Including fanfics (JJK, BNHA, HQ, etc.) as well as general writing!
Blog started in spring of 2021. (Yay! One year ><~)
If there's no [nsfw], it means it's [sfw]. The "nsfw" tag is only for sexual themes; there may still be things like death, blood, and depression in the "sfw" works.
I am queer, neurodivergent, BIPOC (+ first generation immigrant), disabled, and mentally ill. This is a safe account. If you're discriminatory against anyone at all, please, shut up and don't interact.
This is also for me to practice writing, so if I can help even a single person can feel a bit better, then that's already amazing to me.
Most of these are around 500 words.
Jujutsu Kaisen
(4)
My Light at Night (Yuuji x Megumi)
Headcannons - Gojo Satoru (Gojo x gn!reader)
Headcannons - Ryoumen Sukuna (Sukuna x gn!reader)
For Without You, I Cannot Breathe (Gojo x gn!reader)
BNHA
(4)
Scarlet Flight and Crimson Plight (Hawks x gn!reader)
Pretty Red Bird (Hawks x gn!reader)
Sunset Feast (Bakugou x gn!reader) [nsfw]
Drabbles - LOV (various LOV characters)
Haikyuu!!
(14 + 1)
Cowardice (Bokuto x Akaashi)
Heart's Awl (Atsumu x Hinata)
Sun, Past Tense (Atsumu x Hinata) - coming 06.03.22 at 12:30 a.m. GMT-5
Headcanons - neko! Kozume Kenma (Kenma x gn!reader)
Moonlit Obsidian (Kenma x gn!reader) [nsfw]
The Warm Sun (Hinata x gn!reader)
Gently (Kenma x Hinata) [semi nsfw]
Water of the Sea, Water of Melancholy (Kuroo x gn!reader)
Golden-eyed (Kuroo x gn!reader)
Help Me Breathe (Tendou x gn!reader)
When We Were Children (Yamaguchi x gn!reader)
"I want... you" (Atsumu x gn!reader)
Two Parts (Atsumu x gn!reader)
Quiet Love (Osamu x gn!reader) [nsfw]
A Letter of Love and Regret (Osamu x gn!reader)
King's Maker
(1)
My King [1st place in writing contest!]
All of Us Are Dead
(+ 1)
Perspective drabble (hari x mijin) - coming 07.03.22 at 12:30 a.m. GMT-5
Other
(2 + 2)
Drabbles - Garden (inspired by a trip to the botanical garden)
Liebesträume (vent writing)
Vent drabble - coming 08.03.22 at 12:30 a.m. GMT-5
Papillon (french poem) - coming 09.03.22 at 12:30 a.m. GMT-5
A/n: I don't know how many francophones there are on here or who will see my writing but I wrote a poem, so yeah. I also made a ppt explaining the definitions and stuff, but everything is in french (it was for school). I'm still going to put it here though, so yeah :> Enjoy~
tw/ low self esteem, depression, and the like
(84 words)
Below is the ppt
Je suis un opuscule prosaïque aux ailes bergamotes
Au corps fébrile, maculé de souillures mordorées
Je virevolte dans les airs, un rêve tant éphémère
Mais ton impitoyable souffle acharné me fait péricliter
Dans ce monde kafkaïen, nous ne pouvons que subir
Souffrance, outrance, ésotérique belligérance
Nonobstant l’obsolescence, j’agis malgré mon fiel
Mais un vil ptérygote comme moi, ne suis-je qu’un martyr?
Satire pervertie, repentir du mot désir
C’est un obscène rétif au gant cachemire
Hâblerie impudique, pernicieux mythomanie
Cesse ces songes d’odieux voeux morfondus
A/n: So some stuff happened around three months ago and I still remember it just like yesterday, so around January I wrote a vent drabble (I blurred the actual story and mixed it with past trauma to make it less... revolting, but yeah). Enjoy (?)!
Tw/ manipulation, trauma, etc.
(245 words)
“I’ll hold you when it hurts. I’ll make sure you’re not in pain.”
It’s funny – those are promises you made to me what seems like an eternity ago. Golden honey flowed from your blossoming lips, vowing to me odious mendacities. Whether I laugh or cry, it’ll all be the same, so let me revel in this agonizing epiphany as if it were the dream your feigned covenant.
My heart is an antediluvian tomb, a burial for my unavailing pleads. You’ve poisoned me from the inside out, tainted my ethereal wings; you’ve wrested my postulations and ravaged my being with virulent lacerations.
And yet somehow, you find within the confines of your inexhaustible turpitude a semblance of your erstwhile right to bear yourself before me. After all this time, after all the torturous torment you have subjected me to, you dare once again endeavor to defile me.
Once again, you whisper sweet nothings into my cowering ears, seeking to orchestrate my nth undoing. But have you cogitated the abstraction that there exists a limit, however nebulous and abstruse, to how much attrition one can hail down upon another? Perhaps, have you not fathomed that I would impose indemnification?
