we have as a soceity stopped talking about the arcana and i feel like the world started going to shit after that so maybe we should bring up the arcana
domestic fluff. married couple nanami x fem!reader. ⚠︎ talks of aging, death and grief ⚠︎ suggestive humor and dialogue.
nanami kento is graying
You realize it as he lays his head on your lap and you thread your fingers through his soft, fluffy hair. His strands fade into a lighter shade near the roots, a gradient from gold to gray.
“Oh no,” you sigh. “You're turning into a sexy silver fox.”
“Pardon?” He replies.
“You're graying. Have you noticed?”
“Ah. I never really paid attention. I was more worried about balding.”
“I think I prefer that,” you say lightly, as you glide your fingers through his scalp. “At least I’d have less competition.”
“Competition,” he laughs. “Woman, you're my wife.”
“I know that!” you laugh as well. “But once you’ve gone full gray it's fisticuffs between me and all the GILF-chasers.”
“What is a G—you know what, don't answer that.”
You settle into comfortable silence, alone in the house you've built together. How long has it been since he swept you off your feet and carried you into this life? Time has compressed all of your moments into a montage of routine domestic bliss. In the decades you’ve been married to each other, you've woken up and slept next to him for thousands of nights and days. You've held his hand and kissed his lips, embraced him and made love to him countless times.
And it's ironic, actually, that because of how close and intimately aware you were of each other's bodies, you never noticed those tiny increments of change that come with age.
His eyes flutter shut and your fingers wander towards his face. What else about him has changed? You brush against the faint gray hairs on his brow, the wrinkles around his eyes—lines that converge to his outer corners and curve under the bags of his eyes. You love the way it deepens when he smiles. And maybe that's why you've never seen those wrinkles as a sign of aging. Seeing your husband’s wrinkles is a sign of his joy.
“We're growing old together…” he sighs.
“You said it like it's a bad thing.”
“It's not. It's just a matter of fact. I'm happy that we lasted this long.”
You know that tone in his voice.
“But?” you asked.
“I guess, sometimes, I can't help but question what it really means to grow old with someone,” he says. “Back then I was scared of dying on the job and leaving you alone all of a sudden. But now… what about if I grow ill? Or frail? What if you spend the last years of our marriage washing my ass until I die?”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” you tease. He's never outgrown his tendency to brood, but you've learned how to stop him from indulging in such sad thoughts—a skill you've honed over the years.
Nanami smiles at the way you lightened his mood.
“I just don't want to bother you with all that work then leave you grieving,” he says, holding your hand over his heart. “That's not what you deserve.”
You can't help but smile at his devotion. You raise his hand and nuzzle your cheek against his warm, rough palm. His skin is looser at the back of his hand now, with thick and soft veins running underneath. But the way he has held you stays the same. Gentle and warm. Like laying your head on the sand.
“Grief... Grief is just an echo of love, Kento. That's how we know it was real. And that it was powerful,” you say, reaching down to caress his cheek. “We're spending the rest of our lives together, darling. I wanna feel and experience everything with you. That's what I deserve.”
You lean down, until your soft breaths caress each other’s lips.
“And besides…" you whisper. "I like touching your ass."
Nanami rolls his eyes and shakes his head, though he couldn't help but smile. Then his eyes soften with warmth as he holds his gaze. Perhaps, for the first time, he is seeing the changes in you as well.
And everything about it is beautiful.
“You're the love of my life,” he murmurs.
“And you're mine,” you reply.
You press your lips together, as you did a thousand times. And everything about it feels familiar and right. As if your bodies have found home in each other once again.
He chuckles low against your lips and his joy is infectious. So you lean back and laugh as well.
“What?” You ask.
“It doesn't matter how old we get," he says. "I still feel young whenever we kiss."
You bite your lip and smile and you indulge him once again with your kisses. This time, he parts his lips and lets your tongue slip into his mouth with a deep groan. You pull back, warmed and softened by the taste of him.
“Are you still feeling young down there too?” You ask.
Nanami laughs softly, his eyes turning dark with want.
