he was supposed to dance in front of audiences and work until he could comfortably support himself and any needs his parents and cats could have. he was supposed to be surrounded by friends, people he loved in a way that was ancient and familiar, in a way that warmed his heart like whiskey to the back of his throat and burdened him in no way, shape, or form.
it had been his plan all along, and he never exactly found himself wanting to be loved. the romance movies were cringey and all too intense, gigantic displays of affection that would probably make him feel sick to his stomach. perhaps books interested him the most, the little refined details of a slow, sunday morning, the fingers of a lover running through their partners hair, the smell of breakfast cooking and the feeling of a slightly colder bed that came along with it.
supposedly that wouldn’t be too bad, but it also wouldn’t be necessary. love is like a designer accessory: expensive and burdening that fills you with endorphins and also crashes you with melancholy like a ship against the waves.
perfectly fine without it, minho never searched out the romance of another. instead, it found him.
meeting you was like waking up on a rollercoaster. and immediately, he hated it. too sudden, too fast, too soon. no time to ground himself, come back to reality, or sort his thoughts out. instead he had to figure out whatever was whirling around in his head and the alarming pounding of his heart against his chest. it was horrible, sickly, even. he’d never want to do it again.
but still, he could acknowledge some good things. you were utterly stunning (still are, he can’t help but smile when he sees you), and treated him in a way that felt all too special for the new barista in his favourite cafe. he was going to have to see you every day, and every single day he would leave the glass doors with the ring of a bell and a swelling heart.
you always fumbled in some way shape or form, and it took approximately ten seconds before you muttered out a shy i’m new here, and he didn’t have the heart to tell you he already knew, nor that he could already tell.
but in some ways your failures made you a little more admirable. you didn’t stop making his orders, nor ask a different barista for help, instead choosing to stall and glare at the coffee machine until it got the job done. you were persistent like the banging of his heart against his chest whenever your eyes met, and he found himself coming out of his shell, ever so slightly, for the messy barista who couldn’t quite get his drink right.
so the fact that you’re in his lap, curled up into a small ball, his fingers running through your hair as though your a cat makes absolutely no sense. minho was never supposed to fall in love, and it was never apart of his plan, but you never seemed to care.
like a puzzle piece he never knew existed, you slot yourself into his life and fit just perfectly, he never once questioned what was happening. you were just always perfect, always meant to be there. whether the universe would waver you off or not was a question that passed his mind as often as a shooting star, but when it did you were still beside him. still circling the tips of your fingers against the back of his neck, still whispering words as sweet as cherry pie into his ears, so close he could feel your breath fan against his skin.
he hears a soft snore from his lap, and his eyes immediately shoot down to you. slowly, your body grows and deflates with each one of your breaths, and you look so fragile. like a picture that could be ruined with one stroke of a paintbrush, or a cake that would completely sink if the oven door was opened too early.
he doesn’t want to disturb your peace. ever. it’s one of the many things that makes him so sure he’ll always be by your side; the peace you have conjured with each other is so definitely irreplaceable that he wouldn’t dream of having it anywhere else, with anyone else. he is yours as much as you are his and for that solace in his heart — his big, cold heart open up to cats, dance and a barista who can’t make his coffee right — to remain, he can never ever let you go.
he was never supposed to fall in love, but minho can’t imagine a world without you in it.
One of Osamu’s favourite things about living with you was getting to see you in the mornings.
Just as dawn begins to break and he waddles himself into the kitchen, the light blaring into his eyes doesn’t even bother him. He sees you, instead, standing at the stove with your breakfast cooking, face puffy and hair unkempt, but beautiful nonetheless.
He’s not too sure how he noticed it, but he thinks your eyelashes always look extra pretty in the mornings. Longer, softer, in a way that makes a gentle person look like a porcelain doll. Your movements are slow, and his eyes are trailing them as though they’re the best thing he’s ever watched. The sleeve of your jumper hangs loose on your arms, and it sends a strange, churning-like feeling to his stomach. You’d asked if it was his, and his sharp answer of no had almost left him red in the face, and you simply confused. Although you’ll never know, you look good in his hoodies, in a way that suits you a little too well.
And when you acknowledge the second presence in the kitchen, it seems like the only thing you’re wearing is a smile. Your grin is seeped with the leftover haze of your sleep, and your eyes look as though they’re shut, but he still believes it’s the brightest thing he’s ever seen.
Bright enough to make him crack a smile, warm enough to encourage him to walk over, inserting himself right beside you.
Admittedly, there’s not a load of counter space, but he grew up with a twin brother, and he’s an expert at sharing spaces meant for one. If you’re bothered by his presence, you don’t say anything, choosing to linger in the comfortable daze that has settled upon the two of you. He wonders if you can sense the way he searches for you in the corner of his eye, or if you can hear just how active his heart is in his chest for someone who’s just risen.
As you reach over for the butter settled over on his side, his bare arm sets ablaze from where you brush over his skin. He feels like a school boy, hands clamming up on his chopsticks as he whisks a couple of eggs together, pretending his whole being did not just burn at your touch.
