Let me help.
Y. Fukuzawa ⚔︎
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I enjoy your company, good or otherwise.” He said it so sweet and gentle, his head tilting as he gazed at you, and your fingers flinched around your mug. “I’m a fairly patient man. It will take a lot more than one off day in your comfortable clothes to scare me off.”
day 30 of fluffuary prompt challenge: domestic~
♡
synopsis: you weren't one much for doing chores, not finding joy in them, and just wanting to make everything as easy on you as possible. you still weren't quite sure either on how to "be an adult", needing the assistance of an older gentleman that just couldn't stop himself from coming up to you.
introduction: in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.
i forgot where i was going with this, but you are a young-ish adult trying to navigate life things: groceries, laundry, that weird guy at work who thinks you always wanna talk to him. all the things that are just boring and hard to do, until you meet fukuzawa at the store who insists on making sure you get the perfect tomato and showing you the simplicity that comes with adulthood.
contents: ~4.8k words; sfw; fluff; older gn!reader; domestic; established relationship - married; canon compliant/post canon; mostly flashback.
can you tell where i lost the plot lol
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Laundry used to be a nightmare, something to dread, to put off, never wanting to touch. Piling up in baskets to rot until rifled through for a slightly wrinkled outfit, sometimes having to sniff the fabric to check if it’s even clean. Stacking up on a chair, abandoned in the bedroom until it gets moved to the bed, then transported back to when it’s time to sleep. Eventually cycling through it all enough to the point that it has to be thrown in the washer, just to repeat it all over again.
Taxes weren’t exactly a walk in the park, either. Another task to put off, paperwork that is beyond boring. Lumped in with managing other household bills, balancing checkbooks, double checking bank account statements, all the things parents would gripe about doing, making a day of it to get it done – until it was a new month with a new checkbook and a new bank statement. Another round of bills that felt like they were just paid days ago. Hey, at least taxes happen once a year.
Lest we forget dishes and vacuuming, dusting and reorganizing furniture in a bout of manic control, the need for change. Restocking the fridge and pantry, planning out dinner five to seven times a week, alongside breakfast and lunches, realizing maybe we eat too much, just to see it all empty once more. Grocery shopping. Surrounded by other people needing to stock their kitchen full for more than two mouths, sometimes three or four or even five, not to mention if they have pets that need proper attention too.
You skated by your early twenties, just by the skin of your teeth, barely getting through these menial tasks on your own, never finding enjoyment in them, not thinking you ever would. Not when there were more important things to you: like making sure you don’t die from alcohol poisoning on nights out with friends, and if you are going to make the first train in time to get to work the next morning, nursing your hangover with the greasiest breakfast food you can find on the way, and a hot cup of coffee from the breakroom’s hardly adequate machine. Rehearsing what you’ll say to that one coworker that talks far too much for your liking to make it out alive of their conversation and fake laughter, wondering how many days are going to be like this, wondering if you had remembered to hang your clothes out to dry or if they were still sitting at the bottom of the washing machine.
Laundry was hard, taking yourself by surprise with how many pieces of clothes you not only wore, but owned, a silent vow that’s already broken to stop going into apparel shops during your trips to the mall. To take up window shopping or maybe take up having a terrible spending habit on something like blind boxes instead. All the younger kids seem to like them, at least.
Dishes were harder, the thought of handwashing everything made you leave everything sit in the sink until it rots or you finally decide you need a clean fork. Disposable dinnerware made your grocery list more often than you’d care to admit, an embarrassing and guilt-eating amount, but at least they don’t need to be washed. Some of your dishes in the cabinets had begun to collect dust from how little you were pulling them out, all in an effort for one less chore.
Living alone was the hardest, making a grocery list for one, forcing yourself to go to the store so you could have sustenance to survive, deciding that maybe cup noodles and other instant meals or snacks aren’t viable enough anymore – not like when you were in college and operating on minimal sleep, academic burnout, and whatever alcohol you could get for two thousand yen. Confused at the produce section, wondering if you can tell the difference between a ripe mango and one needing more time, squeezing potatoes because you saw someone else doing it, knocking on watermelon with hesitation, and watching the leafy greens get a shower. Reminding yourself you have to do that when you get home, a heavy sigh following. It never ends.
