could you do kuroyaku/ magic? thank you for blessing us with your ficlets, i love your writing so so much
both kuroyaku and magic are my weaknesses and i couldnt resist, so here goes! thanks for the kind message anon ^u^/
‘Our dining table ran away again,’ Kenma says, by way ofgreeting, when Kuroo makes his way home on Friday night. He’s staring intentlyat a deck of tarot cards on the floor. ‘I told you it was a bad idea to charmit.’
‘My first date went very well, thanks for asking,’ Kuroosays, disgustingly cheerful and completely oblivious as to the pressing issueof runaway furniture. 'We had a picnic in the woods, and at the end Yaku pulleda bunch of my favourite pitcher plants from the picnic basket, it was romantic–’
'You’ll have plenty more chances to eat on the floor,’ isKenma’s monotonous reply. 'If you don’t get that dining table back.’
’–so anyway, I’ve decided, I’m going to put the pitcherplant into a pot and teach it to say “good morning, Yaku”,’ Kuroocontinues, unrepentant. 'As a gift for our next meeting. Aren’t I clever?’
'I gave Yaku the pitcher plant,’ Kuroo says, one week later.'I don’t think he liked it very much, though.’
'It’s never a good idea to give a conjurer back theiritems,’ Kenma tells him, as if he couldn’t have said it one weekago. 'Especially if it was meant as a gift. It’s against their codeof conjuring conduct, or something.’
'I didn’t know that,’ Kuroo says, looking morosely into hiscup of nettle tea. He sounds sad enough that Kenma sighs, and looks up.
'You could make it up to him next week,’ Kenma says, andthen winces visibly with regret two seconds later. 'Or not, if your idea of agift is singing pitcher plants–’
It’s too late. Kuroo’s eyes take on a dangerous gleam as he marches resolutely out the door, muttering darkly to himself, ‘you just wait, Yaku. I’ll romance the bejeezus out of you…’
'I went to Yaku’s house, Kenma–okay, fine, I sneaked in,details, details–and charmed all his furniture to clean upafter themselves–’
(Their doorbell rings bright and early at 6 a.m. the nextmorning. Kuroo opens the door to Yaku standing triumphantly next to theirlong-lost dining table–if furniture were capable of looking guilty then theirtable would be it–now squeaky clean and very polished,topped with delicious food, and sprouting wings.)
'I got us limited edition tickets to the dragon wrestlingtroupe, Kenma, and if that doesn’t scream romance I don’t knowwhat does–’
'He conjured up a flock of baby dragons, Kenma, thirty ofthem,’ Kuroo says, hysterical. 'In, like, a heart-shaped formation, and thenwhen they were done they flew away into the horizon and disappeared into thefucking sunset.’
'Charming,’ Kenma replies, in a tone that clearly suggestshe would much rather also disappear into the sunset than listen to Kuroo’sweekly grouses about his love life.
Kuroo obviously doesn’t take the hint. ‘Is it legal to kidnap unicorns? Do you think?’
This refers to sitting behind a booth on a Sunday evening, surrounded by pink drapes and an assortment of crystal balls. An evening that could’ve been better spent on his thesis, or a much needed nap, or even the laundry, because at some point Matsukawa’s dormant sense of shame (and also hygiene) had started to outweigh the convenience of wearing the same pair of jeans for five days in a row.
Actually, Matsukawa does have an idea. It mostly involved Yuda, who’s in charge of manpower allocation for the student union’s fundraising carnival, showing up at his dorm on Sunday afternoon and begging him to stand in for one of the volunteers who’d fallen sick. It’s just the fortune telling booth, all you have to do is recite their horoscope to them or something, he said. It’ll be fun, he said. And then he’d given Matsukawa the Look.
He had the gift of expressing himself in such a way that rejecting him would make anyone feel like they’d just set fire to a herd of baby alpacas, did Yuda. Between that and his law major, Matsukawa thinks darkly to himself, the kid is one eyepatch and a villainous laughter away from world domination.
So anyway. It’s three hours into the carnival and Matsukawa’s had three visitors so far, which is no surprise given that his paltry booth is flanked right between the horror house and the popcorn machine (manned by the famous Kiyoko Shimizu, who could have been selling igneous rocks for the matter and still gotten a crowd regardless.)
Three hours into the carnival (with one more long-suffering hour to go), Matsukawa’s fourth customer of the day stalks up to the booth and takes the seat opposite him. He has light brown hair and is holding onto the biggest profiterole plushie Matsukawa has ever laid his eyes on.
