“red Or Blue?” Kuroo Holds Out Two Ties In Front Of You, His Dress Shirt Sleeves Rolled Out To His

GIVE ME FIXING EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES WITH KUROO RIGHT NOW 😨‼️ love u hehe <3 if u don’t want kuroo please do whoever u would like most :)

ofc ofc anything for u my love <33 - "fixing each other's clothes" w kuroo **suggestive!!

if you were to tell this story to anyone else, you'd say he's not normally like this. that kuroo is always professional and kind and that he would never dare to act like this—never. but that's not true, never would be true, because the way his breath fades into your own and the way he bites at your lips in the dark corners of this work event is entirely too familiar to you.

there's a distant call of his name, but he's too busy slipping the strap of your dress down your shoulder to ever notice, laughter pricking at ever kiss he presses to the skin there.

"kuroo," you whisper, and you can feel him smile against you, "kuroo."

he looks up at you now, the first button of his shirt is undone, his hair a bit messier than it was a moment before, and just a little bit of lipstick smeared across his mouth.

"we need to head back," you say, and he rolls his eyes, leaning back down to press another kiss to your collarbone, but you tug back on his collar, pulling him up until his eyes meet yours. "and fix you."

"that's a very long process, babe," he says, laughing when you swat at his chest and start buttoning his shirt back up. "you're no fun, you know that?"

"i'm plenty fun when your boss isn't looking for you."

he sighs, lolling his head back as your fingers trail over his collar and set it back into place.

"my boss can suck my di-"

"ah, nope, not here. you can't get fired today."

"yeah, yeah, whatever," he replies, and then leans down to you for the last time, pulling the strap back up your shoulder (but carefully trailing kisses in its wake anyway).

send me prompts from this list for a drabble !

i just saw the most disgusting thing … it was like hq guys who would get turned on if their girl made out w another girl MF THATS CHEATING

cool kids

summary: Kunimi x Reader. "reader's the one simping hard for kunimi and kunimi's just like "😑😑😑" but secretly likes them too" as requested by an anon!

word count: 2k

cw: uhhh two swear words

a/n: tysm for the request!! hope i did your boy justice

You just think Kunimi is nice to look at.

His hair is straight and natural and never greasy or obviously gelled; it looks soft and shiny. He probably rinses with cold water. You like how dreamy his eyes are— they’re deepset and often narrowed into a lazy smirk, but they have a faraway quality to them that makes the gray-brown shade reminiscent of the misty moors you’ve read about in books and seen in movies. You like the lean muscle on his thin frame, the way you can feel how deceptively strong he is whenever he decides that you’re his makeshift pillow at school.

“Is this comfortable?” He asks, slumping over you, forcing you to wilt over your desk beneath him.

“Not at all,” you answer honestly. “Your elbows are pointy, ow ow ow—” you wriggle until it no longer feels like he’s pressing directly on a pressure point— “but by all means, keep crushing me.”

“Hmm, thanks,” he hums into your back. “Class was so boring today.”

“The teacher is still in the classroom, Kunimi,” you say, voice muffled as he tries his best to become dead weight. “He can hear you, because we’re still in the classroom, missing lunch.”

“Nah,” he says, but graciously gets off, standing next to your desk while you gather your things, then holds out a hand to help you up. You take it, and it’s more the feeling of his skin on yours that makes you wobble on your feet than anything else. Your heart beats fast in your chest as you follow him, although he’s already let go.

“Where are we going?” You say into his ear, over his shoulder. He gives no indication that he heard you, so you do it again, speeding up your pace so you’re walking in stride with him.

“Gotta get a spot on the rooftop before everyone else shows up,” he says offhandedly, dodging a group of people standing still in the hallway. Obnoxious, you know he’s probably thinking.

“Ooh, the rooftop?” You tease. “Planning a confession?” There’s a saying about how all the best jokes have a grain of truth in them. In this case, you’re joking with a silo of hope.

“Too corny,” he wrinkles his face up, casting a disgusted glare towards the students who walk by in pairs, joined hands swinging between them. “PDA is gross, you know.”

You grab his hand again, his lack of protest reassuring you.

“You’re just jealous because you’re single.”