Seeing your meal complete, decorated neatly on a plate, a frown etches it’s way across his lips. He can’t help it, in fact, he’s completely and utterly unaware it’s even happened, but he’s so used to your warmth that he doesn’t want you to go. You’re the blanket on top of his quilt in the winter that makes it so hard to wake up, and he forces himself to resist the urge to pull you back to his body as you start to leave.
At the doorframe, you pause, plate in one hand and cutlery in the next. Slowly, you turn your head back, catching his gaze that has set so fondly on you.
“G’morning, ‘samu.” you whisper out, teeth peeking out from behind your lips as you flash him a smile. He can’t focus too much on that alone, the sound of your voice, raspy and gently still plagued with last night’s slumber.
He manages to reply with a small “Mornin’” of his own, watching as you make your way back to your room. Perhaps it’s selfish, a bitterness covering the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t think good is the right word to describe it.
For, if his morning were to be good, you’d be whispering that beside him, dressed in his clothes underneath his bedsheets. Your arms would be wrapped around his torso and his breath would be flittering over the bare skin of your neck as he whispers it back. He would be yours as you would be his and he wouldn’t have to stare at you as you leave, because you’d always be right beside him in the first place.
Simply, he does not believe a morning where you are so close yet not his can really be good, but for someone like you — someone like gold — he is more than willing to wait.
broskis i just gotta say. u rb'ing all these anime fics is making me wanna read them again (and i am) so like if u start seeing me rb them too... no im not copying you intentionally, but yes its mainly bc of you HAHAHAHHA (thank you)
ajdhsjsd dont worry i think id be more grateful if someone was rbing them too... i am barely reading idol fics rn and the anime ones have had my heart for ever so... i will be keeping a lookout for ur rbs and i hope u enjoy mine <3333 (u r very welcome)
cw: implied f!reader, mentions of girlhood and teenage insecurity, the girls are gossiping and suna is jealous >:) wc: 2.4k
a/n: so this is technically a suna x reader piece but it kinda turned into something else along the way ??? with that being said, this was truly a blast to write. something about girlhood is so special to me :( so this felt like therapy to be able to bring to life LOL, completely inspired by this cute art of sister!suna and her loser brother
Sometimes, you think Suna just speaks to get a reaction out of you.
A true wild card, you’re never quite sure what nonsense is brewing behind his eyes and atop his tongue. He likes the element of surprise, confusing you with a random fact or flustering you with a lewd remark. You’ve become used to his antics, taking what he gives you and no longer expecting anything less than odd when it comes to him.
Laying on top of his plaid comforter, you can hear muffled insults being thrown through the walls of his bedroom. His tone isn’t seriously angry or upset, but instead laced with a special annoyance that only a younger sibling can pull from their senior.
The bickering abruptly ends as Suna swings his bedroom door open to return to you. Briefly, you spot his younger sister in the hallway behind him—slightly pouting with her arms crossed in defense. She goes to open her mouth once more, but Suna is quick to grab what he can from his desk (an Animal Crossing themed plushie) and throw it her way before slamming the door shut.
You send him a humorous glance, one that silently begs for the details of the quarrel. Your boyfriend reads your interest like a book, before plopping himself in his desk chair with a sigh.
“My sister wants to hang out with you,” he drops casually.
“What? Really?”
Your head immediately lifts from Suna’s pillow in excitement, turning your attention to where he swivels his chair in lazy circles.
“Yup,” he emphasizes the pop of the p through his pursed lips, “said she wants to save you from my cooties, or something stupid.”
Your nose slightly twitches at his big brother-esque explanation—catching your scolding glare, he holds his hands up in innocence, “Her words, not mine.”
You sit on the statement, still puzzled at how the quarrel in the hallway correlates with the information at hand. Seeing your brow still furrowed with confusion, he clarifies, “She also thinks you’re cooler than me.”
You scoff with amusement, “I mean, she’s right about that.”
Suna’s younger sister, a timid but incredibly witty girl, had honestly never expressed too much of an interest in you. It’s not that she didn’t like you, she was just quiet, young. Often reserved and keeping to herself, much like her brother, whose mischievous personality never quite shined through until you’d gotten to know him better.
The mere thought of her insinuating an interest in your friendship has you beaming with an overwhelming excitement.
Nearly jumping from his bed, you sit yourself up against the headboard with an impatient, “Well, what’d you tell her?”
a gentle tap against the metal of the trailer door has you turning towards the unimposing sound.
"oh!" you say, setting down the brush you'd been cleaning as you spot a familiar figure in the doorway. "good morning."
touya dips his head in a little nod of greeting. his voice is sleepy and thick as he rasps out his own little g'mornin back.
he looks around the empty trailer, three seats and stations open in front of him. you follow his gaze as it travels across each available chair, and then back to you.
"where do you want me?"
you tap the back of the seat closest to you. "here's good!"
touya shuffles in, dropping himself into the seat. he's got a coffee in his hand, and you can smell the warm, rich scent wafting up each time he tilts the to-go cup back to take a sip. it's not from a nice cafe like you might expect but rather a simple cup emblazoned with the logo of a convenience store, and even though you're not the one drinking it, you swear you taste the familiar, slightly burnt bitterness of cheap coffee on your tongue.
"just you and i again this morning?" touya asks through a little yawn as you line up some skincare and shaving products at your station in front of him.