I do not thirst for your pusillanimous sentiments, nor do I hunger for a perfunctory apologia. What I demand shall be no less than the quietus of ordained expiration, for alas, it is only at the fatal ruination of your exsanguinated flesh that shall I breathe once more.
A/n: I've been watching some kdramas with my friend lately (we were applying for post-secondary where we live and I had to do a portfolio and she also loves drawing so yeah) and we watched Alive. To be honest, I didn't like any one the ones we watched that much, and the same can be said for Alive. *However*, the latter had two girls we shipped really hard. The archer girl and the smoking-in-the-bathroom girl (we dubbed her the cig girl). And I took one of the scenes and just ran with it. Enjoy!
(Side note, but my friend and I both found potato head absolutely adorable pfft, especially the little dance/song. And the nickname is because I have an inside joke about beans and potatoes and yeah.)
Tw/ smoking, swearing
(288 words)
I stub out my eleventh cig. “God dammit, I’m out,” I mutter under my breath. “Got any smokes?” I ask the tall guy next to me. He shakes his head. “Urgh... You’re a chicken hiding in the girls’ room *and* you’re useless. Great. Shit, what am I supposed to do now – no phone, no nothing.”
I hear a sound outside the bathroom. “Fuck,” I grumble. Potato face startles, frightened. I reluctantly hoist myself off the toilet tank’s lid – the only half-clean place in this hellhole. I drag myself over to the door, and obviously, I’m scared, but the nicotine going through my brain is even better than liquid courage. The people outside are talking to each other, so I’m assuming that they aren’t zombies, but it ain’t like I’m going to be the one letting them in. “Unless one of them is hot. I make exceptions,” I smirk to myself.
*BANG*
The door bursts open, hitting me across the face. “FUCK! Why the fuck did you-” In comes a ponytailed goddess, arrow knocked (oh damn she’s on the team?). “Not infected; he isn’t either,” I breathe, tilting my head towards potato face. “Is it just the two of you?” goddess asks, face blank and emotionless. Damn, hot personality too, huh. I’d let her […] me. Damnnnn- “Yep,” I answer. “Don’t go in the second stall though – there's a body in there.” She rolls her eyes, “not like I was going to anyways. Is the water clean?” “Yeah, but we were planning on heading out – adults won’t be coming anyways. You wanna come with?” “Don’t order me around. I do what I want. And yes, we will, but tomorrow,” she opines. “Stop fucking bitching – guess all athletes *are* dickwads.”
A/n: Been reading too much angst lately and I just had to try to write something. Hopefully I'll be able to write half as well as stuff like "in another life" and "the galaxy is endless". Anyways, as I attempt to keep a record of my non-existent improvement, here you go. (To the three or so people who'll see this, pfft- /lh /nm)
Tw/ death, angst, su*icide, etc.
(580 words)
There’s someone who has always been here, someone who has seldom left his side, but now, slouched against the wall on a steel-framed hospital bench, he shifts his hand closer to that someone who he realizes, is no longer here.
His fists clench and release. Once, twice, more times than one could possibly count. It’s been five hours. Five hours spent disassociating in a too-white hallway. Definitely long enough for the stench of antiseptics to cling to his every strand of bleached hair and to seep through every pore of his etiolated skin. The odor wafting around him only deepens his resentment and his bitterness.
*click* *slide* He jolts, head lifting higher than it’s been in a while. His bloodshot eyes gape over his hollowed cheeks, blood moons over dusty canyons. He shoves himself off his seat with energy he definitely doesn’t have. “Is he okay?” he manages to rasp, parched throat grasping for air that his chapped lips won’t let in. “He is alive. Not well, but alive,” the doctor sighs, peeling off latex gloves with hands drenched in sweat. Atsumu, who has just noticed that his own tremulous hands are even clammier than the ones before him, breaks down into tears. He’s an ugly crier, and he knows, it, but it isn’t as if Hinata is here to see it. He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should never have let you anywhere near him, I-” The surgeon cuts him short. “He needs rest, not this. You can talk to him once you’ve calmed down. He’ll be in 7B South, room 43.” Atsumu stops breathing, barely manages to nod, his knees scraping against the cold floor and his hands plastered through strands of greasy hair against reddened ears.
A week later, Hinata is dead. They said they couldn’t save him, couldn’t get his lungs working again because of the blossoming wisteria that pleached itself through his bronchi. Atsumu doesn’t believe it, can’t bring himself to. A life where the sun – his sun - is gone... he suspires in forlorn dejection and chokes. “That isn’t a life at all.”
He finally stands up; has he been here a whole week? He can’t remember. He wades through air thicker than water and traipses down stairs he has only ever seen four feet on. He falls into the desolate embrace of a once shared apartment and drags himself under a pathetic drizzle of metallic tears. He gets out and lets gravity burrow him into the narrow space between the shower and the sink. He watches as his phone finally blinks alive, only to wish that the heart monitor could have done the same.