“Not for too long, I hope,” he says, eyes sliding to your face. You blink and drop his hand.

“What? Who? What?”

Your questions go unanswered, his volleyball seniors choosing that moment to swarm him. You wait on the edges of the group, mind spinning as you consider who your friend— your crush— would be interested in. You’re pretty sure that the only person he spends more time with than you is Yūtarō, and from the way Kunimi speaks about his teammate, you know it’s not him. You hope that it’s you, considering that you’ve been flirting overtly with him since the festival last summer, since you’d developed feelings for him. He’s never rejected you directly, after all, only made general comments on the futility of love and romance and relationships. You blow out a breath.

“Hi, sorry,” a face you recognize as a girl in another first-year class bows her way through the group of volley-boys. She’s biting her lip, clearly nervous, clearly clutching a letter behind her back. She has the locker next to Kunimi’s, you recall. A sick feeling rises in your stomach while all the others make a path for her straight to Oikawa. She makes a turn just before she reaches the third-year. “Um, hi, Kunimi, do you, ah, have a moment?”

You can’t look. You pay attention instead to the third years, watching Iwaizumi clamp a hand over Oikawa’s mouth before he can coo over his junior’s first confession. While they struggle, you bite your lip hard, shoving your hands in your pockets, feeling suddenly too hot and too cold all over. You’re probably allergic to watching people you like get confessed to or something, and now you have a fever.

Unwillingly, your gaze slides back to Kunimi, who, for once, looks wide-eyed and surprised. The girl appears to have finished her part, and he looks frozen as his eyes dart to the other people around, then back to her, then away again. Finally, he lands on Oikawa, who appears to have escaped his friend’s grip and has a disturbingly wide smile on his face.

“...Fine,” Kunimi says, and you watch him walk behind her to the stairs.

“Ah, so cute,” Oikawa says, leaning on the wall and sticking his nose up, an air of great wisdom and experience surrounding him. “Young love is in bloom today!”

You don’t want to wait for Kunimi to get back, so you adjust your bag and start to walk away, blinking rapidly.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you hear behind you, and then Iwaizumi is running up behind you, grabbing your shoulder. “Are you okay?” He sounds hesitant, and a little like he’s choking as he speaks.

“Yeah, of course I am,” your own voice sounds far off and too quiet for your words to be true. “Thank you for asking, Iwaizumi-san, don’t worry about me.”

“You’re crying,” he notes, and your eyes widen in alarm as your hands fly up to pat your cheeks, checking for wetness. “Well, not quite crying, but when Oikawa said that, your face, it kinda,” he gestures to his own. You look at him quizzically, unsure what he’s trying to mime. “...Crumpled?”

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah.” Both of you seem at a loss for words, then, but he walks with you all the way to the lunch stand and then he follows you to the back of the gym, where you sit with your knees curled up to your chest.

“Sorry you wasted your lunch period with me,” you mumble after twenty minutes of picking at your food.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone to wallow,” he says, mouth full of melon bun. “It’s bad for you.”

“Is that your professional medical opinion?” Your voice is watery, but you can feel the corners of your mouth lifting.

“For sure,” he tells you. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I guess,” you sigh, and look down. “I just really, really like him.”

“I get that,” Iwaizumi has a reputation for being loud and kind of rough, but his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you for staying with me, Iwaizumi-san,” you say, standing.

“No problem,” he smiles sympathetically at you. If Kunimi were here, he’d call it pity. You’d rather call it kindness.

The bell rings, and Iwaizumi bounds off around the corner.

“Sorry,” you hear him apologize to someone before his footsteps echo away. When you turn the corner yourself, you see— shiny hair, dark eyes, and a tall, narrow frame. One plus one plus one equals heartbreak.

“Y/N!” He says in greeting, then tilts his head upwards, seemingly searching for something to say.

You pause in front of him. “So?”

“So what?” He looks confused.

“The confession,” you say.

“Oh,” he says, straightening a little. “It was whatever. Look, I just wanted to tell you, uh…”

“Yes?” You say. You’re late for class. You’re not sure why you’re still standing here, face hot, waiting to hear whatever he has to say.

“Wait for me?” He asks, and you blink. You weren’t expecting that, of all things.

