âËâčătake my time (iâll spend it all on you) | gojo satoru
wc: 1.6k
summary: gojo sees you in lingerie for the first time.Â
contains: f!reader, suggestive almost nsfw (they make out⊠maybe a bit steamy), 18+ just in case, reader is in lingerie, shy feelings!! gojo down bad!!
a/n: i hc that the first time gojo sees you in lingerie, itâs like seeing you walk down the aisleâheâs a bit sappy like that! i also think that heâd love seeing his lover in pink! idk! itâs just the vibes! (col reader would look cute in pink too i think hehe complements the personality!); takes place later on, around col #4 (wip)
collection masterlist: conversations on love
3.5b. âwill i ever bring you peace? <- you are here -> +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) + 04. these traces of love, they outline you
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
There are few things in life that have earned Gojoâs double take:Â
A sign for a newly-opened gelato shop with âexclusive flavors for the first 30 customers!â written in fine print; Megumi, back in middle school, being confessed to with a sweetly handcrafted box of chocolates for Valentineâs Day; a small cut, right at the tip of his nose from that time you sparred with him and he let you get too close (or so he says).Â
And now you.Â
In something pinkâ
âthat if he backtracks just a bit, steps one foot behind the other to glance again at the space left open by the bedroom door, and squintsâ
Heâs certain, 200% sure.Â
Itâs lingerie.Â
He blinks once, twice, rubs at his eyes even as his mind attempts to catch up to whatever it isâyouâhe just saw. This must be what wires feel when they short circuit.Â
You know heâs home, right? You have to, you just told him to rinse the dishes after snacking.
And he was in the middle of doing thatâwalking across your apartment from couch to kitchen, stopping only to do a double take at the sight of pink in his periphery, at you, once he looked again, clearly.Â
Or were you doing this on purpose? Did you want him to see you?Â
He gulps, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears down to his neck, lingering.Â
Thereâs only one way to find out, really.Â
He walks down the hallway leading to the bedroom, keeping his footsteps light so as to not startle you.
If heâs being honest right now, his mind is full to the point of feeling emptyâtoo many thoughts swirling around the fact that behind this very door, heâs about to find you in pink lingerie.Â
And when he takes a deep breath, fingertips pushing on wood very slightly as he calls out, âBabââ
âSâtoru!â you squeal from the other side, panicked as you instantly push it back closed.
So you didnât do it on purpose.Â
âSorry, give me a minute!â you call out, and he can hear your footsteps from the other side, frantically walking around for what he can assume is you looking for something to cover yourself with.Â
But he doesnât want that.Â
Not when he already has the visual of you, pretty in what he suspects is pink lace.
Not when the way you said âSâtoruâ sounded so much like ââToruâ, your ââToruâ, the way you usually say it pressed against bed sheets, under him, expression blissed out fromâ
Do you have any idea what that does to him?Â
âAre you wearing lingerie?âÂ
You freeze. Gojo can tell from the other side of the door, and you think, damn it, because he isnât supposed to know you bought a set, much less see you in it. Not yet.Â
You could try to lie, but Gojo always sees through you, through every change in inflection, the way your eyebrow twitches before speaking.Â
âCan I come in?â he asks softly, almost hesitantly.Â
How can you possibly resist him when he speaks to you like this? Asking permission as if this space you live in isnât as much his?
You sigh, flustered at being caught this way, âCan you close your eyes first?âÂ
He follows, laying one hand over his eyes for good measure before knocking on the door. You open it slowly, wood creaking as he steps inside.Â
You feel a little naked right now despite how he isnât even looking your way, opting to face the side opposite from where youâre standing. Itâs on purpose, you know, he can tell where you areâSix Eyes and all.Â
Thereâs a smile that heâs hiding, biting his lower lip to stop it from showing. His toes are wiggling from the excitement coursing through him.
You know Gojo will like you in anything; in fact, heâs made it very clear that he prefers you in nothingâbut still. Your stomach feels queasy and you canât get rid of how nervous youâre feeling.Â
And you guess, itâs really just because this was meant to be a surprise for himâthe design youâve chosen, how it looks on your body, how it looks to him, especially. Youâd ordered the lingerie set months in advance to leave a lot of time for returns, whether it turned out ill-fitting or just unflattering.
You didnât expect him to catch a glimpse of it now, months before his birthday, before you were even ready.Â
âIâm waitingâŠâ he teases, voice sing-song in that way he usually does to annoy you. It always makes you smile though, and itâs an odd form of comforting with how it dulls your jitters right now, just a little bit.
âOkay, you can look.âÂ
As soon as he turns, you squeeze your eyes shut, hands on your sides as you fiddle with your fingernails. Seeing, knowing his reaction in real time is still nervewracking, regardless of every reassurance you tell yourselfâbecause, what if this is the off-chance that youâre wrong, and he doesnât like it?Â
Or worse: what if he has to pretend he likes it?
You frown a bitâit doesnât help at all that Gojo isnât saying anything.
Butâ
How can he, when there are no words, no adjectives, no possible descriptions to articulate what heâs seeingâwhat heâs feeling?
If he didnât die then, in every instance heâs brushed with death: by Tojiâs hands, locked up inside that box, in that final moment with Sukuna, nearly halvedâ
He thinks he might have just died right now.Â
Because this? You? In lingerie as pink as all heâs feelingâhis cheeks, his nose, flushing down his neck, maybe even his chest if it were exposed.Â
Itâs heaven.Â
Youâre a sight.Â
While Gojo has certainly seen you in much less, and done with you things much more than just stand with you like this, heâs never seen you in lingerie.
And youâre so pretty. Sexy. All his, he canât believe it. Â Â
Heâs noticing all the little details on itâon youâits shade, almost salmon with a bit of baby pink; its material: sheer net as the base for everythingâitâs practically see-through save for the delicate floral lace running across the bra cups and panty front.
The set itself is nice, sure, but he knows he only likes it this much because itâs on you. And he knows heâll always like anything on you.Â
The heat in his stomach is building, spreading, to the single part of him thatâ
âIs it that bad?â you scrunch your nose, eyes still closed. He looks at you confused, before he realizes: he hasnât said anything.
He chuckles and you open your eyes, pouting.Â
And God, he wishes you didnât do that. That look on your faceâwhat it does to him.
âI ordered it in advance for your birthday,â you start, pout deepening as you ramble on, âit was supposed to be a surprise, but if you donât like it, I can stillââÂ
Thatâs enough.Â
He canât believe that you actually think he doesnât like it.Â
Gojo steps into your space, close enough to grab you by the waist as his other hand reaches up to slot itself in the area between your ear and your jawline, tilting your head up slightly as he leans in to kiss you.Â
Itâs rushed at first, almost desperateâhungry, the way he releases his breath only to take you in; your lips, soft in the way he knows them to be, his hand on your waist squeezing. Your fingertips trail to his cheek, almost cupping as his kisses turn deeper, more languid, lips moving against yours slowly, savoring.Â
Gojo is a fast learner, and he shows it best in the way he kisses you, as if heâs memorized every way to build that familiar heat within you. You lay your other hand against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt as he pulls you closer.Â
You bite his lip and suck, just a little bit, the way he likes it, and he moans, lowly, vibrations rippling through your mouth as he holds you steady. Heâs hard already; you can feel it pressing against your lower belly.Â
And you realize, as a small laugh tears itself away from you, how ridiculous it was for you to even worry.Â
You break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his as you keep your noses touching. Itâs impossible to tell how Gojo looks, but you have a hunch with how heâs breathing so heavily; the skies in his eyes must be darker, almost gray, turned on by desireâthe same one settling deep in your stomach, aching, needy.Â
âItâs perfect,â he whispers, lips grazing yours. He traces hearts by your shoulder, something born out of the many times youâve lain in bed together, playing with the strap of your bra before pulling, a short snap! as he lets go.Â
âYou like it?â you whisper back, a lilt in your tone, teasing. Your fingers come up to trace his lips and he holds them in place, nipping.Â
âMhm,â he grins, smoothing his hand over the lace details on your bra, his thumb rubbing, âso pretty.âÂ
He leans in again, a small peck, before asking, âDoes this mean I can get my gift now?âÂ
You laugh, hitting his chest, âItâs not your birthday yet!âÂ
âYeah, but what is time anyway?âÂ
And you know, with the way heâs trailing kisses down your neck, licking and suckingâyouâre going to have to find another thing to surprise him with on his birthday.Â
.
Later that evening, with your head lying right on his chest, you remember.Â
âOh yeah, the set also came with one of those belt things. Garter, I think? But I wasnât sure if youâd be intoââÂ
Youâve never seen Gojo get up from bed faster.
thank you notes: for that anon that asked about whether col reader wears lingerie! + @stellamancer @soumies @crysugu for validating me that pink is in fact col reader's colour á° i also just luv u guys đ„ș
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu
wc: 2.9k
summary: itâs not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like thisâin 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 âbabyâ & âmy loveâ, reader is described as âprettyâ and wears heels, hurt/comfort.
a/n: atsumu isnât 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!
âBabââ
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.Â
You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.
He stares.Â
Thatâs his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower.Â
His lip trembles, eyes watery.
âNot now, Atsumu.â
You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. Itâs a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years youâve been together, but he feels it like itâs the first time you ever touched himâand in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least.Â
The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking.Â
âAtsumu,â your voice rings.Â
Who the hell is âAtsumuâ?Â
Heâs not supposed to be âAtsumuâ to you. Heâs âTsum.â Heâs âbaby.â Heâs âmy love.â
Anything but âAtsumu.â
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.Â
It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do.Â
Youâd 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, theyâd tell you you were never just a friend to him; heâd 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.Â
Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you.Â
Your first âdateâ 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?Â
As MSBYâs success skyrocketed, so did Atsumuâsâbrand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasnât training, he was either traveling or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving.Â
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. Youâd driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and youâd packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.
Youâve 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.Â
âWonât take long, baby. Swear it,â he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. âPick ya up at 6:00?âÂ
Heâd winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.
What heâd give to be able to do that right now.Â
âOkay,â you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, âbetter hurry then, you might be late.âÂ
When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way youâd agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe youâre rightâ
âWould it hurt for you to just be honest?âÂ
âAtsumu 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 âsome drinksâ right after just to meet the executives of the company.Â
There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that donât compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you.Â
âI know youâre busy and I understand,â you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, âyou know I do.âÂ
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.Â
âBaby, Iââ
He passes it back.
You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at himâhow could he have ever stood thisâyouâup?
You take the ball, âCan I finish what I have to say first?âÂ
He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.
âIâm happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,â 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. âBut at least tell me if you canât make it.âÂ
You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike.Â
âPlease donât keep my hopes up every time.âÂ
You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug.Â
âBaby, I swear, they justâthey started talkinâ âbout these shoes, ân I thought tâwas cool, ân the execsâthey said the execsâd be there in the afterparty, andââ he breathes, âwonât happen next time, baby. âM soââÂ
âCan I really believe you next time?â
You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him.Â
Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea.Â
You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.
It is now that Atsumu knows, heâs fucked up.
The ball lands on his side of the court.Â
And so, heâs spent this entire day trying to make it up to youâbreakfast 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. Itâs only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.
âNail appointment. Going out tonight,â is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds).Â
Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. Itâs justâhe hasnât even said sorry yet, canât even call you âbabyâ, canât even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to.Â
And now, with you closing the door on him while youâre changingâthereâs nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space.Â
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 wasnât just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out.Â
He feels like shit, if heâs being honestâlike how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse.Â
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.Â
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 werenât fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldnât have to.Â
Itâs 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.Â
He doesnât want to be away from you.Â
And itâs not that he doesnât like you going out looking like thisâhe loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft âdonât wait up for meâ mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you.Â
He couldnât even give you a goodbye kiss.Â
The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter.Â
âDonât wait up for me,â you said. As if he can even sleep without you around.Â
.
.
.
The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumuâs done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasnât breached 11:00 p.m.. Heâs cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those âstock up my fridge with meâ tiktoks heâs seen on Sakusaâs 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. Heâs also pretty sure heâs 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 heâs changed the bedsheets too andâ
Heâs still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He canât stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home.Â
Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because youâre rightâhe hasnât been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too.Â
His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it.Â
Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you?Â
He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it.Â
Thatâs it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door.Â
.Â
.
.
Atsumu doesnât check your location often (maybe only a few times). Itâs not a trust thing, he swears; itâs just for when he wants to make sure youâre somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there.Â
And, you clearly donât need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits.Â
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.Â
Heâs 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.Â
His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit heâd 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. Itâs 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 youâtucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink.Â
You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table.Â
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 longinglyâa 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 couldnât help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody.Â
It makes his chest hurt.Â
Then, you swipe it open, and heâs close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of whatâs on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, âDid you make it safely?âÂ
(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didnât reply to him then because you werenât ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed.Â
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 couldnât 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 theyâve found, itâs beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumuâs company more than anything else.
Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.)Â
Heâs two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain itâ
âBaby,â his voice trembles, unsteady.Â
Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether youâre hearing things; whetherâ
(âTsum,â 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 becauseâ)
âheâs here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, youâre sure is exactly how things went), and youâre sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing heâs ever seen.Â
ââM so sorry,â he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, âDonât ever wanna make yâfeel like that again.â His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, âI wonât do that anymoreââÂ
âTsum,â you try to call his attention.
Heâll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not.Â
(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.)Â
But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, âNo, please hear me out first. I promise Iâll tell âem they can speak âtaââÂ
âTsum,â you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up.Â
âBaby, please. Gimme the chance âta show ya that Iââ
(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 looksâ)
âTsum, please stand up,â 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, âpeople were starting to think you were about to propose.âÂ
He pauses for a moment, a slight, âOh,â as he ponders on it. âWell, if thatâs whatâll prove it tâya, thenââÂ
You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, âDonât joke about things like that.âÂ
Well, itâs not the first time itâs crossed his mind, if heâs being honest.Â
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.Â
ââM really sorry, baby,â he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. âDonât ever want ya feelinâ like this again.âÂ
âI know,â you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, âyou didnât have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.âÂ
âCan ya blame me? Seeinâ ya off like that?â he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. âYâre too pretty to be sad,â 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.Â
âDo ya forgive me?â he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink.Â
You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, âI donât like being mad at you, you know.â He lights up, beaming, but you add on, âWe still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.âÂ
He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car.Â
.Â
.
.
(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.)Â
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 đ i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is đ„ș
thank you notes: to đ§ 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 âĄ
new year superstitions (or some shit) | bakugo katsuki
wc: 1.4k
summary: bakugo's never believed in timing things for luck (or: affection is hard, but bakugo thinks it's about damn time he tries harder)
contains: written with f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!, aged up!pro-hero bakugo (mid-twenties), reader is described as pretty, vaguely alludes to reader's quirk, established relationship, fluff.
you slip into bakugo's space just a few minutes shy of touching the new year.
everywhere around you is loud, lively in the way new year's eve parties go; a group of people down the street stand outside of a bar, waving their streamers and blowing on small trumpets to welcome the next hour. from a distance, fireworks are shooting up to the sky, right above some luxury hotel having its annual countdown.
it's neither bakugo's thing nor yours to be up this late, partaking in celebrations like this, but he supposes some things are worth experiencing at least onceâ
the scent of your perfume hits him before he sees you, the space around him tightening in that familiar way the air around you shifts when you hold your breath. you smile, a small, gentle lift of your lips that falls into pace with your blink. pretty.
warmth pools in his stomach, building slowly to crawl its way up his neck and over his ears, overflowing to dust his cheeks.
"thought you looked a little lonely over here," you mumble, stifling your giggle as you watch him turn pink.
he furrows his brows, a soft "tsk," escaping his lips out of habit as his head turns to you. you always tease him like this; he should be getting used to it by now.
a gust of wind picks up from your spot on the balcony, pushing the glass door shut. the noise from inside muffles to dull chatter, the beat of tonight's music recognizable only by the subtle vibrations on the metal railing resting against his back.
the winter breeze seems to have tapped you, too, as you tuck your chin deeper into the red scarf around your neck.
"y'should've stayed inside," he nods to you then to the balcony door, crossing his arms, "s'cold here."
you frown, inching closer, just enough that you could loop your arm with his if you wanted, "sometimes, i can't tell if you're bad at taking hints or just really good at ignoring them."
he eyes you from the side, red vermillion the shade of your scarfâthe one he gifted you just a few days ago for christmas. you pout, loosening the fabric around your neck so he can hear you clearly.
