the gym smells faintly like rubber mats, metal, and whatever stupidly expensive body wash he probably stole from someone else.
you’re sitting on the edge of a bench, scrolling on your phone, pretending you’re not watching him.
which is hard.
because toji is being insufferable.
he’s across the room doing pull-ups like it’s nothing. the sleeves of his black sweatshirt are shoved halfway up his forearms, veins running like road maps under skin. every time he pulls himself up, his back tightens under the fabric, shoulders flexing so sharply it almost looks like the seams are begging for mercy.
you try very hard to focus on your phone.
you fail 💔
he drops down from the bar with a quiet thud, rolling his shoulders like this is all some sort of inconvenience. then his eyes flick over to you.
and he smirks.
that smug, annoying smirk that says “i know you’re looking.”
“you gonna keep staring,” he says lazily, walking over to you to grab a towel, “or you gonna take a picture so it lasts longer?”
you scoff, immediately looking back down at your phone. “no one’s staring.”
“right.”
he steps closer. slowly. clearly intentional about it all.
when he stops in front of you, the bench dips slightly from his weight as he leans back against the rack. the sweatshirt he’s wearing is already beat to hell – tiny rips at the collar, frayed cuffs – but it still somehow manages to cling to him like it knows its job is to show off the fact that he’s built like a brick wall.
you try not to look.
your eyes betray you immediately.
his arms cross over his chest. and he flexes. subtly at first.
his biceps tighten under the fabric, the sleeves stretching just enough that you can see the outline of muscle shifting beneath it. his traps roll when he tilts his head, like he’s loosening his neck after a fight.
he watches you notice. that stupid smirk spreads wider.
“you’re staring again.”
“i’m NOT.”
“you are.”
“i’m literally not!”
toji hums thoughtfully.
then he flexes harder. like, really flexes.
his shoulders rise, chest expanding as if he’s inhaling pure arrogance. the sweatshirt strains immediately, fabric pulling tight across his upper body.
you narrow your eyes at him. “are you seriously posing right now?”
“what?” he says innocently. “just stretching.”
his traps pop again.
you roll your eyes so hard you nearly see your own brain. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and yet,” he says, leaning a little closer, voice dropping into that lazy drawl, “you’re still looking.”
you snap your gaze back to your phone again out of pure spite.
which is exactly when he decides to escalate.
he straightens up fully, planting his feet like he’s about to deadlift a truck. then he stretches his arms out. slow. deliberate.
and flexes everything.
biceps. shoulders. chest.
the poor sweatshirt never stood a chance.
rrrip.
the sound is loud.
the hem of the sweatshirt tears clean across the side, fabric splitting right along the seam.
for two seconds, there is complete silence. you slowly lower your phone. toji looks down at himself.
half the sweatshirt is now hanging like a defeated curtain, exposing a ridiculous amount of muscle underneath. his abs. his obliques. and the very obvious reason the fabric surrendered.
you stare. he stares.
then he clicks his tongue. “… huh.”
you blink. “did you just… hulk out of your shirt or–”
“cheap fabric,” he mutters, tugging at the torn hem.
you snort. i mean you can’t help it. it starts as a tiny laugh, then quickly escalates into full wheezing.
“oh my gosh,” you manage between breaths, pointing at him. “you literally flexed your clothes off!”
“did not.”
“you absolutely did!”
he glares at you. you’re still laughing. which seems to irritate him even more.
so naturally he does the worst possible thing.
he grabs the ripped hem. and PULLS.
RRRIP.
now the sweatshirt is basically a sleeveless mess hanging around his torso.
you choke on your own air. “TOJI–”
“problem solved,” he says flatly.
problem absolutely NOT solved.
because now he’s standing there looking like he walked straight out of a gym ad, arms crossed again, muscles still faintly tense from the stunt.
and he’s watching your reaction very closely.
your brain short-circuits. “… you’re unbelievable.”
“you’re the one staring.”
“you just destroyed a shirt???”
“so? worth it.”
you blink at him. “… for what?”
toji leans down slightly, resting his hands on the bench on either side of you. now he’s very close. close enough that you can see the faint scar along his lip twitch when he smirks again.
“for the look you’re making right now.”
you immediately look away.
“i’m not making a look.”
“yeah,” he says softly, clearly unconvinced. “you are.”
his shadow falls over you as he straightens again, grabbing his towel. he starts walking away like nothing happened. like he didn’t just commit violent sweatshirt murder.
you stare after him. “are you gonna buy a new one?”
he glances over his shoulder. that stupid grin is back.
“nah.”
“TOJI!!!”
“relax,” he says, rolling his shoulders again, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “i’ll just rip another one later.”
you throw your water bottle at him. he catches it without even looking.
yeah… you’re definitely getting a load of this guy.
anyways i had this crush like 2 yrs ago on this girl 2 yrs older than me at my school n mary talked to her n apparently she remembers me but mostly bc she saw me at popexpo that one time i greyed myself up as karkat im dyyying
