you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu
wc: 2.9k
summary: it’s not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like this—in fact, he loves it. just not when you're fighting. not when he can't even call you "baby".
contains: post-timeskip atsumu, arguments and atsumu feeling really sorry, flashbacks, uses the nickname “baby” & “my love”, reader is described as “pretty” and wears heels, hurt/comfort.
a/n: atsumu isn’t a sucky boyfriend he just gets carried away sometimes. song inspo: can you blame me? - kehlani, lucky daye.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)
sponsored by @itskilau and @tasoyoru for the @ficsforgaza initiative.
please check it out and support if you can!
“Bab—”
Atsumu lingers by your bathroom door, eyes drooping lower and sadder than they ever have. The steam makes the bleached strands of his hair cling to his forehead, his thick eyebrows now damp and flattened.
You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.
He stares.
That’s his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower.
His lip trembles, eyes watery.
“Not now, Atsumu.”
You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. It’s a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years you’ve been together, but he feels it like it’s the first time you ever touched him—and in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least.
The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking.
“Atsumu,” your voice rings.
Who the hell is “Atsumu”?
He’s not supposed to be “Atsumu” to you. He’s “Tsum.” He’s “baby.” He’s “my love.”
Anything but “Atsumu.”
When you close the door of your walk-in closet to change, the metaphorical volleyball of hope floating right into the palm of his hand misses and drops straight to the floor.
It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do.
You’d met him at the rise of his career, just a few years of him being pro. You were friends first, but if you ask anyone around Atsumu, they’d tell you you were never just a friend to him; he’d invited you to all his games and practice matches, spent a bit more time in the locker rooms before going out for dinner with you and the rest of the team.
Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you.
Your first ‘date’ was Atsumu treading the very fine line between teaching you how to play volleyball and teaching himself self-control. Keeping an eye on the ball is hard enough, what more when he has to resist staring at you in very cute volleyball shorts too?
As MSBY’s success skyrocketed, so did Atsumu’s—brand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasn’t training, he was either traveling or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving.
And he knew you understood, knew you knew him and his tendencies to overwork; knew him, and his habit of getting stuck inside his own world. You’d driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and you’d packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.
You’ve managed his lifestyle better than anyone could.
But, Atsumu has a bad habit of promising more than he should, of serving white lies just as easily as he does volleyballs behind the service line.
“Won’t take long, baby. Swear it,” he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. “Pick ya up at 6:00?”
He’d winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.
What he’d give to be able to do that right now.
“Okay,” you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, “better hurry then, you might be late.”
When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way you’d agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe you’re right—
“Would it hurt for you to just be honest?”
—Atsumu has no excuse standing you up on the date he promised you weeks ago all because he lost track of time in some brand event, listening to a potential collaboration on volleyball shoes. Atsumu has no excuse agreeing to “some drinks” right after just to meet the executives of the company.
There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that don’t compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you.
“I know you’re busy and I understand,” you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, “you know I do.”
He stands before you a quarter past 11:00 p.m., cologne long faded and the smell of alcohol spilled on his sleeve. The kitchen island stands like a net on the court, the ball being sent over to his side.
“Baby, I—”
He passes it back.
You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at him—how could he have ever stood this–you–up?
You take the ball, “Can I finish what I have to say first?”
He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.
“I’m happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,” you reach for the cupboard above head to grab a mug. The box of tea bags sits to your right, a mix of Lemon Balm and Chamomile that Atsumu swears keeps his anxieties at bay during the night. “But at least tell me if you can’t make it.”
You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike.
“Please don’t keep my hopes up every time.”
You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug.
“Baby, I swear, they just–they started talkin’ ‘bout these shoes, ‘n I thought t’was cool, ‘n the execs–they said the execs’d be there in the afterparty, and—” he breathes, “won’t happen next time, baby. ‘M so—”
“Can I really believe you next time?”
You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him.
Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea.
You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.
It is now that Atsumu knows, he’s fucked up.
The ball lands on his side of the court.
And so, he’s spent this entire day trying to make it up to you—breakfast in the morning, right before training (which he absolutely tanked because all he could think about was how sad you looked the night before); flowers that he brought home after lunch time, just to find the apartment empty. It’s only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.
“Nail appointment. Going out tonight,” is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds).
Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. It’s just—he hasn’t even said sorry yet, can’t even call you “baby”, can’t even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to.
And now, with you closing the door on him while you’re changing—there’s nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space.
He shifts his feet, dragging them lightly against the wooden floors of your bedroom.
The moment he hears the door of your walk-in closet slide open, he hurriedly sits down on the edge of your bed, acting as if he wasn’t just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out.
He feels like shit, if he’s being honest—like how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse.
You look good. Make-up done to only emphasize the features he loves (which is your entire face, really), and your outfit perfectly accentuating the dips and curves of your body.
He follows you as you exit the room, tailing after you like a lost puppy. When you stop by your entryway, all he can do is watch as you bend down to put on the straps of your heels. And it sucks, because if you weren’t fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldn’t have to.
It’s pathetic and a little helpless of him to just stand and stare in the middle of your living room. He should say something at least, but, you just look so good, and his throat feels dry; his heart all achy and stomach twisty.
He doesn’t want to be away from you.
And it’s not that he doesn’t like you going out looking like this—he loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft “don’t wait up for me” mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you.
He couldn’t even give you a goodbye kiss.
The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter.
“Don’t wait up for me,” you said. As if he can even sleep without you around.
.
.
.
The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumu’s done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasn’t breached 11:00 p.m.. He’s cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those ‘stock up my fridge with me’ tiktoks he’s seen on Sakusa’s phone. The clothes on his side of the closet have been arranged by color and length, with all the ones in his dresser refolded, Marie Kondo style. He’s also pretty sure he’s scrubbed the bathroom down enough that you can probably see your reflection on the tiles of the damn thing. The laundry baskets for both your clothes are now empty, and he’s changed the bedsheets too and—
He’s still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He can’t stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home.
Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because you’re right―he hasn’t been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too.
His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it.
Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you?
He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it.
That’s it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door.
.
.
.
Atsumu doesn’t check your location often (maybe only a few times). It’s not a trust thing, he swears; it’s just for when he wants to make sure you’re somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there.
And, you clearly don’t need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits.
Sitting at home with all his regret feels worse than seeking you out to beg for your forgiveness, whether you want him to or not.
He’s barely dressed for the venue as he steps inside the bar, a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with those fashionable Birkenstock clogs on. A few people seem to recognize him, tilting their heads and murmuring among themselves as he walks through door, but none of them approach him, thankfully, except for a server asking if he needs assistance.
His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit he’d seen you leave in earlier. The dim lights make it increasingly difficult for him to look for your properly as he squints his eyes some more, narrowing his vision to the people at the front bar this time. It’s after the fourth person he dismisses that he feels himself getting desperate, nearly turning towards the server beside him to ask for help.
Until he spots you—tucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink.
You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table.
He frowns, thanking the server on the side as he makes his way to you slowly. You barely notice him as you bring out your phone, tapping on the screen as you stare at it almost longingly―a photo of you and him some time ago after one of his games. He knows it well, can still remember that day so clearly: when he became a PR nightmare because he couldn’t help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody.
It makes his chest hurt.
Then, you swipe it open, and he’s close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of what’s on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, “Did you make it safely?”
(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didn’t reply to him then because you weren’t ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed.
It was easy to make yourself feel better by dressing up and stepping out of the apartment earlier, the promise of good drinks and good company awaiting your arrival; you couldn’t think about how you felt if you were busying yourself with others. But now that all of those feelings have died down and most of your friends have started chatting up other people they’ve found, it’s beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumu’s company more than anything else.
Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.)
He’s two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain it―
“Baby,” his voice trembles, unsteady.
Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether you’re hearing things; whether―
(“Tsum,” you mutter, eyes catching a pair of familiar warm brown staring back at you. His bottom lip quivers, the embodiment of a dam starting to crack, vibrating.
Your emotions are a mess, your breath on hold as you feel tears welling up in your lashline too. You still feel upset, still a little sad, and a tiny bit disappointed, but what coats them all is a sense of relief because—)
―he’s here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, you’re sure is exactly how things went), and you’re sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“‘M so sorry,” he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, “Don’t ever wanna make y’feel like that again.” His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, “I won’t do that anymore―”
“Tsum,” you try to call his attention.
He’ll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not.
(The interaction is causing nearby tables to look, murmurs and whispers in your periphery as you catch vague sentences here and there. He still is a public figure, after all.)
But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, “No, please hear me out first. I promise I’ll tell ‘em they can speak ‘ta―”
“Tsum,” you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up.
“Baby, please. Gimme the chance ‘ta show ya that I―”
(You look around and notice even more eyes on the two of you, fond looks on their faces as they prepare their phones for what seems like something momentous. Then it hits you, how this looks―)
“Tsum, please stand up,” you tug at his hand strongly, urging him to stand. His eyebrows furrow as he obliges, only comprehending why when you explain it to him softly, “people were starting to think you were about to propose.”