“Why?”

“I don’t,” he tucks his chin into his jacket collar, dark eyes resting on you warily, and despite yourself, you smile a little. “I don’t want to rush things, and I’m not— I don’t wanna mess up something I know’ll be good, okay? So just wait a little longer for me.”

“What about the, uh,” you swallow. “The girl who you were talking to earlier? I’m not waiting if you’re not.”

“Her?” He makes a grossed-out noise. “I rejected her. Why would I want anyone but you?”

The ‘12-’13 Seijoh VBC ten-year reunion is nothing short of chaotic.

You’re there because you joined (in the form of management) shortly after Iwaizumi sat with you during that fateful lunch period, and everyone else is there because playing volleyball with Oikawa apparently results in some kind of gravitational effect that keeps one circling him loosely forever. You, Kindaichi, and Kunimi huddle in a sort of commiserating bunch, even though the three of you have more than kept in touch over the years; where Oikawa is an Argentinian celebrity and Iwaizumi is well compensated for his career in athletic training, the former first years are barely out of undergrad, still working and suffering beneath the weight of recent student loans.

It’s Hanamaki who opens up the conversation, complaining about his recent bout of failed interviews, while Watari pats him on the back and Yahaba lists off places he could begin networking.

“What have you been doing?” You address Matsukawa, who is slumped on his elbows on the table, a slight smile on his features as he watches Hanamaki talk, formally.

“Me? Oh, I’m a mortician, or working towards it, anyway.”

“Of course you ask Mattsun first,” laughs Kindaichi. “You still think he’s ‘tall, dark, and handsome?’”

“No,” you groan, while the others at the table perk up considerably. “Don’t bring that up, please, I’m begging.”

“You had a crush on Mattsun?” Smirks Hanamaki, laying an arm across his shoulders.

“Not really!” You protest, waving your hands in front of you. “He was only the best looking of the third years, anyway.”

Oikawa makes a wounded noise, and Mattsun sticks his tongue out at him. Next to you, Kunimi lifts his glass and takes a long sip.

“Only the third years?” Asks Yahaba, raising his brows. Kindaichi grins. In your peripheral vision, you can see Kunimi drawing a line across his neck and mouthing shut the fuck up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Everyone knows that Y/N only had eyes for Kunimi, really,” Turnip-Head says anyway, and every head at the table swings toward your seatmate, who drops his hand and shuts his jaw with a click. "You were obvious!" He says in response to your embarrassed expression. He's not wrong, but you're still covering your eyes with your hands, peeking through the gaps.

“Do you have eyes? Why haven’t you changed your haircut?” Kunimi says, his voice bored. “Don’t you get tired of being called names because of it?”

Undeterred, Kindaichi takes another swig of beer and continues, nudging Kunimi hard, which only has the effect of pushing him into your side as he tries to escape his friend.

“He used to get jealous, after Y/N called Matsukawa-san hot, anyway,” Kindaichi adds. “He’d try harder in practice and everything.” There’s a chorus of oooohs around the table. Kunimi groans and drops his head onto your shoulder. You pat him reassuringly. His hair is soft.

“Kunimi has a crush,” Shido grins.

“It was a decade ago,” you feel the need to defend him.

“Yeah,” Kunimi says, sitting upright. There’s a scowl on his face, but his ears are subtly red.

“You should’ve said yes to dating back then,” Hanamaki butts in. “Then you wouldn’t be single now.”

“What do you mean I’m single now?” Kunimi arches an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”

“Why didn’t you bring them, then?” Mattsun points at him. “That’s bad etiquette, you know.”

“Yeah, Akira,” you murmur affectionately, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You have bad etiquette.”

There’s a moment of silence as your former classmates look at you, then at Kunimi, then back at you. Then at both of you, holding hands under the table.

“You’re dating?” Yells Yahaba, standing up and swaying a little. General clamor ensues as you laugh and Kunimi brings your hands up to rest on the table, his eyes narrowly focused on Matsukawa, who seems happily oblivious as he knocks back more of his drink and attempts to rouse Makki into a thumb-wrestling match.