Your fingers tried gingerly squeezing a tomato, since another person did that, and you were at a loss what the purpose was for. You didn’t know what constituted the perfect tomato ready to eat, what needed more time, and what was already rotten. Your growing frustration at trying to play pretend at the adult you are supposed to be was evident, visible in your furrowed brow and line across your forehead; audible in another defeated sigh you didn’t mean to let out; obvious in the white-knuckled grip you had on the basket that had a few odds and ends that would only suffice as a snack for the evening.
“Anything I could help you with?” A deeper voice asked, a presence beside you that caught you off guard, making your head whip to see a taller man there with a cart full of stuff any other normal adult would have. His hair was long, and he was in traditional garb – your eyebrow arched at that sight. “You look like you’re having some trouble.” He offered a smile, and you stared at him a little too long, not saying anything, fingers still placed around the plump flesh of a tomato that you really didn’t even want to eat. His eyes darted toward the produce then back to your eyes, his smile wavering, wondering now if he had made a mistake in approaching you. “Or I could leave you to it–”
“I don’t know how to tell if I can eat them,” you finally blurted, something in his bright eyes telling you that you can trust him. Hopefully. “I don’t usually eat this stuff unless it’s already included in pre-made meals.” You didn’t know why you felt like you needed to tell him that, someone who looked so serious and distinguished compared to you, standing a little straighter as you pulled your hand away. “Uhm, if you could help, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yeah, of course,” he walked over, shoes clack clack clacking underneath him as he approached, your gaze falling to his feet to see he was even in traditional sandals. No judgment, obviously, since he can do whatever he wants, but why? His hand came out and began pinching around the different ones on their vines, eyes scanning through them as well, before he brought a bundle up to you. “Here, go ahead and try squeezing some of these, tell me what you think.” You nod once, hesitant, and drag your hand up to squeeze one. They feel like the rest.
“Uhm, they’re firm, I guess,” you mumble, repositioning your hand to feel around the rest. “They have some softness here and there.” You shrugged, looking back up at him, and his head titled.
“Do you plan on eating them immediately?” He asked. You shook your head. “Then these will be the best ones for you. They can finish ripening, then they’ll be ready to eat when you are.” He took it upon himself to set the bundle in your basket, the weight bringing your arm down slightly as you stared at him. This stranger that was helping you pick out vegetables. “Are there any others you had questions about? I have a kid myself that is around your age. I had to teach him the same stuff recently so he could grocery shop on his own.” He shared, like it was an easy thing to do, like he was comfortable with you. He’s a dad?
“You have a kid?” You repeated, watching as he went back to looking at the tomatoes for himself, fingers pinching around here and there, until they hooked under a dark green stem to set in his cart.
“Well, adopted, but he’s still mine,” he smiled again, warm, compared to his resting face that could turn anyone to stone. “It’s just been the two of us since he was about fourteen. Haven’t had a moment’s peace in years.” He laughed lightly, and something in the back of your mind cheered to hear he didn’t have a wife. “What about you?” He couldn’t help asking, maybe that same something slithered into his mind as well, not wanting to assume someone as beautiful as you would be single.
“Oh, uhm, no,” you shook your head, an uneasy and embarrassed laugh pushing out past your lips. “No, it’s… It’s just me. No kids or anything.” He nodded slowly, clearing his throat as he tore his eyes away, gliding over the vast assortment of fruits and vegetables, then glancing back to your basket, looking similar to Ranpo’s when he heads to the store by himself. Neither of you moved, him quietly wondering if you would ask him to help you more, you wondering if the offer was still on the table.
“Well, it was a pleasure talking with you,” he bowed his head and turned on his heel, hands on his cart handle as he began to stroll away, and thought about how often you visit this particular store — if there was a chance you’d need help again with something else the next time he bumps into you.
“Excuse me!” You called out, taking a few steps in his direction, and he peered back at you over his shoulder a bit too enthusiastically – not meaning to, not sure how to feel about the entire interaction. “If you were serious, and you have the time, I’d…” You felt embarrassed again, taken aback by this older gentleman that walked right up to you with such ease, speaking to you like equals, giving his undivided attention and shared things about himself so quickly. “I’d love if you could keep helping me. Please.” He didn’t hesitate, immediately turning himself around to follow you through the different rows of produce, talking with you and explaining things to you about the array of ways you could cook or eat everything, helping you find things that were the perfect amount of ripe to eat as soon as you get home and things that could wait until later in the week, as well as telling you what things can last longer if hidden away in darker places of your small apartment.