He breaks down again, this time sobbing onto a damp bath mat. He gets three noise complaints, but he never finds out because he’s too far gone.
Two days of incessant lament, and he comes opens his door to a barren home a second time. He sets the polished ceramic urn he’s holding next to a wilted sunflower Hinata had dragged home eons ago. He starts wailing again, grabbing at someone who was. He knows that Hinata would have gotten all fussy and worried if he had seen Atsumu like this. He knows him so well that it hurts. He dares to fathom a world where both of them could sit in the auburn glow of sunset, gazing through the open veranda to their future, a future together.
i know i keep posting my cashapp but ive been having a tough time and i just want a little hope that maybe one day i’ll actually be able to live my fucking life
also i know not everyone has cashapp but it’s the only way i can currently accept money
please donate if you can, i’ll love you forever
if you can’t, please reblog!! i don’t care who you are just please help me out :)
A/n: Ayyyyyy I'm back. I've written quite a few things but since my semi-abandoned tumblr isn't dead quite yet, I've decided to continue posting. So here's a short drabble - I'll queue some more posts for the next little while. Thanks for being here! /gen /lh
Also, I can't believe it's been a year since I first posted writing on this account. I feel so much older-
Tw/ depression, su*icidal ideation, etc.
(143 words)
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Vermillion wine trickles down my marred limbs, pooling on the decrepit lacquered floors. I try to breathe, but such a feat seems impossible. I am but a corpse festering in the tainted earth – no more than a shadow of the person I’m made out to be. I hate everything. Everything around me and everything in me. I’m repulsive, repugnant, an abominable beast, chained by molten grudges to the last vestiges of a world cleaved apart by trauma. There is not even a scintilla of hope left. All is dark; I’m floating in the boundless cosmic vacuity of my heart. And right there, right there on the shelf, lies a tantalizing paradise, a promise of concord and equanimity. It’s a carafe filled with coruscating gems, a polychromatic florilegium of asseverations.
"The aroma and taste of the strong, cheesy roqueforts, blue cheese, oil and vinegar etc, is similar to the male scrotal odor and reminiscent of a locker full of well worn jock straps."
A/n: I haven't proofed it because I just don't have the energy to, so I'm sorry for any mistakes (in grammar or coherency). The fact that I wrote half of it on the subway doesn't really help either. Anyways, it doesn't end well, so if you're looking for serotonin, I'm sorry.
(1172 words)
Tw: Angst, sad ending
The first time it happens is when Bokuto forgoes spending his lunchtime with me and instead, gives him a “Sorry Akaashi, I’m busy, but I’ll see you in class!” and heads to a table swarmed with faces unknown to me. We’re in our third year, and we’re two months away from graduating. I had been trying to find a way to tell Bokuto about the way I felt, because I thought that he reciprocated my feelings. I was shocked, we had always stayed together. Why was that changing now? I watch him from my spot, across the dining hall, as he gesticulates huge thoughts in huge motions, arms swinging everywhere around him. He laughs, and I want to laugh too, but he’s too far for me to know what caused his laughter. “It’s fine,” I think to myself. “It’s normal for him to want to hang around people other than me. I should be happy for him.” I fill my head with such thoughts for the remainder of the day. And I do see him in class, he just doesn’t see me.
The second time is when Bokuto gets a letter from a powerhouse university, saying that he’s in, and on the volleyball scholarship, no less. I thought that I was the first to know. Turns out I wasn’t. By the time the news had come to me, he had already begun to eat supper with his friends, showered with compliments and congratulations. Why hadn’t he invited me? I thought that we were close. Maybe I was just being selfish and hoarding him all to myself. “It’s fine,” I tell myself yet again. But it isn’t. It isn’t fine at all.
The third time happens, and another valley jams itself in the distance of our fading friendship. The fourth, a ravine. The fifth, insurmountable mountains. The sixth, steep cliffs. The seventh, eighth, and ninth are vast oceans. The tenth, eleventh, and twelfth are galaxies. Before I know it, there’s a whole universe between us. I barely get the chance to see him anymore. He’s busy: volleyball, friends, sponsorships, parties. A significant other too, but I don’t dare pry for more information. He belongs to a billion other stars before he belongs to me, and I have to accept it, because at this point, he wouldn’t care even if I didn’t.
The last time happens when we’re both twenty-six, and even now, I can’t get myself to give up. It would be the wise option; he’d forgotten about me long ago. But my heart just can’t seem to sever its ties, so I keep on pining, just like I have for as long as I’ve known him. But it happens in a park, where he’d told me to meet him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in weeks, the last being at a game, and the first time he’s seen me in years, because he always seems to be looking somewhere else. Kuroo has been looking at me with a pained expression for so long that I’ve forgotten when he’d started. And it was supposed to be fine. I could keep on pretending that it was. But today was the limit. Today made me unable to pretend anymore.
