#i have a few for flawless tomu as well

[inkykeiji]

TOUYA'S JOURNAL ENTRIES?? DID I HEAR TOUYA?? DID I HEAR JOURNAL?? DID I HEAR ENTRIES??

HEHEHE yes u diiiiid (*ﾉωﾉ) just a lil insight into that wicked, wild head of his hehe

some of it is just stream of consciousness type stuff, like touya on a coke binge and just the constant stream of thoughts flowing through his head, just messily scribbled down to get them out of his head because they’re just so goddamn LOUD >.<

[inkykeiji]

Cant stop thinking about 26. Sickness + flawless!Tomura

prompt: sickness warnings: daddy kink without the kinkiness, mention of drugs, tomu is a brat as always words: 832

A stifled sigh sits heavy and stagnant in Kurogiri’s chest, tender hands rearranging the damp washcloth folded over Tomura’s forehead, fingers brushing back stray strands of silver. A beep sounds from within his pocket, and he reaches for the thermometer shoved in Tomura’s mouth, glass clicking against his teeth as Kurogiri removes it, that suppressed sigh finally escaping his nostrils. 

A fever of 101 degrees.

“I’m fine,” Tomura snaps, but it comes out as more of a whine, stringy and petulant. “Just gimme another bump and I’ll be good as new, promise.” 

“This isn’t a cocaine withdrawal, Tomura,” Kurogiri says sharply, narrowed eyes glancing at his charge for a moment before refocusing on the glass thermometer between his fingers. “Though you’re going to get one of those, too, if this sickness progresses.” 

“What?” 

“You’re ill,” Kurogiri responds flatly. “A virus of some sort is my guess, though I’ll have Doctor Garaki stop by immediately to confirm.”  

“No,” Tomura groans out the word long and drawn, head banging against the pillow, fluffy silver tufts bouncing with the motion. “Not that quack again.” 

“He’ll be here in an hour or less.” 

Despite Tomura’s protests, Doctor Garaki does arrive in under an hour, murmuring to a grumbling Tomura that he’ll only be a moment, and verifies Kurogiri’s suspicions within fifteen minutes. 

“It is, indeed, a virus,” he tells you as he closes the door to Tomura’s bedroom. “Nothing to be too concerned about; it should sort itself out in a few days or so. Lots of rest, lots of fluids. If his fever climbs any higher, call an ambulance.” 

On the other side of the door, Tomura lays restless in his bed, legs twitching and tangled in the heavy comforter, face scrunched in irritated discomfort as he shifts, flopping from his back onto his side with more aggression than necessary.

“Baby,” he whimpers when he notices you’ve entered, arms outstretched and yearning, a deep pout etched into his face. “Come cuddle with Daddy.” 

You do as your told, ever his good girl, supposing that even Daddies need comfort from their little babies from time to time, too. 

He latches onto you the moment you’re close enough, pulling you down and hugging you to his chest, his own personal teddy. He doesn’t look well, eyes sunken and encased in a sickly purple, normally chapped lips cracked open and embellished with dried blood, skin sallow and clammy, having lost most of it’s natural colour. Clumps of silver, damp with cold sweat, cling to his forehead, teeth chattering together delicately, jaw flexing as he tries to stifle the movement. 

Frowning, your fingers find the hinges of his jaw, rubbing gentle circles into them. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like shit,” he huffs, nose scrunching up. “I hate this. My whole body fucking hurts; I feel like someone took a sledgehammer to my bones and smashed them to bits.” 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you say, sighing a little as you feel his muscles loosen beneath your touch. “How can I help?” 

“Just...Stay here with me,” he murmurs, voice having already lost its caustic edge, exhaustion seeping through his words and turning them wispy. “Jus’want you close.”

And so, you do. 

Kurogiri is awe-inspiring in his ability to anticipate Tomura’s every want and need, a skill honed and sharpened to perfection over years of nurturing and raising the man, brewing a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup in addition to a whole pitcher of lemonade—a desperate attempt to keep Tomura adequately hydrated, since he refuses to drink plain water, vehemently claiming that it tastes like poison, face screwing up dramatically every time you or Kurogiri succeed in getting him to take a sip.

Even as Tomura’s brattiness intensifies with the worsening of his illness, Kurogiri stays mostly unperturbed, a special type of fondness saturating his features, laced with the slightest hint of typical exasperation. His tired eyes are kind, his soothing voice stern yet soft around the edges, his slim fingers gentle as they fluff pillows and pat sweat and tip glasses to withering lips.

You want to help, too, but Tomura won’t let you, demanding that you stay in bed with him and tend to his more pressing needs—massaging his throbbing temples and running delicate fingers through his now stringy hair and tracing nonsensical patterns across his sticky skin, tender ministrations smoothing out ragged breathing and hushing down sulky complaints.

Kurogiri promises you that it’s fine—he’s alright, he doesn’t need any assistance, really—and claims that you’re doing more good than he ever could with just your placating presence alone, lulling a grousing Tomura into a state of liminality, half-conscious and wavering between states of aching insomnia and fitful sleep.

“This is the calmest I’ve ever seen him while sick,” Kurogiri admits to you, voice barely above a whisper, as Tomura sleeps with his head in your lap. “Honestly, it makes caring for him abundantly easier. You’re the best medicine the Doctor could have prescribed.”