Why Is He So Perfect If I Cant Have Him ??

Dragon fruit Plushie

GOD I wish the minimum wage was a living wage.

I'm not flipping burgers, I'm cleaning litterboxes and doing basic vet care like checking weights, administering medicine, bathing, using IVs, keeping records, making lists, doing photography, and way way more. But the point is even if I was just cleaning litterboxes... I love the work. I wish I could pay rent. Shouldn't I be able to clean litterboxes and feed cats who were rescued from the streets and do that fulfilling wonderful work without wondering where I'm going to live?

Shouldn't someone be able to flip burgers, make art, clean up trash, care for the oceans, teach your children, or rescue animals without being forced to choose between their job and their bills?

What if I don't WANT to climb the ladder and use my degree and search for high stress high pay jobs in order to live? What if I want the high stress job of seeing a kitten crashing below survivable temperature and bringing them back from the brink of death, knowing that I'm the only thing standing between this homeless, unwanted kitten and an early grave?

Shouldn't that be enough? Shouldn't I be able to afford food and rent by doing that?

I don't want to work at a vet office that can give me steady pay increases. I want to work here, with cats who have no owners, nursing them back to health and helping pick their forever home. I want the infrastructure to support me in doing that. I want the laws to say I can and have programs in place to make it so my shelter CAN support me. I want rent to reflect wages. I want wages to reflect rent.

I want to help the world and be able to survive doing it. I want to thrive doing it. I want that for everyone.

“Gimme a kiss,” Atsumu murmurs, deep voice low in your ear. His hands are on your hips, fingers digging into the softness of your skin. 

You pull him away from you, hands cupping his face and thumb running along his cheek in the way you know he likes. You raise an eyebrow, smiling softly, “I’m wearing lipstick, you know.” This causes his eyes to drop to your lips, gaze hungry, suddenly reminded of the fact. 

“So?” he asks, eyes flicking from yours and back to your lips. “Let everyone know I belong ta ya.” 

“You’re going to walk around with my lips printed on your face?” 

He nods eagerly, ducking to bury his face in your neck. “I’d be the happiest man alive if I got ta walk around like that.” 

This makes you laugh, your heart melt, and you reposition your arms around his shoulders to squeeze him closer to you. “You’re going to be late for practice, ‘Tsumu.”

“Just one kiss, baby. Even if it's on the cheek.” 

You sigh, but you know that he knows you’re only faking your reluctance. “Kay.” 

He pulls away from you, giving you his right cheek, and tapping his pointer finger against it with a giddy smile. You make sure to dramatize your actions, making an amplified noise when pulling away, laughing when he gives you his other cheek, and repeating your actions until he finally lowers his mouth to yours. 

He makes sure to deepen the kiss and only chases after you when you pull away, giving you little pecks and placing kisses all around your face, playfully biting your nose when it scrunches in fake disdain. When he finally separates from you, you take notice of the bright red lip marks on his cheeks, and the red tint left on his lips that are stretched into a grin. 

“How do I look?” 

“Like you are definitely mine.” 

His smile widens. “Great. ‘Xactly what I was goin’ for.” 

bakugou has a tiktok account where he bakes or cooks but the only thing that’s shown are his hands— nobody knows that it’s him behind the screen.

he bakes or cooks late at night, when he comes home from missions and the sights that he’s seen keep him up for longer than he’d like. the hum of his whisk or his food processor provide him solace and escape from his blood stained thoughts. the scrape of bakugou’s knife against a perfectly cooked and crisp pork katsu soothes the night demons tormenting his soul with screams from the people he couldn’t save.

in his videos, katsuki always serves up two plates, two hearty portions and a lot of his viewers like to think that he does it for them— so that they have someone to eat with, to share a meal with late at night when they can’t sleep either. that’s true, for the most part. but more often than not, katsuki bakugou shares out another plate because he knows that you’ll wake up and join him so that he doesn’t have to be alone.

and if you watch his videos closely enough, you can see arms wrapping around him from behind— the glint of your silver wedding band firm against his mid section, letting katsuki know you’re here for him too.

This is not from your fic but could you do a small scenario of Nanami interacting with his baby? I swear those dad!Nanami headcanons made me so soft

okay i was going to write a scenario with a baby baby but then this kinda hit me and i had to go with it instead!

wc is ~1k bc i'm down bad for dad!nanami

gn!reader, unnamed daughter, hint of angst but mostly fluff (i think)

"Tadaima!" you call, kicking off your shoes with a sigh and nudging them to the side. They splay out beside Nanami's shoes, neatly tucked away.

There's no patter of little feet scrambling to the genkan. No soft, pleased rumble of okaeri as louder footsteps follow in their wake. You fish out your phone.

Nanami picks up on the second ring, his stoic greeting softened by the way it sounds when he calls you sweetheart.

"Where'd you go?" you ask.