“Hey hey hey! Akaaaashiii! You’re here! I’m so excited to tell you the news, you’re going to love it,” he yells, smile forever radiant and beautiful. “Yes, Bokuto-san. What did you want to talk about?” He hands me a white envelope with gold lettering. My heart drops. I wasn’t surprised, only disappointed. I shouldn’t have been. I should have been happy for him. But what kind of person smiles when the love of their life hands them a wedding invitation? No one. “Akaashi, aren’t you happy?” He pouts, shoulders deflating. It’s almost as if his hair deflates too, slumping to match his form. “Of course, I’m very happy for you, Bokuto-san. I’m just a bit overwhelmed with the good news,” I lie. What am I supposed to say? I can’t tell him that I love him. I want him to be happy. If being with someone else makes him happier than being with me does… then so be it. He perks back up, hair returning to its owl-like spikes. He skips off to take the hand of his partner. A cloud rolls over the park, and a dark shadow is cast over where I stand, arms limp to my sides.
As part of the pre-wedding celebration - because Bokuto, as enthusiastic and lively as he is, doesn’t believe one celebratory event to be enough - he brings his closest friends to a bar he rents out. And yes, rents out, because with the success of the MSBY Black Jackals, why wouldn’t he? I go, out of common courtesy, but it only serves as another reminder that no, Akaashi, he didn’t choose you, he didn’t choose the man who has been standing longingly beside him for the past decade. I stand there, not wanting nor needing to mingle with the other partygoers, my will to be here nonexistent next to the excitement of everyone else. The music vibrates in my head, hitting my eardrums with mountainous waves of incessant volume and noise. Floods of people drown me, my thoughts held captive by the intensity of the buzz. I can feel my heart pounding with each thrum of the static sound boxes, my whole body exploding each time the drummer brings his hand down. I can feel thunder and lightning all around me, as if I were a raindrop in a tumultuous storm, falling mercilessly towards the unrelenting pavement. I leave the bar and head towards the station; it’s too loud for me, just like how he was too loud for me to keep.
The shinkansen arrives. The hum of the train tracks stings my ears: the gusts that blow burn my eyes. I bring my eyelids down, if only for a split second. I imagine all the things that could’ve been, all the things I’m leaving behind as I step off the platform, through the transparent gates. I can see all those could-have-been memories right in front of me. Maybe if I reached out, my hands could graze them. But I don’t. Because I know that these memories aren’t mine to rejoice in. They belong with someone else, someone that he had chosen, someone that wasn’t me. The doors close. It’s over.
A fool. He’s standing on the moving train. It’s heading away from Bokuto, the object of all his affections. He lets a single crystal tear slip down his face. His expression is one of shattered hopes and unrequited love. There’s music playing in his headphones: Libestraum, a dream of love. “It was your favourite piece, Bokuto-san.” His whispers are too distant, too soft to be heard.
“You’re a coward. I didn’t want to admit it, but this is too much,” Kuroo breathes, eyes golden slits, repulsed and judgemental. Bokuto takes a sharp breath. His smile falters. “I know. I didn’t want to admit it either.”
A/n: I suddenly had this idea of a letter from a dying/dead lover, but I'm not sure I executed it properly. Sorry about that. I'm also sorry if I portrayed the illness in the wrong light; I did some research, but still.
(1096 words)
Tw: Implied cancer, death
Glued to the pale blue metal chair next to the hospital bed, half a million tubes stuffed through the holes of the corpse’s face, the incessant monotone beep of the medical equipment haunting him, letter clenched tight in trembling hands, body hunched over as if a vulnerable fetus in a mother’s womb. He reads the neatly written words on the now-crumpled piece of paper, once again.
Dear ‘Samu,
By the time you’re reading this, I’ll probably be dead. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I thought that it’d be better if I kept it in the dark, kept you from the pain of reality. I’m sorry if that wasn’t the case, but I don’t think that I can fix it anymore.
I’m writing this letter as you’re making your brother and Shouyou-kun taste test your new onigiri menus; you guys are really endearing. Even though Atsumu-san is yelling and causing a ruckus and Shouyou-kun is jumping around with stars in his eyes. They’re a pretty rowdy couple, aren’t they? I’m sorry that I can’t mess around with you the same way they do with each other. Despite the fact that seeing them makes me happy, there’s been, for the past few months, a bit of jealousy bubbling deep inside me. It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? But still, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please believe me.
Before I started writing, I felt like I had a million things to write about, but now that I’ve picked up a pen, my mind has gone blank. Funny, isn’t it. But I wanted to tell you how it started - how I found out about how fast my clock, our clock was ticking. Remember when I wanted to dye my hair? Yeah. I lathered my head in the foam dye, waited, and stepped into the shower. I saw the colour of the dye run through the pools of frothy water, but then I saw red. Red, dripping from my nose. You’ve been around long enough to know that I don’t get nosebleeds. It was really surprising, but I wasn’t too worried. But it bled. It kept bleeding. So much that I started to feel dizzy. It was fine though, since it stopped eventually.