The thing was, he had been cautiously watching you from afar while you were shopping before, noticing your reluctance and hesitance, your skepticism and confusion, a bit concerned by how visible your frustrations were. Not one usually to shy away from offering assistance, he wasn’t sure if he should have approached you in the first place, not confident if there was a good way how to without just merely walking up and speaking to you. He frequents that location, aware for the most part of the familiar faces — he noticed you were a new sight and couldn’t help himself to want to know more.
He took you through the entire store, both of you walking down every aisle, him not really setting anything else down in his cart while you grabbed whatever it was he recommended. It wasn’t until you two had reached the checkout that you realized you never got his name.
“Fukuzawa,” he smiled, another slight bow of his head toward you, before extending his hand out. You took it, introducing yourself, and both of you lingered in your places in line, his palm warm from his hold on the handle. “I’d love to grocery shop with you again sometime.” He joked, filling the comfortable silence then with his light laughter. Your face felt warm, a small smile spreading, bashful and flutterings in your stomach.
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
With Fukuzawa’s advice and tips, you were able to make a few meals throughout that week that didn’t actually suck, and you ended up with leftovers that covered lunch. One less meal to prepare for. Suddenly, rooting through your fridge and cabinets to make a list didn’t seem so terrible anymore, already looking forward to it in hopes of seeing him there again. Even if it felt a little silly to be excited for a trip to the store just for the possibility of bumping into him. Even if it felt a little silly to dress yourself up more that next Saturday morning to brave the public and gather the new week’s food.
Even if it felt a little silly to consider this a date, especially since you believed it was one-sided. He’s older, you thought as you both walked together down the snack aisle, him mentioning he promised his son to grab a few things on his behalf. He’s a dad at that, probably viewing me as another young adult that needs some help getting through life. You didn’t mind, though, because it meant spending more and more time with him, getting to know him, hearing about all of his adventures working at a detective agency, learning more ways to prepare better meals for yourself. Your grocery trips that you used to dread weren’t so bad anymore, meeting him at the front door every week, his hands hidden in his sleeves and wearing an endearing smile as he greeted you.
You had gotten a bit spoiled by his presence, considering with the extra help of his shoes, he was much taller, always willing to grab that item on the top shelf for you. He also would pick out your fruits and vegetables for you, explaining away his rationale on why those specific ones were best for the week you were going to have, reminding you how to store them so they don’t go sour too soon. And, most recently, he had been asking you to tag along for coffee at the cafe nearby.
The first time seemed like a dream or a sick joke, hesitant to say yes, wondering if you even should. Nothing about him was necessarily forbidden, but your feelings were growing with each visit to the store, a mundane chore you used to hate was now fun and enjoyable, all because of this older guy that helped you pick the right tomatoes. This is gonna hurt when he hits me with the ‘oh, I just treated you like you were my own kid’ conversation. However, that first trip to the cafe didn’t come off as such, him beating you to the cash register by having his card already out, a swiftness that made you blink in surprise. Before your fingers could have even flipped your wallet open, yours and his drinks were paid for as he leisurely strolled off to the side table with a chair out for you. That relentless organ skipped a beat so harshly, it hurt your chest at the action, and you hoped that didn’t secretly mean anything.
Saturdays became your favorite days, not because it was finally the weekend and you were asked to head out later in the evening with your friends to go bar hopping or hit the club, but in the mornings when you woke up extra early to look your best, to meet up with Fukuzawa – that continued waiting for you by the entrance, no matter how much earlier he got there before you. To get your only chore for the day done with, then to be treated to a coffee afterwards. He was always so sweet and kind, respectful and helpful, laughing with you and listening intently to everything you told him. Sometimes he’d hit you with a ‘how’s everything at work?’ or ‘how is it going with that one coworker you don’t get along with?’ and even ‘did you sleep alright?’, all the things you wouldn’t have placed the expectation on him to not only remember but care to ask you about.
One particular morning, while you were getting ready, something just felt… off. You didn’t try nearly as hard to look impressive, taking only enough time to brush out your hair, run a tiny bit of product through so it wouldn’t be too frizzy or obvious you didn’t wash it, and brushed your teeth. Your clothes were… fine, you suppose. Sweatpants and a hoodie, the weather too cold for you to bother with anything else, and the walk there seemed to just drag with each step. You had to remind yourself to relax your features, ease up on your jaw, force the tension to leave your shoulders, and try to push out the evil voices in your head that thought today of all days would be the opportune time to visit. You know you got plenty of sleep, you ate another delicious meal – courtesy of a recipe Fukuzawa shared with you – and you got to unwind for the evening watching your favorite show with your biggest blanket around you on the couch. If anything, you should be glowing; instead, you want to crawl in a dumpster and stay there.