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Kindaichi tells you later, as you exit the restaurant. Kunimi drapes his jacket over you and rests his chin on your shoulder, putting his hands in your pants pockets.

“I hope so,” you smile softly. “Almost ten years together will do that to a person.”

On the way home, Akira asks you, almost sardonic (but you know he’s being genuine), "Was the wait worth it?"

You beam and kiss him, pulling him close by his shirt collar.

"Of course it was."

tagging: @crystal-lilac , @kohi-zeri

Sero pleasegetafuckinghaircutdude Hanta

Bonus:

The US Copyright Office is opening a public comment period around AI

The Verge

US Copyright Office wants to hear what people think about AI and copyright

People have until October 18th to comment.

American friends! The US Copyright Office (which we know exerts huuuge influence in how these things are treated elsewhere) wants to hear opinions on copyright and AI.

"The US Copyright Office is opening a public comment period around AI and copyright issues beginning August 30th as the agency figures out how to approach the subject."

We can assume that the opposing side will definitely be using all of their lobbying power towards widespread AI use, so this is a very good chance to let them know your thoughts on AI and how art and creative content of all kinds should be protected.

I think people have talked at length about the fact that bnha ended up basically being super pro-cop and delivered nothing on its narrative critiquing hero society. but one thing I haven't seen commentary on yet is how bizarre the narrative on abuse is. bnha is a series where abusive father figures (e.g. endeavor, overhaul, shigaraki's father) and neglectful parents (e.g. toga's family) have been the origin for marginalization of children and, in the cases of the league, their eventual descent into actual crime and villainy. yet the single most prominent abusive father figure of the series (endeavor) got a redemption arc, while the second-most prominent abusive father (overhaul) got to survive. yet the children who suffered abuse (toga, shigaraki, touya) were not worthy of redemption nor even survival. it has very bleak implications on who gets a second chance in life and who doesn't. this is possibly the worst narrative on childhood abuse I have ever consumed btw lol

"hold on... isn't your leg still injured?" you ask, pulling away from hungry kisses peppered along your chin and down your collarbone in haste. there's sudden alarm in your voice that barou seems to completely disregard as his hand continues to cup the underside of your thigh, eyes bidding you to forget it and continue.

but by now the moment is lost, and your hand is gently placed against his chest. he rolls his eyes, but lets go, and you see it again - a slight wince as he shifts the weight off of his knee and resumes his position sat next to you on the couch.

he says nothing more than a slight grumble under his breath and returns his eyes away from the unwatched movie before you. your heart is still beating and your face is still flushed, but you press on.

"shoei."

he doesn't look at you, arms crossed over his chest.

"yeah."

"your knee?"

his jaw clenches.

"what about it?"

"what did the doctors say?" you press, now leaning forward yourself to glance at him. he tries to avert his gaze, but you stare so hard that he's unable to ignore you. you helped bandage that very knee earlier today; he cannot pretend the injury does not exist.

"two more weeks."

you shake your head. "and yet you were on top of me."

the tick in his jaw returns and he cuts eyes directly at you.

"what if you don't heal properly and can't play again?" you glare back at him with just as much sass, but as you hold gazes for a few more moments in the shifting dark, his annoyance dissolves, replaced by a cheeky grin. he leans forward, enough that his lips nearly graze yours yet again, then looks down at your pout. heat flashes again through your neck and upper chest, and he can tell, pleased so. his mouth pecks at yours.

"if you're so worried, climb on top of me instead."

he has a point.

you swallow hard, but you'll do whatever your King asks of you.

usually.

i can’t reblog anything bc my stupid phone doesn’t work.

The sun isn’t out yet, but there’s blue city lights cascading from the blinds along your bedsheets, and they mix with the linen in a way that lets you know that it isn’t quite morning. You blindly reach for your bedside table, letting your palm smack against the wood until you meet your phone. You squint at the light as it meets your eyes, and then furrow your brows as the time blurs and unblurs in your vision.