“I’d like to have my fortune told,” the boy tells Matsukawa, whilst trying to balance the plushie on his lap, and then he grins. Which is patently ridiculous. Because nobody can hold a three feet long soft toy on their lap and still have a smile that looks as attractive as that, it borders criminal. “What’s the charge?”
“That’s… a profiterole,” Matsukawa says. Because, in addition to being keenly observant, his is also very eloquent.
The boy must’ve misunderstood Matuskawa’s comment, because he wraps his arms around the plushie protectively. “I’m not giving this to you!”
“That’s - I didn’t mean - I don’t want your plushie,” Matsukawa says, defensively. The guy is clearly out of his mind. Which is just as well because, if anyone is ever going to believe Matsukawa’s third-rate quack fortune teller charade, it’s going to be someone delusional enough to think that people are out there to steal twenty pounds of polyester shaped into a hugeass profiterole. “I charge a flat rate of two tokens.”
After the boy has been successfully conned of two tokens, Matsukawa clears his throat. “Now, I’m going to need your name and your birthday.”
It’s a simple trick, really. Matsukawa’s memorised the horoscope section of the day’s newspaper, and all he has to do is to match the guy’s birthday to his horoscope and deliver it with some embellishment.
“My name’s Hanamaki Takahiro. Birthday’s twenty-seventh of January.”
Hanamaki Takahiro. Matsukawa blinks in surprise, because he knows this Hanamaki guy. Not personally; Hanamaki is Iwaizumi’s classmate, and Iwaizumi’s mentioned him a few times in the passing. Matsukawa digs through the recesses of his mind, and tries to recall the conversations he’s had with Iwaizumi about this guy. Something about arm-wrestling, a one-sided rivalry he’s got going on with Iwaizumi regarding arm-wrestling, and an unfaltering love for profiteroles (“seriously, the guy eats it everyday.”)
“Right,” Matsukawa says, clearing his throat. “Give me your hand.”
Hanamaki spreads out his palm and places it on the table obligingly. Matsukawa holds it; it’s very warm.
Matsukawa’s very warm.
“Right now I’m looking at your… lines,” Matsukawa says, trying to go for hypnotic and dreamy but suspecting that he’s coming off as nasally congested instead. “These are… interesting… lines.”
He decides to go for the kill. “There seems to be… someone in your life that you’re trying to defeat. Something you’re… fixated on.
“A man… you’re facing a man. In a battle of… brute strength and determination. Hmmm.”
To his surprise, the other guy’s actually leaning forward with slightly widened eyes, a look of obvious curiosity on his face. “Tell me,” he says, in a completely serious tone. “Am I ever going to beat this guy?”
Hanamaki cannot possibly be buying this half-assed, D-rate charlatan performance. He cannot.
“I foresee… great difficulty.” Which is technically not a lie, but then Hanamaki’s wilts visibly. “Great difficulty… that you will overcome!” Hanamaki brightens up again. “Overcome… some day. As long as you… keep trying… it’ll happen… some day,” Matsukawa amends, because there’s false hope, and then there’s straight up delusional lying.
“Tell me more,” Hanamaki breathes, and, crap, Matsukawa’s ran out of material. There’s no way he can extend this ridiculous charade, but Hanamaki’s looking at him all expectantly and he’s Weak to the pleading face, he really is -
“I’ll have to consult my crystal ball,” Matsukawa says frantically, in an attempt to buy some time while his poor brain scrambles to pull itself together. He pulls a crystal ball in front of him, flings his arm into the air, and draws on whatever piteous memory he’s gathered from watching TV.
“Sha ba do bi touch fortune!” He yells. Crap, he’s still drawing on a blank. “Sha ba do bi touch fortune!
“Fortune telling! Fortune telling!”
There’s an expectant pause as Hanamaki looks at him, agog.
“Was that...” Hanamaki begins in disbelief. “Did you just - did you just quote…”
Just then, someone waves to Matsukawa from a distance and starts to make their way to the booth. Matsukawa realises, with no small degree of horror, that the person is in fact Iwaizumi.
“What the hell, Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi says, ignoring the distressed glances Matsukawa’s throwing his way. “The heck you’re doing here? When Yuda said you were gonna help take over the fortune telling booth I thought he was joking… is that you, Hanamaki?”