“What do you think?”
this is a birthday dedication to one of my dearest friends, who supported and guided me through my every hyperfixation. one day we will grieve each other. but not before we grow old and hot and rich 🥰 like catherine branski.
this is very rushed and i am sorry if the quality is not as good as when i take my time,,, i wanted to reach my friends birthday. please be gentle with me 🙇♀️
first post! enjoy a few (n)sfw headcanons of a AU that has taken over me. minors, SHOO!
this was written with a black reader in mind btw !
SFW.
painter!getou is a worldwide known artist for his wonderful use of symbolism and meaning behind each piece he curates in the comfort of his studio apartment that he has the pleasure of sharing with his muse and symbolism expert; you.
muse!reader is the overall inspiration for each piece and reason why he loves what he does for a living. you make his painting career so eventful, and he can't find the words nor actions to thank you enough.
painter!getou takes your suggestions and thoughts when it comes to anything. when it comes to painting, you help him try to broaden and emphasize what message he wants to come across with your knowledge of symbolism. you both work as a team; getou with the artistry, the muse with the knowledge and explanation.
"wait, how about you add red to this? i get the message and everything, but the red would make it more obvious of what you're trying to say. red can mean passion, en-" quickly pours out red paint as she talks
every painting painter!getou curates has to have a certain part of the drawing involving you. if it isnt your actual full body on the piece, there's always something in the background that he puts in. when the piece finally gets published into art shows, its like a guessing game to find out which part of the piece is symbolizing you before you get getou to tell you (which you're mostly right at times).
painter!getou secretly loves when you draw on his canvases just so he can keep each drawing in the final piece, he just gets "mad" for no reason.
"wait, baby... aren't those the hearts I drew on the corner of the canvas?" "mhm, what about them?" "why'd you keep them?" "i...forgot."
painter!getou bought you your own plush lounge chair when it came to posing for him so you didn't get too uncomfortable to stay in the same position for too long.
after you suggested that he should try to light incense around the apartment to help set the mood for painting, painter!getou never paints without incense lit and warm lighting dimly lit in the living room.
"sweetheart, can you grab the open box of incense in the kitchen? i need to start this commission." "you know you don't have to light them everytime you paint-" "they make me feel relaxed."
painter!getou adores the way you get so excited and run to your lounge chair when he asks if he could use you for a piece idea. your smile lightens up the entire room, and he cant help but smile back.
you two have "dates" almost every weekend + Friday. whether you go out for a movie, dinner, make a pillow fort, or just spend quality time with each other, you always insist on calling it a date when painter!getou just says its just spending quality time.
"i call it a date because we're together and doing fun stuff together!" "so are painting nights not fun?" "that's different. that's for work."
NSFW.
since painter!getou works from home instead of in an office, you have to leave during the day to attend your corporate job even after getou insisted on helping you financially instead of you leaving his side every morning. during these few hours of your absence, he can't help but think of you. stroking his cock as he reminisces about your nude body sprawled out on the lounge chair you pose on, getting your pussy drilled into continuously as the finished canvas dried. there were also a few times he jerked off to his own pieces of your nude body, but never told you that.
painter!getou adores forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror as he fucks you senseless. he wanted you to see what he saw in you for yourself.
painter!getou is POSSESIVE AS HELL!!! he understands that people might find the anonymous person on his pieces sexy because she's nude, but all he cares about is that you come home to him at the end of the day. you come home and gag on his cock delightfully before you both continue with your day.
painter!getou doesn't just like cumming inside of you. he adores the way his warm liquid drapes across your face or stomach. it makes him feel like he's making a masterpiece on a canvas all over again.
painter!getou's position that makes him the most weak in the knees ever since being with you: cowgirl. the way he can see your entire figure all out for display and bouncing so quickly on his cock sends him into a spiral.
pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru
warnings/tags (for this chapter): none, but please heed overall fic warnings
word count: ~3.2k
fic masterlist
read on ao3
“Suguru…you’re getting married?”
Your eyes are wide as you examine Suguru in a new light.
Marriage…that’s…that’s a big step isn’t it? Already? Do people get married at twenty-two nowadays? You aren’t sure. In fact, you don’t really know what people your age do. But you’re sure that whatever Suguru decides, you will support him fully. Even if he desires to get married at the early age of twenty-two. Who are you to come in the way of Suguru's apparent desire to get married?