You can probably guess that that wasn’t the last of it. Bruises started appearing all over my body, my skin paled, the luster of my hair was gone. My appetite disappeared and I just couldn’t seem to get a good night’s rest. It was awful, but having you to help me through something you didn’t even know was going on saved me. It was waking up with our limbs and sheets intertwined, bringing one of your delicious bentos to work, heading to your shop after a long day to watch you converse with your customers. I really don’t want you to feel bad about it, because you helped me more than you could ever imagine. You love me so much that you were there for me without even trying. I love you too, a thousandfold.
I was worried that you’d get lonely once I left, so you might’ve noticed me talking about getting pets more recently. I would’ve wanted one too, but unfortunately, I won’t be there to watch the two of you grow close. I’m sorry if this is too sudden, but I organized everything. I ordered all the stuff you’ll need online and it’ll get there soon. I also have all the paperwork sorted out: the necessary documents are stacked on top of the last drawer of the dresser in our room, and you just need to go in to sign the last few things. It’s exciting, right? I hope that the two of you will be able to have a lot of fun. Even if it’s quiet, motionless fun. Choose a good name for him, will you?
I didn’t know if I should write all that much, but I know that you’ll read everything regardless. I’m sorry that we won’t be able to make any new memories, but I put all the polaroids I took in a small envelope that I put on top of the pet adoption files. There are so many things to reminisce about though. I remember that the first outing our families had together was visiting the shrine for New Year’s. It was so cold, and we were all wrapped up in thick layers of fluffy coats and scarves and hats. I remember how your footprints etched themselves in the fresh snow, how your breath blew fog into the frigid air. Your eyes were beautiful that day - not that they aren’t usually, but that there was a special glimmer in them whenever we caught each other staring. Atsumu teased you so much about that, but you teased him right back about Shouyou-kun. Everyone’s cheeks were flushed, stinging from the cold and heated from flirtatious teasing. Thinking back, we must’ve been such annoying teenagers to deal with. It’s really been a long time, hasn’t it? Remember the times when I would go see you guys at nationals? You would play so well, spiking through the highest walls, sweat glistening under the stadium lights. Every time, I cheered so loudly that I couldn’t talk for the next week. We even had orals once, and the teacher got mad that I had yelled to the point of breaking my voice. But after volleyball, we really stepped into adulthood. High school was over, and you didn’t want to keep playing. You wanted to cook - open up an onigiri store. You’ve done so much more than that and your business is booming. I think that the eighteen year-old you would’ve been absolutely elated, just like I was when you first told me about your plans. “It’s a secret; don’t tell ‘Sumu and Shouyou-kun yet, alright?” You trusted me with everything, you always have. Good memories, aren’t they?
Last thing, you might’ve noticed the key attached to this letter. I rented a tiny storage room for you. I made boxes with heaps of letters for you to read whenever you get lonely. If you ever decide to move on, then that’s fine too. I just want you to be happy. I know that me leaving makes me seem like a liar, but I really do. I’m sorry that I got sick. I really am. I love you. So, so much. More than anything in the world. To the moon and back. Save a place in your heart for me, will you?
A/n: Just a short thing. Because sometimes, it's as if I don't have a past - all the memories I thought I had vanish, leaving me empty-handed and desperate for something to hold on to. I haven't really had the energy to write, sorry about that.
(224 words)
Tw: none
Walk twenty five minutes in the rain, take an hour long train ride, get on a bus that ran fifteen minutes late - which is weird, cause we’re in Japan, but I guess it happens to the best of us. I forgot to bring a jacket; I’m cold in my oversized shirt and my navy blue gym shorts. I get to the park. “Ah, good memories. Not many, but definitely good.” My words are but a whisper, lost in the howling wind; my breath is a mere haze, dancing in the sky with the fumes of the chainsmokers sitting on a nearby bench. I try to remember that fleeting memory, long gone. I only remember two things from that time, and one of them is this park. The rest of the memory… I grasp at it, but my desperate pleas forever meet nothingness, echoing through each crevice of my mind’s canyons. I sip on my tea, now lukewarm because of how long it took to get here. I try to imagine that wheat-gold hair, the second part of the memory. I think that we might’ve been playing, twirling in the moonlight to the songs of fallen angels, but I don’t know. I reposition my bag on my hunched shoulders. “I should go home.” You turn around, hearing panting. Wheat-gold hair. In this park. “Found you.”
A/n: Again, Pyre (see my last post). It's too good, and I kept writing. But this time, just Kenma.
