If Gojo, Shoko And Geto Had Adopted Tsumiki And Megumi

inarizaki

gojo reminds me of 2010 justin bieber

they’re literally the same person HELP

Thinking about how Atsumu is the type of guy to never use your name again once you’re in a relationship.

From the moment you accept his confession, it’s pet names galore ranging from classics like “baby”, “princess” (if he feels spicy (or condescending)), and “love” all the way to absurdities he brings out when he is in a great mood such as “my plump little dumplin’ supreme”, “main squeeze”, “schmoopy” or his personal favorite, born out of a night drinking with his team, “babelicious”. You had him sleep on the couch for the crime of using that last one.

But as soon - and I mean as soon - as he gets a ring on your finger it’s always “my wife”, “me and the wife” and “wifey”.

“What am I doin’ this weekend? Oh, ya know, me and the wife are gonna hit the farmer’s market.”

“Hang out tonight? Can’t, wifey asked me to pick up some groceries for dinner.”

And god help the poor soul whoever asks about how you are doing because Atsumu will pull out a three-page essay, put up a slide projector, and dim the lights to tell that person all about what his wife is up to.

(tbf you’re not much better because you loooove saying “my husband”)

oh my hod. oh my fucking god. you. you’re kidding. YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING RN.

SHOTO LOOKS SO MUCH LIKE HIS TOUYA NII ALL GROWN UP!!

My boyfriend’s pretty cool, but he’s not as cool as me 💋

nanami’s texts when you’re in a relationship with him!

character: nanami kento

mrs. nanami?

damsel in distress

fighting and making up

temptation

pretty woman

song that inspired the title: brooklyn baby by lana del rey

masterlist

note: gojo’s next in line for the relationship texts! Inbox me who you want to see after that!

gift 🎀

twitter trend 👀

🔞 nsfw on patreon

cw: fluff, reader is sick, and hates being taken care of, but toji will not allow it, domesticity, established relationship, divorced dad!toji is the perfect caretaker :3. masterlist. wc: 1.4k.

divorced dad!toji is indisputably good at taking care of you when you’re sick.

it only makes sense—you learn a thing or two about caring for others once kids come into the picture, and he’s been doing it alone for most of their lives, so by the time the second flu season came around (when he knew he’d have whiney, mopey children to look after), he was an official expert concerning caring for others when they’re ill. and sure, you’re not his kid, but why are you so different?

“it’s just a cold,” you croak, tossing off the blankets bundled around your body as you wobble to your feet, “not the plague.”

he seizes you in his grip when you stumble forward, your glazed eyes slow to blink. the room is spinning. it’s tilting, too—back and forth, over and over until your head is dizzy and the only thing you can think about is collapsing back on the couch. where you belong, toji had scolded, wrapping you in a soft throw and easing you back onto the cushion.

the last thing you had expected of him was to be a fussy mother hen, quirking his brows at you each time you insisted you were fine. that look shut you up, your lips sealing and knees weak with the urge to appease the difficult man that your partner had morphed into at the first sign of a sore throat.

it had started as something bearable and easy enough to repay: he ran all your baths and lulled you to sleep every night with blunt nails on your scalp and cooked you hot meals and kept you cozy.

each morning, he’ll discretely crack open the window and its blinds, ensuring some sun on your skin and air in your lungs. it was still more than you’d asked for, but you couldn’t refuse him. besides, a little pampering didn’t hurt.

but that was before you’d stared too long in the depth of his eyes and seen what was buried under the mossy gravel in them.

love—enough of it for the both of you. enough whispered adoration to survive the drought from your end, where you seem more inclined to wither away in your illness than smile at the consideration he’s been offering you.

he’s been given little more than grumbles these past few days when he stops to coo at you. does that matter to him? it doesn’t seem like it—if his cooing and grinning are any indication when you huff at him—and that frightens you.

what does it mean to be held without limits—to be unraveled and split open, then cherished unconditionally? devoured by it to the bone?

it means being caught by gentle palms and a pot of soup bubbling on the stove.

unstable in the warm embrace of his biceps, you almost bite your tongue and throw him a pout and lay back down—almost sink into his arms and let him cradle you like the baby he insists you are, his cold hands soothing on your feverish face. as oppressive as he is, he’s hard to resist (smile, lips, eyes and the wrinkles by them) and you almost don’t.

almost.

he isn’t your father (as much as he’ll act like it for the time being) and you aren’t his baby (as much as he’ll debate that), and the last thing you want to be is helpless.

he has a life—kids, work, hobbies—and the free time he does have shouldn’t be wasted on pacing around at your every beck and call, his green eyes alight with concern at your mere sniffles.

the profound tenderness in toji’s gaze is a heavy burden on your throat and ribs, prickly like a cough and gaping like a wound. it’s been days of this—of his kisses on your sweaty forehead and his hands cupping hot mugs of tea and his love engraved in every movement, touch, breath.

being taken care of feels funny; foreign, like another language. it feels strange.

it feels perfect.