Suguru doesn’t even blink at your words. “Of course not,” he replies smoothly, expertly dicing carrots into small cubes on the cutting board. He finishes, puts the knife down, and looks at you reassuringly. “It was just a matter of propriety. I couldn’t just leave that girl waiting for hours on end for Satoru, now could I?”
You shake your head, smiling back. Of course he would. Because Suguru is a good person who would keep a girl company at a matchmaking ceremony that Satoru either refused to show up to or forgot. You aren’t surprised to hear it. Both the fact that Suguru spent his afternoon entertaining her, and that Satoru had neglected to go to it in the first place, or even mention it to you.
Marriage…
You think of white dresses, veils, shiromukus. Endless white fabrics. Black kimonos. Cups of Sake. You think of temples, the reception, the planning. All the different options for catering and flowers and wedding invitations. Your head spins. Weddings. Marriage. Abstract concepts to you. Foreign in their conventionality. You’ve never had the luxury of dwelling too long of what a hypothetical wedding would entail. You had no use for it, really. Though you did occasionally think about how Shoko would look on her wedding day.
Suguru is calling your name.
You blink, regaining the smile on your lips, hoping he didn’t ask you a question you had not heard. “Y-yes?”
“Just keeping you with me,” he hums, getting started on the mushrooms and potatoes. “What were you thinking about?”
“Weddings are complicated,” you say seriously. But then you think of Shoko in a wedding dress, Suguru and Satoru in black kimonos, and decide that Shoko would make a lovely bride just as Satoru and Suguru would make lovely grooms. “I hope I get to see all of you married one day.”
Though the thought of Shoko getting married disturbs you. You think of seeing her even less than you usually do and frown. Twenty-two really is a bit too young, isn’t it? She hasn’t even finished medical school yet! You force yourself away from your thoughts, regarding Suguru brightly.
“What did the two of you talk about?” You ask eagerly.
An amused glint flickers in his dark gaze. Almost teasingly. “Flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Flowers.”
The girl had invited Suguru to see the sprawling garden at her estate and the special lotuses she tended to daily. He politely declined. You are slightly disappointed at this. You think of Satoru and Suguru’s wedding. You think of a faceless third, a potential bride that could handle Satoru and Suguru’s tempestuous natures. A calming, dignified force. You think she’ll be beautiful, befitting the two of them.
“Was she pretty?”
Suguru stops, knife pressed to the cutting board, mushroom split in two. He lifts his gaze, returning to your expectant gaze with an unreadable one before his expression softens. “I suppose.”
You stare at him. He…supposes? Just what is that supposed to mean? Some new cryptic way of conveying his interest? Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he doesn’t want to admit it.
The amused smile returns to his lips. “I was just a temporary fill in for Satoru, nothing more.”
He resumes cutting. Finishes. Heats up oil in a large pot and pushes the vegetables into it with a knife.
He’s too modest. You’re sure he’s downplaying himself. She had invited him to her estate for a second meet, hadn’t she? You guess Satoru and Suguru and yes, even Shoko are at an age most would consider eligible for marriage. They’ll get married soon, embark on the next adventure of their lives and you’ll…
You’ll be content.
“Have you thought about it?” He asks nonchalantly. “Marriage?”
You falter, a lapse in your thoughts at Suguru’s inquiring gaze. “Not at all,” you say truthfully. “I can’t even imagine it.” Someone loving you? The thought of someone finding something worthwhile in you makes you feel greatly disturbed when you decided long ago that romantic endeavors were useless in your case. But even that line of thinking is arrogant of you. Nobody has ever shown interest in you in the twenty-one years you’ve been alive, and you are sure that even the slightest interest in you would only end with disappointment.
There is something fundamentally wrong with you. You would rather the vulnerable truth of it all not be laid bare and dissected by a scorned lover you disappointed in some way, because you had not been able to live up to the expected standards of romantic love. You would say something wrong, do something wrong. You wouldn’t understand. You don't think you'd be recover, and even the thought of it makes you feel vaguely ill.