"you know," you take in a shaky breath, "this is the f-first time we're at s-something like this as y-y'knowâŠâ you pause, glancing at him to gauge his reaction, ât-together."
his nose turns a shade of pink darker; it's true, and he can hear you clearlyâevery tremor, every shiver. he sees you pretty clearly too, the softest hint of red on your lips. this relationship with you is new, just a little over a couple of months, and it makes him thinkâ
"k-katsuki, are you e-evenâ"
it's reflex when he does itâhis hand shooting out to grip your elbow, pulling you closer into his parka. right where you were standing lands a small clump of snow, fallen from the balcony of the unit above.
you look up almost immediately, a little flustered.
"s-sorryâ"
bakugo feels warm despite the cold, heat blazing across his entire face as little puffs of air tickle his neck when you speak. like he said, this relationship with you is new, and though he's held you a few times already, affection, in any capacity is still something he's getting used to.
and you're aware of that too; of course you are. but when you push yourself away to create some spaceâ
"told you s'fuckin cold."
âhe keeps his other hand on your back, holding you into place.
bakugo is intense in most aspects; he meets things headfirst with no hesitation, but being this close to you makes him feel weird, a kind of unusual he thinks he should approach with cautionâas if to keep himself from ruining the moment.
so his eyes wander. down the street, on the view behind you; they focus on the wisps of your hair ruffled from the earlier breeze, the tips of your eyelashes, blinking. then slowly and carefully, they land on you.
and youâ
you beam, eyes widening momentarily before flashing him the brightest smile. it stills him so much that he doesn't notice your hands loosening the scarf around your neck even more, unwinding the fabric until the lengthened ends sit on your palms.
it's when you say "okay," gently and so... so... sweetly, that he feels the softness of wool hit the tips of his ears and down his neck. an ache spreads throughout his chest as he locks eyes with yours, tongue pushing against the roof of his mouth for another tskâbut you beat him to it, your finger coming up to press against his lips.
"s'cold," you giggle, a hint of teasing.
he narrows his gaze, about to retort when you both hear muffled shouts from inside the party, "ten... nine... eight..."
the group of friends down the street seem to be in on it too, echoes in unison, shouting, "seven... six... five... four..."
and from afar, right where the hotel is situated, are the numbers "three... two... one..." lit up on the sky.
you tug on bakugo's parka to draw his attention; the expression on your face is something he can't quite decipherâwinter on your cheeks and your lower lip pulled between your teeth. the air around him tightens again, evidenced by the way you suck in a breath.
then, it happens all too fastâthe way you tiptoe up just that little bit; your fingertips stamping chills down the edges of his scarred cheek. you kiss bakugo right as the new year strikes and the moment happens too quickly for him to notice.
"happy new year, katsuki," you whisper, close enough that it tickles his chin. it must have been a small peck, it must have been. he can only assume as he blinks it back to memory.
you've kissed beforeâthree times to be exact, four counting this one. and he's not opposed to it (what kind of idiot would be?); in full truth, he fucking loves it.
but, affection is hard, and fuck, it's always been you initiating itâ
"sorry, too much?" you mumble sheepishly, pressing your lips together, "just figured since it's the new year and all..."
âwhich is even more fucked by the fact that you feel the need to apologize for it.
he stares at you, bewildered out of his fucking mind that he still hasn't grown the damn balls to kiss you himself.
so, to hell with new year superstitions, he thinks; bakugo's never believed in playing to luck and chance in the first place. he'll kiss you right now because he wants toâ
because it's what he's been wanting to do since the start of tonight, since yesterday, since a week ago; since you kissed him the very first time and all he could do was stand there, trying to act like the very feel of his lips pressed against yours didn't make his mind howitzer impact right in that moment.
âit just so happens that it's the new year, and it's about damn time he grows the balls to initiate it for once.
his hand reaches for your cheek before you can take a step back, fingers slotting themselves by your ear and resting against the edge of your jaw. your eyebrows shoot up, the look in your eyes something between confused and surprised. his thumb slides itself across your cheek before swiping down to touch the edge of your lips, feeling.
there's a dull warmth beneath the pads of his fingertips, heating up when he leans in. the air tightens; breath on hold as his nose bumps into your skin, and it's faint, the slightest touch of your lips against his. your eyes fall shut before his do, and he shivers, a slight tremble as he deepens the kiss.
he starts out slowly, uncertain, moving his lips tentatively. it's a push and pullâsoft, quick pecks sandwiched between longer, drawn out touching. it almost feels like this moment's been suspended amidst all the noise, lips locked and gliding, lingering; he swears he can feel you grinning.
your fingers grip the fabric of his parka and tug, and he sees it as a signal to be rougher, taking your bottom lip between his and slightly biting. you squeak the tiniest bit, but it's enough to make him pull away completely, eyes wide as his thumb presses against your chin.
"fuck," he whispers, catching his breath as he tugs just enough that he can see the inside of your lower lip, "did i hurt you?"
he's squinting, brows furrowed while looking for any sign of blood when you shake your head, stopping him. his gaze shifts to take you inâyour glossy lips, slick with spit; your eyes, completely blown but somehow still twinkling, and when you giggle, he almost finds it cruel you have to look so fucking pretty.
"it's just your canines," you smile, "i like them."
fuck, he really should've done this sooner.
a/n: this ended up way longer than i planned woops! haven't written bakugo in a while but i miss the guy!! and i wanted to write him so terribly flustered and bad at affection but being so frustrated because he wants to try!!! and he should be better than this!! anyway! i had this idea around christmas time but couldn't write it in time for the new year because i got sick. so it's a little late, but i hope you enjoy!
i'm not sure if you remember my dear willow @willossom, but you sent me a request a good while back for one of my events with the prompt: saying "i love you" in all the ways you aren't used to for bakugo, and this reminded me loads of it!! đ„ș though this isn't the written request for that one yet (i have something else planned for it), i just wanted to let you know that i thought of you while writing this!!!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
summary: honesty, you've realized, is shoutoâs most cunning traitâa quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before.Â
contains: intended as f!reader but no pronouns used, reader wears heels, a skirt, & a dress, post-canon (divergent), aged-up pro-hero!shouto and assistant!reader, workplace romance, development of feelings, confessions, boss/assistant dynamics, co-workers to lovers (ish), todoroki family dynamics and healing, fluff, slow burn. Â
sequel to: two-part something
ao3 mirror
a/n: primarily from shoutoâs perspective but switching of character povâs is denoted by â( )â. i enjoyed the entire process of writing this fic and hope you do too!Â
sponsored by @arcvenes for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please do check it out and support if you can!
this is also my submission for the pretty boy summer collab by @andypantsx3.
I. LISTEN CLOSELY
Much to his relief, Shoutoâs yearly health check-up turns out just fine.Â
His blood work results come back stellar, levels all floating within normal range; some x-rays and scans reveal injuries healing up nicelyâthat collarbone heâd fractured months ago, especially. Save for a few recommendations on better sleep and stress management, Shouto receives no additional diagnoses for anything particularly concerning.Â
Except for this one thingâ
âMaybe you have a crush.â Natsuo sinks into the backrest of his chair. A slight âsqueakâ sounds from its springs as he props one foot up on his knee and clasps his hands over his stomach.Â
Shouto thinks it must be some doctor pose; Natsuoâs been doing it more often now that heâs gotten deeper into his medical practice.Â
In Shoutoâs final year at UA, Natsuo made the decision to fully shift into Pre-Med. The aftermath of the war left a big portion of Musutafu lost and in dire need of a society to believe in. To Natsuo, this felt like a calling; an effort of playing his part to restore faith in a better, functioning system that did not discriminate. Internal medicine felt expansive in that way.
This, of course, also meant that Natsuo was now the (unofficial) assigned private and personal doctor of the Todoroki familyâto Shouto, mostly.Â
Soâ
A⊠Crush?
âHow does that happen?â Shouto turns to his brother, head tilted in confusion. His brows furrow slightly.Â
This isnât what he was expecting at all.Â
âI mean, you said it in your text,â Natsuo reaches for his phone, clicking it open to scroll. The light from his screen reflects on the gray of his irises; then, he air quotes, âyou said: âmy chest feels weirdâ, then when I asked if anything happened,â his index finger glides across the screen, swiping through a long block of text uncharacteristic of Shoutoâs typical dry responses.
âYou detailed the entire scene ofââ he pauses for a moment, squinting to find a specific line, ââa santa hat? Being put on you, or something. You didnât mention who but I figured it wasââÂ
You, Shouto thinks, at the moment Natsuo says your name. That same two-part thump sounds in his ears.Â
You, whoâs stayed by his side for the past five, nearly six years. Youâve carved your presence so deeply into his life, itâs become an undercurrent in his speech. He doesnât even think of having to say your name when he talks about you.Â
You, and how he turns over this familiarity with you inside his brain. How everyone knowsâ
ââwho else stays with you in the agency past office hours, anyway?âÂ
Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing.Â
âWeâve been working together for a while.â Shouto replies, lips pressed firmly into a small pout.Â
If heâs being honest, heâs not sure what compelled him to say something Natsuo already knows. To state the obvious? Or to argue, maybe? To act in denial? To express disbelief?Â
He takes a long breath, surveying Natsuoâs clinic. The walls are pristine white, the desk and examination bed the same shade of ashen grayâa conscious choice to keep patients calm; ironic, given the state of his thoughts right now.Â
Shoutoâs mind is buzzing, and Natsuo watches the muddled confusion in his little brotherâs eyes shift and swirl in blue-gray emotion. Then he chuckles, holding onto his arm rests as he stands up from the other side of his desk.Â
âIt can happen, Shouto.â he plants a palm on his little brotherâs head, ruffling red and white the way he would have when they were teens, âItâs been years, right? Feelings can develop over time, that sorta thing, you know?âÂ
Shouto lets the realization settle in.Â
Under the weight of his brotherâs hand, he feels like a kid againâright before all the training started; and right before being kept away, excluded from the childhood he could have had with his siblings.Â
Shouto feels like a teen again, without the trauma, without the war, being taught things about life and himself, about feelings he never had the time nor capacity to explore.
The two-part thump continues, beating.Â
A crush. On you. Huh.Â
The rustling of his hair dusts strands of warm, fuzzy feelings over his eyelids.Â
This feels⊠new, he thinks.Â
.
.
.
Shouto knows his Mondays.Â
He gets to Shouto Agency an hour before everyone else does because he likes the stillness of it right before the day turns busy. The sun is up but only barely, casting a soft glow of blue and orange hues through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office.Â
This habit began years ago, back when the agency functioned on the 7th floor of a commercial building. It was called Flashfreeze then, and even though it had an entire floor of 24 office units, being in a commercial building still meant sharing common areas with other companies and agencies. The morning rush left the elevators flooded in utter chaos daily.Â
To Shouto, going in early meant less people and less noiseâa quiet bube he could use to prepare himself for the rest of the day. Â
A lot has changed since then: the agencyâs move into a larger, newly constructed building of its own; staff, interns, and sidekicks quadrupling in numbers; better office spaces, bigger teams, more facilitiesâa big expansion, essentially.Â
Somehow, despite being more settled in the industry, he finds that the days feel even busier than before.Â
So, Shouto keeps his Mondays the same: his preference of coming in early carrying itself into this newer, much larger and private office space, and his same habit of brewing himself a cup of tea finding its own spot by the small kitchen nook you helped design during the construction of his office space.Â
Everything about his office is optimized for efficiency: the backdoor, where he enters from on most days, opens to an elevator with a matching staircase that both lead straight down to the costume unit, training grounds, and his own parking area; the blinds of his windows automatically draw up and down at set times of the day; and the minimalism of his entire space is carefully considered, with every area plotted for easy navigation.Â
Itâs sleek and neat, sharp edges and clean lines, straightforward much like he is. Cold, for the most part, save for the corners touched by your warmth.
Pale yellow jars sit on the counter of his kitchen nook, with each one housing sugar, cinnamon, and his stash of tea. Â
When he looks more closely around the room, he spots the fresh flowers on his deskâa vase of luscious white chrysanthemums starkly contrasting the dark grays and browns of his interiors; they tell him you must be in already, because even when he manages to come in an hour ahead, you always, without fail, beat him to it 30 minutes too early.Â
And also, like always, you enter his office in the same way you do every Monday morning.Â
Your heels clack against his stone flooring, marking your arrival. He turns to face you from the kitchen nook, cup of tea in hand as he greets you.Â
âGood morning.âÂ
You jolt, nearly tripping. Your head whips up quickly as you clutch a mass of folders tightly to your chest.Â
He takes a sip of his tea, the corners of his lips curling slightly on the edge of his cup.Â
âSiââ you clear your throat, correcting yourself as you take a breath. Then you smile warmly, bowing your head slightly, âShouto, good morning.âÂ
âYou scared me a bit there,â you add with a soft chuckle.Â
Itâs endearing, he thinks, seeing you caught off guard, so out of your usual composure.
You loosen your grip on the folders, âI just came to place this on your desk,â your finger taps against the plastic, âI didnât notice you were here already, sorry.âÂ
âNo worries,â he sets down his tea cup, pocketing one hand in his sweatpants, âdo you want some tea?âÂ
âIâm good, thank you,â you shake your head, walking towards his desk to set the folders down, âJust a couple of debriefs for the case last month.âÂ
He nods, eyes tracking your movement around the room. You pause then turn to him, clicking your pen as you say, âLet me get your schedule so we can do the run-down.âÂ
Shouto moves to his desk when you leave, settling into the few squeaks and cracks of the leather chair you helped restore using your quirkâthe ability to minimally reconstruct organic matter.Â
Not even a few minutes pass until you return, a tablet perched on the crook of your elbow with a digital pen in hand.Â
This is part of his Monday routine.Â
The agenda you follow is the same: a schedule run-down for the coming week, any notable trips or events, report updates, and department updates. Occasionally, PR will have you relay messages they have trouble communicating nicelyâmost of the time, they involve suggestions for him to âsmile moreâ or âanswer questions more enthusiasticallyâ.Â
You have no problem telling him these things straight up, and he has no issue hearing it directly from you, either.Â
For this week, you detail a few meetings scheduled for tomorrow and Wednesday, along with updates on his costume revisions, to be fitted on Wednesday afternoon, andâ
âDeku requested a joint patrol on Thursday morning, so I moved your fitting for the gala to that evening instead. Is that okay with you?â you look up from your tablet, the tip of your pen hovering over the screen.Â
In this light, youâre bathed in the colors of sunrise.Â
(From where youâre standing, Shouto is backlit by the rising sun. His figure is washed over by a faded shadow, but you can see his eyes clearly, bright turquoise and dark gray staring right at you.
You hold your breath; you are well aware of Shoutoâs tendencies to stare, but heâs taking much longer to answer you this time. And you donât know what to do, where to look. Do you wait untilâ)
Shouto nods, catching himself lingering.Â
You mumble an âokayâ before tapping on your tablet.Â
The rest of your reminders are about upcoming events and deadlines: thereâs the company team building happening in a few weeks, and a few reports due today and tomorrow. Fuyumi moved the family lunch to Saturday to make way for his photoshoot on Sunday.Â
He watches you from his desk as you speak, your foot tapping in conjunction with each item you relay to him, as if marking every point. Itâs a thing you do, something heâs noticed in the years youâve worked together.Â
Shouto knows his Mondays, and heâs always been relaxed during these earlier parts of it.Â
But ever since that check-up with Natsuo, heâs been more⊠conscious about it lately. It seems to be a consistent trend that every time heâs around you, he feels a significant uptick in his heartbeat.Â
Except now, when you speakâ
âWill you be bringing a plus-one to the gala this year? The committee is confirming how many seats theyâll reserve for you.âÂ
âhis heart feels like it drops, plummeting straight to his stomach.Â
He looks at you intently, a slight crease forming between his brows.Â
You go to most of these things with him; you always have, ever since.Â
So, why are you even asking?Â
He thinks about it, deciding what to say next. The thought of you not going with him feels weird. Unusual.Â
If youâre unavailable, he supposes he can just go alone.Â
Butâ
âWhat should I do then?â Shouto shifts in his seat, peering up at his brother.Â
Natsuoâs instinctive reaction is to laugh; after all, itâs not often that you see pro-hero Shouto at a loss on troubleshooting. But when he spots pure and genuine uncertainty swirling in heterochromatic gray and blue, he sees his little brotherâShouto at ages 4, 8, and 12, still a little helpless on what to do.