He pauses for a moment, a slight, “Oh,” as he ponders on it. “Well, if that’s what’ll prove it t’ya, then—”
You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, “Don’t joke about things like that.”
Well, it’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind, if he’s being honest.
He sighs, sitting on the stool beside you as he rubs his thumb over your hand again, bringing it close to his lips to kiss softly.
“‘M really sorry, baby,” he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. “Don’t ever want ya feelin’ like this again.”
“I know,” you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, “you didn’t have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.”
“Can ya blame me? Seein’ ya off like that?” he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. “Y’re too pretty to be sad,” he plays with your fingers, intertwining them with his.
You hit his shin again, feeling shy. You always do when Atsumu likes to sweet-talk you.
“Do ya forgive me?” he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink.
You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, “I don’t like being mad at you, you know.” He lights up, beaming, but you add on, “We still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.”
He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car.
.
.
.
(You both do talk about it properly, and the next time Atsumu promises you a date, he blocks it out of all of his calendars, sending the date to his manager even, just to be extra sure.)
a/n: this has been such a long time coming, i'm sorry to those who waited! i hope you enjoyed even though this simmered with me for way too long 😭 i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is 🥺
thank you notes: to 🍧 anon for helping me figure out "what would make you mad at atsumu?" and to @ceroseis and @mieiri for always listening to my shenanigans pre-writing!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
₊˚⊹｡ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime
wc: 3.0k
summary: hajime thinks that it's been a long time coming for him to wake up with this realization.
contains: implied f!reader, lingerie, use of slut (teasingly/jokingly, not to reader), lots of suggestive stuff (touching, implied sex), so much love!!, hajime is also a wee bit sentimental here, established relationship
a/n: not a lot of plot, just a lot of love! haven’t written hajime in a while, but he’s on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, it’s you, and forever right now.
part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas) + the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—good health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine he’s built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running.
He firmly believes that if you want to live the life you want, you have to start with yourself. A simple choice, the first step.
And Hajime’s chosen the mornings, an old conscious effort to wake up at 6:00 on the dot now transformed into a natural rise to the softness of daylight.
You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentine’s Day.
Sunlight trickles between his curtains, ripples of translucent white highlighting the tip of your nose. He sees you through a sleep haze, olive eyes blinking awake like the leaves on your bedside, ready to tickle your cheek and wave when you turn the other way.
It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you don’t know it.
You’re warm under the palm of his hand, bare flesh a soft place to rest between him and your hip bone. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the faint thump of your heartbeat, almost in tandem with the small puffs of air hitting his chin.
He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment.
A good life.
Evidence of last night is strewn across the room—the red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt he’d worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.
The memory replays vividly—bites to his neck down to his collarbone, a pull of his hair and his lower lip caught between yours. You handle Hajime roughly because you know he can take it, know that it gets him going the more you want him.
But with you, he takes his time—runs his fingers over every area he’s grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently.
Then, he savors it—you.
The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy.
A perk of celebrating Valentine’s Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to you—a team effort to make the day as special as it can be.
He shifts, hand sliding up to rest on your waist. The movement causes you to stir, digging your cheek deeper into your pillow as you scrunch your brows—a sign of you coming to wake.
Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all his—flowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in.
How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise?
The bed dips on your side, no doubt you reaching for the bedside to check the time. Even with his eyes shut, he has your mornings memorized. A whispered ‘shit’ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady.
You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. There’s a momentary pause that makes him worry you’ve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do.
(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, he’s learned.)
It makes him nervous the longer you linger, the tips of your fingers sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips, running over it once, twice. Then you sigh, inching closer before gently nudging his nose with yours.
The small peck you land on his lips almost makes him break, but he holds it in, letting you sneak away (albeit badly) for whatever it is you’re planning for today.
(The bed dips too deeply, comforter rustling as you untangle yourself from it. You stub your toe on the edge of your bedside table and attempt to muffle an ‘ouch’, even though he can hear you—pretty clearly actually. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from chuckling.)
If it were up to him, Hajime would just keep you here, no sneaking around or stubbed toes, no surprise or anything—just you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets.
.
Just as he’d promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that).
The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirt—the sheets beside him crinkled in the shape of your haste to get up from it. He yawns, running a hand through his hair to fix up the mess you made of it last night.
As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neck—side-to-side, up-and-down—then with his back, twisting left and right. Next, he changes, puts on a pair of gray sweatpants that you claim must be a staple in his wardrobe (you say he looks like he could fuck you up, its hem hanging dangerously low to reveal the grooves of that deep v-line leading to his pelvis).
After pushing aside the curtains for sunlight to stream through, he cleans the room, picking up the mess of clothes on the floor and making the bed; you usually do this, because you’re particular with the pillow placements, but he’ll take over for now.
This should buy you enough time, right? An extra 10 minutes for your planned surprise.
He takes a breath, doing one last scan of the room before stepping out.
As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate.
Each step he takes is consciously softened as he carries his weight, carefully making his way to the sight of you, back towards him in nothing but his t-shirt hanging temptingly high to barely conceal black lace. You seem focused, entirely preoccupied with the kitchen stove.
A familiar feeling settles into his stomach, warm and soothing, one he’s been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up.
For Hajime, the best way to start the day is with the morning light and you.
He sneaks up behind your back, peeking over your shoulder at the chocolate pancakes you seem to be slowly ladling into the pan. And just when you’ve formed a figure he can only assume is a heart, he takes a step closer, hands resting on your hips as he scrunches up the fabric between his fingers.
“Morning,” he whispers, chin resting on your shoulder as his lips brush the side of your neck, soft and ticklish; you shiver, just a little bit.
The greeting comes out rough, husky, and you lean into him, your hand coming to rest over his, hiking up your (his) shirt to reveal a slight peek at the black lace hugging the curves of your buttcheek.
“Morning.” you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side.
“How’s your head?” he moves to peck your temple. Hajime knows you get the worst hangovers no matter how little you have to drink, and last night was by no means little.
You groan, turning off the stove, letting the residual heat cook the pancake through.
“Terr–”
As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajime’s bare skin in front of you. Your eyes go wide, zeroing in on the full chest beneath your palms, the cuts of his shoulders, and his arms. Oh—
“Slut.” your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile.
Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back.
“Put on a shirt, you know I can’t focus like this.”
He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time.
“I would,” remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, “but someone stole it.”
You giggle, arms coming up to wind around his neck, fingers playing with the shorter strands of his hair. Then, you tiptoe, white fuzzy slippers slotting itself between his matching green ones as you tilt your head up for a kiss.
As it is, Hajime’s liking how this surprise is going.
He leans in, eyes falling shut as he presses against you. His hand cradles your jaw, callused skin tickling you ever so slightly as he guides your head to turn the other way. Hajime can hardly stop whenever you get him started like this, your lower lip already caught between his teeth.
But you nip it, right as his other hand crawls underneath your shirt, pulling away as he tries to chase for more. The frown on his face is hard to miss.
“Gonna get dressed,” you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.
“Isn’t this already too dressed?” he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear.
“Don’t be a flirt,” you scrunch your nose, “I feel gross.”
He squeezes your hip, “I’m gross too.”
You give him a look.
He gives you one back.
If Hajime had the words, he’d tell you you’re the furthest thing from gross, making him breakfast in his clothes and that pretty black number you know drives him up-the-wall crazy.
This is the stuff of his dreams.
But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well he’s weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away.
“I’ll make you eggs!” he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom.
Your breakfast spread for him is set up on the counter, the chocolate heart pancake on the pan the last needed addition to complete everything. It’s sweet, how you prepared a full-on chocolate feast for him: hot chocolate with chocolate heart pancakes, and butter also in the shape of a heart. The tulips he’d gotten you rest prettily inside the vase he remembers from your first anniversary pottery date.
He feels especially sentimental today taking everything in, noticing how the mug that holds your half-finished coffee matches the one that holds his hot chocolate.
In the little over two years that you’ve been together, you’ve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like you’ve always just been here—that it feels right how all your chips fill up the entire bottom shelf of his pantry because you love snacking on them whenever, wherever.
He cracks in two eggs.
The throw on his couch matches the pillows all because of you, and bottles of your daily vitamins sit perfectly beside all his supplements in the spice-rack turned morning-essentials-rack (one of your so-called organization hacks).
The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crisp—just how you like it (lately, it’s how he’s been liking it too).
When you step out of the bedroom, Hajime’s begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits.
(Today, it’s strawberries—one of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.)
Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—
He prides himself on his routine and the stability of his day-to-day: the mornings, with you raiding his closet and stealing his clothes; the late afternoons, when he picks you up from work and you crash his place because it’s begun to feel so much more like home.