"you take the longest, after all," you laugh lightly, glancing at him in the reflection of the mirror. his disarmingly bright eyes meet yours, still slightly lidded with fatigue, and you quickly look away once more.
"i'm the problem child," he sighs jokingly, slumping down into his seat. he's still got his puffer coat on--it's barely 5AM, and it's chilly outside since the sun hasn't yet risen over the production lot--and you swallow down a laugh as the collar of his coat bunches up around his cheeks, like a down-filled ruff.
touya's special effects makeup takes a minimum of four hours to apply--and that's in its most minimal form. if he needs his chest and arms exposed in a scene, it can take upwards of 8 hours to get him ready for set. it means his call times are almost always earlier than his cast mates, and as you're the lead sfx artist on this season's production, it means the two of you often find yourselves alone for the first few hours of the day as you begin the process of turning touya into dabi.
the first step in the undertaking is shaving.
touya doesn't have a particularly notable amount of body or facial hair, but the adhesive that affixes his character's prosthetic scars and staples to his skin requires as smooth of a canvas as possible for best performance, so every morning you carefully shave the smooth planes of his cheeks, jaw, and throat (occasionally down to his chest and arms.)
it's a surprisingly intimate, harrowing ordeal, dragging the sharp straight razor across his skin. you pay careful attention not to nick him, knowing it will just make your job harder down the line if you have to treat a wound. you often find yourself holding your breath as you pull the blade softly along his jaw, your eyes watching your every movement raptly.
"don't sweeney todd me," touya murmurs as you hold his chin in your hand. his eyes had been closed as you worked, but they flutter open to peek up at you as his words hang in the air between you.
you chuckle breathily, redistributing the froth of the shaving cream along one side of his chin with your thumb. his skin is warm and smooth under the slip of the foam. "stop talking, and I won't have a reason to."
next is a simple cleanse to clean off any lingering shaving cream or hair, and to prepare his skin for the skincare you'll press into it to protect it from any negative effects as a result of all the makeup that will follow. you have a hairband that you keep on hand just for touya—half because it's effective, and half because you think he looks sort of cute with his fluffy white hair pushed back from his face like that. it has two little cat ears on either side of the band, and he'd actually giggled the first time he'd seen it, much to your surprise.
(you keep two spares tucked away into the back of your kit, in exactly the same design, just in case anything ever happened to this one.)
then finally, after his skin is sufficiently prepped—soft and dewy with moisturizer that rapidly sinks into his pores—the real work begins.
you keep reference photos on hand—touya's face and body, in full makeup, from every possible angle—affixed to the mirror and spread across the station countertop to make sure you're recreating his character's appearance in exact detail. it's an arduous, painstaking process, that requires a professionally trained eye and meticulous attention to detail. by the end of the application, your hands sometimes ache—your knuckles tender to the touch—and sometimes you need assistants to come in and help put on finishing touches if you're short on time and rushing to get him to set. but you take your job very seriously, and refuse to let him leave your chair anything short of perfect.
"how's it feeling?" you ask, applying a bit of shading onto the prosthetic attached to his neck—raised, textured skin to imitate a burn that you're hand-painting to look more realistic. the familiar smell of liquid latex and alcohol hangs in the air, slowly overtaking the residual smell of the skincare you'd used on his skin.
"awful," touya gripes, though you expect nothing less.
"so, same as always?"
"same as always," he agrees with a little laugh.
you glance at the smartwatch on your wrist, backing away from touya’s personal space and setting your makeup brush down atop your station. “it’s almost eight. a PA should show up with your breakfast soon before I start on your face.”
“wow, is it that late already?” he asks, surprised, sitting up slightly in his seat.
“sick of me yet?” you tease him, wiping some of the reddish purple pigment from the tips of your fingers onto your smock.
he smiles as much as the prosthetic affixed to his neck and chin will allow as the glue sets, and shakes his head.
“nah.”
touya’s breakfast on set is always the same: another cup of coffee (black), a little cup of fruit salad (he eats around the green grapes and yet never asks for the caterer to leave them out), a granola bar which he tucks into his pocket to snack on later even though it will definitely mess up his makeup, and a breakfast sandwich.
“how come you don’t eat the grapes?” you finally ask the question that's been plaguing your mind for the past few weeks, watching as he sets the little plastic cup aside with 8 green grapes still sitting in the bottom.
he chews the piece of strawberry he still has in his mouth, swallows, then speaks.
“they’re gross.”
“they are not,”—you roll your eyes—“they’re delicious.”
touya’s nose crinkles. “they’re squishy and sour and taste like wet raisins.”
“they are wet raisins,” you remind him pointedly.
touya shoots you a look as if to say exactly.
“oh, let me guess, you also hate tomatoes?” you go on to ask.
he gags dramatically.
“don’t!” you chide him, seeing the way some of the staples lift along his jaw. you surge forward and grab his chin in your hand to still him, tilting his face so you can survey the damage. you click your tongue and dab a bit more adhesive onto the little metal bits and press them into his skin. his eyes watch your face while you work.
“I never took you for a picky eater,” you remark softly as you hold the pressure steady against his cheek.
“don’t you have any foods you don’t like?” he asks you, equally quiet, while you wait for the adhesive to take.
you hum curiously. “not really.”
his turquoise eyes widen. “nothing?”
