murata fuma

the front door opens the way it always does after a long day. keys hit the bowl. shoes get kicked off. fuma’s voice is quiet when he calls out a tired “i’m home,” already half-distracted as he loosens his tie and drops his bag by the wall. he’s been like this for weeks, his shoulders tight, answers short, switch controller in his hands within minutes of walking through the door, then sleep not long after.

you’ve watched it pile up on him and decided enough was enough.

tonight is different.

a single poké ball rolls across the floor and stops against the side of his foot. he blinks, bends down, picks it up. the second his fingers close around the plastic you step into view from the hallway. the costume is deliberately skimpy. soft brown and cream fabric that barely covers anything, the hood with the long pointed ears already up, the little yellow collar sitting against your throat, the short tail clipped at the base of your spine. most of your skin is on display. the whole thing was bought with one goal in mind: pull him out of his head and into you.

fuma stares for a long second. the exhaustion on his face cracks into something softer, almost startled.

“...you’re kidding.” his voice is low, a little rough from the day. he turns the poké ball over in his hand, then looks you up and down again. “eevee?” a quiet huff of a laugh leaves him. “jesus. you look... really cute.”

he sets the ball on the entry table and opens his arms without thinking. the second you’re against his chest the energy shifts. his hands settle on your waist, then slide lower, feeling the bare skin under the thin fabric. he breathes in once, slow, and the tired husband who usually reaches for his switch is suddenly very present.

“okay,” he murmurs against the top of your head. “you went through all this trouble. we’re not wasting it.” he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes darker now. “but you’re staying in the costume. all night. first you’re gonna be useful.”

he nods toward the kitchen.

“go make me something to eat. plate it nice. bring it to the couch. then the laundry that’s been sitting in the basket. fold it while i watch. and when you’re done with that you can come sit on my lap and tell me how your day was like a good little eevee.” his thumb strokes once over the yellow collar at your throat.

“after that... then i get to take my time with you on the bed. clear?”

he already looks less tired. the stress is still there, but it’s getting buried under something heavier and much more interested.

“hop to it.”