You’re not naive. You know that love doesn’t have to be a factor in marriage, but if marriage was a necessity, then what was wrong with hoping for love, romance, passion? You’ve seen the well bred women of jujutsu society, the ones whose last names hold importance on some level, cultivated for the singular purpose of being a wife, a mother, sheltered away in their estates awaiting the inevitable. You think these girls deserve far more respect for being able to flawlessly navigate jujutsu society than you do, as a working jujutsu sorcerer.
You also think you want better for Satoru. You think he deserves love and everything else he’s found in Suguru. You’re happy for him. For Suguru. Because even someone like you knows how rare it is to find what the two of them have.
You exhale. “But nothing’s expected of me anyway." You've never even been kissed. "I don’t have a lover, or even parents. I’m nobody important. But you, Satoru, and Shoko…" A self deprecating smile. "It seems that I’ll have to learn to live without you guys soon.” You’d be lonely. But you at least had Megumi and Tsumiki, and even Mimiko and Nanako. You were sure they’d still need you for a few more years. And then…
You’ve never thought about the future. Not to this extent. You’re unsure of what your life would be without Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko. You’re unsure if you’d even exist.
As long as you’re alive, you’d persist. Somehow. And if you died along the way, well. You suppose you wouldn’t have to put too much thought into the future then, would you?
You must look troubled. Suguru clears his throat. You look up, just as the smell of curry fills your nose.
He lifts up an inviting spoonful of curry. “For you.”
It takes you a few seconds to completely pull out of your thoughts, and to register the spoon in his grip. You learn forward automatically, mumble ‘thank you for the food,’ and eat his offering. The curry is delicious, savory with a sweet note that can’t just be attributed to the apples you had seen him blending before to mix into the sauce. Your gaze drops to an opened packet on the counter.
“Dark chocolate?”
“A tip I got from some of the housewives in the complex,” Suguru replies, satisfied with your response. “They said that it’d add an additional note of flavor. I’m guessing it worked…?”
You nod vigorously. “It’s delicious!”
Of course Suguru’s made good with the housewives in the fancy apartment complex the two of them live in with the kids. Suguru wanted a big kitchen. Satoru wanted a view. The penthouse seemed to both their tastes.
It’s a lovely apartment, with a large sprawling living room that includes ceiling high bookshelves, an open kitchen with a long island, and stairs that spiral to a second floor. Accommodating two adults, four kids and more, easily. It brings a smile to your face to see traces of Satoru and Suguru, and all the kids all over the apartment. You’re sure the confetti and colored paper scraps on top of the kotatsu are from Mimiko and Nanako and Tsumiki. Some school project that involved copious amounts of glue and glitter. There’s a book you bought for Megumi on the couch. Just as the bookshelves are full of Suguru’s own books. The big jar of sugar in one of the upper cabinets of the kitchen (far away from the kids’ reach) is Satoru’s. To add into his cereal, tea and anything else accommodating his usual sugary diet. There’s an identical jar back at your apartment. Satoru’s sugar jar.
To Satoru and Suguru and the girls, Megumi, and Tsumiki, it’s home.
Suguru’s eyes crease with the curve of his lips, pleased. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Everyone’s going to love it.” Especially the twins, you think. Chocolate in their curry seemed to be exactly the kind of thing they’d delight at, in the small bursts of childlike wonder they rediscovered after Suguru rescued them. They followed after Satoru with their sweet tooths. However, after Nanako had been found with a cavity, Suguru had been forced to put a hard limit on their sugar intake, much to their disappointment.
Suguru gives the curry a stir, almost absentmindedly, as if he’s pondering something.
“I think about it,” he says, after a small silence. “Getting married.”
Oh.
Of course Suguru has thought about marriage. What, with all the marriage talks and matchmaking ceremonies and lovely elegant women in their pretty kimonos, who probably knew all the perfect ways to serve tea and facilitate conversation in all matters of talk. Suguru would make a perfect husband. Anybody would be lucky to marry Suguru. Charming and kind and handsome.
You’ve begun to formulate a question about whether or not anyone’s caught his or Satoru’s eye, when you hear a thundering of footsteps.
“We’re backkkkkkk!” Nanako hollers, rushing into the open living space, pulling Mimiko along with her. “Papa, are you making curry? It smells good!”