“i mean,”—you lift your fingers off his face and watch to make sure the staples stay in place—“i don’t really love those really weird, funky cheeses. you know, the ones that look fuzzy?”
touya shudders—evidently he does know, and he agrees.
you glance at your watch again. 8:20. it’s time to get back to work.
“down your coffee, we’ve gotta start on your face.”
touya sighs, but doesn't complain, reaching for his half-drained drink obediently.
the face is inarguably the toughest part of touya’s makeup. the camera will be focused there most closely, meaning it’s the most important part to get right. the staples need to be in the exact right place. the adhesive must be applied liberally enough to keep everything in place, but not so thick as to limit touya’s ability to emote.
there’s music playing in the makeup trailer, but its kept relatively low—your own playlist that you have free reign to control until other artists and talent show up to begin their days, and the noise in the space grows too loud for any music to be heard over it anyway. it’s a mix of old favourites and songs you’ve found recently that you’ve been enjoying. touya never complains about the unusual mismatch, hums along softly to the ones that he does recognize, and and you’ve even caught him shazam-ing a song or two a couple of times in your mornings together, which fills you with an unusual feeling of pride.
you’re quiet as you work, completely immersed in the task, and the only sound in the makeup trailer is the playlist in the background, you and touya's alternating breaths, and the sound of your tools as you pick them up and set them down on your station.
“do you want them?” touya asks you softly, shattering the silence as you hold the fake scar tissue under his left eye, waiting for the glue to set enough to take the pressure of your fingertips away.
you tilt your head to the side as you lean over him, painfully close to his face.
“huh?”
“the grapes,” he says quietly. “do you want them?”
your breath catches a little in your throat as you watch his eyes flicker unmistakably down to your lips.
your chest feels tight, and you will your fingertips not to tremble.
“maybe later,” you murmur.
“later?” he echoes. but it almost feels like he’s asking about something else entirely.
you hum, not sure you'd be able to form any words even if you tried.
another makeup artist shows up moments later, the metal trailer door creaking open as they enter. she greets the two of you and claims the station at the far end of the trailer, and it's like the bubble of intimacy enveloping the two of you up until that point has been punctured and popped.
you’re a little grateful for the interruption, you can’t help but think.
touya's impossibly soft question of later? echoes in your mind for the rest of the morning.
꒰ 3:30 P.M. ꒱ ❛ miya atsumu x single mom!reader ༉‧₊˚✧
“thank you so much, you don’t even understand how grateful i am-” you rush out your gratitude as you approach the smiling pair of boys, one much older than the other, sitting at a storefront table in front of a rather known restaurant.
“y/n, ‘ya don’t have to thank me-“
“-my boss made me work overtime ‘cause one of my coworkers called out sick and there was no one to do his paperwork,” you continue your rambles as you finally reach them, hurriedly reaching for your son who’s making grabby hands at you to pick him up.
you’re still talking when he’s in your arms, patting his hair down and looking at him apologetically.
“y/n,” the voice repeats, sterner this time, making your words fall in your throat. you look over at the faux blond with rounded eyes. “take a breath before y’pass out.” a hearty chuckle sounds from the man as you let out a long sigh, mostly out of relief that you were able to depend on someone so much to pick up your kid from daycare.
“right,” you nod a few times, letting the jitters of nerves leave your body as you slightly hunch over, relaxing in place yet still gripping your son. “atsumu, tha-“
“uh!” he quickly cuts off, looking pointedly at you. “no thanking me. really, i’d pick up the little man anytime.”
a watery smile reaches your lips as you look back over at your son who seems to be lost at why you seem so frazzled. he simply seems content. it’s an even bigger blessing that he’s content in atsumu’s presence, too, since he’s a rather fussy baby around selective people.
he was supposed to dance in front of audiences and work until he could comfortably support himself and any needs his parents and cats could have. he was supposed to be surrounded by friends, people he loved in a way that was ancient and familiar, in a way that warmed his heart like whiskey to the back of his throat and burdened him in no way, shape, or form.
it had been his plan all along, and he never exactly found himself wanting to be loved. the romance movies were cringey and all too intense, gigantic displays of affection that would probably make him feel sick to his stomach. perhaps books interested him the most, the little refined details of a slow, sunday morning, the fingers of a lover running through their partners hair, the smell of breakfast cooking and the feeling of a slightly colder bed that came along with it.
supposedly that wouldn’t be too bad, but it also wouldn’t be necessary. love is like a designer accessory: expensive and burdening that fills you with endorphins and also crashes you with melancholy like a ship against the waves.
perfectly fine without it, minho never searched out the romance of another. instead, it found him.
meeting you was like waking up on a rollercoaster. and immediately, he hated it. too sudden, too fast, too soon. no time to ground himself, come back to reality, or sort his thoughts out. instead he had to figure out whatever was whirling around in his head and the alarming pounding of his heart against his chest. it was horrible, sickly, even. he’d never want to do it again.
but still, he could acknowledge some good things. you were utterly stunning (still are, he can’t help but smile when he sees you), and treated him in a way that felt all too special for the new barista in his favourite cafe. he was going to have to see you every day, and every single day he would leave the glass doors with the ring of a bell and a swelling heart.