The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. It’s too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesn’t mind the warmth when you’re pressed up skin-to-skin.
And when he sees you in his sweatshirt—the one paired with the sweatpants he’s wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face.
This is good.
—his life that you now also fit into.
“Sorry you had to prep the rest,” you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, “thank you.”
Without even a word, there’s a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already.
You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, “I love you.”
He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.
Shyness still hits him when you’re so vocal like this, but Hajime has known he’s loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but you’d insisted it was an experience he shouldn’t miss, so he agreed—packed an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case.
But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when you’d beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face.
“Love you too,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, “happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”
Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isn’t until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip you’re set to leave for tomorrow.
So, this is nice. You both have time.
You’re talking about all sorts of things—some work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; there’s the whole itinerary for your business trip too—meeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on.
But as he’s chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just can’t, for the life of him, stop thinking.
The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more he’s realizing that this is the longest time you’ll be apart.
And he wonders, what’s that gonna be like?
Most of your clothes will be gone from his dresser, his bathroom counter half-empty without all your skincare. No overheating at night without your arm wrapped firmly around his spine. Just one mug during breakfast, not two, and only a single pair of green fuzzy slippers pacing around the rooms.
It’ll be a little like how it was before you.
And he hates how that’s even a possibility.
He takes a sip from his mug.
“So, Oikawa’s taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?” you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter.
He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate.
“Hajime.” you hide your smile.
He snaps out of it, “Hm?”
“So you’re okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?”
His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it.
“That fucker asked you out?”
You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, “Just seeing if you were listening.”
A pause, then a squeeze.
“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?”
He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. There’s something about this—breakfasts in his kitchen, with you wearing his clothes and the morning light streaming in. You share a joke or two (or five), a few teasing touches here and there, the mood relaxed and just overwhelmingly nice.
Hajime is so authentically himself when he’s with you that he doesn’t want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you do—
Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when he’s let loose; he’s made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too.
The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and they’ll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during ‘boys’ nights’ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you.
This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows you’re the key to all of it.
—so, Hajime chooses you, much like he’s chosen the mornings.
“Move in with me,” he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity.
The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you don’t get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold and—
“When you get back.” he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, “What do you think?”
All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal he’s been working his ass off to reach, but somehow, with his hand in yours, this feels easy. Comfortable in all the good ways because loving you has always been just that.
“Sex last night was that good, huh?”
And this—there’s never been a problem with this too.
He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach.
“Just realizing that mornings don’t feel the same without you,” he admits, pulling you closer. You hop off the stool and inch closer, standing between his legs as he rests his hands on your lower back.
“Flirt.” you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist.
You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze.
“Okay, muscle boy,” your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, “better do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.”
.
And he does—
When you get back, he’s contacted his landlord to get you on the lease. Your clothes are all in his (or now your?) apartment, some still in boxes but the essentials already organized in the closet now split to house both of your things.
There’re pieces of you everywhere now, not just touches like a person half-there. A lot of the big furniture is still at your place, but that’s really just because he wants to leave that part up to you.
—after all, it’s your home now too.
thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do 🥹 lights down low used to be a normal soft song for me before, now it belongs to him bc of u + @soumies @mysugu bc this is kinda really so self-shippy and every time i think of seiwa i think of you both 🥺 + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway 🥺
a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him 🥹 but i hope this comes close 🥹
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
summary: it has to be some sort of fate that you happen to be stuck with gojo on valentine's day.
contains: f!reader, slowburn, fluff, reader and gojo are 21, reader and gojo are ‘guardians’ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentine’s chocolate tradition, reader’s cursed technique (vaguely), kind of pining
a/n: in the 'conversations on love' universe but takes place before the main series (would be nice to read but not necessary to understand this). theme song for this is what love is by zimmer90.
part of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within 'conversations on love'.
also included in how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)
The night is crisp when you step into it, the clean cut of a cool breeze tickling your cheek; it sweeps past you in the edge of winter and spring.
You walk along the street.
A sort of faded, vintage hue paints Shimokitazawa, wooden boards with worn down signages holding names of antique shops in every corner. The night feels older here, retro lights tinging bars and pubs more maturely than those nearby in Shibuya. At the street across, the sign of a cafe is flipped the other way to formally open the speakeasy it transforms into.
You’ve only been here twice before: once with Nanami and Utahime years ago, while searching for old vinyl records the three of you had gotten into, and another with Tsumiki, some time last month because she’d mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops.
Who would have thought you’d be back so soon? With—
“Satoru,” you call out, half-giggling, “why are you sniffing?”
Gojo trails just a few inches behind you, body bent over closely to catch a whiff but not near enough to touch. Each inhale he takes is punctuated with the sound of whizzing air, condensing to fit through his nostrils.
“You smell like chocolate.”
Out of all the plans you’d anticipated on Valentine’s Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them.
You shake your head knowingly, the corners of your lips curling; Gojo can smell sweets miles away, you could honestly mistake it for his cursed technique.
He pulls back, falling into step with you.
“Tsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.”
Heavy jazz floats through the air as you pass by a bar entrance, the music muffling as the doors fall shut a few seconds later. Your boots clack against the pavement.
“Oh?” Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, “What kind?”
You snort as you dig your hands further into your pockets. For someone who claims to be all-seeing and all-knowing, Gojo is a lot more inquisitive than he seems; his nonchalance is but an added security much like his infinity is, dissipating only in company he’s comfortable sharing that side of him with.
It’s been a while since Gojo’s been ‘home’ in the past week, so you don’t blame him for wondering.
“Tomo mostly,” your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, “though I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasn’t looking.”
There’s a slight stagger to his step as his shoulders tense up, his sunglasses shifting higher as his ears push back. You bite down your laugh.
For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojo’s grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of them—to Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely.
‘Home’, which is where the kids stay, but it’s neither yours nor his—just a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. You’re with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, there’s hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you haven’t seen much of him either, besides the rare instances of bumping into him along the halls of Jujutsu Tech, a whine almost always drawn from his throat.
You see his curiosity as an effort to check in.
He only hums, hollower than his usual responses. The sound of his footsteps fill the gaps of what would typically be a seamless back-and-forth with you; you try not to comment on it.
Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojo’s silence feels unsettling—as if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you can’t quite get a read on just yet.
So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around when—
“Did you?”
The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night.
Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?
“Hm?” you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better.
He doesn’t answer.
You stop walking.
“Did I what?” you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.
(“Did you make honmei chocolate?” he means.)
Still, no answer.
The tips of Gojo’s ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.
His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing.
“Wanna see something cool?” he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didn’t ask you anything, as if you didn’t ask what he meant—as if you didn’t just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare.
The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But you’ve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means.
You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldly—a crazed look you’ve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him.
There’s really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the mission’s location—an abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighborhood’s nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere quieter, more secluded.
Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you can’t quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought.
“C’mon, it’ll be quick.” he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, “I’ve finally perfected it.”
A beat—skipped before your heart races.
You wonder if he knows, if he’s using this to his advantage, because—
—when have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way?
The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely ‘to assist’, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. It’s more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum.
They shouldn’t have called on you, of all people—you’re on Gojo’s side. Always.
A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.
“Fine.”
He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. It’s a clear road ahead of you, the streets emptying out to more greenery; your senses are filled with the smell of the earth mixed in with the faint cotton of Gojo’s cologne.
This is bad for your feelings.
(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.)
There’s something brewing between you and Gojo, neither of you have just addressed it yet. He pulls away when the moment is too close but still looks for you first after missions, an almost automatic question to either Shoko or Ijichi about your whereabouts.
You’ve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns away—a reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold.
When the space is vacant enough, he steps a few inches to your right, left hand stuffed inside his pocket as he shakes his arm hesitantly, almost awkwardly.
“You have to hold on to me,” he instructs you.
Your eyes widen, equally surprised and shy as you slowly take your hand out of your coat and slip it into the empty space, resting it on the crook of his elbow. Gojo freezes very slightly.
He shakes it off just as quickly, “You might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.”
Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than you’re both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day.
Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin.
“Don’t let go, okay?”
Another beat—followed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder.
You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek.
“Okay,” your fingers curl around his arm tighter.
He lifts his other hand up, crossing his fingers as he recites the mantra to his domain. In an instant, the greenery around you disappears, stark white taking its place.
“What do you think?” Gojo asks almost immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. Your fingers stay curled onto the crook of his elbow, sandwiched between his forearm and bicep; his other hand rests a few centimeters away from yours, nearly touching.
You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheet—
“It’s…” you try to find the right words, “... empty?”
He gasps exaggeratedly, “Hey!” then pouts in fake offense, “I made it porcelain white at least. This isn’t pure white you know.”
You eye him from the side.
He chuckles, breaking his act, “You should be honored.”
A pause—his tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable.
“You’re the first person I’m bringing in here.”
His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too.