It’s three in the morning, 3:27, to be exact, and by the time your senses start to really come back to you, you realize there’s a gentle whirring coming from somewhere in your home. You go to turn, shifting in the sheets to see if your husband, Kuroo, is awake, only to see empty sheets, pillows stacked against your back in his place. And once again, you find your brows furrowing, a little click of your tongue as you scan your bedroom for any sign of your husband. Though your door is set slightly ajar, you can’t find traces of him anywhere—no papers scattered across his nightstand, no pens or journals laying atop your dresser, not even the sound of his distant footsteps settling into the floor of the hallway..

Instead, the little whirring that you’re certain first woke you, stops, and now you’re certain that if you don't find out what that was, you’re going to go insane. That and, obviously, finding your husband. A thought of your own priorities flits across your head, but you only sigh, blowing air out through almost-closed lips, and get up, letting the cold air hit the exposed skin of your arms and legs as you get out of bed.

You grab one of the folded blankets from the ottoman that rests at the foot of your bed, wrapping it around your shoulders and letting it drag along the floor as you walk—your footsteps light enough that they hardly make a creak in the wood, the balls of your feet taking a majority of the pressure anyway. Your cat, whom you had not seen on that same ottoman, perks up and runs after you, presumably awaiting an early breakfast (which, much to his dismay, he will not be getting, but he’ll give you hell for it anyway, you're sure). 

So you walk, little Peanut trailing along behind you, and make your way down the stairs until you arrive at the entryway of Kuroo’s office. Peanut starts to meow at your feet, but just inside you can hear the shuffling of papers and the click of plastic against plastic. Slowly, you open the door, knocking against the wood as you move inside. Peanut rushes in before you can even fully see Kuroo, settling down by the heater. Kuroo turns when you've just barely made it into the room. He’s still wearing the clothes he slept in and, supposedly, will continue to sleep in those clothes, but he’s standing over your files and his desk like he’s just finished something that he’s terribly proud of—his eyes crinkled at their corners in a barely-there smile. And yet, he looks almost apologetic, despite being nearly a foot taller than you, he looks small, his shoulders slumped a bit as he plays with his hands in front of him.

Kuroo’s always been an attractive man to you, but now he almost seems a little prettier. You can’t decide if it’s the way the blue light hits against his skin, still tanned from your honeymoon, or if it’s the way the black strands of his hair still stand out wildly against each other from just getting out of bed. No matter the occurrence, you smile at him, choosing to ignore the weight of the blanket around you and the red that’s sure to be present in your eyes at this hour.

“What, are you doing paperwork for your secret business or something?”

Kuroo laughs, his shoulders visibly relaxing at the sound of you teasing him. He shakes his head, waving you off as he goes to pick at another stack of papers.

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me. Genius,” He pokes back, and you roll your eyes, taking a few strides across the room to reach him and wrap your arms around him, your head leaning against his back. “I was just shredding a couple things. Felt cluttered.” He laughs a bit at himself at the end of that, and then turns, craning his neck to see where you stand behind him. “Sorry if I woke you.”

You hum against him, a wordless gesture of you’re fine, and then stand there for a moment—you're sure that you’re on the verge of falling asleep standing up when Kuroo goes to move again.

“Uh, I need to, you know, shred a few more things.” You press your forehead against his back, groaning into him as he laughs at you again, breaking himself free from your arms as he moves a few more things from files to what you presume must be a “shred” pile. And then the whirring sound comes back as he starts to shred things again, much louder this time and much more annoying, but you’re a little glad to have both found the source of the sound and your husband in one fell swoop. So you lean back against the one clear part of his desk, watching as he moves between pile and shredder, pile and shredder.

“One question,” you begin, speaking just over the noise. Kuroo hums in acknowledgement, quickly meeting your eyes before returning to the papers. “What prompted you to start shredding things at three in the morning, exactly?”

Kuroo sticks out his bottom lip, downturning his mouth as he shrugs and sorts through a few more papers.

“Call it divine intervention,” He replies, and you only roll your eyes, leaning across the shredder to swat at his arm while he laughs, feigning a bit of pain at the motion. “Okay, okay, I woke up and was bored. This seemed like the best option.”