you always fumbled in some way shape or form, and it took approximately ten seconds before you muttered out a shy i’m new here, and he didn’t have the heart to tell you he already knew, nor that he could already tell.
but in some ways your failures made you a little more admirable. you didn’t stop making his orders, nor ask a different barista for help, instead choosing to stall and glare at the coffee machine until it got the job done. you were persistent like the banging of his heart against his chest whenever your eyes met, and he found himself coming out of his shell, ever so slightly, for the messy barista who couldn’t quite get his drink right.
so the fact that you’re in his lap, curled up into a small ball, his fingers running through your hair as though your a cat makes absolutely no sense. minho was never supposed to fall in love, and it was never apart of his plan, but you never seemed to care.
like a puzzle piece he never knew existed, you slot yourself into his life and fit just perfectly, he never once questioned what was happening. you were just always perfect, always meant to be there. whether the universe would waver you off or not was a question that passed his mind as often as a shooting star, but when it did you were still beside him. still circling the tips of your fingers against the back of his neck, still whispering words as sweet as cherry pie into his ears, so close he could feel your breath fan against his skin.
he hears a soft snore from his lap, and his eyes immediately shoot down to you. slowly, your body grows and deflates with each one of your breaths, and you look so fragile. like a picture that could be ruined with one stroke of a paintbrush, or a cake that would completely sink if the oven door was opened too early.
he doesn’t want to disturb your peace. ever. it’s one of the many things that makes him so sure he’ll always be by your side; the peace you have conjured with each other is so definitely irreplaceable that he wouldn’t dream of having it anywhere else, with anyone else. he is yours as much as you are his and for that solace in his heart — his big, cold heart open up to cats, dance and a barista who can’t make his coffee right — to remain, he can never ever let you go.
he was never supposed to fall in love, but minho can’t imagine a world without you in it.
i love when ppl reblog w tags and then quote a part of the fic bc i write the majority of my stuff at like half 11 pm and very very sleepy so it’s like! oh! i wrote that line? well done me!
he was supposed to dance in front of audiences and work until he could comfortably support himself and any needs his parents and cats could have. he was supposed to be surrounded by friends, people he loved in a way that was ancient and familiar, in a way that warmed his heart like whiskey to the back of his throat and burdened him in no way, shape, or form.
it had been his plan all along, and he never exactly found himself wanting to be loved. the romance movies were cringey and all too intense, gigantic displays of affection that would probably make him feel sick to his stomach. perhaps books interested him the most, the little refined details of a slow, sunday morning, the fingers of a lover running through their partners hair, the smell of breakfast cooking and the feeling of a slightly colder bed that came along with it.
supposedly that wouldn’t be too bad, but it also wouldn’t be necessary. love is like a designer accessory: expensive and burdening that fills you with endorphins and also crashes you with melancholy like a ship against the waves.
perfectly fine without it, minho never searched out the romance of another. instead, it found him.
meeting you was like waking up on a rollercoaster. and immediately, he hated it. too sudden, too fast, too soon. no time to ground himself, come back to reality, or sort his thoughts out. instead he had to figure out whatever was whirling around in his head and the alarming pounding of his heart against his chest. it was horrible, sickly, even. he’d never want to do it again.
but still, he could acknowledge some good things. you were utterly stunning (still are, he can’t help but smile when he sees you), and treated him in a way that felt all too special for the new barista in his favourite cafe. he was going to have to see you every day, and every single day he would leave the glass doors with the ring of a bell and a swelling heart.
you always fumbled in some way shape or form, and it took approximately ten seconds before you muttered out a shy i’m new here, and he didn’t have the heart to tell you he already knew, nor that he could already tell.
but in some ways your failures made you a little more admirable. you didn’t stop making his orders, nor ask a different barista for help, instead choosing to stall and glare at the coffee machine until it got the job done. you were persistent like the banging of his heart against his chest whenever your eyes met, and he found himself coming out of his shell, ever so slightly, for the messy barista who couldn’t quite get his drink right.
so the fact that you’re in his lap, curled up into a small ball, his fingers running through your hair as though your a cat makes absolutely no sense. minho was never supposed to fall in love, and it was never apart of his plan, but you never seemed to care.
like a puzzle piece he never knew existed, you slot yourself into his life and fit just perfectly, he never once questioned what was happening. you were just always perfect, always meant to be there. whether the universe would waver you off or not was a question that passed his mind as often as a shooting star, but when it did you were still beside him. still circling the tips of your fingers against the back of his neck, still whispering words as sweet as cherry pie into his ears, so close he could feel your breath fan against his skin.
he hears a soft snore from his lap, and his eyes immediately shoot down to you. slowly, your body grows and deflates with each one of your breaths, and you look so fragile. like a picture that could be ruined with one stroke of a paintbrush, or a cake that would completely sink if the oven door was opened too early.
he doesn’t want to disturb your peace. ever. it’s one of the many things that makes him so sure he’ll always be by your side; the peace you have conjured with each other is so definitely irreplaceable that he wouldn’t dream of having it anywhere else, with anyone else. he is yours as much as you are his and for that solace in his heart — his big, cold heart open up to cats, dance and a barista who can’t make his coffee right — to remain, he can never ever let you go.
he was never supposed to fall in love, but minho can’t imagine a world without you in it.