“Well,’ Hanamaki says, eventually. “Well. I didn’t realise the two of you were acquainted.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “We’re not just acquainted. This guy’s my roommate of three years.”
Hanamaki’s alternating his gaze between Iwaizumi and Matsukawa, with a carefully neutral expression on his face, and - that’s it, then. That wraps up Matsukawa’s short-lived career as a deceitful fortune-telling quack, all three and a half glorious hours of it.
“Three years,” Hanamaki repeats, slowly. “Tell me, does he ever watch Kamen Rider in his free time?”
“Err,” Matsukawa says.
“What kind of ques - well, as a matter of fact, he does, but what - why - how do you know?” Iwaizumi looks increasingly baffled.
“Uhh,” Matsukawa continues, with great eloquence.
“Lucky guess?” Hanamaki says. “The theme of the night, it seems.”
“Well,” Matsukawa begins, but Hanamaki stands up, giant profiterole in hand, and says, “I’ll see you around, fortune teller.”
(2 days later)
+81-9099267369: is this the fortune teller from two days ago?
Matsukawa Issei: you are??
+81-9099267369: hanamaki
+81-9099267369: out of curiosity, when you read my fortune, did you foresee me going out with some guy in the future? tall, dark-haired, works as a charlatan in his free time,
Matsukawa Issei: damn how’d you know? 10AM tomorrow, outside the science block’s pizza place
aaaaaaaaaaaa welcome back, i love your writing and i'm so glad you're writing again!! prompt: iwaoi + summer
thank you kind anon! sending some gross iwaoi your way, i hope you like it ;u;/
oikawa tooru is going straight to hell. he’s got one-way express ticket, return trip not included, and it’s all because of stupid iwa-chan’s fault.
“it’s been three days,” iwa-chan is saying, fanning himself vigorously with a stack of lecture printouts. as his does so the sheen of sweat on his bare chest glistens. he picks up a can of grape juice, throws his head back, and inhales it in a single gulp while oikawa stares, transfixed, at the line plunging from his chiselled jawline to the tip of his sternum. oikawa feels like a billion porcupines are in his stomach, and the porcupines are all doing parkour. “haven’t they fixed the air-con remote yet?”
“well,” oikawa squeaks, aiming for airy and dismissive but sounding tragically like someone missing a vital part of his voicebox. “i’ve been calling, but you know how these air-conditioning remote control repair shops are like, hahahahaha!”
a long beat of silence ensues. then iwa-chan gives an little exasperated sigh, murmurs, “well, at least we’re saving money on laundry”, and turns back to annotating his lecture notes. like he completely believed oikawa’s harebrained little skit.
because oikawa is weak and will probably get weeded out by evolution, he lets his gaze run across the vast expanse of iwa-chan’s gloriously naked shoulders - only the twelfth time over the past ten minutes, because he’s nothing if not a fucking pinnacle of self-control - and then tries to quickly distract himself by getting himself another can of grape juice, because he can’t think of a single way to make ‘my nose is bleeding because of… the weather, i need to go and take a suspiciously long shower, also because of… the weather’ sound believable.
that’s it: oikawa tooru’s officially going to burn in hell.
oikawa smiles, and takes a delicate sip of his can of grape juice, relishing the thought of the (repaired, fully functional) remote control tucked safely away underneath ten layers of faded t-shirts, socks, and space-themed boxers in his wardrobe. might as well get used to the heat now.
victuuri fairytale AU inspired by a tumblr post, ft. georgi who cannot get a break
It’s a beautiful summer morning, and Georgi’s seated on a large frond in the middle of the magical swamp in his backyard, trying his best to brood dramatically about his beloved Anya despite being silhouetted against a lovely magical forest full of cheerful woodlands creatures rather than the preferred bitterly cold wintery day or a cliff overlooking a tragically fleeting sunset.
“Help!” comes a man’s cry.
Georgi sighs. Dramatically.
It’s not the first time a traveller has wandered into his residence and strayed into his swamp; this is precisely why he’s erected multiple signage around the area to deter people from entering (and disrupting his very precious, very sacred brooding sessions): “DO NOT ENTER” “DANGER KEEP OUT” “WITCH NECROMANCER EXTREMELY DANGEROUS SOUL-SUCKING DEMON CREATURE OF THE DARK’S RESIDENCE” “MILKMAN TO LEAVE MILK UNDERNEATH POPPY PLANT THANK YOU”
Georgi rows himself to the source of the noise with a discarded tree branch and sees a young, silver-haired guy struggling to keep afloat. The man, upon spotting Georgi, immediately reaches his hands out to grab hold of Georgi’s tree branch to keep himself afloat. There’s a moment of silence as the two men tussle for ownership of the branch; Georgi loses his balance and almost falls off the frond.