“fever,” he mumbles with a hand on your cheek, the other rubbing circles on the small of your back. “real bad one, too. dammit.”

he rummages through your blank stare for a moment and finds what he’s looking for there, his lips cold and sure on your own, thumb stroking your cheek.

he keeps doing this—kissing you and keeping you near, always a tug away despite how groggy and gross you are. it isn’t that he doesn’t know you can get him sick—it’s that he doesn’t have it in him to care. isn’t that perfect?

the sun is in half-bloom; honeyed, delicate, and encircling the crown of his head and showing him for what he really is. it dances at his fingertips as they brush your jaw, on a mission to crumble your resolve and the thickness of your skull as if to peer inside, like a shivering animal seeking refuge in a frozen carcass.

“i can”—you push out of his grasp, wobbly like a fawn—”take care of myself.”

his smile is fond. he knows you.

“i know.” his hands find their way back to you (they always do), wandering, loving and covered in the intimacy of sunlight through blinds and everything he doesn’t say—and everything he does. “but i want to take care of you. you still hungry?”

the soup is at a rapid boil on the stovetop, wafting steam and smelling of bay leaves and parsley. it makes your stomach curdle. are you going to feed it to me, too? you nearly bite, but it wouldn’t be worth it.

if there’s one thing you’ve learned since you came down with a cold, it’s that he seemingly can’t be hurt by your words, especially in your sorry state. like a hissing kitten showing its fangs.

when your stomach grumbles, he decides for you, ruffling your hair and moving to mix the soup, and you scoff, following close behind with a sway to your step.

he hums absentmindedly while he stirs, clicking off the stove and pulling a bowl from the cupboard. the soup is runny with broth and thick with vegetables and noodles, hearty and homemade and your favorite.

there’s something content about him as he wades through domesticity, an ever present softness to his features while he’s in your company. he beams at you like you’re something to care for—a garden worth tending to, full of weeds and potential.

is there a moment in a relationship when menial, tedious tasks become something you do with love? you slump into the counter, eyeing him while he whistles and pours out your soup, taking a taste for himself and sighing.

a lurch rattles your heart in your ribcage. what wouldn’t you do for him? he grabs the bowl and pulls you back to the couch, letting you sit before handing you the soup. he drags the blankets you’d tossed away from the floor and fluffs them around you, placing his cool hand on your neck. drowning—that’s what this is.

“i can take care of myself,” you repeat, this time, a sharp snap, a white-knuckled grip on the bowl, and you brace for the impact of toji’s response, for the dip to ease on the couch as he walks away from your hunched, cagey form. you wait for him to run and—

“i know,” he reminds, tilting your face toward his own. the sun is doing that thing again—where it hugs him and strips him down until the soft, delicate underbelly of his intentions is revealed. it’s hard to agree—it’s impossible to refuse. “i told you i want to—”

“but i’ll get you sick—”

“and if i get sick, you can take care of me like i took care of you.” he steals your palm and kisses the heart of it, watching you as he does it. “but for now, let me do this.”

let me do this—it’s the only thing he’ll ask of you. your nails smooth over the stubble on his cheek when he nuzzles into it. you’re sick, and he’ll take care of you or die trying. somehow, you’d managed to weasle your way into that group of people whom he regards with nothing but infatuation—that group he’ll make soup for and listen to them groan and whine while he does it.

the evening is golden and beating with a heart of its own as it regresses into the night. amber sunshine reflects off of worn, endlessly padded on wooden floors and the messy coffee table and black television screen.

it glints off a cup of day-old tea and the spoon in your soup.

is it ever worth it to let your flesh gape under the fingers of a strange hand? to let them make you bleed should they want you to?

he wraps you in that blanket again, and you sink into the couch.

yes, you think, yes.

I feel frustrated by Megumi's scars... I love this concept, but... ugh...

I also think Megumi is having a really hard time with everything that happened to him, and I really wanted to draw that.

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