↳ ushijima has trouble keeping you in his arms through the night; he comes up with an oddly ingenious solution.
for the simple pleasures collab hosted by @augustinewrites <3
Ushijima runs hot. He’d never realised this until two years ago when you pointed it out to him on your third date.
“You’re really hot.” were your exact words, and he almost tripped over nothing.
“Sorry?”
You half-hiccuped, half-giggled at his reaction, and the sound chimed in his ears. You were cute when you were tipsy, especially when you started whining a few glasses in because he couldn’t drink with you, a circumstance attributed to his dietician.
(By the end of the night though, he’d had a sip or two. It was impossible to deny you.)
“I mean, you’re really warm,” you clarified because he was definitely gawking. “Like a human heater.”
Since then, Ushijima became almost hyper-aware of how much heat he emanated. Not that it concerned him. It meant packing less for games in colder locations, no bathroom breaks during long movies, less time spent making his bed in the morning because he didn’t need a blanket.
If anything, him running hot was a good thing. At least, Ushijima thought it was until he stayed the night with you for the very first time.
Because though he’d fallen asleep with your head tucked towards his chest and your hand over his heart, he’d awoken the next morning on the other side of the bed, sweating like he’d just played an entire set.
That was how Ushijima learned the one downside of running hot: his body couldn’t physically withstand anything over an hour’s worth of cuddling. Which was terrible because, well, he really liked doing it with you.
When you moved in together, though he willed himself to keep you in his embrace before going to bed every night, the same tragedy always befell him come morning. Once, he even woke up with half his body hanging off the mattress.
“It’s okay, baby. Honestly,” you said when he brought it up a week after settling into the new place. The smell of stale, unlived in air still clung to the walls.
You looked unbothered. Maybe… “Do you prefer it that we don’t—”
“No! No, of course not!” Ushijima was worried you’d get whiplash from how feverishly you shook your head. “I like cuddling with you at night, Toshi. But I know you get antsy when you’re warm. It’s probably just a subconscious response that you roll away. To avoid body heat, you know?”
You’d stared at him with so much reassurance, compassion, adoration; his heart ached. Ushijima wanted to lift you onto the nearest surface and kiss you breathless in hopes you’d understand how much you meant to him. He would’ve, but you were wearing shorts, and he remembered how you’d jolted from the cold after he set you down on the kitchen counter while kissing you that one time.
Sometimes, and maybe it’s mean of him, Ushijima puts off immediately reuniting with you after a game out of town just to watch you from afar, in awe that no matter who looked at you, he was the person you were waiting for; he was the only person who could call you his.
Which was what made his predicament even more frustrating.
He’s always taken pride in the fact that he’s made it so far in his career. He enjoys the vigour of his lifestyle; the intense training, the travelling, the purpose. It keeps him busy, keeps his life in check. He’s never once regretted devoting his all into volleyball.
But sometimes—when he hears you try to hide the fatigue brining your voice during the video calls while he’s away or on the days he has to carry you into bed because you’d fallen asleep waiting for him at the dining table—Ushijima can’t stifle the guilt that rouses in him. He spends so much time away from home, from you, that sometimes he forgets just how pleasantly cold your skin is compared to his, how tender your gaze becomes when it’s directed at him, how delicately your smile stretches the plush of your lips.
So he can hardly be blamed for wanting to spend what rare nights he has with you as close as humanly possible. Ushijima’s tried everything to try and force himself to remain by your side through the night—weighted blankets, melatonin pills, insisting you sleep on his arm to root him in place, sleeping shirtless to decrease his body temperature (you seemed disappointed when he stopped doing that last one)—but nothing worked.
But if there’s one thing Ushijima’s learned from volleyball it’s this: to adapt is to win. There’s never a guarantee what his opponent will do next, which is why he knows the best thing he can do when something unexpected comes his way is take it in stride and adapt.
Which is why, on off days like today, Ushijima wakes up thirty minutes earlier than he should.
Because he may be a world-class athlete, but he can’t train his body to reduce the amount of heat it exudes. All he can do is accept the fact that he isn’t built to spend an entire night with someone in his arms without overheating. So, he settles for this instead: waking up thirty minutes earlier so he can use that time to cuddle.
(Heat pricks his ears at the word. It sounds childish, but it’s exactly what he’s doing. He wishes there was another term for it.)
Thirty minutes, however, is barely a blip in the grand scheme of things. Ushijima wastes no time in draping his arm across your waist and nuzzling his face into the softness of your shirt, breathing you in. The first few times he did this, he dozed off. Which would’ve been fine—it’s an off day—if not for the fact that unconscious, his body will inevitably stray from yours.
So, when drowsiness begins seeping into his limbs, Ushijima reaches forward and, though he is no artist, sketches you with the feather-lightness of his fingertip. Every curve, dip, slope of your face he passes his thumb over to stow in his mind, to unearth on the days he spends away so the sight of you never dilutes.
Usually he does this as gently as he can so he doesn’t wake you, but today you’re wearing one of his wide-collared shirts, the ones that slip down your arm to reveal your skin mottled by sunlight filtering through the sheers.
So how is he meant to resist dragging his lips over your clavicle to the tip of your shoulder? How can he not linger there, let your skin cool his own, bringing him to an equilibrium?