(626 words)
Tw: toxic love
You spend your birthday alone, just like you do every year. A slice of yuzu matcha rare cheesecake and a half-cold can of Ito En jasmine tea because you can’t drink beer. In the moonlit park; it’s two in the morning, because you were so busy yesterday, the day of, that you didn’t have time for this ritual. Though it happens every time, even when your birthday falls on a weekend. You sit on the swing, your jacket and bag tossed on the ground a couple meters away. You hear something and look to the side. It’s Kenma. A slice of cake and a can of tea identical to yours. “I really hate going outside, especially when I could be gaming.” He scrunched his face in disgust. “You’re an exception; consider yourself lucky.” He says it, and his expression morphs in one gentle and kind, despite the knowing smirk plastered on his sharp feline features, beautiful as always. Perhaps even more so, basking under the heartless moonlight. Pools of raven-black hair spill over his shoulders, only the tips like Achille’s heel, left untouched by the river Styx, unchanged despite the years that have gone by, still shining as if bathed in ichor. He moves slowly, gracefully, to tuck a lock behind his ear, pierced with metal rings, white shimmers coruscating off their too-smooth surfaces. You want to see his handsome face mantle with the same feelings that enslave you, but his skin, white as snow, refuses to ripen, forever placid and ravishing like strawberry flowers stilled in their growth. He’s beguiling, exquisite, divine. Your cake forgotten, you can only think of tasting him. You want to slide your hands onto the pearly-velvet skin of his abdomen, trace its shaded lines, slip past his boxers, hold him so gently, so lovingly. You want him to beg, for more, always more, an unquenchable thirst awakened by your own insatiable hunger. You had zoned out, shit. Thinking about inappropriate things too. You turn to him, eyes pleading for him to plead in turn. He accedes, placing his food on the dirt, loving your palm brushing his jawline, the other holding the back of his head, fingers threaded through wisps of silk the colour of his credit card. You lean in and he does too. Soft lips embrace each other, as if long lost lovers connected by a bridge of milky stars, fate only pulling you closer to each other, promising to assuage your pain after being apart for so long.
You open your eyes, drinking in the sight of him, high on some nameless blue pill nudged past his eager lips, as if a rose, sheltered by stinging thorns warding off feral predators, but so red, so sweet underneath, the blood brought forth by the pricking barbs nothing compared to the ache of being allowed to savour a blossom so seductive, so bewitching. And you’re reeled in, a stupid, short-sighted fish, despairingly latching onto a hook so self-sabotaging, so suicidal. The hook of a cat’s sharpened claw, machiavellian to the point of no return. Manipulative, calculating, the beast had smiled, cloying, and caught you effortlessly, tossing you around like a toy, playing with this newfound trinket, so hopelessly in love that a single drop of the sugar-coated ambrosia called attention dug them another grave. But it wasn’t the cat’s fault: it was the only way he could love, the only way he knew to express such tender adoration. So the fish and the cat played, played for days, nights, years, as this murderous love ate at the both of them until all they had left was raw desire.
A/n: This was inspired by Pyre, a kenhina masterpiece on AO3 that I highly recommend you check out if you have the time and the will. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever read and every word, every letter pierced another hole through my heart. This made way more sense in my head, but I lack the literacy to express my feelings about it.
(113 + 278 words)
Tw: none
I dream of stolen glances, of feather-light kisses, of sweet nothings whispered in my ear
But the love I yearn so deeply for is the same one I stare at in cold fear
So see me, hear me, touch me
Gently, so gently
My soul fawns in a prairie
Gently, so gently
Fill me with your merciful song
For my love, endless all along
Praise me, coddle me
Forever yours only
In this endless sea
I’m so, so lonely
Hot cheeks flushed
Beautiful, crimson bright
Heart pounding, lust
Soars, takes flight
Fly high, high into the sky
It doesn’t deny; please try
You, one in a million
Let’s make sweet memories a trillion
-
This… bliss, pure bliss. Bittersweet bundles of sentiment wrapped so tight they might die of asphyxiation, choking on their own crimson blood, the colour of passion, of love.
It made me dream of love, a love that cannot be. A love that is stranger to me - a boy unloving and unlovable. I yearn for this sweet feeling that they share, bound by their history, their sheer desire. I pine for the touches they share, so pained, so knowing. Their love, their desire, their dreams of being together overwhelm me, filling my soul to the brim, flooding my mind with images of a life that could have been. I want to live in Japan, play volleyball in high school, meet a boy that I will want and need for a decade before we can be. I want to be torn from him and move to another country, so, so lonely, only to come back and begin tasting his touch, his love, just to abruptly be alone again, confined to a faraway continent with only my desire, my lust, my love.
You made my heart ache for something I can never have. You intoxicated me with someone else’s love, rendered me a drunken mess, high off of a story woven with the most beautiful words. The same way Hinata burns under Kenma’s steel hands, my mind burns under the thirty thousand words of a thundering, tumultuous sea of love wanted yet forbidden, known by all but the receivers who know only to bathe in self doubt and cowardice, faced with their ardent, blazing desire for each other.
