Kuroo Tetusou - Tumblr Posts
— HQ BOYS + TAKING CARE OF THEM
feat. iwaizumi hajime, kuroo tetsurō, suna rintarō, miya atsumu, miya osamu, matsukawa issei
note. let me be ur housewife. also don't say anything abt how long osamu's is.... i like him.
IWAIZUMI lets you join him in the shower on nights when he comes home late, when his breath smells a bit like scotch and his smile is lopsided in a way that you both know means midnight. he's all hushed drunken laughter, soap cascading down rippling shoulders as he leans down to press a sweet kiss to your collarbone. he'll whisper that you don't have to do this, the soft mumbling of go to bed crossing his tongue. and yet, you never do. instead, you lean up, shampoo in your hands, and let him hum as your fingers tangle in his hair.
KUROO lets you tie his tie. it's in the mornings, kisses drawn from the rising sun and touches soft enough to meld with the linens that once draped your bodies. he'll stand in front of you, suit, grin, and all, even when you're still dressed in the hanging fabric of your nightgown and your hair is still a tangled mess around your shoulders and face. but, no matter, because you'll reach up, delicate fingers around strong silk, and tie it just for him. and when you do, he'll cup your jaw in his hand just so he can kiss you one more time.
SUNA would never dare ask, but when you find him laying on the couch, face resting down on his arms and shirt riding up just enough so you can see his back, you can't help but let you nails follow the length of his spine. he shifts as though to lean into your touch, closing his eyes and breathing in a breath that almost feels like divinity. and if you stop, should you dare, he guides your hand back to him, ignoring the laughter that bubbles up past your lips and closing his eyes in sweet solace.
ATSUMU lets you dye his hair. or bleach it, rather, and then tone it when he finally lets you convince him. oh and how he's awful, moving and laughing and dodging out of the way of the cold dye even when it's dripping off of your gloved hands. he'll meet your gaze in the mirror, lopsided smirk carved into his cheeks, before putting his hands up in surrender. then, and only then, will he sit still, letting your hands comb through his hair with that stupid grin still on his face.
OSAMU finds you writing down notes for him. if he's cooking, he might change a recipe, speaking aloud as he adds a different spice or substitutes an ingredient, and each time, you'll write it down, scrawling handwriting with a little comment of whether he liked the change or not. other times, he'll come home to notes around the house—little reminders of why you're gone or what you need him to do before you get home. but his most favorite ones, and the ones he keeps locked away in drawers or hidden beneath clothes and old jewelry boxes, are the benign ones. little i loves you's scratched on napkins, drawings left on old gum wrappers from high school, sticky notes covered in old games you used to play to pass the time. he holds them like they're something to keep, an extension of you in the best way possible.
MATSUKAWA comes home to his laundry folded, or half-folded, at least, the rest of it still in the hamper or your hands. he'll roll his eyes, hands already at your waist and fingers dashing along your hips until laughter floats from your chest and into the air. when he tries to help you, you'll swat at his hand, your narrowed eyes drawing out a grin onto his face. so instead, he'll sit, tell you about his day and ramble about the things he misses (your voice, mostly, or your hair, or the scrunch of your nose), and each one will be met with the teasing lilt of tone that he's come to only associate with you.