He sighs. "I left a note."

"I didn't read it."

"Clearly," he says, but his voice is warm, all summer honey. "We're at the park. We'll head home in a few minutes."

"What, I don't get to have fun at the park?"

He sighs again, heavier this time. You bite down on your laugh. "Come join us, then," he says.

"I'll be there in just a minute."

He pauses. "She wanted to go to Hanegi."

"You're a sucker," you tell him, slipping your shoes back on.

"I'm aware."

"I'll be there in twenty, then."

He says something muffled. You don't need to hear the words to know he's talking to your daughter; it's in his voice, affection stitched quiet into his tone, a patchwork quilt of love sewn soft on his tongue. She chatters back at him, her voice a burbling spring brook.

"Okay," Nanami says distantly, and then he's clear again as he says, monotone: "Apparently twenty minutes is too long. You're supposed to walk faster."

You snort. "I'll do my best. See you soon."

"See you soon, sweetheart."

You walk to Hanegi, passing by the park just down your street—small but serviceable, the paths to the playground lined with overflowing flowers, their petals crinkled at the edges, summer's last stand.

It's easy to find them when you arrive; the playground has begun to empty as it gets later. You pause for a moment and just watch.

Nanami's on one knee, his broad body dwarfing your daughter. She wiggles in place as he ties her shoe, his big hands deft. You can hear the rumble of his voice as he murmurs to her, but the words are lost in the space between you.

He checks her other shoe before pulling back. Your daughter reaches out and pats him on the cheek with a chubby hand. He catches it and presses a little kiss against her palm before getting to his feet.

He watches her run back to a little circle of children. Nanami can be difficult to read at the best of times, but what sweeps over his face now is stark. It's gone within a breath, but you think you'll never forget it.

"Hi," you say, sidling up to him as he leans down to brush off his knee. "I told you we should get the velcro shoes."

He rolls his eyes. "Then she'll never learn," he says, straightening up and pressing a brief kiss to the corner of your lips.

"Is she learning if you're doing it for her?"

He pinches at your side. Your yelp is half laughter, and he moves out of the way without looking when you try to pinch him back. But then his hand is on your hip, and you lean into the warmth of him. Across the way, your daughter shrieks out a laugh as she chases another little girl.

"When do you leave?" you ask quietly.

His fingers flex on your hip. "Tomorrow morning."

You let out a soft breath. "Okay," you say.

The two of you watch your daughter play—calling out to her at times, until Nanami is roped into pushing her on the swing, with her indifferent to your pout when she shuts down your defense of your pushes in comparison to his—until the promise of night is settling over the horizon.

Nanami calls her name. She comes trotting over, hair mussed and eyes bright. He leans down to take her hand for the walk home, his hand engulfing her tiny one.

You've just made it out of the park when she starts dragging her feet. "Daddy," she says, tugging at his hand. "'M tired."

Nanami raises a brow. "If you want something, you should ask politely," he says, but he's already bending down to sweep her up. He perches her on his hip, cradles her small form to him with excruciating delicacy.

Sucker, you mouth at him. He ignores you.

"Sorry," she grumbles, burying her face into his chest.

He presses a kiss to her hair. It doesn't quite hide the quirk of his lips, and the fondness tucked secret into that small smile swells in you, washes over you like the tide, an endless sea too vast for your body.

"Kento," you say suddenly, breathlessly. "Let's go to the okonomiyaki stall for dinner."

Your daughter perks up immediately, turning her small face towards him, a flower seeking sun.

Nanami glances at you. "We'd be out past her bedtime."

"I know."

He considers you for a moment, his dark eyes knowing. They're mesmerizing in the quickly fading sunlight. "Alright," he says.

Your daughter giggles with delight.

"What do you want in yours?" he asks her, already heading in the direction of the stall, his hand warm at the small of your back, keeping you close.

You barely hear her reply. You're too busy watching them, committing them to memory, from the glint of Nanami's golden hair to the delicate brush of his fingers on her cheeks to the way her cheeks puff out as she squirms.

He pauses for a moment to press his forehead against hers, whispering something too quiet for you to catch. She beams at him, and he smiles back, his fingers tracing little patterns against you, and it feels like coming home.

and though i can’t recall your face, i still got love for you ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

megumi fushiguro x reader | wc: 0.9k | L’s FOLKLORE event

The last thing he wanted to do was agree to this mission. 

He tried nearly anything and everything to get out of it. Offered it up to Kugisaki (who’s been dying to get out of Japan for quite some time now), tried to fill his schedule with local tasks to feign busy, faked a head cold the day of his departing flight. Incredibly desperate, he even told Gojo he was thinking of quitting sorcery—his knowing guardian saw right through his fib, having raised him as the dedicated helper he is today. 

It was a long one, the longest one he’s been on, yet. Months and miles away from his home, where he’d have to leave you alone in a space the two of you were meant to share. 