A heart-wrenching story of two men, reduced to mere children in love’s wake.
A/n: Kind of out of character, but not really depending on how you see him. Longest fic yet though. I wrote this on my phone, standing in the middle of a park, and I'm too tired to proof it a third time, so please forgive me.
Also, the beginning is kind of boring. Sorry.
(1051 words)
Tw: implicit depression
There’s a huge park near my house, one with bike paths, a recreation centre, and a lot of space for people to meander around leisurely. I would eat my supper there, I told myself. So I packed a small bento of the food I had made - steamed rice, cubed silken tofu, small florets of broccoli, irregularly cut cucumber salad - and put it in a tote bag, along with a can of Ito En oolong tea that I placed as to not have it fall over. Simple but good: perfectly seasoned and perfectly cooked. Hand sanitizer, napkins, cutlery - chopsticks of course - and my phone, keys placed at the bottom because I wasn’t going to be staying at my place that night.
I walked to the park, slightly breathless as I climbed the hill leading up to it. I arrived too early, more than an hour before the meeting time we had set. I decided to walk around the entirety of the space, slowly sipping on my tea and listening to melodramatic songs about broken hearts and lost love. Maybe I was jinxing myself, maybe I wasn’t. It didn’t matter - I’d find out later, and it wasn’t as if the random playlists I had come across on YouTube were going to determine the words that would be said tonight. Right? I was getting nervous, but trying to convince myself that it would all be fine in the end, I continued on my stroll, back straight, strides certain, eyes squinting at the sun that didn’t want to set yet. It was probably a good thing that we had set the rendez-vous to be closer to the time of pink and purple skies; it’d probably be a better setting than the too-bright sunlight of the early evening.
I finished my walk, an hour later, and I found a bench on one of the smaller, less popular gravel trails. It was visible from the recreation centre where we had promised to meet, so I didn’t worry too much about not being found.
I sit down and wait, back still straight. He comes only a few minutes after and heads towards me when he sees me, sitting calmly under the cool shadows of towering conifers. He sits next to me, offering a small but genuine smile, sweet like honey, his lips soft like marshmallows. I wonder what those lips feel like, and the colours of sunset unsuccessfully threaten to paint themselves on the tips of my ears. “Show me watcha’ made,” he drawls. It’s cute, the way he talks. I open the lid of my supper and he smiles again. “If ya didn’t cook so well yerself, I’d offer to cook for you,” he chuckles lightly, pulling out his own meal. He’s someone I don’t need to talk too much with, someone who can sit comfortably in silence with me, especially on those days when I don’t feel like talking, or listening, for that matter. Today’s an okay day though, and now that I’ve seen him, it’s a pretty good day. He lights up my life the same way a lone lightbulb can light up a whole warehouse, filling a desolate and empty space with bright warmth. Scratch that, he was much, much brighter and warmer than a lightbulb. Maybe the Olympic fire his brother had seen was a better comparison. Or maybe the sacred flame of Vesta, because to me, he was definitely sacred. If I had my way, he’d be sacred to everyone else too. I return to reality, one rendered significantly less sad by his presence. He’s splitting the bentos, eager to taste the dishes and even more so to have me taste his. Eager, but quietly eager, because he knows that I can get tired. That doesn’t mean that he can’t be annoying and loud though, especially with his golden-haired twin, but he knows that I don’t mind and that he’d notice if I did.
He’s excited, savouring every mouthful, jotting down notes in a notebook. If he studied like this for school, he’d definitely be top of his class, though I guess that that’s what shows how special food is to him. I finish eating, and he does too. A group of people start screaming and laughing unreservedly, hollering at each other at a table close to where we are. He notices and covers my ears with his large palms. I smile weakly at him. “It’ll be alright.” Eventually, the loud people leave. He removes his hands, softly brushing my face with his calloused hands. He sees a caterpillar inching its way across the bike path and picks it up. He sets it on my lap, well aware of my fondness for the cute critters - he would hate for the creature to get crushed by a two-wheeled monster and even more so for me to be saddened by it. I smile. He smiles too. It’s nice when we both smile, because our happiness becomes light bouncing between the mirrors of a kaleidoscope. A soft kiss on my cheek. Now I know for sure that his lips are even softer than marshmallows. We both know that he’d get teased endlessly for this if he did it at school. But we’re not at school, and even if we were, it wouldn’t matter. I stand up and tug softly at his shirt sleeve. He picks up his now-empty bento and stands up too. His happy humming a duet with the whispering wind, we head to his house, where we’ll be staying. “‘Samu. I love you,” the first words my mouth forms today. “Love ya too,” he grins, cheeky yet sincere, offering a warm hug after I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He lets go and pops open a can of sparkling water. He takes a sip and hands it to me. I take a sip too, the sweetness refreshing, the flavour of pomegranate and black currant rolling off our intertwined tongues as we share a deep kiss.