âDo you want to do something about it?â Natsuo asks gently, squeezing Shoutoâs shoulders.Â
Shouto doesnât say anything.Â
The lack of response tells him all he needs to know.Â
âMaybe figure that out first, then just be honest about it when the time comes. Nothing beats saying it plain and simple.âÂ
ââjust be honest about itâ echoes in his head, Natsuoâs voice morphing into his own.
âWill you not be available?â he manages to ask flatly, masking his worry.Â
(You look up from your tablet and his eyes meet yours, an intensity in his gaze thatâs only been directed at you a handful of times before.)Â
âOh,â you fluster a little, shifting your weight, âI will be, but I just thoughtâŠâ
He can hear you hesitate, voice trailing off as if contemplating your next words. His head dips to coax you to go on.Â
â...I just thought, maybe youâd want to bring someone from your family?â you give a small smile, half-genuine, half-uncertain.Â
You know Shoutoâs family; know their stories and know what each of them are like, individually.Â
You know how far theyâve come into healing, seeing Touya through multiple cycles of rehab and relapse. Youâve witnessed his motherâs strength first-hand, watching her rebuild their family with the help of Fuyumi. On the weekends when work wouldnât let up for Shouto, sheâd welcome you to join in family lunches too.Â
There were days during Natsuoâs medical internship when heâd go to the office at midnight because the hospital was nearby. It was the only free time he and Shouto had at the time, but Natsuo would ask you to join in, the three of you slurping on cup noodles while Natsuo prattled on about the absurdity of some of his coworkers.Â
So, Shouto can fully understand your intentions. After all, he thinks youâve been instrumental to his familyâs healing, too.Â
But he has his reasons for never bringing Fuyumiâshe usually has school the next day, if not volunteer work at an orphanage. Natsuo has gotten increasingly busier with his practice, and TouyaâTouya is still in rehab, and though heâs allowed at home three times a week, Shoutoâs sure heâd rather spend it doing things other than being in a room full of pro-heroes.Â
âIt might be nice to bring your mom,â you add on.
And as for thatâ
âThe gala is this Friday?â he leans forward, the tips of his bangs brushing his eyelids.Â
You nod.
âShe and Touya are going to the gardens,â he recalls, his mother casually mentioning it the last time he visited.Â
You look pleasantly surprised, âOh,â then your small smile returns, âthatâs good to hear.âÂ
(It must mean a lot to Rei, you think. Sheâs always wanted to make up for lost time.)Â
You donât say anything else, silence filling the conversation as you hold his gaze.
It isnât uncommon for Shouto to hold stare-offs, with you especially, but this might just be the first time he feels fully conscious about itâwondering what youâre thinking; if you can read his mind and tell what heâs thinking.Â
âDo you not want to join me?â he asks, a small pout forming on his face.Â
(The softness of his cheeks sink just a little bit, and his eyes lose some of the luster they typically carry in the morning.Â
He looks so sad, you wish you just said yes in the first place.Â
How do you even respond to this?)Â
âNo, n-noââ you stutter, inching forward subconsciously, ââitâs nothing like that.âÂ
You check your tablet, swiping through your calendar. He can see portions of it from where heâs sitting, your Friday definitely freed up and empty.Â
He pushes himself up, standing to full-height. His hands dig into the pockets of his sweatpants as he tilts his head to the side.Â
âWhat seems to be the problem then?âÂ
(In your years of knowing Shouto, youâve learned that he never intends to sound harsh even though his words may seem like it. But even though youâre aware that he only means to be curious, you still feel a little embarrassed admitting that you didnât anticipate the possibility of going to the gala with him this Friday.Â
Youâve always been prepared; itâs in your job description to be like this. You should have had a back-up dress just in case. You shouldnât have shown Shouto your hesitation in the first place.
So, you breathe out, voice level and calm. This is your problem to fix, you donât have to let him know about it. Youâll find a way, like you always do.)Â
âThereâs no problem. Iâll add my name to the list then.â
Then you smile, but itâs just a touch uneasy, and if thereâs one thing you underestimate about Shoutoâfor just as much as you know him, heâs gotten to know you pretty well too.Â
He pauses. The last thing he would want is for you to feel forced to go.
âIf you have other plans, I hope you donât feel obligated to go. I can go alone.â
His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking.Â
(And you can see it, that little pout on his face staying right where it is.Â
Youâre endeared, touched by his consideration.
âI donât have other plans,â you grin, brighter and more at ease, âand I donât feel forced to go either,â you sigh, hiding a small chuckle.Â
A pause.Â
You mull it over before deciding to admit why you were hesitant in the first place, âI thought you were going to bring your mom, so I wasnât able to prepare a dress.â)
Shoutoâs eyes widen slightly, mouth opening to express his apologies.Â
âButâ!â you interrupt, âThatâs my fault,â you raise your hand, swaying it side-to-side. âSo please donât worry about it. Iâll take care of it.âÂ
The smile on your face is meant to reassure him, he knows, but he still feels guilty.Â
This Fridayâs gala is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards; itâs grand because itâs important, and the dress code is always black-tieâeverything typically made custom.Â
He tilts his head slightly, thinking, eyes zeroing in on the small calendar propped up on his desk.
âMy suit is being made by Bakugoâs parents, correct?âÂ
You nod, reiterating, âYour final fitting is on Thursday night.â
His gaze flits to you once again.Â
(Thereâs that look in his eyes youâve become all too familiar withâa glint of mischief accompanying a sort-of âEureka!â moment that means heâs thought of something.
The pieces click together, realization dawning upon you, but when you open your mouth to refuseâ)
âI can ask them to do yours as well.â Shouto beats you to it.Â
It wouldnât be fair for you to scramble for your outfit last minute simply because he assumed you knew you were going. You shouldnât be more stressed than you already are.Â
âSiâ Shouto,â you say firmly, âThatâs too much.âÂ
âIâm sure they wonât mind,â he flashes you a small smile.Â
(And you hate to admit it, but heâs right.
The Bakugoâs have known you for as long as youâve been Shoutoâs assistant. Theyâve consistently designed his suits for big events like the Pro-Hero Awards, and Mitsuki has always extended their services to you too, knowing full well that you are Shoutoâs plus-one most of the time.Â
She likes to chat with you during suit pick-ups, with Masaru serving you a cup of tea as you wait for minor tweaks and adjustments to Shoutoâs outfits.Â
âIt would be too last minute,â you resist, feeling bad for the hassle this would impose on them.
âThen I can call them later today.â Shouto reaches for his phone, eagerly typing what you assume is a reminder to call Mitsuki some time later, just as he said he would.Â
âYouââ your voice hesitates, âyou donât have to do that. I can contact their secretaryââ
This is part of your job, after all.Â
âIt will be much faster if I call them directly.âÂ
And while he does have a point, you still feel bad, inching closer towards his desk, âItâs okay, you shouldnât have to concern yourself with thisââÂ
He gives you a look.Â
You stop moving.Â
Shouto is stubborn, this much you know. When he looks like this, youâre well aware that thereâs no point dissuading him from doing something heâs already set his mind to.)
âItâs only right given that I told you last minute.âÂ
He tells this to you sincerely; it really is the least he can do.Â
Besidesâ
ââŠbe honestâŠâ the words replay in his head.
âhe swallows his truth; lets it sink deep into stomach along with that two-part thump in his chest.Â
âI only feel comfortable going to these with you, anyway.âÂ
(Your mind blanks, coming up with nothing else to say but âokayâ.)Â
.
.
.
Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van.Â
The building ahead of him is colossal, tall pillars and perfect arches made of raw stone and marbleâit feels both ancient and otherworldly, fitting to represent Musutafu in this new age. Ahead of him, the staircase stretches on, steps spanning the width of half a block. Down its center cascades a luscious carpet, thick velvet that further lends to the grandeur of the event.Â
Standing at the foot of the staircase, Shouto takes a moment to unbutton his suit jacket, revealing his perfectly fitted waistcoat underneath.Â
(You know he isnât doing it on purpose; itâs hardly ever Shoutoâs intention to make people swoon, but youâre positive that that one move alone can make anyone melt on sightâyou included.)Â
Tonight is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards, a prestigious event where hero rankings, major announcements, and charity biddings take place.Â
(Itâs not anything new to the both of you, but Shouto skipped out on the past two, and itâs been years since you joined him on the last one he went to. Being here again after so long makes you feel a little out of practice.
After he scales the flight of stairs ahead, Shouto turns back to you, offering his arm for support as you step down from the vehicle. You hesitate, partly because you donât know whether itâs acceptable behavior for you to take it, and also because you donât remember if this was something you did the last time you went to one of these with him.
You canât think straightânot when he looks as seraphic as he does, face half-illuminated by the lights behind him with the shadows hugging the softness of his cheeks.Â
Shouto is beautiful, a fact youâve known long before you ever even started working with him; but youâre reminded of that fact in moments like this, especially.Â
âThe steps are tall,â he tells you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you glance back at the staircase behind him. You try not to stare, but the strands that frame his forehead shift from his sudden movement; it scatters into a perfect messâcharacteristic of how anything out of place always seems to look on him.
You take his offer.)
His forearm is firm against your palm, the thick fabric of his suit jacket providing cushion for your touch. When he bends it towards his chest, your fingers slip towards the crook of his elbow.Â
Scarlet red contrasts the buildingâs stone white structures, the carpet providing a center stage for all heroes and public figures to parade their outfits. If not for the photographers yelling, âShouto, right!â and âShouto, left!â, he would have gone straight inside, barely pausing on the landings between each flight of stairs.Â
You stand to the side when he takes them, just as you always do. But between each flash that goes off, Shouto thinks about whether you should join him too; after all, Mitsuki did intend for the dark navy of your dress to match the stone gray of his three-piece suit.Â
When you finally arrive at the lobby of the city hall, the two of you are welcomed into a receiving area adorned with crystal chandeliers. The lights bounce off the sharp white edges of the buildingâs neoclassical interiors, the carpetâs scarlet red returning as a recurring motif in the form of drapes cascading from the high ceilings and down the sides of the room.
By this time, Shoutoâs relaxed a bit more, his hand slipping loosely into his front pocket.Â
(You donât realize youâre still holding onto him until youâre midway across the floor.)Â
âHey, you guys!â Kirishima waves over, squeezing himself within a narrow space between the backs of who look like one of the executives of the hero commission and last yearâs awarded peace ambassador.Â
(You donât know how he could have possibly fit, the width of him wider than any pro-hero you know, but you chuckle at his timid mumbles of âsorry, excuse me, just passing through.â It reminds you of how he typically approaches you when he asks for favors regarding joint patrols and assignments with Shouto.
He greets you both with his trademark hug, a bone-crushing grip that leaves you a little winded.)Â
âI didnât know the two of you were coming!âÂ
âIt was a last minute decision,â Shouto smiles, small and fond.Â
(You look at Shouto intently from beside Kirishima, as if processing what he means. And when his eyes meet yours, you feel caught, shy, averting your gaze quickly.)
Kirishima clears his throat, no doubt noticing the interaction but choosing to focus on something else insteadâShoutoâs outfit, a dark navy tie tucked underneath a fitted gray waistcoat; the white collar of his button down peeking through the all stone-gray ensemble. His hair is styled down, bangs curled inwards to form commas that frame his forehead. Â
âLooking good, man.â the red head deflects, joining his index finger and thumb to form an âO-Kâ sign as he nods at Shouto. Then he turns to you, the same genuine smile on his face as he says, âThat color really suits you.âÂ
You smile sheepishly, mumbling, âThanks.âÂ
(Kirishima is a sweetheart; you can never doubt that his intentions are pure. But the attention makes you feel a little self-conscious, even more now thatâ)Â
Shouto looks at you then, again, too.
Itâs the only time heâs managed to get a real good look at you if heâs being honest; from the incident in the car to the flashing lights up the staircase, there havenât been many opportunities to fully see what youâre wearing.Â
Andâ
Kirishimaâs right.Â
The color really does suit you, but so does the design of your dressâa simple cowl neck joining into halter straps; it dips low at the back, this detail of it, he knows. Heâs been careful not to touch you there the entire time so far. It doesnât help that your hair is tied into a low bun, accentuating the vacant space with how the dress hugs you beautifully in all the right places.Â
The dark navy satin was a good choice, the perfect vessel for catching ripples of light.Â
Itâs simple but classic; understated, just like the accessories youâve chosen are. And it brings out the one thing he thinks carries this look the mostâ
You.Â
He tries to form the words in his head, urging himself to speak upâhe wants to give you a compliment of his own.Â
Butâ
âBakubro!â Kirishima waves overhead, much like he did earlier.Â
âmaybe he can try again next time.Â
You and Kirishima donât stay long after Bakugo arrives, Ashido coming in to whisk you and the redhead away to the main room. She loops her arm around yours and pulls you towards her, prompting you to give one last glance at Shouto as an expression of your apologies.Â
The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit.Â
Bakugo watches.Â
âDonât forget the drinks, Blasty!â Ashido calls over her shoulder, green silk flowing behind her.Â
He tuts, grumbling as he heads towards the reception bar, leaving Shouto in the middle of the receiving area, unsure of where to follow.Â
âYâcoming or what?âÂ
Shouto lingers for a few seconds, watching your back disappear into the hall before he decides to walk after Bakugo. Â
The lobby begins to quiet down as people flood into the main event area, a large hall adorned with the same scarlet red drapes and crystal chandeliers. The table arrangements have been pre-selected and arranged, you and the others most likely finding your seats inside.Â
âOld hag told me youâre dating.âÂ
Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto.Â
The bar in front of them offers a generous selection of drinks, all ranging from different wines to cocktails and liquor shots. It isnât a surprise that Bakugo knows all of his friendsâ chosen drinks, down to each specificityâitâs how he shows that he cares. Shoutoâs come to learn that over the years.Â
Their friendship has settled into its own dynamic as Bakugoâs mellowed down. Shouto will ask a question here and there, and Bakugo will look at him like heâs the dumbest fuck on the planet, but still answer anyway.Â
It works, as evidenced by right now.Â
Shouto stops right beside Bakugo, leaning against the countertop as he hums, confused, âWho?âÂ
Bakugo sighs, sliding Shouto his gin and tonic, âMom.â Then he rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the door of the main room, âShe told me you two are finally dating.â
Shouto pauses mid-sip.Â
When he recalls the conversation he had with Mitsuki, it went a lot more like:
âCan a dress be made for my assistant as well?â he speaks into the line, âI will be bringing them to the gala.âÂ
He doesnât think he insinuated anything.Â
But now that he replays it in his head, itâs no wonder Mitsukiâs enthusiastic reply sounded so eager.Â
Bakugo snorts, smirking as if his suspicion was just proven right, âKnew that lady was hearinâ shit.âÂ
The bartender serves up another drink, Ashidoâs raspberry daiquiri being placed right in front of the blond before he moves on to mix another one. Clacking ice fills in the silence, the drink coming together inside the shaker.Â
Shouto stares at his drink and watches as little bubbles form on the slice of lime submerged in it.Â
âAre you at least thinkinâ about it?â the blond faces Shouto, leaning his forearm against the counter.Â
Shouto furrows his brows, a single thought running through his mind.
âHow did you know?âÂ
Bakugo stares, deep vermillion as he speaks, deadpan, âYou canât be serious.âÂ
Shouto stares right back.Â
Another drink is served, Kaminariâs mixed drink of vodka, lime, and lemonade.
The stare-off persists for a few seconds, a series of blinks emphasizing Shoutoâs cluelessness to the whole ordeal. Becauseâwhy does it feel like everyone knows? Did he mention it without knowing? Or is it really just that obvious?
Bakugo sighs, mentally facepalming as he turns back to watch the bartender shake another drink, âWhatever. Sânone of my business.â He leans onto the counter, elbows resting on the steeltop.Â
Shouto isnât sure what else to say. He knows that Bakugo is observant, that his friend has always had a keen sense of awareness for the things going on around him; it just never crossed his mind that that would include his interactions with you.