“Who are you, and how dare you trespass upon my residence,” Georgi demands in his most impressive voice. Next to him, the tiny hatchling perched on his left shoulder lets out a particularly menacing chirrp. Smoke billows out ominously from Georgi’s cottage through the chimney, accompanied by the refreshing scent of freshly baked honeysuckle pie.
“I’m sorry,” begged the man. “I am Viktor Nikiforov, and I am the Royal Prince. My dad, the king, wanted to marry me off to some princess, but I didn’t want to, so I ran away into the forest and got lost.”
A royal scandal? A lost love, never meant to be? Now that’s the tragic backstory Georgi’s always dreamed of. He nods, and Viktor takes it as a sign to continue.
“- and then I was walking along a random path and I didn’t realise where I was going and I caught sight of a beautiful face in the swamp and was so enraptured by his beauty, I walked straight into the pond –”
The halfwit got distracted by his own reflection in the swamp. Everyday Georgi finds new things to be depressed about.
Georgi decides that it’s the last straw; if he’s is to deter other travellers from bumbling into his residence, he’s going to have to set his foot down and punish these wrongdoers, damnit.
“I’ll save you,” Georgi tells Viktor grimly, “In return for your most prized possession.”
Viktor considers the statement for a second. “Seems fair. What do you want?”
Georgi blinks, surprised. Clearly he hadn’t thought through it carefully. “Uh, how much do you have with you now?”
“I’ve, like, three bronze coins,” Viktor confesses. “And an old creaky violin.”
That won’t do. “Any other prized possessions?”
“I’ve a secret family recipe for a blueberry tart that’s famous in certain knitting circles,” Viktor offers.
Tempting, but… “Anything else?”
“I could offer you my virgini-”
“YOUR FIRSTBORN,” Georgi says, loudly. “YOU WILL GIVE ME YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD.”
“Sure, but how can you make sure I won't lie and run away?” Viktor frowns, concerned.
“We’ll enter a magically binding agreement,” Georgi decrees grandly, pulling out his wand with his free hand and gesturing to the air around them. “You will pass me your firstborn on the pain of death. Until you do, you’re not allowed to leave this forest.”
“Deal!”
A spark of magic flies out from Georgi’s wand, and then fizzes away; now Viktor will have no choice but to obey him.
“By the way,” Viktor says, “Were you trying to brood while sitting on a piece of banana leaf? That’s like, so uncool.”
Georgi lets go of the tree branch.
Days turn into weeks turn into months, and Viktor still hasn’t found a better half to breed a spawn with.
Georgi realises, with a rising wave of panic, that being trapped in the forest as a means of escaping his royal arranged marriage might have been Viktor’s goal all along.
Desperate times beget desperate measures. If Viktor’s not going to actively try to do something about the state of his singlehood, then Georgi is going to intervene.
Georgi’s concept of romance has, thus far, involved a lot of one-sided pining, angst-ridden poetry, and inconsolable weeping.
Trying to get Viktor a partner yields pretty much the same teary results.
“Viktor, look outside! It’s Mila Babicheva passing by with her dad!” Georgi would say, peeking through a gap in the fence surrounding his backyard. Everyone knew Mila, even magical spirits like Georgi who lived in the middle of a forest, for her beauty was truly legendary. “Quick, run out before it’s too late!”
“Not interested,” Viktor would singsong, from his half-reclined position on Georgi’s favourite frond in the middle of the swamp, where he is playing his violin and sipping cranberry juice. “Be a lamb and refill the juice for me, won’t you?”
“Viktor, an exquisite looking young man’s sleeping underneath the toadstool outside with his equally exquisite husky! Didn’t you say that you like dogs?”
“Only fat, woolly ones, Georgi! Try harder!”
“Viktor, look at that beautiful golden-haired sexy beast of a man who’s drowning in the swamp! Naked. Totally naked. You have to save him!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Georgi, it’s low tide today. The water level’s barely at my ankles.”
Georgi’s almost resigned to living the rest of his life in Viktor’s company. At this point, because there is clearly no god, Georgi’s pretty sure that he’s the one being punished.