You’re touched, knowing how secretive he’s been on perfecting his domain since Toji and Geto; he only ever tells you and Ijichi about it. No one ever pressured him into achieving his perfect domain, but he feels like his existence necessitates it.
“It’s clean,” you finally say, playing along, “I like it.”
He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile.
“Shame I can’t really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.”
You snort, knowing full well that Gojo’s very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire place’s aesthetic off of that.
“Someday,” you catch his eyes again.
(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeat—pink noise that can’t possibly be a product of your technique.
In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.)
He hums before looking back to the empty space, “Acoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.”
You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined it—if he had meant it or not.
.
The special grade is dealt with within a quarter of the time it took you to travel to here, but Gojo seems to bear the consequences with another one of his migraines—a mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawa’s night life as you exit the neighborhood.
You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he uses—an imbued blindfold maybe? You’ll have to think about it some more.
(When you both get ‘home’, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. It’s a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of it—a fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter.
The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.
You don’t end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. It’s a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichi—a tradition you’ve kept up since you were 16.
But, his box has an extra piece, and you even tailored each one to all his favorite flavors: sakura, strawberry, zunda, and anko; his card is the same one you left half-written, just now fully spelling ‘Satoru’.
So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and he’s realizing that he likes it that way—he might prefer it much more, actually.)
a/n: haven't written col in a while but this is the official launch of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within the 'conversations of love' universe! there are lots of details that connect to some of the col works but this happens before all of the ones released so far (so you don't need to read the main series to understand this, but it would add to the full experience if you do!).
thank you notes: @augustinewrites love u my valentine, this fic wouldn't exist without you 🥹 + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read 🥹 ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always 🥹
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento
wc: 7.2k
summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.
contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.
a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.
ao3 (needs account)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to
CLAY.
Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?
You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.
The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.
Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.
As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.
You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.
A geometric study on blank canvas.
It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.
The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.
Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.
It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.
The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.
You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.
And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.
You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.
.
You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.
The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.
Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.
The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.
You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”
It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.
You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.
“Let me buy you another sandwich.”
He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.
“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”
“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”
He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.
“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.
You nod.
He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.
The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.
“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.
He hums.
“But I couldn’t find you, so…”
He hums again.
The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—
“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”
A pause.
“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.
You snort, “I wish.”
The line moves forward.
“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”
When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.
The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.
“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.
“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”
“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”
You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.
An interesting man.
You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.
And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.
Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.
His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.
He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.
“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”
“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.
“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.
“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.
Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.
The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.
“Do you come to this–”
“My studio is just by the corner, so–”
You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.
“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”
“It’s on the way to work most days.”
You nod, humming.
Another awkward pause.
“I hope you–”
“I should get–”
You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.
He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.
“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”
“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.
That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.
“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”
Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.
“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.
You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.
“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”
The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.
.
.
.
MOLD.
Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?
In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.
You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.
Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.
After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.
People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.
“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.
A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.
He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.
“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”
He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.
“And this?”
Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.
“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”
The PR answer.
Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.
“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.
You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.
“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”
The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.
“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.
He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”
You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.
It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.
.
You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.
Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.
Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.
A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.
“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.
The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.
The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.
He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.
“Just ask, I know you want to.”
The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.
“Who is it?” he asks.
You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.
“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.
He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.
When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.
“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.
As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.
He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.
“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”
‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.
It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.
“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”
Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.
“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.
You encourage him to go on, nodding along.
And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.
He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.
A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”
“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.
And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.
Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.
You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.
(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)
People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.
If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?
.
During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.
He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.
“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.
“Would that be troublesome?”
You laugh at his rigidness.
“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”
The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.
You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.
The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.
A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.
“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.
You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.
It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.
You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”
“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.
“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”
It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.
But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—
—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.
So, no.
There’s no other place he’d rather be.
.
.
.
DRY.
Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?
“Will you be free next weekend?”
His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.
Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.
You must have forgotten to mention it.
“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”
His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.
Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?
The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).
It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.
“Not for a session.”
You tilt your head curiously.
The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.
“For a date.”
.
You begin to take up his weekends now, too.
Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).
He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?
(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).
The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.
For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.
Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.
He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.
The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.
(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)
You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.
It’s unexpected, but you like that.
And you like him—quite a lot, really.
This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.
Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.
Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.
You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.
There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.
Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.
When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.
It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.
“Kento,” you whisper.
His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”
Then you kiss him.
It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.
You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.
It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.
.
Things are good a month until your exhibit.
Things are good until they aren’t.
You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.
The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.
All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.
It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.
And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.
It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.
The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.
You groan, banging your head against the table.
Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.
Nanami finds you in your studio that way.
He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.
If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.
Then this.
And it’s too much—it’s all too much.
Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.
He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.
“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.
Silence.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.
You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”
“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”
“There’s no time.”
Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.
“Then we’ll do what we can.”
The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.
“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”
“Who?”
You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”
He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”
You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”
“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”
That makes you look up.
Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.
You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.
“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.
.
You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.
You remold and repair to build up yourself.
The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.
And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.
.
.
.
PAINT.
Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?
Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.
Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.
He smirks, “You’re a natural.”
“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.
It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).
You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.
His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.
On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.
He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.
“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”
There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.
“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.
Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.
He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.
“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”
You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.
The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.
This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.
.
In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.
He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.
Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.
A gasp escapes you.
Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.
He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.
You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.
He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.
Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.
So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.
He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.
Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.
You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.
(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)
Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.
A tear drips down your face.
“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.
“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”
So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.
He moves his body against yours.
It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.
For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.
.
He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.
It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.
You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.
Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.
He smiles at you the same.
‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.
It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.
Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.
To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.
It is as much you as it is him.
That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.
Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.
Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.
a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.
thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
₊˚⊹｡ i left my keys on your bedroom floor | miya atsumu
wc: 2.4k
summary: atsumu is the clumsiest guy you've ever met; nothing ever goes to plan, especially when it comes to love.
contains: f!reader, use of ‘misus’, mostly fluff with a bit of misunderstanding, reader wears heels, some swears, atsumu thinks he’s going to have a heart attack but it’s just him being him, atsumu is an idiot in love
a/n: not related to the plot, but take a chance with me and fearless remind me of atsumu’s feels in this one (and paper rings will forever be an atsumu song for me)
part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)
Atsumu thinks this is the dumbest fuck-up he could have ever fucked up.
Wood isn’t supposed to feel this cold, but his leg is freezing rested against it.
Is this what it means to be weak in the knees?
Out of all places, of all times, Miya Atsumu finds himself knelt down on one knee by your bedside, legs feeling like jello at his attempt to look under your bed for his apartment keys.
This wouldn’t be a problem at all, really; he kneels down all the time—for lunges during training (the bane of his existence if you ask him), for helping his Ma plant those herbs he’s sure she does for Osamu (he hates how the soil sticks to his skin), and for buckling the straps on your heels even, when you need him to (he doesn’t like it, only because he prefers you much more comfortable in softer shoes, unchafed ankles and all).
So, kneeling isn’t really that big of a deal for Atsumu—
—but you’re there, standing by the bathroom door, staring at him with overwhelming surprise, evidently anticipating something serious enough to bring tears to your eyes.
This is wrong. It isn’t at all what you’re thinking—he was just looking for his keys.
“‘Tsum…” you choke out, mouth partially covered by your shaky hand.
Fuck, if this isn’t the worst way he could possibly do this.
He’s sure his eyes are wide, brows furrowed by a mixture of worry and regret.
“Wait,” he holds two hands up, slowly coming to a stand, “S’not what ya think.”
This is seriously the dumbest way he could fuck this up.
The expression on your face drops, warmth rushing to your cheeks. If Atsumu could describe how you look, he’d call it worse than heartbreak—the horror in your eyes flashing embarrassment and the creases between your brows screaming rejection; what once were lifted cheeks have now sunk, turning into an undeniable frown.
There are tears threatening to spill from your lash line, for a different reason now, he thinks, and it’s all his fault—it makes his heart break that he’s the sole culprit.
And the sick thing is, despite all this, he still finds you the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, backlit by a halo of fluorescent white that he’s tempted to drop everything he originally planned just to do it right now.
“O-oh,” you mumble, “sorry, I just thought–” you close your eyes, taking a deep breath, “nevermind, that was stupid of me, Tsum.”
When you open your eyes, a single tear falls, and he tries not to comment on how you wipe it quickly, feigning a smile as you walk past him, mumbling something about making breakfast and preparing his lunch for when he heads out.
And, well, he feels shitty, that’s for sure. One, for making you cry, and two, for even making you think, just for a second, that he doesn’t want to marry you.
It wasn’t stupid of you to assume he was proposing at all. He’s hinted at it enough in the past few years, calling you ‘the misus’ enough times when mentioning why he’s heading home early from post-game dinners and parties. His Ma keeps a photo of you and him in his childhood home, and Osamu’s given you a family discount at Onigiri Miya now, too (which is only 1% higher than the friends one, but it’s the fact that he considers you as family that makes it feel much larger).