“You know, generally if people wake up at three in the morning, they go back to sleep. Maybe tell their wife they love them-”

“Well, you weren’t awake, now were you.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he copies the movement before he shreds his last papers. You tilt your head, looking at the window into the compartment of the shredder. You step forward, a hand out in front of you and reach for the paper in Kuroo’s. But the warnings for him to stop reach his ears a little too late, because he’s already pushing the papers through the shredder, trying to force it through the blades as the shredder makes a terribly sad clicking noise. Peanut perks up at the sound, scurrying out of the room and, from the sound of his paws against the ground, up the stairs as well.

“Babe, I think-”

“No, don’t worry I got this, it does this sometimes.”

“Yeah like, when it’s jammed?”

Kuroo looks up, brows drawn together. “When it’s what?”

Laughter splutters from your lips, though Kuroo widens his eyes, his gaze darting between you and the shredder.

“I swear I didn’t know shredders could get jammed,” He says, standing up and trying to pull the sheets out of the blades. Yet, undoubtedly, they stay where they are. you mumble something about him making you laugh, and Kuroo just backs away, watching as you bend down to unplug the shredder. 

“You are so smart,” you begin, taking the top of the shredder, stuck paper and all, off of the bin. And what you say is true. If you didn’t know it by the way you’ve known him for years now, by the way he sat by you and talked you through math problems you didn’t quite get in college, you would certainly know it by the array of degrees hung above his desk. But in this moment, with that look on his face and his hair hanging in his eyes, a too-full bin for your shredder sitting in front of you, you’re sure of one thing. “But god, you are so stupid sometimes.”

He narrows his eyes at you, playful in the way he purses his lips, and you just shrug, settling your blanket around your shoulders as you kneel on the floor in front of the shredder. You know Kuroo’s watching you as you pick at the pieces of paper, cutting them away with the nearby pair of scissors until you can start to loosen the pieces from the blades—ever so carefully. 

“You know, normally shredders turn off when the bin is getting full,” Kuroo begins, peering into the shredder’s contents to see what’s been sitting inside. If you know him, you’re sure that it’s been a few months at least since he’s emptied this, and who knows how long he’s been up shredding things. You turn over the top to see bits of shredded paper stuck in the blades, and sigh. You know you should go upstairs and grab your old tweezers, that you should use those to grab the paper and move on, but the blanket is warm and your legs are tired and frankly, you just want to get this done so you can both go back to bed.

So you start picking at the paper with your fingers, careful not to touch the blades, much to Kuroo’s displeasure—he’s making those sounds he makes when he doesn’t quite know what to say, stumbling over breath and syllables instead of real words.

You just shrug, still focused on picking out the pieces of paper with your hands, while Kuroo gives up with a groan and a backwards tilt of his head. You chuckle a bit at him, more through your nose than through your lips, and then watch as he picks up the bin and goes to empty out its contents.

It’s not long after that you sigh and lean back, the rest of the paper finally out of the blades and, thankfully, not a cut on your hands in sight. When you look up, Kuroo has half of the bin emptied into his office trash can, the other half too much paper to even try to fit in there.

And though normally you would love to poke fun at him for this, though you’d love to make some comment that makes him roll his eyes and knock his shoulders into yours, you’re feeling particularly tired right now—you’re fairly certain it’s closer to 4:00 than it is to 3:30 now—and you’d feel much better if you could just get back in bed like most normal wives do with their normal husbands.

you almost make yourself laugh. Wouldn’t normalcy sound nice?

“You stay there,” you start, finally letting the blanket fall from your shoulders and into a sad little pile on the ground, “I’ll take that out and get another bag, you finish whatever it is you need to do.”

Kuroo goes to say something, and from the look on his face you knows it’s going to be something along the lines of well, there wasn’t really an end-goal, per se, and the thought of that makes you want to drag him upstairs and force him to sleep, so you just stare at him, a little blankly, and at your expression he puts his hands up and does a look of playful surrender.

So you grab the bag out of the trash, and then notice a few pieces of paper scattered on the floor around the can, so you lean down, going to pick one of them up to throw into the bag with the rest of them. And then you stop.

The paper seems a little thicker, cardstock, maybe, and there’s a familiar frilly design that seems to roll around it, disappearing in certain places to fade into a soft tan. You pick it up, turning it over in your fingers and scanning the bag that hangs off of your arm for more pieces of the document. you find more of the blue design that carts around the edges, and then your eyes fall onto another piece of cardstock. This time, with hard, block lettering, an a and part of a g sitting next to each other. You look a little further down, and then, staring back at you, is the mess of part of your own signature, you’re sure of it.

