buzzbuzz

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“There is such a thing as persistence in stupidity.”

So bb boi Noel and I are back on our bullshit, out here writing some future!fic Kamishin like we have nothing better to do—

But anyway.

A madboi!Shinsou (hero name: Esper) has entered the chat.

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i saw on your ig that you were working on an erasermic story? is there anything you'll show?

Sure thing!! Have some circa UA Highschool Era bratties.

“You brought me chocolate,” Aizawa observed, in the same tone of voice with which Yamada might’ve expected him to say ‘there were no survivors’.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Yamada replied brightly, through a grimace that just barely passed as a smile. “Think of it as my ‘Congratulations, you hate me a little less than you used and I, Yamada Hizashi, really appreciate that’ present. ”

“That’s not what Valentine’s Day is for,” Aizawa cut in, still cupping the solitary truffle in his hand like it was primed to explode on him at any moment. The expression of wary confusion on his face was very nearly endearing.

“We’re making the best of a western import,” Yamada reassured him mercilessly and forced Aizawa’s fingers to curl over the truffle with vindictive glee. “I think reasons for receiving chocolate might be the least of your psychoses, to be honest.”

Aizawa had no reply to that except for a sharp glare, filled with half-hearted, recycled irritation. Yamada smiled back and shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting as Aizawa struggled to put his words together.

“I can’t accept this. You didn’t have to,” he said at last, eyebrows furrowed. His gaze flitted from the floor to somewhere around Yamada’s knees. “I’m not here to–I don’t need anybody to feel obligated.” He tried to push the chocolate back into Yamada’s hands; Hizashi fended him off with an easy laugh.

“Man, you’re too serious. It’s tomo-choco, okay? You can totally accept that. And of course I had to,” he continued, puffing up with his hands fisted in his waist. “We’re friends, right? Man, it’s not even that I had to–I wanted to. So accept it or my feelings’ll be hurt forever and they’ll have to bury me under the maple tree by the gates from where I withered away from a broken heart.”

Aizawa blinked in bewilderment, but his fingers curled around the truffle slowly.

“…right,” he said slowly. “We’re–right. Okay. Thanks.”

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@saekimchisart : what is tru denki energy❓❓❓

me: neon harajuku thot energy⚡️⚡️⚡️

sae: thats the tea ☕️

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A small thing for my discord lady Sae who was my cheerleader throughout this whole doodley process and provided many pterodactyl screeches as motivation (♥ ty sae)

I present to the tumblr two (three???) great things:

1. KamiShins!!

2. A cute fantasy squires-to-knight-boyfriends AU

3. UNDERCUT!SHINSOU WHICH IS PROBABLY THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER THOUGHT OF/HAD THE JOY TO DRAW

Anyway it’s Festival Day in the kingdom of Musutafu and the cute squire soon-to-be-friends are excited (?) to have their turn to go play (???)

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He would 100% be That Older Brother™

Bonus Yamadad Reaction:

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I’m out here belatedly making a crappy contribution to the Hat Stealer AU so uhhhhhh…yeah!!! (I haven’t drawn in like a million years and it shows I’m so sorry.)

@ask-hizashi-and-shouta sorry for ruining everything ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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O Desejado

Spain had, for decades upon decades, always prevailed upon his older brother to come spend the summer months with him in his smaller rural towns and Portugal (sometimes less than politely) turned him down each time; it was difficult to tell at times whether Spain’s insistence stemmed from actual fraternal concern or his immense desire for an excuse to pelt his brother with tomatoes at some seasonal festival.

It was likely both at once, Portugal decided, because Spain felt several things all at once and always passionately, but never intensely. So he could not understand, with his own unbearable lightness of feeling, Portugal’s desire to spend the first week of August wandering the Ponta de Sagres’ sheer cliff lines while barefoot, kicking white pebbles into the sea.

Spain had had all the riches of the New World but he had never had a golden boy, so Portugal did not wonder which of them had truly been richer; in the end, they’d both let precious things slip through their fingers and mourned that they could not follow.