The blond slides over Ashidoâs drink, prompting Shouto to hold the flute of the glass between his fingers, âJust donât be a fuckinâ dumbass about it. Gotta be dense as hell if you think the way youâre treated is part of the job description.â
The bartender serves up the final drink: Seroâs whiskey on the rocks. Bakugo takes it along with Kaminariâs and starts walking back to the main room, Shouto following right behind him.Â
He thinks about it.Â
A thump.Â
Because right before they both enter the hall, Shouto spots you, further back at the right side of the room as you laugh at something Yaoyorozu must have said.Â
He blinks, wondering if the soft glow around you is from the haziness of his eyes.Â
âIf yâdonât do shit first, some other loser will,â Bakugo mumbles, just within ear-shot before he walks ahead to where Kirishima and the others are seated.Â
Shouto makes a mental note to drop off Ashidoâs drink before heading over to you.Â
.
.
.
You and Shouto leave the gala early.
A message from the police station came in the middle of the event: a request to bump up a few reports for submission tomorrow.
Youâd mentioned to Shouto that he could stay, especially since heâd be needed to accept awards that you were sure heâd be the recipient ofâamong them being one of the top performing agencies of the year, a big chunk of it based on the high turnover rate of timely reports. But he insisted that someone else could represent him instead; heâs certain Midoriya wouldnât mind.Â
If you were going back to the agency to work, so was he.Â
The night shift at the agency is minimally staffed, with most sidekicks and pro-heroes out on patrol. Regular employees have clocked out by this time, and it seems that the only ones left in the building are the emergency unit and the two of you.Â
Youâve split the work between you two: Shouto tasked to fill in the second pages, where the scene-by-scene breakdown and additional comments can be found, and you, in charge of summarizing those details along with all basic information onto the first pages.Â
It feels nostalgic, watching you flip through the papers laid out on the coffee table of his lounging area at a quarter past midnight. Back then, he had just hired you, and the only other employees in the agency were his gear tech and PR manager. There was no way the volume of workload could be managed without spending late nights organizing investigations and reports on the floor of that rented studio unit.Â
Now, you sit by the coffee table in his lounging area, one you helped decorate. The books atop it have been pushed to the side to give you ample workspace, but even those remind him of how much consideration youâve put into helping him build his space.Â
Bakugoâs words linger when he thinks about itâhow the books youâve chosen remind him of his family. Thereâs one on the language of flowers that his mother would love, and a cookbook that heâs sure Fuyumiâs used (some corners are folded, with her handwriting scrawled on every other page). On another stack lie a few comic books he remembers Touya and Natsuo reading when they were younger (that heâs pretty sure heâs seen them flip through during their visits to his office over the years). Â
And along with all the books sits a family photo taken years ago, framed and taken by you during one of their annual trips to their family beach house a few hours away from the city.Â
It begins to sink in.Â
A thump.
He folds the sleeves of his button down to his elbows, his gray suit jacket long since draped over the back of his leather chair. Youâve changed out of your heels too, opting instead for the soft slippers you keep under your desk.Â
Itâs cute, he thinks, the formality of your entire get-up toned down by a pair of fluffy yellow slippers.Â
When he glances at you again, he finds you hunched over yourself on the sofa of his lounging area, an arm wrapped around yourself as if to contain whatever warmth you have left.Â
He furrows his brows.Â
âAre you cold?â his voice booms through the stillness of his office, jostling you out of focus. You whip your head up to look at him, shaking it immediately as if on autopilot.Â
(He pouts, then, a small downturn of his lips that you find adorable, more than anything.)Â
âIâm okay,â you smile, but he can see the slight twitching of your lip; the goosebumps dotting down your trembling arms.Â
You always seem to be doing things like this with him.Â
He pushes himself away from his desk, the wheels of his chair rolling against the stone floor.Â
You never express your discomfort in any situation youâre put in, and you diligently work and endure all conditions to get the job done. He always extends his help, but you often decline, andâ
âYou have to be dense as hell if you think the way youâre treated is part of the job description.â
âShouto is beginning to realize that the way you treat him really is so much more than that.Â
Youâve laid the groundwork of the operations in his agency and you always smooth talk your way to getting him out of schedules he mistakenly forgets to show up to (typically with good reason, though). You cover all the areas he missesâthis entire building would not be how it looks and functions without your help overseeing its construction.Â
Youâre organized and driven, eager and compassionate, and you care, above all else.Â
The flowers you leave on his desk are never needed, but you always insist on them to keep his space alive. You fix all his clumsy papercuts, even though he never asks you to; heâs dealt with much, much worse, yet itâs only a split-second after you spot it that the tingling of your quirk works its way to mend his split skin.Â
Itâs just like what happened in the car earlier tonight, a few minutes away from reaching the city hall. Shouto had accidentally cut himself with the invitation to the gala, and though he insisted that it was okay, it was right on his eyelidâa miracle it even missed his eyeball in the first place, youâd commented.Â
You managed to convince him then, saying, âItâs going to sting every time you blink.â âwhich was true; it did sting every time he blinked.Â
That care extends to the people in his life too. His mom loves to go to the weekend market with you, and Fuyumi can always count on you to help her cook when she needs an extra hand. You keep up with Natsuoâs jokes and Touya talks to you, long enough conversations that allow him to be himself.Â
You care, and you insist upon your care especially when you know he needs it but would never ask for it.Â
Itâs only fair, then, that itâs time he does the same for you.Â
He removes the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, the movement drawing your attention.Â
(Your eyes widen as he approaches you. You feel shy, a little flustered as you raise your hands up to reassure him that you donât need it.)Â
âYour arms are shivering.â he points out, holding up the thick fabric.Â
You crane your neck up to look at him, just a few steps away from reach.Â
(You canât deny the facts.)
From above, he only sees skinâthe plunging dip of your exposed back, the small hairs standing along your arms. He tries his best to look into your eyes only, butâ
âAt least let me place this over you.âÂ
(And you know you canât deny Shouto, either.)Â
âwhen you concede and let him, he steps closer and bends just a little bit, his full height too tall to be able to place it on you properly. His arms circle around you, carefully resting the thick wool around your neck and onto your shoulders.Â
He bends lower to adjust the sleeves, making sure that your arms are fully covered. Youâre so still, and so close, the tips of his ears nearly touching the highest points of your cheeks.Â
(Itâs just like the galaâ)
Itâs just like the carâ
(âwith Shouto helping you navigate through the crowd of people exiting the event as early as you both did. His presence was a steady heat against your back, near and warm but barely touching.)
âwith your face almost nose-to-nose with his; apart from the gentle touch of your fingertip against his eyelid, Shouto can only remember feeling that, along with the traitorous thump of his heartbeat.Â
Itâs a good thing that he had his eyes closed then; he wouldnât have known how to react at the proximity.Â
But now, he can see you so clearly, your low bun kept in place by bobby pins the same color of your hair; thereâs glitter on the inner corners of your eyes, some of it falling to dot the corners of your nose.Â
This has to be more than just a crush if heâs feeling this intensely. Â
Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then itâs two blinks before you look away, clearing your throat as you glance at him again, a little bashful, âThank you.âÂ
Shouto nods, taking one step back.Â
âThe estate we booked for the company outing offered to host a visit for you next weekend.â you speak before he fully returns to his seat, shifting in your seat, âI checked your schedule and thereâs nothing set for that day yet.â His suit jacket dwarfs you, the deep navy silk becoming an accent the further you sink into it, âMaybe youâd like to go with your mom?â
You suggest it to him again. Because you know and you care.Â
He taps his foot, looking out into the city, âThat would be nice.â Then he turns back to you, strands of his bangs falling to dust his forehead as he puts his hands inside his pockets, âYouâll be coming too, then?âÂ
(There are things you donât allow your heart to feel in moments like thisâhope being one of them. Shouto looks dangerously attractive in a suit, and itâs been difficult to keep your feelings at bay the entire night. He speaks honestly, rarely with double meaning, so when he speaks to you like this, you try not to think too much of it.Â
âYes,â you agree, thinking that he must want you to scope out the venue for the company outing activities, âis there anything in particular that you want me to check out for the team building?â)
Shouto tilts his head.Â
âNot for work,â he clarifies, staring straight into your eyes. âJust to spend the day with us.âÂ
He expects your reaction already, your eyes widening and your hands raising to wave off a âthereâs no need.â But, he finds that thereâs no reason for you to be shy, already beating you to the final say.
âMom would want you there,â he mentions, because itâs true. Sheâd look for you.Â
And if heâs being completely honest with himself, with how heâs been feeling around you latelyâhe would too.Â
II. IF I SPEAK
The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends.Â
Since Touyaâs return, his mom has moved into a smaller, more modern place to stay. The walls of its exteriors are painted a warm off-white, its features complemented by light wood and bluish-gray accents. At the back exists a garden large enough for a few small trees and her growing flower collectionâa complete flip from their larger and darker old home.Â
The tall windows stream sunlight into the living space, each corner of the house doused in its comfort. Opting for a smaller home was a conscious choiceâeverything would be within reach, and so would the people in it.Â
On the days that Touya is allowed to stay home from rehab, he lives here, sometimes with Fuyumi, but always with Rei.Â
âFood is ready!â Fuyumi calls from the kitchen, prompting Touya and Natsuo to look over from the couch. Shouto is just about to finish setting the table when Rei brings out a piping hot pot of soup, Fuyumi in tow with a whole plate of tonkotsu.Â
Natsuo heads inside the kitchen for anything else that might need carrying, and Touya opens the fridge to take out the iced tea he helped make last night.
Itâs taken some time to get hereâwith Touya willingly doing anything with his family. Getting used to living with people he thought abandoned him for a decade is hard; learning to become a family has been even harder.Â
But Touya has always lived in a special corner of his motherâs heartânever forgotten and always considered. Shouto thinks itâs the same case for all of them; thatâs how itâs managed to work.Â
Touya takes his seat beside Shouto, pouring himself a glass of iced tea while waiting for the rest of their family.Â
âPlayed any golf lately?â Touya eyes Shouto from the side. Â
Shouto shakes his head, staring at his palms; calluses used to line the base of his fingers, âWork at the agency has gotten busy.âÂ
Taking up golf has been part of Touyaâs rehabilitation program for the past few months, a recommendation to aid in improving focus while keeping himself calm. And though there was much resistance at first, Touyaâs grown fond enough of the sport to play it on his own; itâs made all the difference, Shoutoâs noticed, his brotherâs overall disposition a lot less angryâ
âLooks like Iâm going to beat your ass next week,â Touya smirks, cracking his wrists.Â
âbut still equally as snarky.
Shouto doesnât normally care about competition; the only person he really has to beat is himself. But he and Touya are alike in many ways, with eyes as sharp as their fatherâs but their faces holding the same innocence as their motherâs. They are both lit up by firesâone forced to blaze and the other forced to dim. There is a bluntness Shouto shares with Touya that no one else in the family can argue with.
âBeing too confident can jinx it for you on the fairway,â Shouto replies, turning to his brother with his signature blank gaze.Â
Natsuo laughs as he settles into his seat beside Touya, watching as his older brotherâs smirk quickly dissolves into a frown.Â
âLittle shit,â Touya mumbles, taking a sip from his drink.Â
The corners of Shoutoâs lips curl up slightly.Â
Rei and Fuyumi join the table last, bringing out a steaming pot of rice and a few side dishes to complement the rest of the meal.Â
These family lunches keep them connected.Â
Fuyumi believes that no matter how busy they are, having this time to gather together and share details on each otherâs lives is important.
âSorry I canât join you and these two next weekend, mom,â Natsuo starts, slicing through his tonkotsu as he points an elbow towards his brothers, âThe hospital has a medical mission out of town.âÂ
Rei simply smiles, waving her hand, âNo need to apologize. Iâm so proud of you, Natsuo.âÂ
âWill you be free, Fuyumi?â she turns next to her, placing a hand on Fuyumiâs lap.Â
Fuyumi swallows her food, smiling apologetically, âSorry, mom, the schoolâs hosting a kiddie pool party for the first day of summer.â Â
Rei pats her lap reassuringly, smiling again as she says, âItâs no problem, Iâm glad the kids are having fun under your care.âÂ
âItâll just be the three of us, then.â Rei looks at her two boys across from herâher eldest and her youngest.Â
Touya blows at his bowl, puffs of steam dissipating into the air. For as hot as Touyaâs flames can get, he dislikes anything too hot to eatâa preference of his that Reiâs taken note of as she reaches across the table to cool down his bowl ever so slightly.Â
âThanks,â Touya mumbles, still hesitant to call her âmomâ when itâs face-to-face.Â
âI heard the estate has a greenhouse,â Shouto mentions, Rei instantly perking up at the information, âYou can take a look at the plants there, mom.âÂ
âThat sounds lovely, Shouto,â she smiles; this time, it reaches her eyes, âWe can take photos in your handsome outfits too.âÂ
Touya scrunches his nose as Shouto nods. As per the invitation, the estate prepared a whole dayâs worth of activitiesâa game of golf in the morning, brunch by the gardens, and a simple wine tasting to cap off the afternoon.Â
Lunch continues with Fuyumi sharing more about the kids sheâs handling this year, and Natsuo retelling interactions of the most obnoxious patients heâs had yet.Â
They laugh, a little more like a familyâShouto chuckling as Touya gives a snarky comment or two. Fuyumi laughs, full-bodied, and Rei giggles, softly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.Â
âHow are your flowers, mom?â Shouto asks after they settle down, remembering that you helped her pick out which ones to plant last time.Â
âThe morning glories are going to be blooming soon,â Rei replies, her smile fond and proud. Since being released from the hospital years ago, sheâs taken to planting and flower arranging, oftentimes asking you to help her choose which ones to use.Â
âReally?â Fuyumi turns her head, gasping as she catches a glance from the window across the room, âThey look good, mom! Can I have some when they bloom?âÂ
Rei nods, turning to her youngest, âYou can get some too, Shouto.âÂ
For you, she adds.
Natsuo eyes him from the side as he freezes, Rei suggesting some more, âYou can place it in a vase. Itâs not fair, you always receive flowers for your desk.âÂ
Shouto nods, a small âokayâ because he doesnât really know how else to respond without giving his feelings away.Â
Touya observes Shoutoâs expressions, his eyes twinkling in sinister aquamarine.
âSpeaking of,â he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs to face Shouto, âsâyour hot assistant coming?âÂ
Something twists in Shoutoâs face, his brows furrowing slightly.Â
Touya knows just how to get on Shoutoâs nerves.
(What stares back at him is a deadly shade of gray and blue.Â
Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun.Â
Shouto stares at almost everyone he interacts with; itâs unnerving and uncomfortable for people who arenât used to it, but Touyaâs noticed that his little brother stares at you for far longer than he needs to.Â
And though heâs missed a big chunk of how Shouto grew up, he likes to think he reads him pretty well nowâhow he acts around you, especially.
At his core, Shouto believes in carving his own path, choosing to fix wrongs and better himself for the now. Touya knows these things, knows where a person is weakest, just like heâs been taughtâjust like heâs been made aware of his entire life. Yet, for how independent Shoutoâs become, he still chooses to lean on you; turns to you for thoughts and opinions, considering you in everything.Â
Touya has met you a few times; the whole family has. During the worst of his relapse, you were the only person apart from family who was trusted to accompany him in and out of rehab. You picked him up and dropped him off, often joining Rei and Fuyumi on visits when Shouto would be too busy.Â
To him, youâre an extension of Shouto at this pointâan olive branch thatâs been just as instrumental in healing this family and the people in it.Â
Itâs never in the big things, but those few minutes of small talk you attempt with him in the car ride home help loosen his tongue, training a muscle that with time, has helped him open up more.Â
Touya doesnât care much for people; heâs still just beginning to learn to love his family again, but he thinks you fit in well, because you and Natsuo have the same god-awful humor, and Fuyumi only trusts you to help out in the kitchen. His mom likes having you around, and you never stick your neck in too deep in other peopleâs shit when they arenât ready for itâespecially his. You never nag Shouto, but you stand firm on the things you disagree with, because as far as Touya can see, you care, far deeper than your job requires you to.Â
In all ways, you are the stability and calm authenticity that Shouto needs after growing up in such a tumultuous family.
So, Touya likes to stir the pot a little. Or a lot. Maybe.
Just for fun.)
Shouto continues to stare, his frown deepening. His jaw clenches, tension throbbing in his temples.
âDonât say it like that,â he mutters, low and firm.
