giggle softly, attacking his cheek with kisses. He finally gives in, smiling at the attention. His own laughter finally bubbles out, warm and free, instantly filling the room.

————————————————————————

A/N: This is soooo outta character I just love the idea of Nanami being silly. That man’s 27 why r yall always making him sound like a 50 year old LMFAO

anyways this is rlly shitty I just thought it was kinda funny idk enjoy :P

thinking about how nanami doesn’t do baby talk with your daughter.

he made it clear from the very beginning. the day you found out you were pregnant, he kissed your forehead, pressed a hand to your still flat belly, and said, “i refuse to do baby talk  just so we’re clear.”

you laughed at the time, thought he was joking. but he wasn’t.

when she was born, he cradled her like glass. spoke to her like she understood everything. whispered soft things in her ear in that calm, low voice of his. not nonsense or silly rhymes, but actual words. real language. “you’re safe.” “you’re loved.” “i’ll always be here.”

and that’s how it’s been ever since.

now she’s four, and still, he doesn’t coo or squeal or make exaggerated cartoon voices. he doesn’t squish her cheeks and call her a wittle cutie pie. he doesn’t baby her.

he calls her “sweetheart,” “darling,” “honey” in that same even tone he uses with everyone, but softer. slower. warmer. like his words are only hers.

he talks to her like she’s someone worth listening to.

and she talks back like she knows she’s being taken seriously.

when she tells him her teddy bear is sick and needs emergency surgery, he clears his schedule and lays out tissues like gauze pads. “what’s the diagnosis?” he asks, serious as ever. “fuzzy fever,” she says, frowning. “then we’ll need extra care and plenty of rest,” he replies, adjusting the little stuffed limbs with practiced hands. he doesn’t do pretend very often at all, but for her? he’ll play nurse, doctor, and emotional support all at once.

he doesn't speak down to her, ever. when she asks questions (and she asks a lot) he answers every single one like it’s important. “why is the sky blue?” “because of the way light scatters in the atmosphere.” “what’s a mortgage?” “a financial agreement. you don’t need to worry about that just yet.” she hums and nods like she understands, like she’s filing it away for later.

he teaches her things gently. slowly. patiently. “we use kind hands.” “we speak clearly when we’re upset.” “it’s okay to cry, but we don’t throw our toys.”

he doesn’t yell. doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t huff or sigh in frustration. when she’s overwhelmed, he just kneels beside her, rests a hand on her back, and says, “it’s a big feeling. take your time.”

and she trusts him. wholly. fully. because he’s never once made her feel small. never once laughed when she stuttered through a sentence or tried to use a big word she didn’t quite understand. instead, he gently repeats the word for her. uses it in a sentence. helps her try again.

and she calls him “dad,” but sometimes “sir” slips in when she’s mimicking the way others speak to him. she does it with such seriousness that it breaks something soft in his chest. he pretends not to react, but you’ve seen the way he glances away quickly, like he needs a moment to collect himself.

he doesn’t tell her she’s cute. but he tells her she’s clever. tells her he’s proud of how kind she is. “you were very thoughtful today,” he says after she offers you the last cookie. “you showed great emotional maturity,” he tells her when she apologizes after a tantrum.

and when she’s tired. really tired. she crawls into his lap without saying a word. he always opens his arms. always shifts to make space. he strokes her hair, rests his cheek on top of her head, and murmurs, “you did your best today. that’s all i’ll ever ask.”

and she falls asleep there, every time, safe in the arms of a man who never babbles, never sings off-key lullabies, but always shows up. always protects her. always sees her.

and when you ask her who her best friend is, she says “dad” without hesitation. when you ask her why, she shrugs and says, “he listens to me better than anyone else.”

and it’s true.

he listens when she talks about butterflies and princesses and space robots. he listens when she says she’s scared of thunderstorms. he listens when she says she wants to be a firefighter and a ballet dancer and also maybe a sea turtle. he never tells her it’s silly. never laughs.

so no, nanami doesn’t do baby talk. he doesn’t sing silly songs or play peek-a-boo. but he shows up to every tea party. he folds her tiny socks like they’re made of gold. he takes her hand when they cross the street, holds it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. and when he tucks her in at night, he kisses her forehead and says, “you’re growing into someone wonderful.”

and really, that means more than any silly voice or rhyming song ever could. because nanami doesn’t just raise a daughter; he raises a whole person

Yearly vacations in Malaysia are tradition in the Nanami household.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Year 1 — Before Everything

The first time Nanami suggests going to Malaysia, he's almost clumsy asking.