He smooths his thumb over your lips, the flesh whispery like chiffon. He has half the mind to abandon his guilty conscience to kiss you awake. Ushijima doesn’t have to though, because before he knows it, your mouth is curving upward and your fingers are wrapping themselves around his wrist to keep his thumb pressing into your smile.
“G’morning, Toshi.”
Your voice is filmed with sleep, your eyelids barely open. He lets you curl his fingers into a fist and watches as you ghost your lips across the grooves of his knuckles. Ushijima wonders if he could ever love you more.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, if only to keep himself grounded in reality.
Your kisses travel to his wrist, to the single prominent vein which spindles upward to burgeon in his palm. When you hum an affirmative it sends vibrations along his pulse point.
Ushijima cups the back of your head and guides it to rest against his chest, his left arm lacing tighter around your waist. If his estimates are accurate, he has ten minutes left. He wishes he had longer.
“You’re so warm, darling,” you tell him, almost absentmindedly.
Are you uncomfortable? You must be. Winter has begun to winnow from summer’s sweltering winds; certainly that paired with Ushijima’s own startling heat would be borderline oppressive.
But when he shifts to pry himself away, you bunch the material of his shirt in your hands to stop him.
“Don’t go.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. “You feel nice.”
Ushijima should’ve known better. Of course, you’d find no contentions with his body heat. When have you ever? You revel in it, crave it even, because the heat is inherent to him, and you love him without conditions.
Because you’ve learned to adapt, too.
You and Ushijima dance to different tunes. Even undying love cannot alter the simple truth that each of your notes differ on a near structural level—coloured by your past experiences, your upbringing, your contrasting dispositions—because at the end of the day, you and him are different people. There is no harmony when you and Ushijima’s songs collide, only dissonance, but over the years, as you’ve designated crevices in yourselves specially curated for the other, you’ve each adapted your songs to fit the best they can.
It’s been three years since Ushijima has known you, two since you told him how hot he ran, and in that time, both of you have attained absolute pitch; learned to play the other’s tune merely by sound; borrowed and incorporated each other’s notes into your own song. So while there is no true harmony in the orchestra of your relationship, sometimes, if he strains his ears, Ushijima can hear your melody and his weaving to create something not necessarily right, but beautiful regardless. Because those few seconds of not-quite harmony are born from effort, from wanting to conduct something dulcet together in spite of the way Ushijima’s tempo may run faster than yours at times and your pitch a little higher than his in others.
Your not-quite harmony is a culmination of the little things you do for each other, to adapt for one another, like drying his hair while he rewatches games, dabbing your makeup away when you’re too exhausted to, sticking peppy messages scratched in ballpoint on the fridge for him, or, even, waking up thirty minutes earlier just so he can bask in your love if only for a second longer.
His alarm beeps once, twice, thrice, before Ushijima silences it.
“We should get up now,” he rasps against your forehead because that’s what the sound means.
Your breath blankets his cheek, his thumb caresses your hip.
“I know. I’ll go wash my face,” you say but you don’t move.
“Okay,” he says but his hold of you doesn’t loosen.
And maybe the two of you stay that way longer than you should. Maybe the half-hour stretches to one instead as you catch him up on what he’d missed while he was away—the Alphonso mangoes on sale at the grocery store, how you’d found the left side of your favourite pair of woolly socks behind the washing machine, the orange peel and honeysuckle scented hand lotion you’d been eyeing ceasing production—and he memorises the softness of your skin beneath his palm.
You tell him about all the trivial happenings, though Ushjima doesn’t like calling them that because the way you recount them makes him feel as if he were there living through it with you—juggling the weight of ripe fruit between his hands, shining his phone’s flashlight behind the washing machine for a glimpse of kitten-patterned wool, hearing the clicks of your mouse as you reload and reload the fragrance store’s website. And suddenly, he can’t wait to officially start the day because there are dozens of mundane things—simple pleasures—he won’t need to vicariously experience a week too late.
Because he gets to do them, with you, today.
But Ushijima thinks just a second longer in bed surely won’t hurt because he can’t imagine getting up any time soon. Not when he has you like this, not when he’s teeming with the knowledge that you are the only person in the world who knows his song by heart as he does yours, that in this moment, he can hear the not-quite harmony the two of you have built for yourselves from the simple pleasures, from all and nothing but the simple pleasures.
On the nights you couldn’t sleep, the roof deck of your apartment complex was your go-to place to pass the time. When the sun no longer burned the cemented roof, you would find yourself sitting on top of the piled cargo boxes that have been on the roof forever—untouched and forgotten. The tranquil cityscape lining the horizon and the sky full of stars overhead never failed to keep you company during your lonely nights there.
Up until human company—specifically in the form of your neighbor from three doors down—decided to join you on your midnight sessions on the roof.
synopsis: throughout the snapshots of your life, lee donghyuck is always there. (or, you realize that you’re in love with the bane of your existence.)
author’s note: i started grad school and it’s literally eating me alive so i wanted to write something short and sweet to de-stress and then it ended up being almost 8k words 😭
warning(s): excessive drinking, family tension
playlist: fast times by sabrina carpenter ― the bottom by gracie abrams ― stress by taeyeon ― ruin my life by zara larsson ― cruel summer by taylor swift
ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022
sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating
Liquid courage, as the poets say.