This goes on until Viktor comes running into the cottage one day in the midst of Georgi’s baking session, butt-naked and dripping wet.
“Georgi, Georgi, I found the man of my dreams,” Viktor breathes.
“What the hell are you doing here, get out of the house and get together with him!” Georgi orders shrilly, dropping the spatula in his hands in favour of jabbing a finger towards the general direction of the door. “Do so at once!”
To his horror, Viktor burst into tears.
“I tried to,” Viktor says. “I was soaking in one of the hot springs outside and I saw – I saw this gorgeous man, playing his flute to woodland creatures and – and he’s so perfect, Georgi, so perfect – and I just – I didn’t think – and I ran out of the water and started to chase after him.”
“You… chased after him,” Georgi says faintly, after a moment of silence. “Naked.”
“He ran away from me,” Viktor wails, as if that he hadn’t expected that to be the logical conclusion of the story. “I will never find true love again. Never." He trudges into his bedroom – his bedroom, in Georgi’s house – and leaves a trail of sad-looking muddy footprints on the floor. Within a few minutes, the house is filled with the sound of weepy violin music.
And people think Georgi is dramatic. Georgi lets out a long-suffering sigh, and goes to take the mop from underneath the kitchen sink.
In order to ensure that Viktor succeeds in wooing the mysterious flute man, Georgi decides to tap on his witchcraft to gather information about him. Know thy enemy, and so on.
The man’s name is Katsuki Yuuri. He’s the ex-apprentice of one of the most famous musicians in the country, Celestino. He wanders into the forest every other day of the week and plays some sad drippy flute music to woodland creatures, for reasons that largely elude Georgi. He’s soft-spoken, owns a pet dog , and has the sort of fashion sense that makes Georgi wants to scream in pain and anguish.
The woodlands creatures adore him.
Most humans don’t make it out of magical forests alive; Yuuri wanders in and out of the place, blissfully ignorant of the fact, like it’s his own backyard.
Viktor, traumatised from his disastrous encounter with Yuuri, has taken to pining after Yuuri from afar instead.
“I mean, it’s not pathetic at all,” Georgi says in a monotone, because romance is dead. Romance is dead because Viktor Nikiforov killed it. “You’ve only been pining after him for six months.”
“Oh, shut up,” Viktor snaps from his hiding place behind a large magical toadstool.
Katsuki Yuuri is sitting serenely by the river bank, playing his flute. Clearly, Viktor is not the only besotted creature here – as he sits down, the sunflowers within a ten metre radius immediately unfurl to full bloom and turn to face him, basking him in a faint, yellow, ethereal glow. A baby owlet descends shyly upon Yuuri’s shoulders, and is soon joined by what seems to be its entire extended furry family. Two grizzly bears are perched docilely on a large tree trunk, curled up snugly together and pretty as a picture, as if they hadn’t been trying to claw each other’s eyes out fighting over a small rodent just moments ago.
Viktor remains immobile behind the toadstool for the next hour, and then visibly wilts as Yuuri packs up and disappears into the forest.
“Definitely not pathetic,” Georgi repeats himself. The whole pining-after-someone-from-afar routine had been fine when he was the one doing it; Georgi mopes tastefully. Very tastefully. Viktor’s sickening moping, on the other hand, just involves a lot of snivelling, hiding behind toadstools, and binge-eating on pies.
The foolish man is self-deluded enough to insist, “our child will be beautiful and adorable and musical.”
“And imaginary,” Georgi murmurs darkly. Time to take matters into his own hands; he will get hold of Viktor’s firstborn.
The next time Yuuri comes to the forest, Georgi strikes. He summons a gust of wind that lifts Yuuri up from his place beside the river bank, above a few magnolia bushes, across a large willow tree – almost snaring the boy’s pants in the branches in the process – and dumps him in the middle of Georgi’s swamp.
In the middle of Georgi’s swamp where, conveniently, Viktor is practicing his morning yoga on his frond (fully clothed; Georgi had made sure of that before carrying out his evil ploy.)
Viktor turns his head towards the source of the noise in alarm, and visibly pales to realise that it’s Yuuri.
“Go get him,” Georgi whispers furiously under his breath, crouched behind his window in the cottage. He’s not proud of his hare-brained ploy, he really isn’t, but because the alternative is spending the rest of eternity with Viktor Nikiforov, Georgi can’t even bring himself to feel ashamed.