Mimiko nods her agreement, tugging on Suguru’s apron. Suguru greets them with a smile, untying his apron and pulling her up into his arms, just Satoru strolls into the room, Tsumiki at his side, Megumi trailing a few steps behind them.
“I’m starved!” Satoru announces, peering over the stovetop at the boiling curry. When a hand sneaks for a piece of chocolate, Suguru slaps his hand away.
Suguru takes the chocolate away and puts it into a drawer as Satoru gawks. “It’s not the kind you’d like anyway.”
“Tsumiki, Megumi,” you start. “How’s school?”
You have regrettably not been able to visit as much as you wish you could. Your studies kept you busy. Your missions kept you out of Tokyo. You hope your absence isn’t missed too much. You read that children should grow up in stable environments. Your schedule was the last thing from stable.
Tsumiki beams. “I’ve got a part in the school play. We’re putting on Hachikazuki-hime!”
You make a mental note to grab the date from Satoru so you can clear your schedule. Tsumiki would be graduating elementary school soon. Already onto middle school. Children grow up so quickly. You’d have to take as many pictures as you could to compile an elementary school picture book for all the kids.
“Is that why you guys were all at the school so late?”
She nods. “Ah, and Megumi hasn’t gotten into a fight in a month,” she says excitedly. “It’s a record!”
The aforementioned boy makes a face. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You grin, ruffling the boy’s hair. “That is a record!” Satoru had taken care of an incident a month ago in which you had been called to the school over an altercation between Megumi and another male student. You hadn’t been able to make it. You didn’t ask what Satoru had done, but you have a suspicious inkling that it had been waved away with a twirl of Satoru’s trusty black card.
You catch a glimpse of the clock above the refrigerator and balk. You snatch up your bag from the floor and wrap Tsumiki and Megumi in your arms and squeeze.
“I have to go now! I’ll see you guys later.”
“You’re not staying for dinner?” Mimiko asks quietly, peering up at you through her black bangs.
A sheepish breath escapes you. “I have a lot of homework, unfortunately.” You’d get takeout from that new tempura restaurant that opened up a couple of blocks away from your apartment. Then it was back to the books for you.
Satoru frowns. “You can’t stay an hour?”
Nanako and Mimiko and even Tsumiki voice their agreement.
Even Suguru looks displeased. Though you suppose it’s your fault. It had been your intention to stay until…
Suguru wanted to get married. He was thinking of marriage. With Satoru, with some other faceless bride to be. All three of them. You had said it yourself, hadn’t you? You’d have to learn to live without them.
All of this is just temporary.
You turn to the kids. “Why don’t you guys wash up for dinner?”
One by one, they shuffle off to their rooms. Megumi gives you an inquiring stare, but you wave him off.
“I’ve got a lot more work than I thought…” you trail off underneath their twin scrutiny. “I think it’d be best for me to go home for today.”
“Home,” Satoru repeats. His lips twist, effectively staunching all the words that would undoubtedly tell you exactly what he thinks about your decaying one bedroom apartment that had become your home after you graduated. You were untethered after graduation. While it was an occasion, jujutsu tech had been your home for better or worse for four years. It was the first place you had truly thought of as a home. And to leave it…
Yaga had offered you your room on campus, if you wanted to stay. But it didn’t seem right. Not without Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko. You found your apartment off a flyer attached to a pinboard while at a public library. Shoko had visited the apartment with you, negotiated rent down with the landlord, and the lease had been signed with little fanfare. It was small enough that you wouldn’t feel too lonely. Big windows overlooking a courtyard in the back. She hadn’t been thrilled about it (Satoru and Suguru even less so), but it was clean with a well worn floor and chips in the wall adjacent to the kitchen from what you presumed was to measure a child’s height. It endeared you to the apartment immediately.
Your landlord had informed you that a single mother had lived in your apartment before vacating it. You thought that there must have been love in your apartment once. So much love that a child could grow up happily scribbling away on the same walls you woke up to everyday. Maybe, somehow, this love would make you feel less lonely.
Your apartment was home.
“Then let me pack you—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine!” You say hurriedly, backing towards the foyer. “I’d hate to trouble you. I have food at home.”
“I’ll walk you.” Satoru says, grabbing his jacket off the counter.
