JESS CAN WE PLEEEEEAAASSSEEEE TALK ABOUT SEMI he is so . he makes my brain go whrr like. i KNOW i have a thing for emo musicians and i know that he fits the āonly soft for his s/oā trope he makes me go insane bye -izhyperfixates
IZ WE CAN MOST DEFINITELY TALK ABOUT SEMI EITA
this man .. just- he deserves a kiss to his brow,,
i bet heās constantly scrunching it too! like, semi is the kind of person that tries, he tries in everything and gives it his all. he purses his lips and frowns his brow in concentration; heās so focused, so dedicated, in everything he does, and yet, itās still sometimes not enough.
it wasn't enough for shiratorizawa. it's barely enough to keep his government job-- struggling to hide the tattoos on his arms with cardigans and long-sleeved shirts, because "how could a government employee be so inappropriate as to have tattoos?"-- but, most of all, it has to be enough for his band, the thing he truly loves and could never stand to disappoint. he tries and tries and tries and.. Semi is so tired; he's sure the knit of his brows has become permanent at this point.
and then comes along you, kissing his pout away, the downturned corner of his lip, the knit of his brow. the tenseness of his shoulders seems to melt away at the mere brush of your skirt to his clothed thigh. the music industry is tough, and Semi has to be just as tough if not more to survive it, but, with you, he thinks he's already made it, he allows himself-- his back, his shoulders, his jaw-- Ā to relax.Ā
the way you're at every one of his recitals and music venues, humming the melodies he'd sampled for you. the way you wait for him to come home from his tiring government job, already unbuttoning for him the heavy, long-sleeved dress shirt he wears even in mid-summer. for once in his life, Semi is at peace. with you, he doesn't have to try, not really. the cramped, one room apartment you share is enough, you tell him, he is enough.
he has a soft smile playing on his lips while his fingers play on his guitar, sitting on the edge of your bed one Saturday morning. his shoulder are hunched, relaxed, curving into the sounds he's composing with his instrument.Ā
he doesn't feel like he's trying as he composes a song for you.
it's already there-- the ease that comes with you fills the room with the smell of the coffee that you place on his bedside. you fit so perfectly in his lap, tracing the tattoos on his arm. his chest to your back, he hears you humming a tune to the notes he's playing.Ā
it comes to him easily, a blessing disguised as you.Ā
he knows he doesn't have to try, not really, but he'll try even harder for youĀ