Georgi watches as Viktor gets over his shock and tries, valiantly, to manoeuvre his frond towards Yuuri’s general direction. He makes it about three yards before wobbling dangerously and then promptly falls off the leaf into the swamp.
Georgi is left to gape in horror as the next sequence of events unfolds in slow motion.
Katsuki Yuuri freezes for a moment, before he gathers himself and starts to swim – no, bulldoze – towards Viktor with a few strong strokes, just in time to catch the other man who, overcome by shock, has fainted, face-down, into the muddy waters. He wraps one (beautiful, toned) arm around Viktor and, with the remaining (beautiful, toned) arm, paddles his way to shore within five seconds, with the strength and grace of a motherfucking mermaid.
“Please wake up, wake up!” Georgi hears Yuuri say as he shakes Viktor’s shoulders. Viktor coughs, makes a revolting choked sound reminiscent of a badly constipated troll, and falls limply back onto the ground.
Georgi runs towards the two men and barely makes it in time to watch, agog, as Yuuri takes a deep breath, shuts his eye, and kisses Viktor.
A few unbearable seconds pass as Viktor lets out another series of cough and opens his eyes.
“Am I dead?” Viktor murmurs, peering at Yuuri through his long, long lashes. “Is this why you’re here?”
“It’s okay.” Yuuri lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re okay now.”
Georgi doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.
As it turns out, Viktor’s disappearance had triggered off a nation-wide search for their beloved crown prince, who, as rumour had it, seemed to have vanished overnight into the enchanted forest. The reason why Yuuri had taken to venturing into the woods to play his instrument was, in fact, an attempt at seeking Viktor out, as if the latter were some shy, fragile woodland creature to be lured out with sad drippy flute music.
“But you ran away from me,” Viktor says, because he is incapable of getting over the insult. “That time, when I met you at the hot spring.”
Yuuri looks at Viktor in a way that makes his opinion of dubious men who leap out of hot springs to chase after unsuspecting strangers, while being naked, abundantly clear.
“Fine, fine, fair enough,” Viktor concedes. “What did the king promise for my return?”
"Five hundred thousand pounds and a lifetime supply of pork cutlet bowls. But," Yuuri blushes deeply, “that’s not why I’m here, though!”
“Oh, Yuuri –”
“I’ve always,” Yuuri says, blushes even deeper, and looks down demurely at his clenched fist. “Ever since I was a kid – when I saw you play the violin at the royal wedding –”
Viktor takes Yuuri’s hands into his own. “I’m glad you found me, in the end.”
“Yes, yes, very touching,” Georgi interrupts. “Now, Viktor, if you’d remember your promise to me –”
Viktor lets out a soft sigh. “But I can’t go back to the country. The king will just try to marry me off again.”
“We could stay here, in the woods, together,” Yuuri exhales. “Forever.”
Wait, what?
“You’re right,” Viktor gushes. “I like it here. And the cottage is big enough for one more person.”
“No,” Georgi whispers faintly. “No, no it isn’t –”
“That’s it, then,” Yuuri says with a watery smile, completely oblivious as to the way Georgi is clutching onto the tabletop to prevent himself from passing out. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”
“And when we have children,” Viktor says, eyes sparkling with pure unadulterated joy, “Georgi can be the godfather and the nanny.”
Georgi finally passes out.
bonus:
because georgi's life is one cosmic joke, their firstborn turns out to be yuri fucking plisetsky, which further cements georgi's belief that his life is one doomed to eternal hell. despite all appearances, however, yuri is actually fond of godpa georgi and conveys this by spending a large part of his infancy flinging his booger at him. at the age of three, influenced by his parents' musicality, yuri also picks up a musical instrument; yuri chooses neither the violin nor the flute, and settles for a banjo instead, just to be fucking contrary. they hold regular concerts for the woodland creatures, where georgi acts as the emcee.
OOOOOOOOOOOOH MY GOD I NEVER KNEW YOU WERE IN THE YOI FANDOM?!?!?! i cant believe carafin is writing yoi fic thank you for making my YEAR
tbh i did watch yoi when it first came out but it never did leave a lasting impression on me. that is until i revisited the series while being deep in the throes of a mid-twenties crisis (lol) and i almost wept from how relateable the anime is. the beauty of yoi, at least to me, stems from how it employs an interesting - perhaps even niche - premise to convey themes that are indisputably universal. terrific stuff
dailybridgerton
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izzy806
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