He feels like a kid again; like this would be a conversation theyâd be having if things were normal and Touya had been around when Shouto turned 15, teasing him about a crush he might have, like older brothers do.Â
Natsuo and Fuyumi have always felt like his protectors, siblings forced to be parents by circumstance; but Touya feels like his brother, the one he can fight and steal food from; the one who holds a toy up above head where Shouto canât reachâeven though heâs much, much taller than his older brother now.Â
Touya scoffs, smirking, âJust saying what you think, little brother.â
.
.
.
All Shouto hears is a thump.Â
A succession of them, in a steady three-part beat.Â
The golf ball in front of him sits on an even plot of vibrant green, its dents and grooves emphasized by the sunlight of the early morningâthereâs pressure, a thump; he needs to beat Touya in this hole to tie overall. Another thump; youâre watching him play.Â
He analyzes all conditions, feels the heat on his back seep through the fabric of his white golf shirt. He breathes in and prepares to swing.Â
Today is the visit to the estate.Â
The agenda starts with an early game of golf, followed by brunch at the gardens and wine tasting in the early to late afternoon. Itâs a beautiful day, and Shouto should be focusing on winning this game, but itâs distracting when youâre all heâs really thought about since the start of this round.Â
âyou, in your perfectly fitted white golf shirt and its complementary skirt; you, sitting with his mom at the back of the golf cart, smiling and laughing as if you arenât the slightest bit aware of how much you brighten a space when you look like that. You, with your head whipping right in his direction when you hear the loud âswauck!â that the impact of his club makes with the ballâyour eyes excited and hopeful.Â
Shouto misses the hole, and Touya snickers from the side.Â
The thumbs up you give him is a soothing balm to his miss.
Shouto readjusts his cap as they walk closer to the hole, tucking in the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. He glances back at you and lingers, interrupted only byâ
âPretty thing, your assistant,â Touya teases, nudging his head towards your direction, âCute skirt and all.âÂ
âStop.â Shouto stares, impassive and unamused. His eyebrow twitches before he turns, walking away.Â
From afar, he can hear Touyaâs chuckle, breathy from the movement of fixing his arm sleeve. Shouto only pays attention to preparing his putter. Â
He knows this is just how his older brother is.Â
Since the start of this round, Touyaâs managed to lead by a few strokes, with Shouto falling behind in every hole. Itâs frustrating and annoying, aggravated even more by Touyaâs teasing and the fact that Shouto has played the sport for far longer than Touya has.
It doesnât help that he ends up missing again, with Touya managing to make the put afterwards.Â
Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw.Â
âYou know,â Touya eyes him as they walk to the next hole, âstaringâs not gonna get you anywhere.âÂ
âIâm not staring,â Shouto retorts immediately. The expanse of greenery ahead of him is taunting, an endless plot of land that feels like itâs watching. Â
Touya scoffs, âSure.âÂ
The golf course in the estate is landscaped with luscious trees, vibrant in the brightness of summer. Flowers bloom along the perimeter, yellows and reds carving out this specific section of the estate. You and his mom follow closely behind, riding the cart at a slow and steady pace.Â
Just a few meters down, the little red flag for the next hole comes into view, moving with the breeze.Â
âIf you donât plan on acting on it, you should let me know.â Touya mentions it a little too casually.Â
Another thump.Â
Itâs a joke. Obviously. Something only meant to rile him upâitâs how Touya is.Â
But it still makes him feel just a tad bit uneasy; it makes him feel a little bit like it did when they were kids.Â
Before Touya disappeared, they used to sneak into the garden on winter nights. Shouto must have been no older than five and learning how to manage his quirk properly.Â
They used to play a game: The Twigfire Race, Touya called itâa competition on who can form the longest and fastest fire trail using a bunch of twigs.Â
Touya would always win, his long legs and lanky arms gathering more sticks than Shouto ever could at that age. His flames burned a deep azure blue, eating through the twigs much faster than Shoutoâs flames did. Then, heâd press onto the pads of his burnt fingertips, teasing Shouto in some twisted attempt at motivating his little brother to do better.Â
Touya would always win, but not without getting a word in. Not without leaving Shouto with a lesson or two about it.Â
âI said, stop.â Shouto warns him, voice stern as he turns slightly to catch his brother's eyes.Â
âDamn. You donât have to tell me if you donât want to,â Touya raises a hand in mock surrender, smirking, âI can just do it without asking you.âÂ
Shouto stops walking, fists clenched tightly around his golf club.Â
âThatâs not funny.âÂ
âOh, Iâm not joking,â Touya taunts, holding back his laugh.
The stare Shouto gives him turns icy, glare intensifying as he inches closer towards his big brother. Touya doesnât move, the stare-off lasting long enough for you to notice the confrontation.Â
From his periphery, Shouto can see you looking at them in confusion.Â
âOr am I?â Touya snickers right before he turns away, walking straight towards the next hole.Â
Shouto watches him walk away, each thump matching the footsteps his brother makes. To the side, the cart slows to a halt and you get off, standing up as if to gain a better view of what just happened.Â
You lock eyes with Shouto and he musters a small smile, raising a hand as if to say âeverythingâs fine.âÂ
âLosers lose âcause they donât get shit done, Shouto!â Touya calls from a few steps ahead.Â
Shouto stares at his brotherâs back; itâs just how Touya used to say when they were kidsâ
âYou just have to go for it!âÂ
He takes a step.Â
.
.
.
Touya wins the round, with Shouto losing by only a few strokes.Â
Rei hugs them both, Touyaâs slight reluctance evident in the way his arms stay glued to his side as she wraps hers around the both of them.Â
Shouto brings one hand up, resting it against her back; from his line of sight, he spots you smiling fondly, giving him another thumbs up when your eyes meet.Â
.
.
.
The estateâs staff escorts everyone to their respective rooms, allowing some time to change into clothes more suited for the late morning brunch.Â
When Shouto and Touya finish, they make their way to the greenhouse, a glass dome teeming with life. Itâs art in bloomâchrysanthemums, hydrangeas, sunflowers, and camellias all in varying colors of pink, red, purple, and yellow. Under a small bridge is a pond, alive with koi fish swimming underneath pads of water lilies, and right up above, where the sunlight streams in, are baskets of japanese roses, hanging in bright, fuschia clusters.Â
He walks atop the bridge, hands stuffed inside his linen pantsâa pair that matches the linen shirt you gifted him birthdays ago. What surrounds him is beautiful; perhaps the most heavenly place heâs been to.Â
A morning of golf under the sun, nature in florescence. A (relatively) peaceful morning.Â
And youâ
The moment Shouto spots you, the scenery on your backdrop fades into muddled hues. You and Rei enter the greenhouse side-by-side, with his mother wearing an all-white ensemble: a cardigan with a long, flowy skirt.Â
And youâ
âyou walk in wearing a pale yellow sundress, its hem hitting just above your knees. There are dainty flowers dotted all over it, but nothing too loud; the straps sink into a v-neck with bust details, flowing down into an a-line skirt. Itâs perfectly understated, only emphasizing the focus on how radiant you look in it.Â
He canât stop staring.Â
Touya snorts as he passes him.Â
This day, this sight, is going to stay in his memory for a long, long while, he thinks.Â
From up ahead, he can hear his mom call for Touya, dragging him around to ask which blooms would look best for the garden at home. And when he snaps out of the daze youâve put him in, you appear right beside him, asking if heâs okay.Â
âYes,â he answers promptly, unsure of what to say next. His eyes flit to the baskets of japanese roses hanging above you, then to the view peeking from outside. âDo you want to look around before we eat?â
You nod.Â
The depth of the greenhouse is deceiving upon first glance, with Touya and Rei now out of sight as you explore the area. You walk close enough to be side-by-side but still stay a step behind like you typically do, pausing every now and then to take pictures of the flowers around you.Â
âYou seem more relaxed,â he points out, pushing up the sleeves of his button-up.Â
You turn to him from the chrysanthemums youâre snapping, a little flustered at his comment.Â
(And at him, mostly. You donât know how anyone can look this good in a simple linen set. Nature favors Todoroki Shouto, and it shows in moments like now, with sunlight hitting his face at just the right angle that it paints stardust on the tips of his eyelashes.)Â
âItâs good,â he quickly follows-up, fluffing through his bangs, âI did mention this wasnât for work.âÂ
(You feel warm at the reminder.
âItâs nice to see you with some down time too,â you return the sentiment, uncomfortable with the attention on you.
Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)
âDid something happen earlier?â you put your phone down, continuing to walk. âAt the course. Things looked pretty tense.âÂ
Shouto hums, considers his next words. He takes a few more steps before answering, âTouya is a dick.âÂ
A laugh escapes you, and you cover your mouth quickly as you mumble an apology. Shouto knows itâs because itâs completely out of character for him to be so vulgar and insulting when it comes to his siblings.
âWas he sabotaging you?âÂ
â...Something like that.â he responds.Â
âThatâs okay,â you scrunch your nose, peering up at him, âYou havenât had much time to play lately.âÂ
And Shouto wonders if heâs just that easy to console, or if itâs a specific comfort that only comes from you. You make it so easy for him to feel better about all the little and big thingsâwhether itâs news articles headlining him as a PR nightmare, or near-losses on missions gone wrong.Â
Not a lot of things get to Shouto, but when they do, you somehow always know how to handle it.Â
You continue to stroll around the greenhouse, looking closely at the steel bars holding up the glass arches. From a few steps ahead, Shouto can hear your mumblesâsomething about measurements and the logistics of turning the rooftop of the agency into a smaller version of this greenhouse. Â
âYou and mom looked like you were enjoying yourselves earlier,â he mentions offhandedly, hands clasped around his back.Â
Itâs something heâs noticed for a whileâhis mother seems to relax more around you, laughing and smiling in most of your conversations. He gets it; you have that effect on everyone around you, the warmth you exude a welcome invitation to be opened up to.Â
(You eye him from the side knowingly; Todoroki Shouto is nothing but a closet snoop.)Â
âWe were talking about plant stuff,â you smile, âand how sheâs happy you and Touya finally got to play together. You shouldâve seen how red her hands were from clapping for the both of you.âÂ
He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence.Â
Itâs at a different section of the greenhouse that he pauses, giving you time to admire the shrubs of hydrangeas blooming around you.
Touyaâs words come back to him.Â
He wonders if he should say it, if he should askâ
âDonât move,â you tell him, raising your phone to eye-level.
Shouto stares at you, hands in his pockets as he watches you tap on your phone.
âLook to the side,â you instruct him again, and he follows, albeit a little confused.Â
When he turns to face you again, the smile on your face is beaming, glowing as you turn your phone to show him the photos you managed to take.Â
âThe lighting was nice. See!âÂ
And when you point to the way sunlight streaks highlights onto the redness of his hair, down to the slope of his nose and the width of shoulders, he canât help but agree.Â
Now, he wondersâ
âDo you want a photo with the flowers?â Shouto asks, because it makes no sense that you deem him worthy to be pictured in perfect lighting when thereâs you, looking like you doâthe walking subject to the backdrop of greenery behind you.Â
Your eyes widen, a stuttered âO-Oh,â falling from your lips. You tug at your skirt again, fiddling with the soft fabric until your eyes nervously meet his. âI donât really needââ
âThe lighting is nice here, too.â
âOh,â you respond, a hint of diffidence as you flash a small, hesitant smile, âOkay.âÂ
As Shouto angles himself to take your photo, he notices you turn restless, the smile on your face never quite reaching your eyes and your fingers constantly twirling the fabric of your dress.Â
He puts down his phone, tilting his head.Â
âAre insects biting you?â
(Your brows shoot up, embarrassed by how heâs noticed.Â
You shake your head in response, providing no other explanation besides âSorry.âÂ
He continues to stare, as if waiting for you to continue. You know thereâs no point hiding the real reason you feel so nervous when heâs already noticed this much. Â
âI think I might be underdressed,â you admit, smiling sheepishly as you clasp your fingers in front of you, âThis entire place is gorgeous.â
The estate screams high-class; apart from the golf course and the greenhouse, the area also boasts its own private lake glistening across a large green field. It feels a little too good to be trueâa paradise you find yourself out of place in.Â
Butâ)
Shouto looks at you, really looks at youâat the way your dress hits right above your knees at the perfect length, at how your collarbones peek through its dainty v-neck cut. Its pale yellow makes you look like summer, radiating in light, and he thinks he hasnât seen anything more beautiful, really; anything more fittingâfor this occasion, for this venue, for this day.Â
For you.Â
The words have been lodged at his throat since he first saw you step in, and now theyâre being pushed out, coaxed slowly by the honesty beating thunderously in his chest.Â
He thinks about his mom, how she speaks of beauty whenever and wherever she finds it, with nothing stopping her speech andâ
Thereâs a hum, a thoughtful vibration priming his throat as he continues to stare.Â
âI think youâre dressed just right,â is what he manages to get out.Â
A thump.Â
Itâs more than that, though, he knows.Â
If this is his chance, if this is ânext timeâ from his attempt at the galaâ
He blinks, and you only get prettier.Â
âYou look beautiful.â he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.
(And when he says your name unlike any way heâs said it before, you feel your chest expand, terrified that it might explode.
Shouto is blunt and honest to a fault; and that honesty, youâve realized, also happens to be his most cunning traitâa quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before.Â
âT-Thank you.â you straighten your dress, âYouââ)
Shoutoâs phone vibrates in his palm, a call from Touya breaking him out of your conversation. He bows his head slightly to excuse himself and you nod in acknowledgment.Â
âBrunch is served,â he relays, pocketing his phone soon after he hangs up.
(Then, with his hand inside his pocket, he bends his arm deeper, creating a wider loop as if to offer it for you to hang ontoâthe same way he did during the gala.
And just like you did then, you take it.)
.
.
.
Brunch was served at the estateâs main patio, a circular table made of light wood adorned with dainty white tableware and muted green linen. In the middle was a centerpiece, an assortment of fresh flowers from the greenhouse coming together for a pop of color against the main neutral color scheme.Â
The food was divine, a lovely selection of seasonal salads and warm breads, along with eggs cooked in every way possible. Newly harvested fruits were served before and after the meal, a kind of appetizer-dessert to complement the main pieceâa large slab of freshly caught salmon.Â
Now, you all gather on the second floor of the estateâs main building, right at the balcony overlooking the greenhouse and the fieldâa perfect view for wine tasting.
Shouto doesnât care much for alcohol, all technicalities going past his head as the sommelier explains notes and wine pairings.
He canât taste much of the difference, if heâs being honest.Â
In the sommelierâs hand is a bottle of red wine; he describes all of the technical parts of it before finishing off with the fact that itâs âbeautifully balancedâ, something that causes Touya to snort at the side.Â
Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously.Â
Touya leans in closer to his little brother, swirling the wine in his glass as he lowers his voice mockingly, ââYou look beautifulâ.â
The expression on Shoutoâs face remains unreadable, his brain processing the fact that his brother must have overheard his conversation with you earlier. Itâs while Touya begins to gulp down his glass that Shouto steps on his footâa sharp pressure stomped onto freshly cleaned loafers.Â
âFuckinââ Touya hisses, cursing under his breath as he pulls his foot away.Â
The edges of Shoutoâs lips curl up as he turns back to his glass of wine, watching from across the table as his mom smiles fondly at something you must have said.Â
(You still feel flustered, a little fuzzy. Youâre unsure whether the heat emanating off your cheeks is from the wine or the lingering echoes of his compliment earlier.
From across the table, you lock eyes with Shouto, gray and blue sitting strikingly atop flushed cheeks. You look away quicklyâa knee-jerk reaction of bashfulness. He doesnât hold his liquor well, a fact youâve known for many, many years, so you canât tell for sure whether heâs turned red from the wine, or from the same thing youâre feeling, too.)
III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)
âIf yâdonât do shit first, some other loser will.â
âLosers lose âcause they donât get shit doneâŠâ
â...just be honest about it when the time comes.â
The streets are calm at this time of night, with cars occasionally passing by and the chimes of shop doors tinkling as they open and shut. Not a lot of people stay up late in this part of the neighborhood, but Shouto still hears themâall the jumbled voices of Bakugo and his brothers merging in his mind.Â
He steps onto concrete, footfalls muffled by the cushion of his bootsâa new update on his costume, one you suggested after a stealth mission mishap caused by the drag of his heel.Â
Tonight is his scheduled patrolâa route he knows like the back of his hand, memorized from the many years heâs been assigned to it. The streetlamps ahead cast a dim glow down the road; an atmosphere he would otherwise find unsettling if not for the fact that itâs provided him odd comfort in times heâs needed it the most.Â
Tonight, his mind ruminates on you.Â
Lately, his interactions with you have been⊠differentâshy glances and awkward slip-ups; the intentional way heâs been expressing himself more around you.Â
He canât tell what you think of it yet.Â
Yet, you still sit with him in comfortable silence on the nights that you both work late, and you still bring in fresh flowers for his desk every few days. Heâs sure that when he gets back to the agency after his shift, youâll still be there, claiming to finish a report when you both know itâs just an excuse to make sure that he finished patrol safely.
