Jun 17, 2024
Why is it always "is somebody gonna match my freak" and never "is somebody who's even better gonna come and find me"?
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Why is it always "is somebody gonna match my freak" and never "is somebody who's even better gonna come and find me"?
guys, which hinata and kageyama ship name do you like the most? It's an important question....
🍊🫐
kagehina
hinakage
tobishou
hishou
shobio
9+10 (yep, it's a shipp name)
this 100% happend after the adlers vs jackals match
can you i send an order to the café? with blackberry sauce, chocolate flakes, and autism overstim cocoa powder? 👉👈
ay mijo of course, coming right up~
[domesticity, post-timeskip, sensory overload (autistic kageyama)]
-
untouchable
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Thundering footfalls. Rain hammers the roof. Cheers are like shockwaves.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
Out of breath. Sweat on skin. Lights that flash.
Beat-beat-beat.
Squeak. Smirk. Squish.
Beatbeatbeat.
Run.
He runs to his dorm,
patience thin like bed linen,
each breath is a curse.
Push through paparazzi, through beaded doorways, clench teeth because it stops the urge to scream. Tobio feels his tongue in his mouth and the gymnasium lights and the stench of sweat and the roars of crowds - panting and talking and loud and bright and harsh and it's all so much, too much, standing over him and pushing him to the floor.
He slumps to the ground. His dorm lights punched off, his teeth grinding together, his clothes removed and thrown on the floor just so he doesn't have to feel them anymore.
It's not the first time this has happened - when every sensation becomes his enemy, his perceptiveness his downfall - it used to happen a lot in Kitagawa, when Oikawa's voice got scratchy and the loneliness began to burn. He knows this overstimulation like the veins in his hands, remembers this overload like it's fated. He only wishes he could stop it.
There are light sounds behind him, ginger footsteps, someone who cares too much to be brash.
Oh, Shoyo…
Something lands in Tobio's hand - hard, smooth plastic, designed to be twisted and pulled into something resembling relief. It's grey, a colour dull enough to soothe him, and it tangles into snakes and pretzel knots.
"Thank you," he'd say, if he knew how to speak; his tongue refuses to move, uncomfortable in his mouth. His wordlessness sizzles him. Shoyo knows what he means to say.
How long he sits there, easing himself out of his overwhelmed state, out of his environmental thunderstorm, is unknown. But, loyal as a dog, faithful as religion, Shoyo stays.
He doesn't press - he doesn't talk, does not malleate, does not push his lover further into his state. He simply waits - this, as all things, will pass, and Tobio will want gentle hands in his hair when it does.
Loving Tobio is poetry, a haiku, iambic pentameter; always there will be a rhyme that doesn't fit or a jarring syllable, but Shoyo loves Tobio because of it.
This is love - untouchable, burning brighter than the sun.
Some kagehina art based on this photoset of Orlando Bloom and Elijah Wood:
uhum, uhum
failed practice
ITS STILL PRIDE MONTH IN MY TIMEZONE