“I’ll take a taxi from the lobby.” You refuse. You can’t hide your smile, touched by their concern. “You should all eat. As a family.”
Suguru stares at you, the weight of his dark gaze making your skin prickle. It makes you feel as if you’ve said something wrong.
“At least make Ijichi drive you home,” Satoru says, exasperated, gesturing to the ceiling length windows that detail the darkness that has set over Tokyo. “It’s dark out.”
You blink in disbelief. “Satoru…” He cocks his head to the side. “Are you still using Ijichi as your personal chauffeur…?”
“...”
You turn to Suguru who seems to suddenly find the potted flowers resting by the window interesting.
Your mouth drops. “Not you too, Suguru! For the last time, you two can’t make Ijichi drop everything he’s doing to drive you through Tokyo!”
You sigh, shaking your head. These two. You feel sympathy towards Ijichi’s plight. Maybe that was why he had looked so withered the other day while you had visited Shoko in the morgue at Jujustu tech. Shoko had made a joke about watering him like you’d water a plant. You, however, could not find the humor in the situation when your kouhai had truly looked to be in need of water. And sleep. And food.
Maybe you could treat him for a meal one of these days…
“Does Ijichi like yakitori…?” You wonder out loud.
“I wouldn’t know.” Suguru says lightly, despite the peeved expression on his face. You can tell that Suguru, really, could not care less about Ijichi’s tastes.
“I don’t care about that man,” Satoru deadpans. “Why are you talking about Ijichi right now?”
You are unimpressed by their responses. “Anyway,” you sigh out. “I’ll be going now.”
“I’m coming—”
“No you aren’t,” you’re already halfway out the door. “Eat Suguru’s delicious curry,” you tell them both. “Tell the kids I love them. Goodnight.”
You don’t take a taxi. You walk fifty minutes to your apartment in the brisk winter in an effort to clear your mind. It doesn’t work. Suguru wants to get married. Satoru too, maybe, despite his efforts to avoid all the matchmaking ceremonies and invitations to go back to the Gojo estate for more lectures on the importance of continuing the Gojo line with an heir. In the end if Suguru wanted it, Satoru would end up wanting it too, as that was the nature of things. The two of them reconfiguring themselves around the other, always in tandem. A girl would catch Satoru’s eye, or Suguru’s, or maybe both of their attentions. And if she made them happy, you would be happy.
It wasn’t as if Suguru and Satoru didn’t have prospects. There was no shortage of girls who would gladly offer themselves. They didn’t need any help in that aspect. Besides, you are sure you’d be of absolutely no help in matchmaking. You always found it difficult to talk to pretty women. Your mouth never quite worked right. They always smelled nice too…
What you can do…
You can keep your distance. Slowly disengage yourself from the tangle of their lives. You’d be relegated to watching from the sidelines. You’d be content. Maybe you could keep Shoko to yourself for a little bit longer. To your knowledge, she had no intention of getting married. You hoped. Yet anyway.
You jam your keys into the door of your apartment, slightly lifting the weight of the door up and jiggling the keys to the right. When you walk into your apartment, you set down your bag. You had forgotten about the takeout. There’s no food in your apartment except for a rotting carrot in the fridge that you throw out, and Satoru’s big jar of sugar on the island.
Oh well, you didn’t have to eat. There's old tea in your cabinet. You ready the kettle. As you wait for the water to heat, you look out the window and think the apartment feels especially big tonight.
no matter how many times your tell dabi he’s handsome he never believes you, just rolls his eyes or makes some snarky joke, so you decide you just have tell him every chance you get until he does.
you stand in the doorway and watch as he splashes water on his face at the sink, washing away the remaining suds of cleanser that cling to his skin—it's an ultra gentle face wash you'd started buying and keeping in your bathroom because it's good for sensitive skin, of which he has plenty. as droplets fall from his cheeks and chin, his eyes meet yours in the mirror.
he looks quickly away, reaching for a towel.
"why are you looking at me like that?" dabi asks, using the edge of the towel to blot away the remaining water. once he's satisfied, he leaves the towel in a heap on the counter and runs his damp hands through his hair, slicking it back and away from his face.
"because you're handsome."
he snorts mirthlessly, rolling his eyes. "fuck off."
