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CERAMIC LIPS — just a little drabble of what it would be like if kirishima was into pottery.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. kirishima eijiro x reader
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. gender-neutral, high school au, no quirks au, fluff, not proofread so beware
kirishima eijiro, the quiet boy in your 6th-period ceramics class.
he has loud buddies, though. you recollect on the time you saw a blonde boy with yellow eyes leap onto his back, closely being pursued by a black-haired boy with awful posture and piercings, and the blonde-haired boy with crimson eyes and a frown craved on his face. you already knew his name from all the times your science teacher seated you two together for a project. you guys work together well she would say.
in here, however, kirishima is all straight face and silent since his friends aren’t here to deflect. you know he’s mrs urumi’s favorite, she’s always gloating about his works or peaking over his shoulder.
you didn’t want to select ceramics as an elective for your second semester, but since you waited so long your only options were photography or exploration of ceramics. without delay, you picked ceramics.
kirishima was advanced in ceramics, always modeling extract sculptures or heads with intense care. he always looked so in love with his final productions.
while spinning your grossly saturated clay on your potter’s wheel, you green-eyed him. you weren’t confident if your jealousy was bred by noticing how elegant and diverse his creations came out while you only knew how to make a cock-eyed teacup, or how he cradles the life-size head so gingerly while enhancing details on its gray lips. His crimson eyes possess so much tenderness and warmth in them.
so much love and…
and your feet slowly add more pressure on the foot pedal the more you gawk at him. eventually, it builds a lanky, clay tentacle that was spiraling from the acceleration of the wheel it dangled on. the clay tentacle sprinkles portions of itself onto other tables —causing them to groan in annoyance— and attaches slivers of sludge onto your apron.
your teacher shrieks, yelling at you to stop the wheel, jerking you out of your trance. you lifted your foot from the pedal and watch your limp, mud tentacle slowly swirl to a break.
the girls in the corner giggle at you, though they’re the ones all blemished in scars of clay. you feel the temperature rise in the room when you sense a pair of red eyes flick at you. Maybe photography could’ve fitted you better than this shitshow.
unbeknownst to you, he grins and continues working on his piece. he might look like he’s in love with his work, but this personal piece has his heart beating out of his chest.