You still care for him in the same way.Â
And now that heâs thinking more about it, maybe itâs been those little things all alongâthe same way youâve been treating him all these years shifting into something deeper and more significant, beating its way out of his chest.Â
You know Shouto better than anyoneâso much so that his family asks you for lists of gift ideas because they donât have the slightest clue what else to get him. Heâs found himself seeking your opinion on things more and more over the years, and if heâs being honest, a big chunk of his decisions are now partly influenced by what you think of them first.Â
Across the street, a couple sways to the beat of the jazz bar they step out of, their hands intertwined and smiles giddy with adoration and love. He looks away quickly before they catch him staring.Â
There are things Shoutoâs discovered that he likes seeing you doâlike how you shift your feet when you feel flustered at something he says, or when you tap your index finger against whatever surface itâs on when youâre deep in thought. Your eyes widen when he says things you donât expect him to, and something about that intrigues him.
He thinks you look cute.Â
He wonders if you know that about yourself; and if you donât, a part of him is saying that he should be the one to tell you. Â
.
.
.
You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding.Â
The company trip spans an entire two weeks, with each department coming in a few days at a time. You both would stay if you could, but Shoutoâs schedule doesnât allow him to be gone for more than a day.
Itâs always been unspoken: wherever Shouto goes, you go too.Â
This day of the teambuilding is assigned for the managers and those under Shoutoâs direct reporting team.Â
The estate is still as beautiful as the last time you both visited, summer shining atop the glistening surface of the lake across the green field. Company trips arenât typically this grand, but this is also the first time in years that Shoutoâs had free time to drop by.Â
(Itâs a bit funny, you think, watching him struggle to reach the finish line in a three-legged race paired with his finance director. Shouto is typically awkward in most team activities, but you find it endearing, watching him put full effort into things he normally doesnât do.)Â
By mid-afternoon, the dayâs activities have consisted of tank rolls, marble balancing, and a classic game of pass-the-message (which, youâve learned, Shouto is absolute garbage at). And for the final game of the day, the both of you are paired for a duo tug of war against his PR manager and support engineer.Â
The afternoon heat burns the back of Shoutoâs neck, his cap providing little to no protection for that area of his skin. He stands behind you, rope twisted firmly in his grasp as he prepares to pull. You mimic his stance, bracing yourself with your knees bent as you grip the rope tightly.Â
Prior to the game, you were all given three minutes to discuss strategies.Â
And so now, Shouto counts, low and steady, âOne.âÂ
âGet set,â the facilitator for this activity announces.Â
âTwo.âÂ
You take a deep breath.Â
âGo!âÂ
âThree.â
You both pull, holding your ground for a few seconds. He can see your knuckles turning white from where heâs standing, and when he glances at the other team, theyâve begun to lean back, anchoring their bodies to the ground before pulling away slowly.Â
Shouto digs his feet into the earth, the ropeâs rough fibers sticking to the calluses on his hands. It doesnât take long before you both slip forward, being dragged by the other team and eventually pulled into your loss.Â
You turn back to him immediately, apologetic as you rub your palms, âSorry!â
(Before the game even began, you already knew whoever your partner was would be carrying most of the work. And you feel a little bad because your loss does make a bit of sense, you think.Â
Though Shouto is strong, you know heâs developed his agility far more than his strength. It doesnât help that his support engineer lifts bulks of synthetic thermal cloth everyday.Â
The both of you didnât stand a chance, really.)Â
But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly.Â
âAre you okay?â he looks down at your hands. Your skin is an angry flaming red all over your palms, but what causes him to frown are the small cuts resting at the base of your fingers.Â
âYup, all gââ you attempt to hide it, but Shoutoâs reflexes are quick, and he catches your wrist the moment you pull away.Â
Itâs an instinctive reaction when he looks over it once, pressing his thumb to the center of your palm to get a better look. He reaches for his utility belt out of habit, patting the area above his hip only to feel nothing but the smooth cotton of his shirt.
Right, he remembers, he isnât wearing his gear today. Â
He drops his arms, looking around the field for a first-aid kit nearby.Â
(A small chuckle escapes you, endeared, and Shouto looks up at the sound. His eyes meet yours briefly before he jogs all the way to retrieve the red box by the tree.Â
Itâs just a friction burn; a few small cuts from the rough material of the rope, at most.Â
You donât need first-aid. Butâ)Â
When Shouto comes back, he ushers you to the side, grabbing a few cotton buds and antiseptic ointment from the box. His brain works on autopilot, barely thinking as he tends to your injury.
(You donât need first-aid. Butâ)Â
He peels the bandaid for you and gently places it on top of your woundsâa yellow checkered pattern decorating your skin.Â
(You donât need first aid. But you kind of get it, you think. Itâs the same instinctive reaction you have when he gets papercuts. Thereâs no need for you to mend them with your quirk, but itâs an inexplicable feeling that makes you feel uneasy at the idea of him getting injured off the field.
A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle.Â
âBetter?â Shouto stares at you from under his cap, readjusting it as red and white strands touch the tips of his eyelashes.Â
(He looks unfairly pretty like this. How can he even expect you to answer?
âY-yeah,â you stutter, swallowing your breath.Â
When Shouto walks towards everyone else, you follow, pressing your thumb onto your palm.)Â
.
.
.
Shouto drops by the greenhouse at the end of the day.Â
The sky above the glass dome ceiling is warmed by orange and pink hues. At sunset, the greenhouse looks ethereal, an almost otherworldly escape. The flowers havenât changed much from his last visit here, but they seem to have blossomed further now that time has passed.Â
He walks past the familiar cluster of chrysanthemums and spots a patch of white flowers he doesnât recall from last timeâa wooden placard with the name âirisâ sticks out from the soil. His knees bend to crouch low, fingers grazing over the softness of its petals.Â
Earlier today, the estate so kindly offered to let him bring home flowers of his choice, and this bunch in front of him calls out to him, a purity and warmth that reminds him of his mom.Â
The nippers in his hand feel clunky, a heavy-duty version of the ones he uses when he helps with gardening at home; but he cuts the stems gently, careful to remember all heâs been taught.Â
When he thinks heâs gotten enough, he continues to stroll around the greenhouse, the wicker basket in his hand half-filled with pure, white irises.Â
A little further down the path, he passes by the hydrangea bushes, his steps slowing as fragmented pieces of that memory with you replay in slow motion.Â
âThe lighting was nice. See!âÂ
âYou look beautiful,â he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.
And he decidesâ
He should get you flowers too.Â
Your desk always seems to have some, and youâre consistently on top of keeping fresh flowers around the agencyâon his desk specifically.Â
Itâs only right.
His mom always tells him that flowers can never lie; they bloom where they are loved and speak from the heart when words are not enoughâitâs why she loves them so much.
And, maybe she has a point, because the pink hydrangeas look pretty; they remind him of you, especially.
On his way here, the white camellias spoke to him too. Maybe heâll get them both for you.Â
He crouches low again, nipping the hydrangea stems before backtracking to collect a few camellias. By the time he finishes, his wicker basket is filled to the brim, an assortment of pink and white threatening to spill from its edges. The leaves of the irises stick out, poking at his wrist and making the skin itch.
You find him that wayâstruggling to wrangle in the abundance of blooms into his basket.
âI think you need another basket,â you chuckle, walking towards him.Â
Thereâs something about you and this hour; how it feels like you fit right in this moment, at the peak of sunset, blooming the same way the flowers do.Â
Your smile is radiant against the warmth of diffused sunlight, and though heâs seen you in this same exact slacks-and-blouse combination before, the way he sees you now has shifted.Â
You look different, but in all the ways he canât visibly point out.Â
He blinks, and that thump beats once more.Â
His arm moves before he can comprehend it, the bunch of camellias and hydrangeas outstretched towards you.
Your eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you tilt your head slightly, your hand reaching out for it reluctantly.Â
âWould you want me to have this wrapped?âÂ
(The flowers feel lush in your palm, and you canât help but wonder who he intends to give them to. There are irises in his basket too, left untouched for reasons youâre not sure youâd like to know.Â
Your grip on the stems tighten.Â
The camellias stare back at you, an immaculate white, with the pink hydrangeas adding a delicate softness to them. Itâs a pretty combination, and you canât help but think that whoever theyâre intended for should feelâ)
âItâs for you.â
You lock eyes when you look up. Thereâs a weight to Shoutoâs gaze that intends to get his message across, the words still barely forming on his tongue.Â
âOh,â is the only thing you manage to say. Â
(âsurprised; grateful; confused; the emotions swirl inside of you. The shock is apparent on your face, your eyes widening at his admission. Confusion presents itself in the tilt of your head as you stumble over how to express your gratitude.
âItâs notâŠâ you hesitate, diverting your gaze to anything else but that piercing pair of gray-and-blue. Your mind is drawing up a blank, figuring out what reason he has for giving them to you.)
âThereâs no occasionâŠ?â
It comes out as half a question and half something else, your uncertainty marked by the semi-lilt at the end.Â
Shouto blinks.Â
He wonders if he should tell you now, if he should just confess that heâs been feeling differently about you these days.
You shift your feet, your thumbs rubbing against the flowersâ leaves.Â
The thump persists in his chest, knocking at the base of his throatâ
Thump.
He takes a deep breath.
Thump.
âbut even with its persistence, the words still struggle to come out.
Thump.
Maybe not now; itâs not the right time.Â
But he says something else, an admission much easier that still holds just as much truth.
âNo occasion.âÂ
.
.
.
Shouto knows your Mondays.Â
You switch out the flowers on his desk for a different arrangement of blooms every week. Then, you give him a run-down of his schedule, going over important announcements and upcoming events.Â
The mornings go by quickly, with you constantly moving around your desk. Shouto canât tell what youâre doing exactly, but youâre always working on something whenever he sneaks a peek through the single glass panel cut-out from your shared wall.Â
Lunch is a wildcard. On some days, you bring your own; on others, you grab a bite down in the cafeteria. Your routine is largely dependent on how busy you anticipate work to be that day, and though it varies from time-to-time, you never forget to knock on his doorâa two-part thump that takes him out of his own little work bubble.Â
He almost looks forward to it now, the way your head peeps in from behind his office doors. You call out his name softly, only continuing to speak when he looks up from whatever file heâs working on.Â
Shouto knows your Mondays.Â
You spend the afternoons all over the place, much like he does; while he roams the city, you roam the agency, attending meetings and checking in on different departments. He knows because when he comes back by the end of the day, you almost always have a new set of updates prepared on your desk for the next morning.Â
He also knows that Mondays are when you often work overtime, preferring to get a bulk of any urgent matters completed and out of the way.
The back door of his office clicks shut as he walks into the room, his rubber boots leaving no trace that heâs arrived from how quietly his footsteps hit the floor. He unbuckles his utility belt, one hand automatically reaching for its lock; itâs a habit, the âclackâ that sounds from it a satisfying marker he looks forward to at the end of every patrol.Â
In the corner of his office is a private restroom that he slips into. He quickly changes out of his hero suit and into a pair of sweatpants, throwing on one of his many favorite white shirtsâhis go-to outfit on the days he works late.Â
There are still some reports he has to look over tonight, but nothing too time-consuming.Â
Itâs really you heâs staying behind for.Â
He glances at you through the glass panel of his wall, your face dimly lit by your computer screen. Your eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squinting in pure focus.Â
It never feels right for him to leave when you havenât left either.Â
He settles into his seat, finger tapping on his desk as he contemplates whether or not he should offer you his help.Â
You always decline when he does; he can already hear your response. But there are stacks of folders on your desk right now and heâs predicting that itâll take at least a few more hours before you get through all of them.
He taps his foot, staring at the report in front of him.Â
A thump.Â
The wheels of his chair roll back, leather squeaking as he stands up.Â
As soon as he exits his office, you look up, surprised.Â
âYouâre back!âÂ
He nods, walking closer to your desk. âItâs 8:00 p.m.â
You glance at the top of your screen, a sheepish smile forming on your face, âRight.âÂ
(This is his way of telling you itâs late, youâre well aware.)
He looks around your desk, folders and stationery all neatly organized and labeled. You keep a few touches of your personality around your space, with personalized pens and notepads gathered in one corner.Â
Theyâre all things heâs seen before, but what makes him do a double-take is the vase sitting in the corner, obscured by your computer screen.Â
Sitting inside it is the arrangement of flowers he gave you back at the teambuilding, the pink hydrangeas still as good as new next to the white camellias. Itâs been a little over a week since, and you always change the arrangement on your desk as frequently as you change his.Â
So for you to keep it for this longâ
âAnd how may I help you?â you ask jokingly, biting down your smile.Â
His eyes flit over to you, your gaze set on your screen as you continue to type.
(Itâs hard to focus on the documents in front of you when he looks at you like that. Shoutoâs stare has always been unnerving, but it feels especially scrutinizing when he merely stands, watching without a word.)
âYou have a lot of work left,â he gestures towards the stack of folders on your desk.Â
(Your eyes glance over the pile quickly as you mumble, âYeah.âÂ
A few seconds of silence pass before what he really means starts to sink in.Â
Itâs not often that Shouto finishes work before youâat least, to your knowledge. You still see him inside his office when you pack your things, ready to leave.Â
So, this is out of the ordinary.Â
And if heâs standing in front of your desk, hinting at how much longer youâll be staying at work. Then, it can only meanâ
âA-are you waiting for me to go?â you move to stand, guilty. âDonât worry about it, I can lock up.â)
Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly.Â
Thatâs never been a thing; heâs always gone home last, and has always waited for you when you have work left to do. He makes sure of it every time, watching carefully for your computer light to turn off.Â
But he wonât tell you that; letting you know would mean admitting that heâs been doing it for years.Â
He places his palm on the top folder.Â
âWhat else do you have to do?âÂ
You stay quiet for a few seconds before reluctantly listing it allâreports, meeting summaries, and a few emails you plan to schedule for tomorrow morning. His frown deepens as your list only grows, immediately cutting yourself off the second you notice your ramblings.Â
â⊠but if youâre waiting, I can bring these home andââ
âWhat can I do to help?â he interjects, stopping you just before you shut down your computer.Â
(You can only stare when proceeds to take a seat in front of you, the legs of your guest chair dragging against the floor as he pulls it closer.Â
Back then, your desks were just a few steps away from each other, an overflow of paperwork inevitably spilling into each otherâs spaces. Because all of the files were stored in your drawers, it was more convenient for Shouto to sit himself across your desk, splitting the work and going over them one at a time.Â
Things are different now that the agencyâs grownâyou have a bigger space, and the work isnât nearly as packed as it used to be; but some days still end up a little bit more hectic than others. Like today.
âThereâs no need,â you reach for the stack under his palm, âI can finish this atââ
âWe can finish faster if we do this together.â
That promptly shuts you up.Â
Shouto is blunt to a fault, unafraid of saying things as they are; his voice carries an unbothered cadence no matter who it is heâs talking to.Â
You figure, thereâs no point arguing with him when heâs right, after all.)Â
Shouto begins going over a few of the reports that youâve tagged red and yellow, listening intently as you instruct him on which parts to focus on. In exchange, you make space for him on your desk, setting aside some of the folders you had brought out earlier.
Itâs a good hour into working before Shouto notices you easing up slightly, your shoulders more relaxed in comparison to how bunched up they were earlier.
He knows youâve been glancing at him occasionally, your head turning every now and then to check on how heâs doingâa failed attempt at subtlety.Â
âAre you almost done?â he asks, head down as he slips another completed file into its folder. The stack beside him is growing, his âdoneâ pile nearly as tall as the unfinished one.Â
(You turn to him, attention shifting to the split of red and white hair down the center of his head, âYeah, I justââ
Your words trail off, eyes squinting as you move closer to where heâs hunched over.Â
Right on the shoulder of his shirt is a small tear, big enough to touch the edges of its collar but small enough that youâd only have to be up close to be able to notice.Â
You assess the tear intently, looking carefully for any cuts underneath and thankfully find none.