He likes coming home to you, likes that you don’t force him to do anything. That if he chooses to stay out, it’s all fine by you—he’s just stopped looking for that kind of life anymore; it’s a lot more fun getting to cuddle up on the couch with you.
His legs still tingle, and he crouches down again with a big sigh. The silver key is there, glistening from the light directed from his phone, and he reaches to grab it, fishing for the metal that, if he’s being quite honest, hasn’t fully served its purpose in the past three years anyway.
Four years together, and Atsumu has lived with you for most of them. The only reason you still have separate places by name is because of the apartment he owns in Osaka, meant for training season and game days.
Other than that, home has always been your place.
And lately, he’s been thinking of moving somewhere where home can now officially be both of yours—it’s the whole reason he was looking for his keys in the first place, with property managers and realtors coming in to assess the space.
The new place—he’s hoping for it to be somewhere in the middle of both you and him, maybe a bit bigger, who knows? He was planning to ask you about it after the proposal—the one he’s planned and has been trying so hard to keep a secret from you.
It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep it this hush so far. He’s got the ring, the venue, the speech, and has even asked Osamu to take the video (even though he knows he’ll never let him live down every jitter and stutter he’s bound to make). And the date, the oh-so-important Valentine’s day that you’ll both remember forever.
The living room is awfully quiet when he steps into it, no sign of you and your usual humming to whatever song’s been stuck in your head. He walks to the kitchen counter, eyeing a plate of eggs with a bit of fried rice; you packed his lunch, just like you always have—fatty tuna with some rice and vegetables on the side.
Atsumu thinks he could cry, his upper lip already trembling as he stares at the piece of paper in front of him.
Written in your delicate handwriting is a short note: ‘grabbing some grocery, be back later.’ signed with nothing—no ‘love you’, no ‘see you later’, no x’s and o’s. Just nothing. It sucks even more because the grocery is your place, your one escape when he’s upset you enough that you can’t even look at him.
Yet, you still made him breakfast, and you still packed his lunch—that’s the only thing giving him hope that he hasn’t fully fucked this up.
.
“Samu, I think am g’na die.”
The scenery beside him whizzes past quickly, creating a blur of blue, green, and white. His head leans against the window, and he adjusts an earbud, increasing the volume to hear the call better.
Osamu sighs on the other end, the sound of clinking pans and crinkling plastic muffled in the background.
“Y’said that t’Ma the last time, what’s it now?”
Atsumu groans, the memory still fresh in his mind; when he called his Ma a little over three years ago, he was a stuttering mess, breath unsteady and voice shaky at 1:00 a.m. The pounding in his chest would not stop, he thought for sure he was going to have a heart attack.
His Ma diagnosed him all right, called it a serious case of ‘in love with you’—because, when he recounted everything he could have done to cause any potential uptick of his heart rate, all he could talk about was you. How you held his hand and laughed at his jokes, called him handsome even when he was sweaty and gross; how you nursed him to health even though he was probably stinky and dehydrated from an insane diarrhea episode.
All these years later, and he’s even more in love with you.
“I fucked it up, ‘Samu. The plan ‘n everythin’? Poof.” he gestures with his hands, even though he knows audio call doesn’t allow him to be seen. “Dunnow if there’ll even be ‘nyone t’propose to.”
Then, he tells Osamu everything—the search for his keys, kneeling on the floor, the mistaken proposal but how he would have done it there, how he wanted to but didn’t because he actually managed to plan something and didn’t want to throw it away.
But then he said it all wrong, then you cried, and he really did mess it up; he wasn’t even able to say goodbye. He’s miss-called you thrice and you’ve only replied with ‘can’t talk right now.’ (which he knows is suggested text because you always say ‘later, baby.’ or something else more time-efficient).
“Ya dumbass,” Osamu sighs again, words still sharp but tone a bit more rounded, “just give it time, ‘n stop catastrophizin’. Y’ve put y’self in stupider situations ‘n hav always made it somehow.”
Atsumu feels like crying, again, but Osamu’s always right. He lets out a tear or two, maybe a sob for another five minutes, and when he recovers into small sniffles, Osamu tells him to get some sleep to clear his head—he’s holding the line in Onigiri Miya during peak time.
.
His Osaka apartment feels even emptier than usual even though it shouldn’t be all that different. Meetings with realtors and property managers finished an hour ago and all they need is the go signal from him before they put the property up for lease.
He was supposed to stay here until the end of the week, to meet with PR for sponsorship deals and brand campaigns throughout the year. But, the only (non-suggested) text he received from you today was an indication that you were home and heading in early for bed (which, he knows is a lie, because a new episode of your favorite show is airing tonight and there’s no way you’re missing it after last week’s cliffhanger).
And he can’t, just can’t, leave you thinking that he doesn’t want to marry you.
So he decides, fuck it, and packs it up—books a last minute train ticket back to you and hopes to god that he gets the words right this time.
.
He’s never been this nervous in his life.
The olympics is a close runner-up, but nothing compares to this, standing outside your door with his finger hovering over the doorbell. It’s funny, because he has your keys, knows your passcode too—but it feels wrong entering your space without the assurance that you still want him to.
What makes him ring the bell is the sickening twist in his stomach that warns him: this fuck-up could make him lose you.
So he presses it once, then twice for good measure, and before he can do it thrice, you’re opening the door, in sweatpants and a hoodie (his hoodie) as you rub the puffiness out of your eyes.
You’re beautiful like this, too, he thinks—dressed in his clothes, staring at him with those eyes, standing in front of him and looking like the rest of his life.
“Please don’t break up wit’ me.”
The words stumble out of him freely, with barely any time for him to process it. Atsumu feels each pounding in his chest and knows now, just as his Ma said, that it’s all the love he has yet to let out.
“I–” he begins, hesitating. He’s still wearing the same joggers and bomber jacket from this morning.
His hands clench into fists and he pushes them in his pockets, unsure what to do with them; the bottom of his lip trembles and it’s starting to make sense why people tell him and Osamu apart by ‘the one who always cries’.
“T-this mornin’,” he looks up to find you leaning against your door, listening, “Was lookin’ ‘round cos I left mah keys on y’r bedroom floor.”
You nod, tilting your head to urge him on.
“And I was kneelin’,” he breathes out, “and y’thought it was somethin’ else, but I said it wasn’t. And I shouldn’t ‘av ‘cos it came out all wrong and it wasn’t what I planned. Then ya cried but still made me breakfast ‘n lunch and it was good, just like everythin’ ya make is. But ya went to the grocery, and baby,” he chokes up, tears falling, “‘m sorry. S’not what I meant. Please don’t break up wit’ me.”
Atsumu is a bumbling, stumbling, stuttering mess as he cries in front of you, his incoherent rambling a jumble of all his mixed-up feelings. He’s sure he looks dumb as hell right now, a fully grown man in tears at your door—but your brows furrow in concern, jaw tightening as the pout on your lips deepens. Then, you take a step closer, arms stretched out to pull him into your shoulder for a hug.
This is why Atsumu loves you—
This is why Atsumu has never been more sure of the future he wants.
—because, even when he’s fucked things up and has made an absolute mess of himself, you’re always there, picking him right back up.
“T’sokay Tsum,” you hush, rubbing circles on his back, “there’s no need to explain.”
He sniffles, tucking his face against your neck. It’s impossible to miss the sadness underlying your comfort.
You’re wrong—it’s not okay, and he absolutely has to explain.
After he’s calmed down and the tears have subsided, he pulls away, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and apologizing for all the snot he left on your hoodie.
You look confused and a little bit surprised as he takes a step back away from you, his hand immediately reaching inside the pocket of his joggers.
“Y’know I can’t keep anythin’ from ya, right, baby?” he flashes you a small smile, a little nervous.
You nod, because it’s true. Not a single birthday or celebration has ever surprised you because Atsumu’s always ruined it; he just can’t keep a secret from you. Either that, or things just never go accordingly.
“Well, I kept this one real good. Planned it ‘n all. Had everythin’ set.”
The velvet box in his pocket is smooth to the touch, his fingers turning it over. It feels tangible and real now, a moment’s away from his life being changed, forever.
He feels like crying again.
“Was g’na do it on Valentine’s, ‘cos I had it all rehearsed ‘n shit.”
Realization dawns on your face, eyes wide and your chest caught on hold—as if you’re expecting the wrong assumption again.
But when Atsumu gets down on one knee, reaching from his pocket to present to you a ring hidden in red velvet, his fingers tremble when he says, “Know s’not Valentine’s, but can I be your forever Valentine?”
You blink once, then the tears fall—the smile on your face is a little bit wobbly but an awful lot in love. You kneel on the floor with him, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss.
The both of you are a tear-y mess on the floor, but when you part, he leans his forehead against yours, ring held up between his fingers as he asks just to be extra sure, “So… s’not a goodbye kiss is it?”
