I was wondering, since request are open, could you write a scenario with Ichiro from hypmic? Just some fluff and comfort, maybe s/o and him come home both tired from work or the s/o has been feeling down.. literally whatever you have in mind
sorry about the wait on this one dfghjgfd,, yet again it turned into its own thing, so I hope this is okay!!
It makes a certain amount of sensel Ichiro’s young years had been unstable. Even now, while he does his best for his brothers, life for the Yamada household remains precarious. You can understand how he’d cling to any possible routine.
You just hadn’t expected this routine.
You’re curled up on the couch, tired eyes gritty in the glow of late-night television. The screen has been tuned to this channel for hours, but neither of you has been paying attention for half as long— the current program is some variety show that you’re sure Saburo would rip to shreds for being cringe.
Ichiro’s been gone too long. It’s getting cold without him.
“So, is tonight the night you finally try it? Just a little bit?” As if you’d summoned him by thought alone, Ichiro’s voice echoes out from the bathroom down the hall. He’s mastered the art of the whisper-yell— either that, or his brothers know not to leave their rooms when you’re sleeping over.
You roll your eyes, but you’re already disentangling yourself from the throw blanket. “Dunno how anyone tries just a little bit of a face mask.”
When your boyfriend pops his head through the bathroom doorway, his face is smeared in green. He holds up a small tube of cream in the same shade. “You try it once for me and then never again?”
Ichiro Yamada. Tall, dark and handsome. Former member of The Dirty Dawg. Reformed delinquent trying to feed his family. Skincare addict. It’s hard to keep the grin off your face as he tugs you into the cramped bathroom and positions you in front of the mirror.
“What’re you grinning about down there?” Ichiro’s one hand threads through your hair, working your bangs back away from your face. His other hand dips into his container of hairclips; they’re all bright colors, some with hearts and stars and butterflies that you’re sure came straight out of 2007, and he chooses a handful that match the ones in his own midnight hair.
“Nothing, really.” You let him tilt your head to the side and slide the clips into your hair. The metal is cool against your scalp. “I just think my boyfriend is cute.”
Ichiro snorts, but you can see the tips of his ears turn red. “Yeah? I’d love to meet the guy.”
For months Ichiro has been trying to get you involved in his late-night routine; in the time you’ve been ignoring his growing collection of skin-and-haircare products, he’s clearly grown well-practiced. The top comes off that green tube of whatever-it-is so that he can squeeze some into a bowl, one that’s clearly stained with the same shade. Mix it up with a pilfered makeup brush and then Ichiro’s hand comes to prod at your chin, gently lifting your face.
The moment the brush touched your skin, you jolt back with a squeal. “It’s cold!”
“Hey, don’t move—!” Ichiro’s face pulls into a pout, one that tends to be far more effective when he’s not covered in sludge. “Just let me get it on your face before you start complaining!”
You stick your tongue out— but Ichiro fearlessly moves to snatch it between his fingers, so you dart it back into your mouth before he succeeds. At least you’re able to take blatant hints; you quite jolting and squirming long enough for him to finish smearing the mask [mostly] evenly across your face.
“There we go.” The makeup brush clatters when he drops it back into the bowl. Ichiro nods decisively, admiring your face as if you’re a mimicry of the Mona Lisa and not some kid’s finger painting. “Now we just leave that for awhile—”
A frown crosses your green face. “A while? How long is a while? Lame. Inconvenient! It’s gonna make a mess!”
“It is!” You interrupt, hauling yourself up onto your toes so that you’re in Ichiro’s space and he stumbles back against the bathroom counter. No matter how many times the two of you get this close, the proximity always turns his face red. “It’s gonna smear all over the place when I—”
Your hand, which had slowly wandered up his chest, latches onto the loose collar of his shirt to tug Ichiro down to your level. Your mouth lands on his, just the briefest press before you pull back— unsurprisingly, Ichiro is still leaning in, trying to follow your mouth like waves to the beach. Snickering, you nudge him back, and he sighs at the loss of your body heat. It takes you a moment to direct his attention to the mirror instead.
The goopy face masks that he’d applied to you both have smeared and smudged. “Toldja— we made a mess.”
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