Butâ
He notices youâve gone quiet and looks up, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You make a sound, something in-between a squeak and an âoops.âÂ
âSorry, I just,â you point, âyour shirtâs ripped.âÂ
His eyes follow the direction of your finger, finding the small tear running horizontally along the fabric of hjs shirt.Â
âI can fix it,â you offer, the wheels of your chair rolling to land you directly across him.Â
Itâs one of his favorite shirts.)
He barely thinks when his body acts on its own, pressing itself closer to your desk as you slightly bend over for better reach.Â
You donât have to patch up his shirt, especially something so small. He has plenty of the same ones in his closet; and if it comes to it, he wouldnât mind buying a new one. You really donât have to patch up his shirt, because he wouldnât have even noticed had you not mentioned it.Â
But itâs that kind of tender care and attention to detail that youâve had for him since you started working together thatâs always drawn him in.Â
Shouto has lived most of his life with the means to live comfortably, but since starting his own agency, heâs learned the value of maximizing resourcesâand itâs all because of you.
A thump.Â
The moment your fingers touch his shoulder, he hears nothing but that continuous three-beat thump. Your quirk tingles when it touches skin, but you arenât mending thatâyouâre fixing his shirt, separate from your skin, and yet, he still feels the little zaps go off inside of him.Â
A thump.Â
Up close, the strands of your hair tickle his cheek.Â
A thump.Â
The fabric of his shirt mends itself slowly, and it only makes him think of everything elseâof the leather chair you helped fix, painstakingly going through each and every crack to bring it back to near-new condition. He thinks about every cut and scrape youâve helped heal without having to, about every time youâve insisted when heâd shrug it off as nothing.Â
From you, heâs learned that things can be fixed without having to change them whole.Â
Itâs how heâs (youâve) managed to keep the agency running; itâs why you get along so well with him and the rest of his family.Â
And these feelings in his chest are pounding, built up over time to tip over and transform into something more than just an excellent work dynamic. At this point, itâs become companionship, a presence he seeks out a little bit more than friendship.Â
You know him better than anyone else does.Â
The flowers he gave you are still on your desk.Â
So, he says your name, voice low and tender by your ear.Â
You freeze, holding your breath.Â
Another thump.
His honesty spills outsâ
âI like you.âÂ
A three-beat thump.Â
(You donât believe it at first, the urge to ask him again right at the tip of your tongue. But, he pulls away, unfinished, and looks you in the eye to continue.Â
âBut it feels more than a crush, I think.â He presses his fingers against the table, grounding himself, âNatsuo told me it was a crush, and he told me to think about it, so I did.âÂ
Shouto is a man of sufficient words; not too few, not too plenty. But when he gets nervous and a little excited, he starts rambling, andâ
âBakugo told me his mom thought we were dating, and even though I said that wasnât the case, I almost didnât want to deny it. Touya has been a dick about it, but he makes good points, so I also owe it to him.â
(The shock on your face shifts into fondness. You canât see the point of what heâs saying yet, but itâs cuteâone of the many things that make him endearing.)Â
He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity.Â
âIt started with this thumping,â he places a hand over his chest. âIt used to only come sometimes, but lately itâs been happening all the time.âÂ
Shouto keeps his gaze deadset on yours. He doesnât say anything else, sentences just barely forming in his head to fully capture what he really means. His feet and palms stay firmly planted where they are, his only movement being the steady blinking of his eyes.Â
(But itâs okay, because you can understand.Â
If youâre being honest, the signs were all there.Â
Nothing Shouto does can be subtle when you know him as well as you do.Â
A smile breaks out on your face, the one you can barely contain around him. Itâs a little teasing and shy but completely genuine from the way it softens your eyes.Â
âWeâll have to come up with something for HR,â you try to contain your smile.)
And he isnât worried at all. He knows youâll both find a way, just like you always do.
additional material: moodboard + playlist
a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too! also maybe slightly unrealistic office/hr rules but đ€·ââïž heâs the boss he makes the rules đ€§
thank you notes:Â to @soumies for literally beta reading this. i owe this fic to you fr you are my lifesaver i love you. to @augustinewrites @scarabrat @stellamancer @arcvenes for helping me a ton with characterisations, dialogues, songs, inspo, everything!!! ily all!! it took a village to write this fic fr. (+ to my bf for sitting me down so he could explain the whole point system of golf for like 30 minutes LOL)
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
âËâčïœĄ see me through the morning glow | gojo satoru
wc: 1.0k
summary: you and gojo have a slow morning.Â
contains: f!reader in mind, suggestive if you squint, food descriptions.
a/n: unedited, i honestly dk what this is i just really needed to get this out of my system! this is how i cope with 236.
re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!
You slip out of bed faced with the promise of sunlight.Â
The curtains in your bedroom radiate a glow that bounces off the man lying next to you; itâs soft, near-white, almost ethereal, the color of his skin, hair, and bones. His back is exposed, arm reaching out over the (now) empty space beside himâthe crinkles and folds where you once were.Â
Youâve always thought your bedroom had good lighting, and now you can confirm why: in the shadows, deepening the line that runs down his spine; in the highlights, guiding your eyes to the pockets of muscle behind his shoulders.Â
You look away, trying your best not to stare; the only reason heâs undressed is because of a cold sweat, from the nightmaresâand the very need for skin-to-skin, to ground him in your touch.Â
On mornings like this, you let Gojo sleep in.Â
(Because youâre lucky if he can fall back asleep again).Â
Itâs slow todayâno work, no missions that need you or him. Itâs your favorite kind of day, and Gojoâs too (once he wakes up and smells the waffles youâve prepared, double topped with whipped cream and maple syrupâhis special, of course).Â
A steady stream of warmth flows through the window to your kitchen countertop, the marble glimmering as light hits. The material was his choice; you donât care much for glamor but Gojo likes pretty thingsâyou especially, he likes to say.Â
The batter is quick to prepare, a recipe youâve done many times before, so you ladle it into the waffle maker before letting it set on its own. Then, you grab a pan to heat up, spooning in last nightâs leftover rice, some soy sauce, and mirin, adding salt to taste, as needed. A standard fried rice breakfast, with a yolk to mix in later.Â
The sound of his footsteps are concealed by the sizzles of the pan in front of you, but youâre caught off guard by arms wrapped around your waist, and his chin nestling itself into your shoulder as he nuzzles you.Â
Heâs still shirtless, you notice, so you inch backwards in case of any oil spatter.Â
âGood sleep?â you mumble, certain that he heard you.Â
He hums, before whispering, lips tickling the edges of your ear on purpose, pouting, âNot anymore when you left.âÂ
This manâa giant baby, puffed cheeks with long limbs hunched over you.Â
Your big baby.Â
Despite his whines, heâs telling the truth, you know, and you feel warm because of it, affection seeping in the cracks between his arms and the kitchen stove.Â
You blow on a spoonful of rice before lifting it up to his lips. Gojoâs breakfasts are always sweet, but every time you cook, he looks forward to this: waiting right behind you to be fed over your shoulder.
His review will always be the same, of course, everything you touch turns out good.Â
He reaches for the waffle maker with one hand while the other keeps you close, and you plate his little breakfast for him, whipped cream with little hearts drawn in maple syrup.Â
You grab a bowl for your rice and sit by the counter, Gojo sitting thigh-to-thigh beside you despite the abundance of space around you.Â
You realize then, that Gojo tends to hover.Â
Not necessarily in a bad way, just that, he does it all the timeâalways wanting to be near. Â
And for someone so perceiving, practically all-seeing, he doesnât really have to for him to know what youâre up to, but with every opportunity he has, he never misses a moment to be close to you.
When you wash the dishes by the sink, he stays beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, even when the sink is wide enough to accommodate him a few inches farther.Â
Even the walk to the bathroom has him tailing you, following your footsteps as he traces the footprints of slow mornings with you.Â
Your bathroom counter has two sinks, but of course, today, he chooses to stay by yours.Â
âSkincare?â you raise a tub of face mask.Â
He doesnât need it, but you love pampering him, so he nods, whatever you want.Â
You struggle for a bit (heâs just too tall), so he picks you up by the waist and rests you on the bathroom counter, against the mirror.
He stays in the space between your legs, hands flat against your thighs. His thumb kneads your skin gently, and any other time, this position would end very differently, but thereâs a look heâs giving youâall words without speaking.Â
Andâ
âQuit staring,â you mumble, turning shy. Youâre about to rub the product onto his cheeks, under his eyes.Â
âWhat, I canât look at you?â he moves closer, keeping his eyes locked on you as he rubs circles on your thighs.Â
âNo, you can, but,â you swallow, âyouâre looking at me like that.â
âLike what?â his brows furrow.Â
âLike that.â you sigh, gesturing to his face.Â
âLike I love you?âÂ
And it is like that. Like he loves you. Thatâs why he says it so casually.Â
Because he does.Â
You stay quiet, stunned, before you clear your throat and finish up the final area on his face.Â
âYeah.â you mumble, reaching over to wash your hands on the sink.Â
Gojo waits for you to finish before he takes a small towel to dry your hands with it.Â
âAs if you donât know.â he scoffs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.Â
Heâs rightâitâs been said before, but thereâs something else in his eyes right now, shiny and devoted, as if this is all he could ever want. As if you, on this slow morning, in this too-big bathroom is all he could ever need.Â
But he doesnât say anything. At least, not what he really means.Â
âNot my fault youâre so pretty today,â he adds on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
It should be funny, that heâs telling you all this with a mask slathered all over his face, but his compliments always speak to the depths of you, even when you donât expect them to.Â
His fingers mold against your cheek, to your ears, down to the back of your head, bringing you closer until he kisses you softly, a gentle peck.Â
Bits of the face mask transfer to your nose and you giggle, wiping it off.Â
âBeauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.â you joke.
Gojo smiles, that look on his face, âGood for you then, youâre the only one I see.â
re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
âËâčïœĄ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime
wc: 3.0k
summary: ââhajime 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! havenât written hajime in a while, but heâs on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, itâs you, and forever right now.Â
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 heâs built a pretty solid life for himselfâgood health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine heâs built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running.Â
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.Â
And Hajimeâs 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.Â
You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentineâs Day.Â
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.Â
It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you donât know it.Â
Youâre 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.Â
He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment.Â
A good life.Â
Evidence of last night is strewn across the roomâthe red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt heâd worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.
The memory replays vividlyâbites 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.Â
But with you, he takes his timeâruns his fingers over every area heâs grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently.Â
Then, he savors itâyou.
The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy.Â
A perk of celebrating Valentineâs Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to youâa team effort to make the day as special as it can be.Â
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 browsâa sign of you coming to wake.Â
Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all hisâflowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in.Â
How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise?Â
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 âshitâ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady.Â
You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. Thereâs a momentary pause that makes him worry youâve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do.Â
(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, heâs 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 youâre planning for today.Â
(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 âouchâ, even though he can hear youâpretty 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 anythingâjust you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets.Â
.
Just as heâd promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that).Â
The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirtâthe 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.Â
As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neckâside-to-side, up-and-downâthen 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 youâre particular with the pillow placements, but heâll take over for now.Â
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.Â
As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate.Â
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 heâs been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up.Â
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 youâve 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.
âMorning,â 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.Â
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.Â
âMorning.â you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side.Â
âHowâs your head?â 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.Â
âTerrââÂ
As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajimeâs 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. Ohâ
âSlut.â your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile.Â
Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back.Â
âPut on a shirt, you know I canât focus like this.âÂ
He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time.Â
âI would,â remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, âbut someone stole it.âÂ
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.Â
As it is, Hajimeâs liking how this surprise is going.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âGonna get dressed,â you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.
âIsnât this already too dressed?â he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear.Â
âDonât be a flirt,â you scrunch your nose, âI feel gross.âÂ
He squeezes your hip, âIâm gross too.âÂ
You give him a look.Â
He gives you one back.Â
If Hajime had the words, heâd tell you youâre 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.Â
But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well heâs weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away.Â
âIâll make you eggs!â he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom.Â
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. Itâs 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 heâd 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.Â
In the little over two years that youâve been together, youâve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like youâve always just been hereâthat 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.Â
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).Â
The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crispâjust how you like it (lately, itâs how heâs been liking it too).Â
When you step out of the bedroom, Hajimeâs begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits.Â
(Today, itâs strawberriesâone of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.)Â
Hajime thinks heâs built a pretty solid life for himselfâ
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 itâs begun to feel so much more like home.Â
The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. Itâs too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesnât mind the warmth when youâre pressed up skin-to-skin.Â
And when he sees you in his sweatshirtâthe one paired with the sweatpants heâs wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face.Â
This is good.Â
âhis life that you now also fit into.Â
âSorry you had to prep the rest,â you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, âthank you.âÂ
Without even a word, thereâs a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already.Â
You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, âI love you.âÂ
He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.
Shyness still hits him when youâre so vocal like this, but Hajime has known heâs loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but youâd insisted it was an experience he shouldnât miss, so he agreedâpacked an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case.Â
But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when youâd beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face.Â
âLove you too,â he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, âhappy Valentineâs Day, babe.âÂ
Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isnât until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip youâre set to leave for tomorrow.
So, this is nice. You both have time. Â
Youâre talking about all sorts of thingsâsome work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; thereâs the whole itinerary for your business trip tooâmeeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on.Â
But as heâs chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just canât, for the life of him, stop thinking.Â
The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more heâs realizing that this is the longest time youâll be apart.
And he wonders, whatâs that gonna be like?Â
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.Â
Itâll be a little like how it was before you.
And he hates how thatâs even a possibility. Â
He takes a sip from his mug.
âSo, Oikawaâs taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?â you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter.Â
He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate.Â
âHajime.â you hide your smile.Â
He snaps out of it, âHm?âÂ
âSo youâre okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?âÂ
His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it.Â
âThat fucker asked you out?âÂ
You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, âJust seeing if you were listening.âÂ
A pause, then a squeeze.Â
âWanna tell me what youâre thinking?âÂ
He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. Thereâs something about thisâbreakfasts 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.Â
Hajime is so authentically himself when heâs with you that he doesnât want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you doâ
Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when heâs let loose; heâs made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too.Â
The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and theyâll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during âboysâ nightsâ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you.Â
This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows youâre the key to all of it.Â
âso, Hajime chooses you, much like heâs chosen the mornings.Â
âMove in with me,â he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity.Â
The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you donât get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold andâ
âWhen you get back.â he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, âWhat do you think?âÂ
All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal heâs 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.Â
âSex last night was that good, huh?âÂ
And thisâthereâs never been a problem with this too.Â
He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach.Â
âJust realizing that mornings donât feel the same without you,â 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. Â
âFlirt.â you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist.Â
You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze.Â
âOkay, muscle boy,â your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, âbetter do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.âÂ
.
And he doesâ
When you get back, heâs 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.Â
Thereâre 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 thatâs really just because he wants to leave that part up to you.Â
âafter all, itâs your home now too.
thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do đ„č 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 đ„ș + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway đ„ș
a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him đ„č but i hope this comes close đ„č
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
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 âguardiansâ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentineâs chocolate tradition, readerâs 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.Â
You walk along the street.Â
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.Â
Youâve 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 sheâd mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops.Â
Who would have thought youâd be back so soon? Withâ
âSatoru,â you call out, half-giggling, âwhy are you sniffing?âÂ
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.Â
âYou smell like chocolate.â
Out of all the plans youâd anticipated on Valentineâs Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them.Â
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.Â
He pulls back, falling into step with you.Â
âTsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.âÂ
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.Â
âOh?â Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, âWhat kind?âÂ
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 heâs comfortable sharing that side of him with.Â
Itâs been a while since Gojoâs been âhomeâ in the past week, so you donât blame him for wondering.Â
âTomo mostly,â your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, âthough I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasnât looking.âÂ
Thereâs 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.Â
For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojoâs grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of themâto Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely.Â
âHomeâ, which is where the kids stay, but itâs neither yours nor hisâjust a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. Youâre with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, thereâs hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you havenât 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.Â
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.Â
Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojoâs silence feels unsettlingâas if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you canât quite get a read on just yet.Â
So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around whenâ
âDid you?âÂ
The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night.Â
Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?
