Gay and tired.

Lil art study on D-han's older work.

I love this bb sm ☀️🎀

݁ Ი𐑼⋆ minisyn. ♡⸝⸝ : tw: slightly suggestive | super unathletic reader (like me)

"alright," toji grunts. "your pick." he nudges you with his elbow, interlinking his arms across the broad expanse of his chest.

using your boyfriend as a personal, unpaid handyman one too many times was turning out to be a bad idea. first, you just wanted the television adjusted a little to the left, so that the draft of light coming through the window wouldn't create such a horrible glare on whatever anime you found yourself watching late at night with toji.

he thought it was a good idea, too—so with a groan, he lifted himself up off the couch and unfastened the tv from the wall. he must've held it up for maybe ten minutes while you scratched your head and rubbed your chin in thought.

his angle was too high, too tilted, too off, too much, too everything.

he prided in the fact that his baby was observant—your cursed technique even having to do with angles and trajectory—but god damn, how long was he going to have to hold this thing up?

the black-haired male's second nudge is harsher, more insistent, and it pulls you back to the present.

"don't go all quiet on me, if you aren't g'na pick your own, we're headin' to the bench press." he speaks huskily, sauntering over to the bench press and lying flat on it's foam and vinyl-made surface.

when you remain standing there in confusion, he beckons you over with a hand. "y're spottin' me, got it?" he rasps, rolling his shoulders.

"go get six plates. forty-five each." and with a swat of his hand, you scurry away to go receive each plate.

the process takes far too long. you can hold forty-five pounds, definitely more, but not ninety—so you have to keep making trips back to the rack to go and get the next one. six pathetic trips later and you're finally finished, hands on your knees panting before lining yourself up behind the bench.

toji looks up at you from the bench expectantly.

"i'm ready to spot you," you utter softly.

he just grunts, taking the bar between both his hands, and winks up at you. "this is what i have to do to remain your personal chore-doer." he then brings the bar down to his chest. "count."

each pump of the bar is accompanied by a grunt that sounds like it should accompany a thrust instead of a push. he knows what he's doing, one-hundred percent.

"thirteen, fourteen," a slow, throaty exhale. the bar clinks against the rack above his head. "and fifteen."

he sits up, then straightens up to his full six-foot-two height, circling behind the nudging you out of your spot behind the bench.

"lie down, on the bench, line y'r head up with the bar."

you stand in front of the black material of the bench, staring down at toji's sweat marks on the dark surface and internally cursing yourself out for ever deciding to test toji's patience.

"oi."

it's like your body moves on your own—lying back against the bench, eyes lined up with the bar, rolling your shoulders to warm up, though that makes the bench uncomfortable against your back.

you hear the sound of weights being removed from the bar—black cast iron against metal gray steel.

"don't want you to break."

is the muttered response. there's a small pat on your chest as toji looks down at you—scarred lip widening in delight. you look terrified.

"you'll be fine. it's just the bar. thirty pounds. you got it?" he says, though the way he's holding his hands tentatively underneath the bar incase you falter says more than enough. "push the bar up, and just hold it there. you got it."

when you do, arms slightly shaky, he gives you a slow look of appraisal. his hands barely graze the bar, but any relief helps. "there we go. down. slowly." and you comply, bringing the bar closer to your chest. "attaboy, keep going."

with a quiet huff of effort you push the bar back out, desperately searching for the rack before toji, despite his usual bruteness, helps you slot the metal back on the rack.

you sit up, chest heaving while toji's already moved in front of the bench, hands stuffed in his cotton sweatpants while he looks down at you.

"gonna ask me to move the tv again?" when you shake your head he grins wider. infuriatingly so.

he hoists you up, holding you over his shoulder—two hands wrapped around the back of your thighs—and hauls you out of the gym.