You smack him on the chest before slipping in your finger.
“S’a yes kiss, Tsum.”
thank you notes: @augustinewrites for suffering through this atsumu train with me & @soumies + @mysugu for helping me with tsumu characterisation and for listening to me ramble abt this fic!!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
prompt: fingertips trailing, not used to this feeling + “please stay. for me?”
summary: college parties can be loud, but it's quiet in this bubble you and shouto have made for yourselves at the end of this couch.
wc: 1.6k
contains: gn!reader, college!au, cameos from everyone else in the gang, mentions of alcohol (it's a college party after all!!), friends to ???, fluff, sfw
co-written by @stellamancer as part of our milestone event collab: keep this love unspoken (tell me as loud as you can) [closed]
At some point of every college party your friends drag you to, you always end up here: in some corner of the house, sitting on a couch as you watch Kirishima perform some ridiculous dare that Kaminari somehow put him up to. With Sero filming, of course.
Sometimes their roles switch, and Ashido and Jiro get added into the mix—not you though, nope.
During parties like this, you always stake claim to the far end of the couch, nursing one of Yaoyorozu’s concoctions in your hand. You’re happy just to watch them this way—your little friend group formed through spiderwebs of shared classes and friends of friends.
“So, she tries to tell him how she feels, right? But…” Uraraka tattles, leaning closer to your ear as she hangs off the armrest beside you.
The music settles into a muffled backdrop for her animated storytelling, always the ever-sweetheart who ensures you’re in the loop with everything. You nod along, the corners of your mouth curling. Your legs cross over one another to sink more comfortably into soft cushion, the slight buzz in your head settling you to relax.
In the middle of Uraraka’s retelling of events, you feel the space beside you dip, a presence almost imperceptible if not for the low ‘hello’ that accompanies it.
There’s a practiced ease to the way its owner slips beside you, as if done plenty of times before (in lecture halls and restaurant booths, library sessions and entirely too-cramped car rides home).
“Shouto,” your eyes widen, surprise melting into relief.
You’d kind-of been hoping he’d come.
“You made it.”
He nods, lips curling into a small smile. The gray lines on his navy blue flannel stand out softly atop the textured ridges of corduroy; his red cup holds suspiciously purple liquid—a good reason he’s left it untouched.
“I was told I would be the designated driver.”
Your lips curve over the edge of your cup, stifling your smile. Shouto has a bit of an awkward stiffness to how he speaks, a semi-formality to the way he arranges his sentences—but you find that endearing about him; much like you do his bluntness, and his unintentionally funny side comments, and the way he would so willingly forego drinking in lieu of his responsibility to drive your friend group home later on.
It’s endearing, because he turns to you most times after dropping the gutsiest quips to some of Bakugo’s (fake) insults—as if he’s waiting for your reaction, hoping you’d give one. You’re pretty sure a one-sided bickering with the blond resulted in him showing up here.
It’s endearing, because you’ve had this crush on Shouto since your first year of college; since he slid himself into the seat beside yours for one of your Chemistry classes, much like he did just moments ago.
And you think, that maybe, with the way he always gravitates towards you, that there might just be something.
The weight pressed beside you is distracting, his thigh warm against yours. There’s a triangular cut-out of space by your hips, hidden to everyone else but occupied by you, Shouto, and the almost-touching of your fingertips. You’re close enough to catch the faint notes of washed violet leaf and pea—he always smells like the faded remnants of his cologne blended into detergent and baby powder.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Ashido’s voice is loud, booming into the space between you and Shouto. “About time!”
“Hello to you too.” His voice is cool and cordial, unaffected by Ashido’s rambunctious energy.
She blinks at him and looks around as if she's searching for something for a minute before asking, “...where's Bakugo?”
“Not here,” Shouto says. “He said that he didn't want to ‘be at some dumb party with a bunch of drunkass losers.’”
You can’t help but giggle a little, while the words are undeniably Bakugo, hearing them in Shouto’s measured tone is kind of funny. If Bakugo were here, though, you feel like he'd complain, about what—you're not sure.
Ashido clicks her tongue in annoyance. “He's missing out. I think even Blasty Boy would get a kick out of the spicy food challenge that Kirishima put Kaminari up to.”
Spicy food challenge? With alcohol? It sounds like a recipe for disaster, one that you're hesitant to watch.
You can feel the warmth of someone's gaze on you and when you look, you find Ashido eyeing you coyly, like she knows something you don't. Then her eyes slide over to Uraraka.
“Ochako, you wanna come watch?”
The question startles the other girl a little as she sits up, looking a bit hesitant and you have no doubt that she's just as eager as you are to see Kaminari make a mess of himself.
“I don't know…” she murmurs.
“Come on, it'll be funny!” Ashido insists, but when that doesn't seem to convince her, Ashido’s gaze turns sharp, giving a meaningful look that communicates something with her eyes alone.
“I guess I'll come. Someone has to keep Kirishima from going too crazy.”
Ashido grins widely and gives you and Shouto a little wink before skipping away.
When Uraraka excuses herself, you finally turn to Shouto, pointing your head at his drink, “Momo’s?”
He shakes his head, stray strands of red hair brushing against the tips of his eyelashes, “Mineta.”
“Ah.”
That explains why his drink looks untouched. Among your friends, there are only two self-proclaimed amateur bartenders: Yaoyorozu, who’s given herself a bartender name—Creati, and Mineta, who everyone calls Grape Juice, because no matter what he puts in his drinks (and only God really knows what goes in it), they always end up a sickly deep purple.
Your response earns you a barely concealed chuckle from Shouto, his lips lifting into a soft smile.
“Are you enjoying so far?” he leans in closer, head tilted so his words flow warmly into your ears. The proximity makes you nervous, makes you fidget the slightest bit until you feel your nailbeds touch his.
You swallow your heartbeat.
“I like the music,” you briefly meet his eyes, his gaze as intent as it always is. Your eyes avert to the nearest thing they focus on—one of your other friends tinkering with his turntable at the music booth, “Tokoyami’s sets are always good.”
Shouto hums.
“You?”
And you’re sure you said it loud enough for him to hear, but he still scoots closer, fingers slotting themselves in the gaps between yours. Shy touches have been the hallmarks of your friendship lately, an equally thrilling yet familiar connection shared when everything around you becomes too loud.
It’s never been like this though—his pinky now interlacing itself with yours.
Your breath hitches.
“The music is loud,” he says, but it’s ironic; the noise around you has muffled, the music drowned out—you hear nothing except the feeling you’ve grown beneath your ribcage, rattling against your bones.
He stares at you as the music beats on— one, two, three— one, two, three and as your heart tries to synchronize with the rhythm you realize that he's waiting on a response.
“Yeah…” You nod too, just in case he’s having trouble hearing.
The conversation ends that way; and while there's a part of you that wishes you'd said something more to keep things going, the content look on Shouto’s look makes you think that maybe this is fine. With your feelings entwined like this, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world, your own little bubble that just belongs to you and Shouto.
It's nice. Comfortable. You could get used to this.
“Shouto!”
But then the bubble bursts.
“You came!” A girl you recognize, but whose name you can't quite recall comes into view, all smiles and dressed to impress.
“I did,” Shouto answers her and you're weirdly pleased to see his expression passive as usual.
The girl giggles and the sound is grating on your ears. You don't know why. Too much alcohol maybe? She tilts her head, smile widening as she says, “I'm so glad to see you! Do you want to get a drink?”
No. You don't say it aloud but before Shouto can even answer her the word is resounding in your head, accompanied by a twisting feeling in your stomach. It's not your call, Shouto is free to do what he wants, but…
(Shouto glances over at you, feeling your pinky tighten ever so slightly around his, searching for some sort of cue.)
“Come on,” the girl urges in the absence of a response from Shouto. “We can get a drink for your friend here too!”
“... sure,” Shouto finally says after a moment. He starts to rise from his seat next to you but your pinky tightens. You don't want him to go. He looks at you inquisitively. “What do you want to drink?”
You don't want to drink. The drink you were nursing earlier was enough, more than enough, with the alcohol coursing through you, warm, and at this moment, like liquid courage.
“...please stay,” you blurt out.
Shouto looks down at you and you think he looks a little bit shocked. A little concerned. Your only words of explanation manage to be—
“For me? Please?”
He bends back down, tufts of red and white hair brushing against his forehead as he looks you in the eye. All you smell is the faded notes of his cologne mixed in with detergent and baby powder. “Was your drink too strong?”
Maybe. You wouldn't have said that sober.
Embarrassment flushes you warm, the heat spreading throughout your entirety.
The girl looks concerned too. “I can go get you water if you want?”
Shouto glances at her, “If you wouldn't mind. I'll stay here just in case.”