âHm?â you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better.Â
He doesnât answer.Â
You stop walking.Â
âDid I what?â you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.
(âDid you make honmei chocolate?â he means.)Â
Still, no answer.Â
The tips of Gojoâs ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.
His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adamâs apple bobs, swallowing.Â
âWanna see something cool?â he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didnât ask you anything, as if you didnât ask what he meantâas if you didnât just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare.Â
The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But youâve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means.Â
You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldlyâa crazed look youâve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him.Â
Thereâs really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the missionâs locationâan abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighborhoodâs nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere quieter, more secluded.Â
Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you canât quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought.Â
âCâmon, itâll be quick.â he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, âIâve finally perfected it.â
A beatâskipped before your heart races.Â
You wonder if he knows, if heâs using this to his advantage, becauseâ
âwhen have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way?Â
The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely âto assistâ, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. Itâs more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum.Â
They shouldnât have called on you, of all peopleâyouâre on Gojoâs side. Always.Â
A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.
âFine.âÂ
He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. Itâs 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 Gojoâs cologne.Â
This is bad for your feelings.Â
(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.)Â
Thereâs 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.
Youâve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns awayâa reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold.Â
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.Â
âYou have to hold on to me,â he instructs you.Â
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.Â
He shakes it off just as quickly, âYou might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.âÂ
Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than youâre both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day.Â
Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin.Â
âDonât let go, okay?â
Another beatâfollowed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder.Â
You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek.Â
âOkay,â your fingers curl around his arm tighter.Â
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.Â
âWhat do you think?â 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.Â
You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheetâ
âItâsâŠâ you try to find the right words, â... empty?âÂ
He gasps exaggeratedly, âHey!â then pouts in fake offense, âI made it porcelain white at least. This isnât pure white you know.âÂ
You eye him from the side.
He chuckles, breaking his act, âYou should be honored.â
A pauseâhis tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable.Â
âYouâre the first person Iâm bringing in here.âÂ
His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too.Â
Youâre touched, knowing how secretive heâs 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.Â
âItâs clean,â you finally say, playing along, âI like it.âÂ
He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile.Â
âShame I canât really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.âÂ
You snort, knowing full well that Gojoâs very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire placeâs aesthetic off of that.Â
âSomeday,â you catch his eyes again.Â
(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeatâpink noise that canât possibly be a product of your technique.Â
In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.)Â
He hums before looking back to the empty space, âAcoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.âÂ
You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined itâif he had meant it or not.Â
.Â
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 migrainesâa mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawaâs night life as you exit the neighborhood.Â
You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he usesâan imbued blindfold maybe? Youâll have to think about it some more.Â
(When you both get âhomeâ, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. Itâs a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of itâa fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter.Â
The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.
You donât end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. Itâs a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichiâa tradition youâve kept up since you were 16.Â
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 âSatoruâ.Â
So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and heâs realizing that he likes it that wayâhe might prefer it much more, actually.)
a/n:Â 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 đ„č + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read đ„č ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always đ„č
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento
wc:Â 7.2k
summary: ââyou press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if youâve 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, itâs love without words.
a/n: a concept and fic i didnât expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is âweâve been loving in silenceâ, but some bgm are âcanât take my eyes off youâ, and âmake you feel my loveâ.
ao3 (needs account)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: showing âi love youâ in all the ways you arenât 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.Â
The hostâs spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your handâyouâve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.Â
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.
âShit,â you curse under your breath, checking the time.Â
As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of youâlong 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.Â
Youâre quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, youâre met with sharp linesâan angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.
A geometric study on blank canvas.Â
Itâs embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as youâre brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.Â
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 âWhat is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?ââa 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.Â
Itâs 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.Â
You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.Â
And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.Â
You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess youâd choked out in the hallwayâbut youâre 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.Â
.
You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.Â
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 dabsâa slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.Â
Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehensionâa retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life heâs 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.Â
The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within youâfor stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.Â
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.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry.â you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, âLet meââ
It only registers that itâs 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.Â
You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.Â
âLet me buy you another sandwich.â
He doesnât exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you canât tell for sureâthere isnât much you can go by.
âThereâs no need,â he dusts off the wrapper, âitâs still sealed.âÂ
âPlease, I insist,â you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, âAs a thank you too, for last time.âÂ
He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that youâve remembered him wrongâhoney blonde hair and features youâve been intrigued by since.Â
âYou insist.â he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.Â
You nod.Â
He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.Â
The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocketâyou canât read a single thing about him.
âI was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,â you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.Â
He hums.Â
âBut I couldnât find you, soâŠâÂ
He hums again.Â
The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all youâre met with are dryâ
âItâs no problem, but thatâs thoughtful of you, thank you.â he finally says, âI didnât expect you to remember.âÂ
A pause.Â
âIâm sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.â he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.Â
You snort, âI wish.âÂ
The line moves forward.
âCeramic faces, maybe. People not so much.âÂ
When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bitâto feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.Â
The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, youâre 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 (âfor his time; youâre sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.Â
âCoffeeâs on me.â he pulls out his card.Â
âOh,â you look up, surprised, âyou donât have to do thatââ
âItâs only fair,â he nods as the cashier punches in the order, ânow weâre even.âÂ
You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.Â
An interesting man.Â
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 challengeâbut beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.Â
And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that heâd act just as pointed.Â
Except, he doesnâtâa stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.Â
His blue shirt stands out when youâd assume he prefers subtlety, and itâs ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.Â
He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.
âThank you, Mr.ââ you smile sheepishly, âSorry, I donât think I got your name.âÂ
âNanami Kento.â the corners of his lips lift slightly.Â
âMr. Nanami,â you repeat, introducing yourself right after.
âThank you as well.â he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.Â
Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you thereâs more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.Â
The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the cityâs breathsâcars 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.Â
âDo you come to thisââÂ
âMy studio is just by the corner, soââÂ
You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.
âSorry, um,â you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, âyes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?âÂ
âItâs on the way to work most days.âÂ
You nod, humming.Â
Another awkward pause.
âI hope youââ
âI should getââ
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.Â
âI hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.âÂ
âThank you,â you smile, bowing your head slightly.
That âsomethingâ in your brain speaks to you again.Â
âActually,â you begin, âsorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,â you shift your weight, âI have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.âÂ
Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what youâd just said.Â
âAsk me⊠for an opinion?â he clarifies.Â
You mentally facepalm yourselfâyou really should have made yourself clearer.Â
âSorry, no, I meant,â you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, âif youâd like to be the subject for it.âÂ
The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.Â
.
.
.
MOLD.
Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?Â
In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.Â
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.Â
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.Â
After all, heâs been a fan of your works for a whileâfrom your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.Â
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.
âHave you always loved sculpting?â he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.Â
A few meetings have gone by by now, and heâs told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: heâs a lawyer in a firm heâs 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 neighborâs cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30âs and 60âs.Â
He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system thatâs vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.Â
âI started with paper craft first,â you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, âyou know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?âÂ
He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose youâre trying to replicate.Â
âAnd this?âÂ
Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculptureâs nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.Â
âI picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.â
The PR answer.Â
Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artistsâ individual histories. Youâd 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 popularityâyou are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.Â
âWhy do you love it?â he looks you in the eye.Â
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.
âItâs gotten me through a lot.â you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, âTouching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if itâs been molded with love.âÂ
The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesnât quite know what to say.Â
âSorry, that was cheesy.â you scrunch your nose and pout.Â
He chuckles, a low laugh, âNot at all.âÂ
You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.Â
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 pagesâwhy the scratches on his vinyl records donât bother him as much as it should.Â
.
You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.Â
Nanamiâs taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare timeâhe brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.Â
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 swatchesâa visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.Â
A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art piecesâon shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didnât make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collectorâs pieces in exhibits and art museums.Â
âThatâs the first one I ever made.â you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.
The sculpture is smaller than the busts youâve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. Itâs unlike any of the works youâve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.Â
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 heâs not sure how to ask youâif he even should.Â
He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.Â
âJust ask, I know you want to.âÂ
The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girlâs curled up figure. Thereâs a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.Â
âWho is it?â he asks.
You pause before you answer; heâs worried heâs crossed a line.Â
âMe.â you admit, a near-whisper.Â
He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why heâs always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.Â
When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.Â
âWhich one introduced you to me?â you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.Â
As itâs come to be, Nanamiâs learned that youâre good at that tooâcreating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel somethingâs gotten too close.Â
He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; itâs amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you havenât taken a break from creating because you still donât believe you deserve it.
âItâs not here,â he puts his hands in his pockets, âthe one with the hand clutching a heart.âÂ
âUnhandââhis favorite piece of yours; heâd 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 heartâsâat first glance, itâs impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.
Itâs a different view from each angleâthatâs why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.
âAh,â you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, âthat one.âÂ
Nanami follows but he doesnât say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way heâs done the past few weeks.
âI didnât think I was the type to be moved by art.â 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.Â
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 heâs almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.Â
He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus onâthe constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.Â
A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, âDidnât expect you to be such a poet.âÂ
âMust be from being around you so often,â he responds.
And if itâs a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibilityâhe thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.Â
Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from itâa 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 youâre a people pleaser, youâve learnedâitâs 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.Â
(Now you know you shouldnât have.)Â
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 youâhas never gotten too close.Â
If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?Â
.
During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.Â
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.Â
âDo you want to try?â you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. Thereâs a teasing edge to your tone, one thatâs developed over the months of getting to know you more.Â
âWould that be troublesome?âÂ
You laugh at his rigidness.Â
âOf course not.â 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 himâhis own little workspaceâand slam a chunk of clay atop it, âI think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.âÂ
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. Thereâs 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.Â
You teach him how to make a bread basketâsomething practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.Â
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.Â
A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.
âHere, let meââ you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.
Youâve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, heâs watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. Itâs only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that heâs noticing just how small and delicate yours are.Â
Itâs dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.Â
You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, âWe might take a while here.âÂ
âI donât mind.â he mumbles.
âYou sure you donât have anywhere else youâd rather be?â you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, âI feel bad, Iâve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.âÂ
It shouldnât mean anything; he shouldnât feel anythingâyou 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 thinksâ
âthis must be what it feels to be touched by art.Â
So, no.Â
Thereâs no other place heâd rather be.Â
.
.
.
DRY.
Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?Â
âWill you be free next weekend?âÂ
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 whoeverâs running a little late.Â
Today, itâs you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; youâd just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanamiâs head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze youâve become all too accustomed to.
You must have forgotten to mention it.Â
âOh,â you turn to him, âthereâs no need, our sessions are over.âÂ
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?Â
The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that heâs ordered ahead for youâyour sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).Â
Itâs when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.Â
âNot for a session.âÂ
You tilt your head curiously.Â
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.Â
âFor a date.âÂ
.
You begin to take up his weekends now, too.Â
Since that day at the bakery, when youâd nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, youâve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).Â
He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment youâre keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates tooâbecause what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?Â
(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates youâve gone on, heâs brought you to three different locationsâa weekend market, a picnic by a lake after youâd mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).Â
The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvasâheâs still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.Â
For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.Â
Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. Youâd 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.Â
He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you donât 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.Â
The first time he held your hand, it wasnât exactly plannedâan instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. Youâd barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.Â
(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 60âs 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.Â
Itâs unexpected, but you like that.Â
And you like himâquite a lot, really.Â
This dateâthe tenth, or fourth, whicheverâis a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, donât remember. Youâd been too focused on something elseâthe handsome way heâd slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.Â
Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.Â
Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where theyâre supposed to be.Â
Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. Youâre 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.Â
You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.Â
There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like thisâheâd played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.Â
Every sound around you is amplifiedâeach 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.Â
Itâs a look youâve only seen once before, when heâs stuck contemplating.Â
âKento,â you whisper.Â
His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, âIââ
Then you kiss him.Â
Itâs mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but itâs that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago thatâs pushed you to do this right now.Â
Youâre worried for that first split-second because he doesnât move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. Itâs 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.Â
Itâs a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you tooâvery much, actually.Â
.
Things are good a month until your exhibit.Â
Things are good until they arenât.Â
You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it âoverratedâ and âboringâ, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.Â
The critic calls your theme âlazyâ and âunoriginalâ, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.Â
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. Youâre usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.Â
Itâs every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.Â
And you break because of itâalong with Nanamiâs sculpture.
It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.Â
The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. Itâs impossible to repair without redoing the entire thingâwhich, you donât have the time for, either.Â
You groan, banging your head against the table.Â
Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.Â
Nanami finds you in your studio that way.Â
Heâd texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. Itâs a Thursday, but without your usual âjust got homeâ text, heâd gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.Â
If heâs being honest, youâve been off this entire weekâstressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.
Then this.Â
And itâs too muchâitâs all too much.Â
Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. Heâs never seen you like this, you could never want him to.Â
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.Â
âWhat happened?â his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.Â
Silence.Â
âIs there anything I can do?â he asks hesitantly.Â
You shake your head, swiping at your nose, âIt wonât look the same, Ken.âÂ
âDo you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule everyââ
âThereâs no time.âÂ
Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.Â
âThen weâll do what we can.âÂ
The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. Youâve never had anyone look at you this way.Â
âThereâs no point.â your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. âPeople are calling the exhibit a flop.âÂ
âWho?âÂ
You huff out, exhausted, âI donât know, critics, media. Whoever.âÂ
He furrows his brows, firm, âThey donât understand what youâre doing.âÂ
You chuckle sarcastically, âTheyâre art critics, Ken, of course theyââÂ
âIf it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?âÂ
That makes you look up.Â
Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. Thereâs 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.Â
Youâve 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.Â
âIf you love what you create, then continue to make it.â he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.Â
.
You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.Â
You remold and repair to build up yourself.Â
The half that broke off isnât as symmetrical as youâd like it to beâand it definitely doesnât do justice to the man itâs 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.Â
And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.Â
.
.
.
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.Â
Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. Youâre 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.Â
He smirks, âYouâre a natural.âÂ
âMust do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,â you stifle a giggle, playing along.Â
Itâs a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheekâNanami 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).Â
You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.Â
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 heâs done that on purpose). Thereâs 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.Â
On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, itâs the classic 60âsââCanât Take My Eyes Off Youââserving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.Â
He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when thereâs a hiccup in the song (itâs from the scratches on his record, but he canât bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, youâve seemed to loosen up immensely.Â
âKen,â you call him, âhow much pressure do you usually put into kneading?âÂ
Thereâs no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.Â
âLet meââ he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.Â
Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shouldersâwhen he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around youâd see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.Â
He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.Â
âLike this,â 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, âCan you feel it?âÂ
You hum, your swaying gone. Heâs 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.Â
The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.Â
âThank you,â you whisper.Â
Nanami knows itâs for many thingsâfor agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But thatâs not the whole point of this, he thinks. Itâs how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something elseâa kind of affection heâs all too familiar with himself.Â
This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.Â
.
In the quiet, Nanamiâs hands move loudly.Â
He holds you gently, just like he always has, but itâs a permission every timeâlike heâs asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.Â
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 youâthick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.Â
A gasp escapes you.Â
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.Â
He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.Â
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 chestâyou did mention that itâs been a while.Â
He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weightâhis slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.Â
Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.Â
So, he makes sure to remember all of itâto 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.Â
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 otherâs, warm and soft as the heat builds between you. Â
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.Â
You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.Â
(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 himâhe treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)Â
Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when heâs inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.Â
A tear drips down your face.Â
âShould Iââ he looks you in the eye, worried.Â
âNo,â you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, âkeep going.âÂ
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.Â
Itâs only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears arenât anything bad.Â
For the first time in a while, you feel fullâperfectly content.Â
.
He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.Â
Itâs a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stageâthe unveiling of all your sculptures. Youâre 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.Â
You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people theyâre sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but youâve explained it all to Nanamiâheâs listened to every single one.Â
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.Â
He smiles at you the same.Â
âThe Undoingâ is what you call itâhalf-perfect and half-salvaged.Â
Itâs far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part thatâd originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and brownsâthe 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.Â
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, itâs an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existedâgreen 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.Â
To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and heâs undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.Â
It is as much you as it is him.Â
Thatâs what happens when you love someone, he supposesâan intermingling of souls.Â
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 flowersâfor when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.Â
Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where heâs standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know youâll 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) đ„ș + @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 đ„ș + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' đ + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch đ„ș
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