If there were still miracles, Portugal mused, it was in the small things that came as naturally as breathing.

Pansies smaller than a fingernail growing between the cracks in the pavement.

The seeds in an apple core touching so that they formed a heart when it was sliced open.

A shooting star in the daylight.

Miracles like whatever had caused an endless number of white pebbles to collect together here on this high spit of land just for Portugal to cast them back into the sea. Or miracles, he thought wryly, like a hair-band that actually held hair back instead of letting the wind tear it from its queue and whip it into a wild frenzy around his face.

Small miracles were in the lack of tourists this day brought, though it maybe had something to do with the fierce gale winds and the steely clouds billowing ominously on the horizon, cast into sharp relief by flashes of lightning in their innards.

And there was poetic justice in that, he believed, that a storm would build itself up into something terrible and frightening and destructive and then spend itself out flooding the fields so that people could devour its corpse whole.

Or poetic justice, he mused as he bent to pick up another stone and throw it into the sea below, like knowing you had a golden boy and losing him anyway.

Your most beloved mortalities will never return to you and they will never understand that they can’t.

It’s made obvious by the quiet whispers in the dark, murmured into that soft patch where neck meets shoulder. He wants to say he can’t still feel the phantom brush of lips against his skin. Maybe he would just consider that another small miracle, one as transient and fading as a shooting star in daylight, the seeds of an apple core touching to make a heart, pansies smaller than a fingernail growing between the cracks in the pavement.

The breathing of your most beloved mortalities.

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Ne me plaignez pas; I was born for this.

“Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the little ones still wonder.”

-J.M. Barrie, “Peter Pan”

This France, like an old star, was often too still, too prone to staring off into the distance with glassy eyes; saying little, eating less than that. Some of his vigour returned with the distant ringing of shots being fired and the echoes of thrown mortars bursting against the struggling green of the French countryside, anachronistic glee in his voice as he rallied his tired men with a mad gleam in his eyes that flickered through battle and dulled to banked embers by nightfall.

At a venture, when things seemed particularly hopeless, Scotland looked askance at France, wild-eyed and hair shorn close, efficiently (but viciously) pulling a tourniquet around his arm tighter with his teeth before shouldering his gun once again with a tight-lipped expression.

“What say you then,” Scotland began, grinning helplessly and running his fingers over the last of his rounds, counting them and recounting them and thinking that he had, at some point, been up against worse odds, “that we give them back a bit of the hell they gave us?”

France was silent for a long moment and Scotland was beginning to think he’d been ignored until a slim, long-fingered (familiar) hand settled heavily on his broad shoulder in the darkness, sliding down his arm in idle exploration, settling briefly in the crook of his elbow, lighting for a moment on his mud-flecked wrist, before seizing his much larger hand in a bone-creaking vice grip that shocked the breath out of him in one gusty exhale.

“Why not,” France returned in a murmur, his smile half-lost in the fading light. “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

Scotland wanted to say–many things, probably. More than their tattered dignity would allow, more than what they didn’t already know. So, with the same single-bloody-mindedness that had gotten him this far, he steadily crushed the tiny voice whispering nonsense in the back of his head until it went silent.

He wanted to say–something, but he wasn’t the poetic one out of his brothers and all his beauty was written into the bones of the land and not laden heavy on his tongue.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t; so he didn’t.

And in that spare moment between one break in the bullet fire and the next hail of it, he listened to France inhale deeply, impatiently, and watched him jam the dented helmet onto his head, knocking it into place with a practiced fist, calloused fingers tightening straps, adjusting grips, straightening arms in their holsters.

Quick as a thought, he threw himself up the sides of their trench with a sardonic laugh, and the glance he threw over his shoulder back to Scotland felt like a benediction of the most bittersweet sort. He found himself laughing as well as he levered himself up and tore after France, lungs heaving like bellows.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t.

After all, there were other words for this.