As you neared the building, your horrific mood was noticeable, radiating off of you in a burst of deadly aura, and Fukuzawa clocked it the moment his eyes landed on you. He was gearing up to greet you, just as he always did, but stopped when he saw your outfit and furrowed brow. “Hey there.” His voice was soft, more than usual, and your feet slowed to a stop in front of him, unable to look in his direction.
“Hey,” you get out, having to force it past your lips, hands shoved in your hoodie pocket.
“Let’s go,” he instructed, no further context, no other words, merely beginning his journey in the opposite direction of the grocery store. You stared at the back of his head, long hair swaying slightly as he moved, before shuffling along after him without any additional say or protest. You didn’t want to leave, where you wouldn’t see him, but you didn’t want to leave your apartment and felt like you had forced yourself to. Though, the despair lifted some when the familiarity of the cafe came into view, him taking the time to hold the door open for you to slip inside and more or less stand off to the side while he came in after you.
You didn’t talk much, hardly at all, aside from your polite ‘thank you’ when he purchased your drink and brought it to the table he told you to wait for him at, and a few ‘mhm’ here or an ‘uh huh’ there, so he knew you were listening. You were present, he could tell, doing better than before, but it seemed his attempts at getting you to engage weren’t going as far as he’d like.
Fukuzawa liked to believe he was a confident man, but in that moment, he grew worried that maybe he had come on too strong or made you feel obligated to see him every weekend. He looked forward to those Saturday mornings too, getting up early so he could make himself as fresh and impressive as he could, to match your efforts, prepared with new jokes and recipes – some of which he nabbed from one of his subordinates, but you didn’t need to know that – coming up with as many ways possible to stretch the time you two allowed yourselves to have together. Wondering if you’d get the exact same coffee order or if you would try something different. Wondering if he should think they’re dates too.
“Have I done something wrong?” He finally asked, that smile still on his face, sitting straight in his chair as he does, hands tucked away in his giant sleeves. You blinked, the question taking its time to register, seemingly to you out of nowhere.
“What? N-No. No,” you shook your head. “No, you’re fine, you didn’t do anything. I’m just…” You still weren’t sure what caused this terrible mood, no idea how to shake it since you figured seeing him would make it all better. You cleared your throat as your eyes lowered. “I guess I’m not good company right now. I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to apologize to me. We all have our bad days,” he rolled his shoulders back, selfishly feeling better that you weren’t upset or angry with him. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I enjoy your company, good or otherwise.” He said it so sweet and gentle, his head tilting as he gazed at you, and your fingers flinched around your mug. “I’m a fairly patient man. It will take a lot more than one off day in your comfortable clothes to scare me off.” He added, almost like he read your mind about your appearance, but your brows twitched together at his statement.
“Scare you off?” You muttered.
“What would you like to do today?” He switched the subject, reaching his hand out, looping his finger through the mug and taking a long drink of his tea.
“What would I like to do?” You echoed, becoming increasingly more confused. You were under the impression you would go to the grocery store, like normal, then come to the cafe. Though, you’re at the cafe now, warming up to the sound of the soft jazz music playing on the overhead speakers and the heat flowing around the space, compacted in with some other bodies roaming or sitting around.
“Well,” he began, setting his cup down and trailing his eyes back to yours. “You don’t seem to be much in the mood for shopping, and we have already made it to our spot here in the cafe. Our routine is a bit out of line, but not anything I can’t handle. What would you like to do instead? To clear your head and make the day better?” Ours. It replayed in your head while you stared back at him, wordless, shoulders giving in to the relaxation he had been trying to shower over you since meeting up. He was fine with doing something entirely different, whatever you wanted.
How do I tell him I want to go home and lay down with him without sounding weird?
“Would you like to go home and rest?” He asked.
“I don’t want to leave you, though,” you blurted, wishing it hadn’t come out immediately after it already did. There it is, though, out in the open, baring yourself right there in the middle of a slightly noisy and public cafe. Avoiding your coffee, brave enough to stare at him across the way, and hope he is as smart as he seems to understand why you would say that.
He did, he understood it completely. So, he hoarded your time, trapping you into more conversation with him, eventually gravitating to sit beside you instead, keeping you occupied with discussions of likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, what keeps you up at night. Distracting you enough until he offered to walk you home, make sure you got back safely, then worked up all the courage he could muster – despite the question being on the tip of his tongue for weeks – to ask you on a real date. Somewhere away from the grocery store, avoiding household chores entirely, and all of a sudden that horrific mood fluttered right out of you.