You turn, slowly. You’re a little scared to see Kuroo’s face, honestly, whether or not he even knows what he’s actually done. You aren't surprised to find that he’s oblivious to your realization, instead he’s leaned over his desk, sorting through papers and mumbling something to himself, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little betrayed by the fact.

Because, held in your own hands, shredded up into a reused bag from your grocery store, is the stupidest decision you think Kuroo has ever made. It tops the time in college he only ate mac and cheese for two weeks, it’s above every time he blacked out and made you take care of him and his awful hangovers the next day, it’s even above all the times he proposed to you with no real plan, just popping the question to think, hey, maybe you’ll say yes this time.

“Kuroo,” you start, and he hums, eyes meeting yours for a quick moment before returning to his papers. “Did you shred our marriage certificate?”

Kuroo stills. He turns, sending a rush of air out of his lips and clicking his tongue while he leans back against his desk.

“No.” The ‘o’ is drawn out, accompanied by the shake of his head. “No, that would be a stupid idea, right?”

“Right.” Your voice is steady, your tongue running against the back of your teeth. “That would be very stupid.”

“Yeah, exactly, so I definitely did not do-” He pauses, smacking his lips together- “that.”

And you could kill him. In cold blood, right here, you could become a murderer in your own home. You won’t (you’ll think about it until the day he dies), you would never. What you do, however, is drop the bag with the shreds of paper in it, sending cheap confetti (or in this case, cheap confetti mixed with confetti that accompanied the cost of a several thousand dollar wedding), flying through the air and scattering along the office floor.

You put your head into your hands, smoothing out creases that are beginning to form in your skin, and against everything in your chest, you yell.

“Why?”

You look up from your hands to see Kuroo biting at his lip and slowly gesturing. you swear you can see the gears turning in his head.

“So, you know how you love me? Like, a lot?”

No, you think.

“Yeah, sure,” you reply, voice a little hardened, tone a little flat.

“So, I was thinking,” He starts to move towards you, still gesturing wildly as he keeps trying to explain, “that you only really need marriage certificates for divorce, right? And we’re never getting divorced, so there’s definitely no need for that to be around.”

And Kuroo, your husband, the one who asks you to tie his ties in the morning and stumbles around the kitchen because he never learned to cook properly, the one who read over your every paper in college and reads over your every story now, is also the only one of this Earth who could ever make you feel this kind of anger. It’s the kind of anger that you can feel in your throat, like it's clawing at you and you have to attempt to dispel it with every shaken breath. You do, of course, one in, a second out, until you can finally bear to fully bring your face out of your hands.

“We needed that.” If you say any more, you’re sure you’ll want to yell again, but Kuroo stares at you blankly, his lip still caught between his teeth. “You know, for taxes, health insurance, a mortgage.”

And as if in one final realization, Kuroo nods, eyes a little wider, a breath escaping through his nose.

“Those aren’t like, that important,” He says, and there’s a joking lilt to his voice, but it gets cut off by the tilt of your head, your eyes feeling a little more tired than usual. You stand there staring at each other for a moment, and then in one movement, you stand up, grab the blanket, shake the shreds of paper off of it, and walk towards the door, avoiding the papers like they could be shards of glass.

“That’s it,” you say, “That’s it, I’m going to bed.”

Kuroo goes to follow you, chasing you with the sound of his voice as he says, “Okay, I’ll come with you. You know, I feel like maybe this is something we should talk-”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“We will talk about this tomorrow. I hear the guest bedroom has a very comfortable mattress.”

Kuroo stands in the doorway. For a moment, it looks like he wants to fight you on this, to chase after you up the stairs as though he could make everything perfect with a true love’s kiss, something to break you from whatever curse tonight could be and instead flood you back into what used to be normal married life.