But that’s what a sorcerer does, what they have to do. Megumi knows this, and he knows that you know this, too. However, that doesn’t make the situation at hand any easier. 

He hesitantly agreed to the mission after a lot of begging and pleading, not because he knew it was the right thing to do, but because of the promise the two held yourselves to. 

One call a day, no more and no less, to make time for you—to feel together, though apart.

And if there’s one thing Megumi’s good at, it’s keeping his word. 

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Camera falls from a plane and lands in a pig pen.

part two: to pretend: to make as if; to put on an act.

@xiaosprettygf for you my darl

It had been two years.

Two years since the wedding, two years since you’d seen either Rina or Megumi. Two years since your heart shattered, and the box you put your shattered heart in had shattered, and the pieces all run through a Shattering Machine of the very best kind. Today, while you shuffled to your mailbox in your outdoor slippers, sipping on a travel mug of chamomile tea (although you weren’t planning on going anywhere), the rain pattered softly on the glass window panes. You felt happy. Happy is an interesting word. It was a mood, temporary, yes, but lately that happiness had crept up on your life and insisted on moving in. You had just started med school, not usually known for inspiring happiness, but you felt productive, proud of where you’d gotten yourself. You made a new friend, a peppy, excited girl named Aika. Her favorite color was yellow, and recently, after moving in with you, your apartment had brightened considerably. Music was always filling the then-depressing silence, a cream yellow speaker in the shape of a sleeping cat mumbling out soft cello or bursting with the latest pop. You went to get the mail for the both of you, reaching into the mailbox and pulling out the usual assortment of junk mail and advertisements. And a pastel green envelope, with perfectly printed handwriting that you knew oh so well. Your eyes prickle immediately, and you blink them away. You were strong. You were independent. Yet you knew who had written that envelope. You remembered the way Rina dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s and f’s. Running your finger over the slightly indented print, you breathed in deeply and tried to think of what to do. Returning to your apartment, you tucked the envelope into the junk drawer and tried to forget. This particular sunday afternoon, you had no plans. Putting on another one of Aika’s new pop playlists, you put on a bright yellow apron and started to make red velvet cupcakes, your’s and Aika’s favorite, in an attempt to distract yourself. When the cupcakes were in the oven, you sat down on the couch. Then, getting up, you went to the drawer, then before touching the handle, turned back to sit down, and a couple steps away from the couch, turned back again. 

“You’re pathetic,” came an amused voice from the doorway. Aika was standing there, in all her bucked hatted glory, eyebrows raised. “I’ve been here for two minutes watching you cosplay a tug-of-war rope.” She went to the drawer and pulled out the envelope, her eyes twinkling. Then she read the return address and frowned. “Oh.” Then, after a pause. “You want me to read it for you?” You nodded, and watched as she carefully slid a nail under the flap of the envelope. Her eyebrows knit, her face scrunching together more and more as her eyes moved down the letter. “Oh.” She said again, “Oh.”

“What is it Aika?”

“We, Megumi and Rina Fushiguro, humbly invite you, Y/N, to our baby shower!” Aika began monotonously, “this Saturday at 4, at our home. Please RSVP and you will receive the address in an email! Dinner and drinks provided, presents appreciated. We hope to see you there!” 

She looked up at you, gauging your reaction. Remember that shattering machine? It had come back, and it had just crushed those seemingly-unable-to-be-crushed-further pieces of your heart double time into microscopic dust. 

“Y/N/N,” Aika started, but you cut her off. 

“Don’t worry about me, I’m ok. It’s been years, I’m over it already,” you took a deep breath. “Really,” you added, seeing Aika’s unimpressed look. “I’ll get packing.”

If only you weren’t pretending. 

i didn’t know if you’d care if i came back ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

gojo satoru x reader | wc: 1k | L’s FOLKLORE event

“I can’t believe you.”

You’ve heard these words from him before, but not like this. They usually drip like honey from his silver tongue, with faux and teasing disbelief weaved in and around them. 

But right now, they sound cold, like a knife’s blade clinking against a glass table. He sounds hurt, you think, though you’re not sure what that sounds like coming from him. 

“Well, hello to you too, Gojo.”

“Don’t call me that,” he immediately heaves, as if your words burned him like a child touching a hot stove, “what is going on with you?” 

He stands a mere few feet away from you, but something far creakier than the wooden floorboards separates the space between the two of you, making it feel like lightyears rather than a few measly strides. 

His blindfold is off, it’s the first thing you notice. You can see his eyes—they’re just as beautiful as they were when you left, but something about them now appears weary. Slightly bloodshot, sulking into the bags that weigh beneath his eyelids, he looks exhausted. You can only imagine the headache pounding away behind his flesh. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” his question is desperate, almost as if he can’t believe he’s actually asking it to you right now. 

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