"Would you like to… travel with me? To a place that's important to me."

He says it in that reserved tone he uses when something matters more to him than he's willing to admit.

And you agree, of course.

That trip is the first time you see him truly relax. He walks slowly, takes deep breaths, takes off his watch.

He smiles more.

In Penang, he takes your hand while you eat laksa at a street stall and says, almost without thinking:

"I could get used to doing this every year."

That's the beginning.

The ritual.

The tradition you two unknowingly create.

Year 2 — The Tradition is Born

This year, he's already requesting it well in advance at work. He fills out paperwork before everyone else, saves money, packs his suitcases days ahead of time.

When they arrive, he wakes you up at six in the morning on the first day.

"I don't want to waste a single minute."

They go to the beach, walk in silence, he puts his arm around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder.

"Thank you for coming with me again."

"Always."

Year 3 — The tradition continues.

Malaysia has its rules:

A ridiculously large breakfast.

An afternoon at the beach without cell phones.

A dinner where he tries every new dessert.

A photo together on the same pier.

That year, while watching the sunset, Nanami says it for the first time:

"I want to keep coming with you... as long as you let me."

And you laugh, because it sounds like a disguised proposal.

He knows it too.

Year 4 — Honeymoon.

Everyone notices: Nanami doesn't leave your side for a second.

You're newlyweds, and he looks at you as if he still can't believe his luck.

During dinner, he takes your hand across the table and murmurs:

"It's strange... but I feel like this is where our life began."

And you know he's right.

Year 5 — Two trips, three returns.

It's just the two of you who know.

Rei is a tiny seed, an idea, a heartbeat.

Nanami is unbearably protective.

He won't let you carry anything, walk fast, or sunbathe for too long.

One morning, on the beach, he places a hand on your belly almost without realizing it.

"Next year there will be three of us."

He says it with a mixture of terror and pure joy.

Year 6 — Where two passengers become three.

Rei is six months old, and the flight is an ordeal, but Nanami never complains.

In Malaysia, he takes the stroller everywhere.

He stops beneath each palm tree, tending to the shade.

He carries the baby in a sling as if he were born to do it.

And at night… you wake up and find them both asleep in the hammock on the balcony, him cradling her even in his sleep.

People say they look exactly alike.

He smiles, proud with that smile that's just for her.

Year 7 — One-Year-Old Rei

Now she waddles across the sand. Nanami follows about half a meter behind, ready to catch her.

Every two steps she falls and he helps her up.

Each time, with infinite patience, he repeats:

"Okay, try again."

The annual photo now has three people in it. Rei is biting the brim of her father's hat in the picture.

You're laughing.

It's perfect.

Year 8 — Two-Year-Old Rei

She talks. A lot.

Endless questions. A constant “Why?”

Nanami answers each one.

At the beach, he explains the waves, the fish, the foam.

She listens with wide eyes, fascinated.

“Daddy knows everything,” she tells you later.

And when he hears this, he turns bright red.

Year 9 — Three-year-old Rei

Now she wants to swim.

Nanami spends hours in the water, holding her from under her arms as she kicks.

“That’s it, Rei. That’s it. Trust me.”

And she trusts, always.

That night, she doesn’t want to sleep alone.

She snuggles up between you two, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Nanami watches her sleep and whispers to you:

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

Year 10 — Four-year-old Rei

This year, she already remembers Malaysia.

He runs through the apartment shouting:

"Beach! Beach! Beach!"

Nanami pretends to be exhausted, but he's fooling no one.

He's just as happy as she is.

He carries her on his shoulders through the night market.

She points out lights, food, clothes, toys.

He buys everything he looks at for more than three seconds.

You just walk behind, your hand on your husband's back, watching the two loves of your life be unconditionally happy.

Year 11 — Five-year-old Rei

This isn't a trip anymore.

It's a family pilgrimage.

Rei runs toward the pier for the annual photos.

You two follow behind her.

Nanami catches up, lifts her into his arms, and she cups his cheeks to give him a kiss on the nose.

"Daddy, this is my favorite place."

Nanami looks at her as if he's just received the greatest honor of his life.

"Mine too, Rei."

You watch them from behind…

And your heart breaks and swells at the same time.

Because Malaysia was never just a destination.

It was the thread that bound their story:

First the two of you.

Then three.

And every year, a new memory.

One more piece of family.

Nanami, seeing you approach, puts an arm around your waist.

“Let’s keep coming every year." He says.

And it's not a question, it's a promise.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