And that moonlit night, he makes love to me. Still quiet, still soft, still genuine. Maybe life isn’t so loud. Maybe it’s worth it. I just need him to remind me of that sometimes. And that’s perfectly fine, since I know that he’ll be here for me, the same way I’ll be soundlessly there for him.
That night, I fell in love with Kuroo all over again. I had forgotten about the hands of passionate love that had once clawed at my throat, but here they are yet again, threatening to strangle me by their sheer ardor. Those eyes, those beautiful, beautiful eyes. They had sucked me into their depths as if black holes left behind by the golden sun, confining me in an endless sea saturated with aureate beams, my gilded hair floating around me as if a flowing crown.
Half-asleep, still inebriated by saccharine slumber, I had managed to turn my body over, heaving at the hefty blankets draped over it. I laid there for a while, not wanting to awaken, but I could not still and was forced to pry my eyelids open. At first, I saw but a blur, my lashes long shadows in the dimly lit room, with only the moonlight filtering through the window. Slowly, bleary forms began to morph into semi-coherent shapes, and I lifted my leaden arm over my side, draping it over the object in front me. I realized, however, that it wasn’t an object. It was a magnificent face, engulfed in a wreath of raven-black hair, adorned with two luminescent orbs the colour of ichor. I gently caressed this face, and its pink lips formed a subtle yet genuine smile, the smile that only my golden-eyed king had. Kuroo, my love. I had forgotten his sweet embrace amidst the darkness that perforated every aspect of my hellish existence, but saved, my mind cleared, and I remembered all those ephemeral memories of times long gone, swept away by the turbulent winds of destiny. I could live and breathe once more, the simple fact that he was next to me fueling my will to fight another day, another lifetime.
So please, please don’t take him away. Don’t tell me that he isn’t real, that these ill-fated reminiscences are but detailed delusions, for they are the ones tying me to this world, not you. Let me live in bliss, because without him, I wouldn’t even be alive. I know, so there’s no need for you to remind me. I saw his eyes, and I will forge through the filthiest forests to see them again, to see them see me again. Leave me and my dreams be; I have no need for you since you are but a plagued nightmare to me.
A/n: I was reading an inarizaki!hinata fic (recommended by @/remuswriting - thanks again) and I fell in love with Atsumu all over again.
(538 words)
Tw: obsessional pining
I want it to be dark
I want it to be night
I want it to be alone
I want the sun to set and for the birds to scream piercingly into my ears
I want the horizon to drown me in pinks and purples and grays
I want the sea to engulf me fervidly in its violent and murky waters
I want to be alone, yet I cannot wish for it honestly, because my heart is bound to something other than sombre loneliness. What I want is to be with him, to sing and cry with him, to lean on his shoulders and for him to lean on mine. I want to laugh at his bad jokes, I want to roll my eyes at his facade of narcissistic cockiness, I want to smile knowingly at his annoying persona that in reality, masks his fondness and his care.
If only you would allow me to stay at your side, Atsumu-san. Your woefully piss-coloured hair, your air of condescending arrogance, your desperate need to be different from your twin and to surpass him: I love it all, I embrace it all wholeheartedly. It’s you, and you are the one I want to hold and cherish. You’re the rising sun after a depressive night, the one that saved me from the most terrifying of nightmares by your mere presence. Your existence alone has gifted me the will to live and endowed me with the burning desire to love - to love you. The day when my heart no longer aches for you shall be the day when I am no longer me, because by definition, this revived version of my past self is enamoured with you.
I often stare longingly at empty air, daydreaming of your beautiful face, of your smirking ingratitude. I spend endless days thinking of you and what you mean to me. I sit in class yearning for you, pondering my incessant feelings - an act that only ignites deeper ones in its wake. I’ve dedicated my entire being to you, so if you would please look at me and peer into my soul and see the infatuated devotion that has penetrated each and every cell of my body.
And finally, one fateful day, I search just a bit further into your glinting amber than I usually do, as I stand on your beloved volleyball court. You are my king, and my sole wish is for you to recognize me as your lowly subject. And that day, you do. Your eyes meet mine and you see me, at long last. You see me and you see the blazing warmth that I hold for you, and you alone. I don’t think that I’ve ever been happier. It was a miracle, a blessing from you, Miya-san. “Just call me ‘Sumu. Miya-san… ‘makes it feel like you’re far when you ain’t far at all.” Hearing those words, you felt your chest clench, as if a tsuchinoko had pumped your lungs full of venom - the passionate venom of love.
“I-“ you choke out, mind overflowing, a wellspring of gushing thoughts.
“Ya think that I didn’t know? ‘Course I do, ‘ya scrub. As cheesy as it sounds, your feelings… same here.”
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