It turned out, when you are with Fukuzawa, the mundane isn’t nearly as boring as you had formerly believed. You smile a little, jotting a few things down on the piece of paper in front of you, thinking back on all those times before when you were alone, trying to make it, trying to figure out the best tactic to handle those piles of dishes, trying to figure out how far you can survive on microwaveable food, and trying to remember to do all of your laundry.
Now, you sit in your shared home with Fukuzawa, after he helped you come to terms with the fact that the mundane wasn’t boring, you just didn’t want to do them alone. He hums softly in the living room, working to fold some of the laundry that had dried overnight, after you two had worked together to clean up the house with vacuuming, dusting, and rearranging the furniture because to you, it looked all wrong.
“Yes, of course,” he agreed with you, an ease to his tone. “I was just thinking the same thing.” He had begun moving the couch without you. “Just tell me where, my dear.”
You do the dishes more, him at your side ready with the towel to dry them after you scrubbed them clean and carefully setting them away in the cabinets. Nothing is covered in dust anymore, everything in perfect condition, ready to eat off of, and there weren’t plates and bowls rotting in your sink. Which, it’s easier now to keep the kitchen clean when he’s there beside you to wipe off the counter after you cut up vegetables or preemptively wash the pot you finished with earlier in preparations.
Making lists for your weekly visits to the grocery store is cake, a separate list of the week’s meals you two brainstormed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; him reminding you that it will make leftovers, so it’s one less meal to think of. And your trips are still always your favorite thing to look forward to every week, going to the same location you met at, now able to pick out your own tomatoes without his guidance. Snacks still get snuck into the cart, him pretending he didn’t see it and acting surprised when you two get home when he pulls them out to stow away, only to be met with your stifled giggles and shrugging your shoulders in a bout of faux innocence. An occasional cup noodle will make its way in, for old time’s sake, and he’ll ask you to grab an extra for him since he can ‘get a little lazy some nights’.
Those nights are fun, too. Seeing him in lounge clothes or pajamas a treat no matter how many times it happens, something you never get tired of, while he sits on the couch with you eating out of styrofoam cups of instant noodles with dehydrated vegetables. Him making a joke about his compliments to the chef, before your back is to his chest with his arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders to watch whatever movie he picked out. He always knows when you’re on the brink of sleeping, picking any old thing so you don’t actually miss out on something you were interested in due to absolutely passing out.
Things you used to do alone, things you are required to do to get through your day or the week or the month, were big hassles. Things you dreaded, nothing to look forward to unless it was a night out with your friends, away from your apartment made for one. Things you didn’t want to do because the thought by itself too much to bear that you avoided them. Those things are now small highlights of your day, like sitting down to balance a checkbook with your husband while he sips on his hot tea that you made while you continue to ask him why this is something you have to do.
“Because it means we have more time to be together,” Fukuzawa will smile, eyes not leaving his pen that marks up along the book, reviewing statements, and you sit there beside him because you stopped using checks. You’re so traditional.
“But don’t we have to do taxes later? And laundry? I fear we have all the time in the world together planned,” you remark, eyes moving from the side of his face then to his pen, fingers coming out to brush some of his hair out of the way.
“That’s right,” he’d hum, breaking away long enough from his work to gaze at you, love and adoration spilling out of his bright eyes as he leans over, placing an even more loving kiss on your unsuspecting lips. “You should know by now I really like doing laundry and taxes with you.”
“And grocery shopping?” You’ll murmur, fingertips drawing circles on his cheek as you gaze back at him, rough finger mimicking yours as he traces hearts into your soft cheek.
“And grocery shopping,” he’ll assure, his lips pressing to your forehead, allowing you to be his distraction from household chores you promised one another to complete. “Ranpo is even being so kind as to extend our next trip since he asked us to pick some things up for him.” Your giggles that will bubble up, music to his ears, fill the quiet of your freshly re-organized dining room because you had gone a little crazy the night before and ‘needed a change’ that he obliged in an instant to help see your vision. “Now, let’s hurry up and get this finished. We have a bathroom to clean.” Your body will tense up, smile frozen on your lips, before slumping back dramatically in your chair and absolutely groan in childish protest.
I completely forgot about the bathroom.
fluffuary 2026 | masterlist | requests: open!
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AWWW THIS IS SOO KYUTE 😭😭🙏🙏