"i'm serious," you say, your lips pulling into a frown at his immediate disregard for your compliment. he looks at you in the mirror again, a brow drawn up.
he looks better than he had not long prior when he turned up at your door now that he's had a meal, a shower, and a change of clothes. but even hungry, grimy, and exhausted you'd still believed the same to be true. you always think dabi is handsome, even though he has such a difficult time believing it himself.
he turns to you in front of the sink, the pyjama pants you bought to keep for when he comes to visit you slung low on his thin hips. the overhead light catches in the staples along his tummy, where scarred flesh meets unmarred. your eyes trail along the neat lines, climbing up along his torso like a train along a track. when you meet his eyes again, his expression has changed—a little colder now, a little more closed off.
"why are you looking at me like that?" you ask him quietly, a parody of his earlier question.
his expression is flat.
"i'm tired."
he steps past you in the narrow doorway, forcing you to turn and let him slip by, your shoulders brushing gently. you turn and follow him out.
dabi has very particular needs when it comes to his sleeping arrangements, which is a bit funny considering you're pretty sure the time he spends outside your apartment he doesn't even sleep in a bed. but every time he crawls into his side of your bed (the left side, nearest the door) he goes through the same routine of carefully fluffing up his pillow in just the way he likes it, pulling the blankets up to just the right place on his chest, and nestling down until he's comfortable. it's like clockwork, predictable and sure in ways that most things about him aren't.
you take some comfort from that, at least.
you crawl into bed beside him wordlessly, and he reaches up to flick the lamp on your bedside table off—effectively signalling that any conversation you may have wanted to have with him was over before it even had the chance to start. your frown only deepens at this, though it's not like he can see it in the dark.
"dabi," you whisper after a few long moments have passed. his breathing is slow but you're sure he's still awake, even if he doesn't answer you. you whisper his name again, breathy and shapeless, inching closer to his side of the mattress with every passing second.
"what do you want?" he grunts, flinching a little when he feels your fingertips skirt along his ribs in search of him beneath the blankets. your palm flattens against the even plane of his stomach, sweeping gently against it. you feel the borders of his scars underneath your touch.
"you're grumpy," you mutter, curling into his side.
"i'm tired," he repeats his earlier comment, but it's a bit weaker now—like his resolve to feed his anger is eroding under every stroke of your hand along his sternum.
"why do you hate it so much when i call you handsome?"
you should soften the words, you think belatedly. dabi's skittish and evasive at the very best of times, requiring rather measured approaches so he doesn't startle and slip further away. but you've caught him in his most docile moment, and frankly you're tired too.
he grunts a little, almost like the weight of the question landed unexpectedly against his chest. he pushes your hand away under the blanket, rolling onto his side and turning his back to you.
"go to sleep," he mutters, tugging the blanket up over his shoulder as though it will shield him from any further questions—as though you aren't already tucked underneath it too.
you sigh, wiggling down in bed behind him and pressing yourself in close to his back. he's stiff for a little while but as the quiet stretches on between you in the comfort of your familiar bedroom, the tension eases from his frame. you tuck your cheek against his shoulder blade and listen to the thumping of his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, from inside his chest.
your eyes feel hot.
you swallow.
"i really mean it you know," your voice is thicker when you speak again, and yet somehow more brittle. you turn your face and press a kiss to his skin, and he's warm against your lips. once you pull away, you let your forehead rest in the divot between his shoulder blades. "i wish you would believe me."
he's not asleep.
you know he's not asleep because his heartbeat is louder now. you can hear it. you can feel it hammering away in his chest, more honest than he's ever known how to be.
dabi reaches behind himself after a moment, searching blindly for your hand. when he finds it, he pulls it around his waist—clasping it tightly against his chest, which in turn tucks you even more snugly against his back. you don't mind it though. you never do.
"go to sleep," he repeats himself, but it's gentle this time; tender like words of thanks he doesn't know how to otherwise phrase.
and in that quiet moment you realize that it doesn't matter if he doesn't believe that he's handsome, and it never really has—you want him to believe you when you say it. you want him to trust the words you're saying to him as truth.
so you'll just keep telling him until he does.
°`☆Ch@rmcaster☆`° @gvtosbith - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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