She nods and walks off, presumably to find you some water, leaving you and Shouto on your own once more. A moment passes and you say, sheepish as your words from earlier sink in. “...sorry… I hope you don't mind…”
Shouto stares at you for a moment, considering but he gives you a small smile. His pinky tightening around yours once more. “It's fine. I don't mind.”
notes: requested by @kissxcore
(sel speaking)
alexis! thank you so much for requesting (and for waiting)! i'm not too sure if this is what you were hoping for, but nonetheless, i hope you like it 🥺 it's a little fluffier than what the prompt looks like on surface level, but i kind of wanted to capture that feeling of loud noise being muffled when you're with someone you like 🥺
where would this fic be without niku's dialogue!! truly!! always adore how she's able to slip in and out of different characters and nail each of their tones and characterisations every time!! she added so much life to this by including dialogue from the others in the gang 🥺
₊˚⊹｡ here’s to hoping (cause i can’t stop calling) | gojo satoru
wc: 1.1k
summary: gojo calls, and you spend it half-wishing you weren’t broken up.
contains: gn!reader, exes to ???, alcohol, mentions of going to the club, gojo is bad at being an ex, complicated feelings, ambiguous ending, kind of hurt/comfort.
a/n: writing this as my copium, i haven’t written gojo outside of col in so long so this was challenging, but equally as exciting! some songs that inspired this are: better than this - lauv & oh, gemini - role model.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: calling your ex drunk at two a.m. with feelings still stuck in your throat
“Well, well, well… miss me already?”
The clock on your kitchen wall reads some time between 2:05 and 2:10. Even when you squint, the little lines remain a drunken blur.
You blame it on the alcohol.
“Don’t be shy now.” the voice on your phone continues, shaking you out of focus.
Had you been any more sober, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
Had you been any more sober, the throbbing in your head wouldn’t have persisted from the sound of—
“Gojo–” you sigh.
“Satoru.” he interrupts, a full pause before he continues, softer, “It’s Satoru, remember?”
Had you been any more sober, you wouldn’t have even answered his call.
You haul your bag up sluggishly, the chains of the strap clacking against your countertop. Patience is a ticking time bomb when you’re this inebriated, the heavy bass from earlier tonight still thumping its way within your brain.
You can’t think straight.
“Satoru,” a name now foreign but still so close to home; it burns on your tongue, trickles bittersweet down your throat, “you called. What do you need?”
It’s stupid of you to ask, you know, because Gojo’s been calling you like this since the day you broke up months ago. You’d picked up the first few times, but quickly realized that it wasn’t good for the both of you—you’d never move on, and Gojo would never let you go.
Except—
“You picked up.”
—liquor makes for poor company when it only serves to soften the anger you’ve built up as protection. It really is all the alcohol’s fault.
Your eyes burn as you squeeze them shut, sighing, a twisted exhale, “You have to stop, Satoru.”
“Stop what?” he feigns, the lilt at the end a sure sign of the most insufferable smirk.
The thought of it makes you sick, makes you ache with memories of pinching his nose at the sight of it. He used to giggle then; now, he chuckles on the other end.
That’s the question, isn’t it? Stop what?
Since the break-up, Gojo’s been acting like nothing’s changed. He still calls you just as much, still texts you with undertones that tread the fine line between flirty and ‘just Gojo’. Your toiletries are still at his apartment, and his clothes are still in your closet.
You’d find humor in it if not for the fact that all of it has been so goddamn confusing.
He started it; he broke up with you.
Shouldn’t he be pushing you away?
To this day, you have no full closure, no other reason other than an ‘it’s better this way’ followed by a continuous stream of mixed signals because how he treats you is still the same.
“Stop calling,” a lump forms in your throat, an admission you’ve had to remind yourself again and again, “we’re not together anymore.”
“I can’t call a friend?”
You snort, fiddling with the metal links of your bag strap, “Is that what we are?”
A pause. Slippers shifting on floorboards. They sound just like the sleepless nights he’d shuffle out of bed.
You can picture him on the other end, head tilted and leant back on the plush leather of his couch. He hums but doesn’t answer you—he never does when it can mean something.
“You still sound the same.”
And you don’t expect it at this moment, to get so choked up over how he sounds over radio waves, but he says the words a little too fondly for you not to notice. Gojo’s always teased that he can pinpoint your voice from the moment you speak the first word.
You don’t mean to give him any more authority over your feelings than he already has, but the words slip out before you can catch yourself, “You’re being unfair.”
Another hum. His tone shifts to something lighter, more teasing, “Like you aren’t. Always typing, never sending…”
The huff that punctuates his sentences paints itself vividly with a small pout.
“Stop staring at my chat box then.” is all you can muster, the ache spreading throughout your chest.
“Afraid I can’t.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You’re impossible.” your eyes begin to feel wet, your sniffle concealing itself as you clear your throat.
The silence that follows is uncharacteristic of your relationship with Gojo, even more of the man you know, but you find it filled to the brim with all the possibilities of what went wrong—of things you know he’ll never say out loud.
You know Gojo has issues; they presented themselves well enough in the year you were together. Being with him is accepting that you’ll be reading between the lines your entire life.
He is simultaneously touchy but distant, vocal but elusive in his affections; he drapes himself over you every chance he gets, but when you touch him in places no one else has, you think a storm swirls cyan in his irises. Gojo gives compliments like candies on Halloween, but he keeps his feelings close to his chest, locked away like presents tightly wrapped under a Christmas tree.
This is why you never saw it coming.
This is why there was no hint, no sign of him ever wanting to break things off when he did.
‘Let’s stop dating’ with no warning.
“Had fun tonight?” he asks so casually, like it doesn’t tell you a million things—how he still has your location on his phone, how he’s still checking on you, Six Eyes or not.
Tonight was okay, all things considered. You don’t go to clubs often, but your friends kept you company; the music boomed just a tad bit louder than you’re used to, and the drinks were good, but—
“You would have hated it.”
If Gojo were there, you would have stayed 10 minutes tops. He’d whine about being bored but you’d be able to tell, from the slight furrow of his brows and the clenching of his jaw that it’s because one of his migraines is forming.
“Good thing I’d have you, then.”
There are half-truths in jokes like this, a dangerous thing to say when you both know he could still have you if he wanted.
“Stop flirting, it’s annoying.” you try to steel your voice, pushing down the false hope rising in your chest.
“You love it, though.”
The pain sears you, hurts when he says the word so lightly, as if he isn’t aware that you know love is the reason he had to break things off prematurely. As if he doesn’t know that you’re still in love with him, that you’re still putting faith in a tragedy.
“Do you even know what loving something feels like?”
The line remains silent, save for the softest sound of his breath hitching.
You must have hit a nerve.
He hums, an expected answer, but then he mumbles, words spoken so faintly, so quietly, you’re surprised they even came through.
“Yeah, I do.”
a/n: wanted to use this as dialogue practice because i think gojo’s dialogue is one of the trickiest to nail! i also found it so fun exploring this kind of dynamic with him!! i subtly hint on some of gojo’s personal issues but don’t explicitly state it to leave room for interpretation! the ending is ambiguous for that same reason.
thank you notes: @stellamancer for helping me out so much with this 🥺 practically beta-ing it, really 🥺 ily niku 🥺 in my head, gojo does not exist without you 🥺 & @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @scarabrat @soumies for being my lil cheerleaders always 🥺 ily all 🥺
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
₊˚⊹｡ big gym energy (is this my fantasy?) | fushiguro toji
wc: 2.0k
summary: who would have thought the rippest DILF in all of Japan would get you to go to the gym everyday?
contains: gn!reader, non-curse au, college au, appearance of itafushikugi (mostly nobara), reader has a huge and lowkey delusional crush on toji, age gap
a/n: the gym toji fic! tone in this is a bit different from what i write, and it's lowkey a crack fic but i hope it's still enjoyable! listened to: big energy - latto & area codes - kaliii
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: going to the gym for yourself (and totally not for that cute guy who sometimes says hi)
“You’re going to the gym?” Nobara halts smack in the middle of the busy hallway. Groans huff behind her, the rest of your class filing out of the lecture hall. You bow your head apologetically as you pull her to the side.
“Yes.”
She squints, skeptical, “You.”
You nod.
“The gym.” she says it slower this time, tilting her head down.
You nod again.
Nobara blinks, shifting her weight as she reaches one hand inside the pocket of her overalls. There’s a long pause, rushed footsteps amplifying the suspense, then—
“Okay, what’s the bet? How much did Maki put out? I want in.”
You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you loop your arm around hers and continue walking.
There’s good reason for her to doubt you; she knows you best after all. In your little quad, you are the least likely to be found doing any physical activity or sport whatsoever—and that’s saying a lot, considering the other fourth of your group is Megumi. But at least he walks his dogs regularly.
“Rude,” you scoff jokingly, “there’s no bet, just testing it out because they have a free trial promo.”
It shouldn’t hurt to check it out, you think. One of your resolutions this year is to finally get started on your fitness journey, whatever form it may be.
