papa nanami and how he can't decide which fleece jacket he should buy for his little girl—
they’re tiny, the length of the fabric spanning his two palms and a half. he’s thinking hard on this one—tan or pink? tan or pink… tan or pink.
the store is closing soon; the only free time he had was after work, now, half an hour before dinner. he should hurry so he can go home already—to his little girl and you.
he sighs, holding the jackets up again. tan or pink...
hm.
he makes his choice.
.
when he arrives home, crouching low as his little girl comes crashing into him—the shopping bag falls to his side, hands holding her close. you peek from the kitchen, smile warm and in love.
kento always makes it in time for dinner, no matter what.
after tickles and giggles and a big munching on her cheek, your little girl pulls her papa by his pinky, dragging him over to you.
you always give him a kiss on the cheek.
“welcome home, my love.” you whisper by his ear, setting the last bowl of food down on the dining table.
you spot the shopping bag by the foyer, sneaking him a look, “did some early gift shopping?”
he follows your eyes, picking up your little girl as he sets her down on her seat.
“bought some fleece jackets for her, before it gets too cold.”
your lips curl up, knowing you chose the right man; his foresight, the way he looks after you both—it makes your heart swell as you walk to pick up the shopping bag.
when you pry it open, you’re met with fuzzy bundles of tan and pink. you snort, “couldn’t pick?”
he flushes, cheeks turning the same shade as the fabric in front of you—he points to his suit, “she said she wanted to match with me.”
your mouth forms an ‘ah’, still smiling, “and the pink?”
“i thought it’d look cute on her.”
he turns to your little girl, grip tight on her silicon utensils as she stabs around her food. she’s almost on her way to full sentences now and it shouldn’t make him this sentimental, but it does.
he wants her to stay this tiny forever.
his little girl.
“what do you think, baby?” you hold up the pink jacket beside you, speaking to your daughter.
she giggles, silicon fork in hand as her bib bounces; her eyes, the same brown as her papa’s but shaped like yours, sparkles, “pwitty! pwitty on!”
“papa always has good taste doesn’t he?” you look at your husband fondly.
your little girl babbles, giggling.
and nanami doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—your little family, but if he has to buy every fleece jacket in the world to keep you both warm and toasty, he will.
he’ll even make you all matchy.
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
@kentoangel @em1e @augustinewrites @crysugu @soumies @itadorey @mididoodles thought about u all while writing this 🥹
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before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.
you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"
and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.
it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.
you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.
in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.
the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.
you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.
after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.
the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.
you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.
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