Well, don’t fact check that, but surely Wordsworth or Coleridge or whichever poet that Taylor Swift talks about in the lakes mentioned something about getting shitfaced during a St. Patrick’s Day office party.
Regardless, you’re going to pretend like they did because it’s a lot less romantic (lowercase r, not capital like the movement) if you’re just drunk off your ass at an office party without an artsy-fartsy literary reference to back you up.
You’re one too many shots of tequila deep, swaying to the shitty techno music that someone is blasting from their pretentious Spotify playlist while stumbling past the office cubicles, including yours and He Who Shall Not Be Named’s, on your wobbly trip to the bathroom.
Despite the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, the remaining coherent part of your brain is sounding the alarms that you’re probably going to throw up soon. You wish that part of your brain would just shut the hell up because you don’t want to think rationally right now.
You don’t want to think about He Who Shall Not Be Named and how he’s in love with your best friend. You don’t want to think about how his eyes found her the moment she walked into the office, how his gaze melted into a pool of honey, his head swiveling towards every direction she went like a stupid bobblehead. Not that you blame him; everyone is in love with Karina. It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyways.
Ugh, see? You’re thinking about him again.
Anyways, you’re also grateful for that part of your brain because the poets definitely do not write about spewing chunks in front of your co-workers. You just want to hurl in peace and wallow in your misery with the porcelain toilet bowl by your side.
Minho doesn’t want to ignore you. To him, it’s the only solution.
He can’t sleep at night without thinking of your hands on his skin. Smaller than his, but barely an inch’s difference, he can feel the way they cupped his cheek, the radiating warmth of your palm settling upon his skin as you tilted his head to the side. Then, you’d whispered something to him, coherent enough for him to catch, but not important enough for him to remember. The only thought important enough to linger was you — from the gentle scratch of your nail that felt so welcome against his jaw, to the proximity your lips were to his own.
Chapped, a deeper scarlet in some areas from where you’d presumably bitten them. Kissable. Preventing him from getting the proper amount of rest his soul so desperately needs.
Two hours he sat through a computer science lecture, and he can barely recall a single word that the professor said. Minho does, however, remember the scent of your perfume, and the daisy he saw pinned to someone else’s bag that happened to remind him of it. Fragrant, floral, nothing short of the word lovely. In fact, it rather resembles you: flowery, bright, spring-like in all your glory.
And when he got a text, your given name flashing up onto the watch that sat proudly on his wrist, he was completely gone. For all he’d known, he could’ve been in space, because you were becoming all that he knew, the limit of his knowledge and his interests, truly the apple of his eye.
However the moment he sees you with someone else, he decides it can’t be.
It, you and him, the object of his desires and the apple in the garden of eden. Something he craves so desperately, something he doesn’t believe can ever happen.
Really, it’s not you. If it was you, it wouldn’t be so hard to pretend you weren’t there. Like compass pin finding north no matter what, Minho’s eyes find you the moment he walks into a room. They’re drawn to you — unnaturally so — and the way his heart soars exponentially high the moment they meet your own? It’s not right, as though he’s falling off the edge of a cliff, horribly fast and overwhelming and although he knows he’s going to meet his death, he can’t help but enjoy the adrenaline that shoots through his body.
But perhaps Minho doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does. His immediate failure at avoiding you proves so.
He looks at you, standing there with someone else, and his whole body seems to drop. You’re not even doing anything, nothing more than walking side by side, a polite smile on your face, but he feels as though his world is crumbling. Suddenly he is not falling off of the cliff but is the cliff that is crumbling, too fast to keep up with and equally as dangerous.
Yet the moment you break away, your eyes flittering up in his direction, he starts to float. As though the butterflies inside his stomach are lifting him up, he smiles — barely, but it’s there — and gives you a little wave. It’s almost shy, fleeting as though he’s nervous, but you seem to eat it up anyway, similarly to how he consumes your reaction.
He’s clinging onto every smile you give him, the way your cheeks grow round with your grin and the crescent moons that break out of your eyes. You’re looking at him as though he is not simply Lee Minho, but the moon that keeps your night sky bright, and he feels like he’s floating in the clouds.
It’s when you begin to talk that everyone can see it. You’re idiots, the both of you, falling helplessly while being hopelessly unaware, but it’s sweet. It’s young, it’s blooming, it’s exhilarating. But you’re both so blinded by the other that you can’t see the simple things, the hearts in his eyes as he looks at you, the way you always seem to be outside of his class when he’s leaving.
Minho tries to ignore you; it’s impossible, it was never going to work. But he thinks, the more rational, small voice in the back of his head, that allowing you to ruin his life and send him smiles from across the room is at least a little bit better.
IM FREAKING BACK AND HERE TO READ ALL OF MAES FICS AND REBLOG EM *cracks knuckles aggressively * guys i’m so in love with maes writing it’s not even funny this this THIS ONE WAS SO DREAMY AGH FEELINF LIKE IM RUNNING ON CLOUDS OF COTTEN CANDY THINKING ABOUT HOW PERFECTLY MAE WROTE HOW IN LUV LINO IS I CAN FEEL THE HEARTS RADIATING FROM HERE