“You should come.”
Nobara snorts, “Wrong person,” you both turn at a corner, “ask Itadori.”
The gym is just a few blocks away from your campus, a good 18-minute walk if you’re counting—which is also part of what makes it so appealing. The ad you’d seen for the free trial is an early bird promo to attract new customers for the gym’s new branch launch.
And it does make the most sense to ask him; he is the sports science major after all—
“No way,” you step out on the sidewalk, “telling him is practically committing to a membership.”
—but Yuuji is a bit too eager when it comes to things like this. No doubt he’ll be at your heel, wagging his figurative golden retriever tail at the prospect of being your certified gym buddy. It’s endearing and you know he means well, but that’s way too much pressure for someone who’s just starting out.
She laughs, readjusting her bag, “He’d know how to use the machines though.”
“I watched some videos…” you mumble, because Nobara has a point, but if you’re being honest, you feel just a teensy bit embarrassed at the idea of anyone else knowing about your attempts at fitness this early on, lest it fail in the end. “I can probably ask someone there…”
“Try the most jacked up person in the gym.”
You shove her jokingly, her laughter echoing down the road.
.
The first person you meet at the gym is the lady at the front desk. Her ponytail sways as she greets you, a chirpy smile welcoming you in as she holds an iPad to her chest while touring you around—at the center, the main floor plan is decked out with machines; towards the back sit the squat racks, and to your sides are the private cycling rooms and multifunctional spaces. According to her, they also offer yoga classes every 6:00 p.m. on Wednesdays.
You’d expected a lot more people to be in here at 7:00 p.m., but you suppose it makes sense others would prefer to spend their Friday nights elsewhere.
Looking around, you spot a middle-aged lady you swear is Megumi’s English professor; on the treadmills, a couple your age share a laugh as they try to match pace. There are some machines you’ve never even seen in your life, Youtube videos included.
You take a deep breath. You can ask for help.
After all, the crowd feels friendly enough, not too intimidating—
—until your eyes land on him, on the benches; an absolute tank of a man doing chest presses with what you think are probably the heaviest dumbbells on the rack.
You try not to stare, catching only a glimpse of the way his biceps flex against the tight sleeves of his black compression shirt.
Don’t be a creep, you tell yourself, walking towards the leg press machine. You may be new here, but you’ve learned that gym etiquette isn’t so far off from acting like a civilized human being.
Thank god you never take Nobara seriously, because you can’t even imagine the stuttering mess you’d be if you had to ask him how to work any of these god forsaken machines.
.
It’s a good thing, then, that help comes to you without you having to say a word.
This is number four out of five sessions in your free trial promo, and you have no idea how to get the goddamn plates out of the barbell. You pull some out from the other side and the whole barbell comes along with it. When you attempt the other side, it does the same. Then when you finally do manage to get off the plates on one side, the whole barbell drops, clanging loudly against the metal foot of the squat rack set-up.
(Now that you think about it, maybe it isn’t such a good thing that you’ve been offered help instead of you asking. There must be a reason someone thinks you could need it.)
Someone, who is also the last person you could ever possibly want to embarrass yourself in front of.
Someone, who just so happens to be the jacked up tank of a man you’ve admittedly glanced at a few times in your past few visits here.
“To make it easier,” he crouches beside you, laying down a smaller plate and rolling the larger ones on the barbell over it.
He unloads them like they weigh nothing—and with his physique, it isn’t hard to believe that they probably do. His biceps look to be the size of your head, chest popping out in ways you’ve only seen on those Tiktok thirst edits; his one hand is larger than a 2.5 kilogram plate, and his forearms look like they could ch—
Mind out of the gutter, you blink away, focusing instead on the metal bar in front of you.
God, you don’t even know this man’s name.
“T-thanks.” you stutter, embarrassed.
He gives you a half-smile, lips turned on one side, “Sure.” then he walks away, the tightness of his black compression shirt hugging the ridges of his back muscles.
You gulp.
So begins your year-long gym membership.
(And maybe, just maybe, the kind-of-meet-cute of a lifetime. Who knows, really?)
.
“Who would have thought the rippest DILF in all of Japan would get you to go to the gym everyday,” she snorts, fingers grazing over the curved edges of the heart-shaped watermelons in the fruit aisle.
You hush her, scanning the area around you for anyone who might have overhead.
It’s 11:00 p.m. on a Thursday, so you doubt it, but you can never be too sure.
“He’s nice, you know.” you pout.
“Yeah, what’s his name?” Nobara gives you a look.
You glare, touché.
Maybe you don’t know his name. Yet.
But he’s always offered to stack on the heavy plates for you, and will oftentimes help in unloading them too. There are times when you aren’t quite sure how to work the machines and he swoops in like the gym buff version of prince charming, teaching you proper form just so you don’t get injured. He’ll wipe down a mat for you to use some days, because—
“Stretching is important,” he never fails to mention.
He’s nice.
And you have an insanely delusional crush on him, but you don’t care, because why else would he be giving you this much attention if he wasn’t interested in you too?
.
You find out many things about your gym crush, most of them completely unexpected.
One: his hair is unusually soft for someone who looks so rough. Or, well, you think it looks soft, you can’t tell for sure; you haven’t actually touched it to be able to tell. The black mop on his head falls flat over his eyes on the few days you assume are right before his next scheduled haircut. It surprises you even more when he walks in the gym with a small hair tie holding his bangs up.
Two: he does a considerable amount of bodyweight exercises for someone his size—Calisthenics, specifically.
You watch him pull himself up the bar, biceps and back straining against the movement. The muscles ripple across the fabric of his tee, and it’s impressive how smoothly he’s able to go up and down; as if he isn’t exerting any effort at all. Then, the push-ups and dips. He can do them all, in every variation you never even thought existed, and it’s always done with so much ease.
It gives you reason to believe that he could be gentle, controlled. In what? Well. You know.
Three: he likes fruity things. You expected his go-to to be straight black, maybe a chocolate protein shake on other days too. But he shows up one day with a smoothie in the shade of vibrant magenta. Dragonfruit, you assume, from all the black specks floating in it.
This also happens to be the first time you initiate the conversation with him.
“Your smoothie looks good,” you mumble, a little hesitant.
God, so awkward.
He looks up from adjusting the plate stoppers on your bar.
A hum rumbles from his throat before he flashes you the same half-smile he always does, “Strawberry, banana, and dragonfruit.”
You don’t really know what to say after that other than, “Cool.”
And you mentally facepalm yourself.
.
In your fourth month at the gym, you learn a few more unexpected things that change everything.
You’ve just finished freshening up and you’re on the way out when you bump into—
“Megumi?”
He looks up from his phone, dark strands hitting the tips of his eyelashes as he pushes back one side of his headphones. He raises an eyebrow, confused and surprised.
“You gym?”
“What’re you doing here?”
Pink dusts his cheeks as he ducks his head, motioning for you to go first.
“Sorry,” you chuckle, adjusting the strap of your duffel bag, “I started going here a few months ago. You?”
He looks a little surprised by it, probably more so at the fact that you’ve kept it a secret from him for so long, but he nods, “That’s good. You did mention wanting to work on your fitness more this year.” then, he shifts, adjusting his weight before hanging his headphones by his neck.
“I’m waiting for my dad.”
In the past few years you’ve known Megumi, he’s never mentioned his dad. You never bothered to ask because you suspected there was a good reason he never talked about him in the first place.
And so comes number four, and maybe the last unexpected thing you find out about your gym crush—
“Megumi!”
You both turn around to the voice of none other than Nobara’s proclaimed rippest DILF in Japan; the most jacked up tank of a man who also happens to be the man you’ve crushed hard on for the past four months.
Everything is snapping into place, information forming bridges you would rather not cross right now.
He walks up to Megumi, duffel bag slung across his chest as he reaches for your friend.
Megumi looks like he wants to wither away, embarrassed at you seeing him tucked under his dad’s arm. But all your brain can really comprehend is that Megumi, your good friend, is currently squished between the bicep and chest you’ve been staring at since your first day at the gym.
You hold your breath, the realization creeping to the forefront of your mind. There had been signs that your gym crush was a dad; apart from being built like one, he’d offhandedly mention ‘son’ a few times. You didn’t think it would be—
“Oh, you two know each other?” your gym crush tilts his head, turning to you, “you didn’t tell me your friend signed up for this gym, Megumi.”
“I didn’t know,” Megumi grumbles, and the look on his face can rival yours, for sure. Tough competition on ‘who looks like they want to die the most right now?’.
But he can’t win.
Because when Megumi begrudgingly introduces your gym crush to you as his dad, you’re pretty sure you’ve buried yourself twelve feet underground.
(It doesn’t ease the embarrassment when you learn unexpected thing number five: he’s been a trainer at the gym this entire time.)
thank you notes: to @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for encouraging me all the way!! ily ari
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