But you're sure he couldn’t possibly know what that would mean at this point. As you ascend the stairs, you see him furrow his brows before turning back into the office. you know, deeply so, that he loves you. That he does these things more out of impulsivity than true stupidity and malice, because he’s always been like this. He’s always been one to stay up late, to do things last minute because there was always something that seemed more interesting going on elsewhere. Or even just that, if a thought ever were to pop into his head, it had to be acted upon. Nearly twenty proposals later—most done in the midst of disaster, when you had flour in your hair or dirt in your knees—you should know better than to think anything is out of malice.

But you know that doesn’t stop him from making stupid decisions. It really never has. So though you feel a pang of guilt as you cross the threshold from the hallway into your bedroom, you can’t say that it stops you from crawling into bed. It doesn’t stop you from drowning yourself in the drenched moonlight of linen sheets. It doesn’t stop you from placing your back against the pillows that Kuroo placed there. It doesn’t stop you from closing your eyes and, in an instant, falling back to sleep.

But you wake up awfully early. It’s to the sound of Kuroo more than it is to the birds, to the feeling of his palm on your shoulder more than it is to the sunlight washing your skin. But still, you wake, squinting your eyes at him as he stands over you, bags dragging down and into the rise of his cheeks, his hair a calmer mess than it was before, but still struck with that feeling of unkempt bedhead.

This early in the morning, with this little sleep in your bones, you almost forget why you’re upset with him. But then you catch the piece of shredded paper that’s caught on the old, oversized t-shirt he won at some bar playing some drinking game, and you feel a pit settle in your stomach. You close your eyes again, take a breath, and then look back up at Kuroo.

“I have a surprise.” His voice is almost a whisper, but there’s an air of excitement that seems to coat each of the syllables. You don't speak, only let him guide you off of your bed and down the stairs. Peanut once again trails behind you, letting both of you know that now is certainly time for his breakfast. After what you’ve been through, he probably deserves it soon.

But you both walk, and Kuroo brings you through the door and into his office once more. You yawn, rubbing your eyes at the way the morning light shines through the window above the desk, but when you open them once more, you find that there’s been a mosaic created along your floors.

Well, maybe mosaic is a bit of a stretch. There’s shredded pieces of paper scattered all along the office, some that have been placed together in groups that seem to make up other documents, but the one that sits in the middle is made entirely of cardstock—with that frilly blue pattern circling the edges, the words ‘MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE’ written out along the top. At the bottom, both of your signatures are put together, and though the lines aren’t perfectly together and you can tell it’s been shredded and forced to rejoin, it’s still the certificate, nevertheless.

“That cannot be valid anymore,” you say, and Kuroo laughs. You glance over and find him leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh, definitely not.” He pushes himself off the wall then, stepping over some shredded and half-put-together papers to kneel down, picking up the certificate so now you can see that it’s all been taped together. “But it might make for a fun memento.”

“You know, as much as I really love a good memento-” Kuroo rolls his eyes at you, he knows well enough that you hate souvenirs, always have, and don’t dare let him try to buy you something no matter the occasion. He usually does anyway. “-I don’t think a memento can put me under your health insurance.”

“Health insurance, smealth insurance,” He says with a wave to his hand. He’s met with another glare when he looks back up at you. “I’m kidding! Just like, promise me you won’t get injured for the month it takes us to get the replacement.”

You take in a breath, holding it in your chest while you stare at your husband across the room. He shrugs again while you look at him.

“You are insufferable.”

“You know, I hear some people say that’s my charm.”

Kuroo places the certificate on his desk, trying to prop it up against the wall as it slides back down the desk. He grumbles for a moment before trapping it between the wall and journal, mumbling something about a frame before he turns back to you.

And then you laugh at him. Nothing bright or loud, in fact it’s rather soft, barely taking up more space than a breath would. Instead, it’s the way your face scrunches and the shake of your head that makes everything seem like it’s almost okay.

You are aware of quite a few things in your life, one of which being that paper shredders do, in fact, jam, but one of the other things, and one of the things that you prefer to know, is that a craving for normalcy is hardly ever satisfied. So as you stare at your husband, laughter bubbling up your throat, you figure that you should’ve expected this.

“Okay but if we get the certificate, I have one condition.” you laugh again at the prospect of if, but let Kuroo continue anyway. “You still can’t divorce me.”

“Deal,” you agree, “But only if we call them by nine.”

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